Alex took the corner seat and snapped open the newspaper. I sat on his left, with a clear view out of the window.
The waitress brought wine that was slightly better than what I’d bought the previous day. Her nose flared as she took my order; she would tolerate the Germans – she had no choice – but collaborators might find their food seasoned with spit du chef.
The door banged open as a group of men entered. Like us, they brushed past the maître d’ and claimed two nearby tables, pushing them together. Unlike Alex, they wore no uniforms, but I didn’t need to hear their accents to know they were German. And plain-clothed Germans in France meant one thing: Gestapo.
I swallowed the dust at the back of my throat at the thought that they might notice that his trousers didn’t match the tunic. Or what they’d do about that.
‘Wine!’ one demanded, and he pinched the waitress’s bottom.
In a saner world, if one of them had pinched mine, I’d have smacked him into next week, but this world was no longer sane, and the waitress was too wise to show any indignation. She moved out of reach, a fixed smile in place. If she ordered the chef to spit in my food, these men were likely to get something worse.
Alex’s hands, holding the paper in front of his face, tensed, the veins standing out. I brushed one with the back of my hand, and tried not to look apprehensive.
‘So, my dear,’ I prattled in rapid-fire French, hoping that these soldiers would see only what they expected to: a silly woman boring her man. ‘I forgot to tell you I saw dear Annette yesterday,’ I said in a stage whisper and began to bore even myself with some fiction about a woman who’d had an affair and found herself pregnant.
Alex’s newspaper crackled but otherwise he showed no interest. The story wasn’t that uncommon, but I hoped dull enough to deflect any attention from us.
The waitress set the plates down and retreated, neatly avoiding the Germans, who were now banging on the table like naughty children. The bottle of wine on their table couldn’t be their first.
There was a slight tremor in Alex’s hands as he folded the paper and placed it on the table. He centred his plate and looked at me expectantly.
‘Bon appétit, Heini,’ I said.
‘Bon appétit.’
Nerves made his voice harsh, but improved the accent. Alex’s full lips had tightened and his naturally fair skin had gone white.
Most of the Germans seemed preoccupied, but one of them – an older man with a rugged face and grey hair – inclined his head, acknowledging Alex. Alex responded with a curt nod and just the right amount of disdain for an officer to show a comrade from a rival organisation. Despite the salute, the grey-haired man watched us, his expression giving nothing away. Had I missed an incriminating image? Did he know of me? Recognise me from Paris? Was it Alex who had captured his interest? He looked the part, but had his accent given us away?
Hoping for the best, I reached out to caress Alex’s jaw. Allowed my fingers to drop to the collar of the black uniform. Alex played along. He took hold of my hand and raised it to his lips. He glanced over and met the grey-haired man’s eyes. Raised an eyebrow, challenging the other man before putting my hand on the table and turning his attention to his meal. The grey-haired man took a deep pull from his beer glass and raised it to me in a mocking salute. I breathed out, grateful Alex hadn’t seen it, or at least pretended he hadn’t. Pushing my fork through my food to test any unwanted ingredients, I too pretended not to notice.
Alex shovelled another forkful of lentils into his mouth. The grey-haired man still watched us, his expression crafty. A dark shiver slid down my spine. The others murmured to themselves, their heads held close. Every moment or two they cast the odd glance our way.
Alex’s muscles were tense; he wouldn’t last much longer.
‘I’m boring you, aren’t I, darling?’ I reached across and stroked his hand.
He stood so suddenly that his chair slammed back against the floor. Silence blanketed the room and all eyes focused on us as Sinclair pulled me to my feet and clamped his mouth on mine. Someone wolf-whistled and he flung a few notes on the table. Grabbed me around the waist and slung me over his shoulder, pausing only to let me grab my bag, before striding out the door.
As we left, my last look back was of the German soldiers, on their feet, laughing and applauding. All except the grey-haired man who, still seated, again raised his glass at me.
*
‘I’m sorry,’ Alex murmured. ‘I couldn’t think of another way to get out of there.’
Still slung over his shoulder, I hissed: ‘You think this isn’t drawing attention to us? Put me down, you oaf!’
My toes touched the ground only briefly before he cradled me in his arms.
‘Put your arms around my neck,’ he ordered. ‘The auld bastard is still watching – we need a hotel for the night.’
I obeyed as he made his way through the door of the nearest hotel.
‘One room, please,’ I said to the startled clerk, trying to preserve what dignity I had left.
‘I . . . I think we may be full.’
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he licked the tip of one finger and ran it down a page in the ledger.
‘Put me down, darling,’ I told Alex.
The Scot might not have understood my French but understood the tone. He set me down on my feet and, with one hand on my waist, took an aggressive step forward. His glare was more eloquent than any words would be and the clerk shrunk back.
‘Ah
