Page 27 of Closer

“Oui.”

“Cigarettes?”

She frowns, and I’m pretty sure what follows is a lecture on smoking, but I don’t have a fucking clue what she’s saying. She leaves the room and I flop back on the bed. The dog stares at me. I stare back, wondering if I somehow got my hands on a bad trip and am still high as a fucking kite.

Before long she returns with a carafe of coffee, bread and jam, and an old pipe, along with a tin of tobacco. I study the apparatus, sniff it once and load the chamber before putting the lip in my mouth. I lift the pack of matches from the tray and light the tobacco. Thick puffs of smoke rise from the tobacco, and the woman sighs and snatches the pipe from my mouth, picking up more tobacco and packing it tightly into the holder. She hands it back to me, and I place it between my lips. She strikes another match and holds it to the tobacco suggesting that I should puff like a fish out of water.

Rich smoke fills my lungs and I cough and inhale, settling back against the headboard. She prepares my coffee, not bothering to ask if I take milk and sugar. I do, but she loads it up with milk and doesn’t bother with the sugar at all. I take a sip, because I need it before I’m able to sort out what the fuck I’m doing here, and how I get back home. Not to mention the three-hundred-thousand-dollar car I just totalled.

“I washed your clothing, but I found this in your pocket.” I take the tiny square of cardboard from her hand and glance at the fine gold script written on thick, embossed paper.

Brielle Kagawa.

Cellist.

I run my thumb over the lettering and flip it over. There’s a number listed. Nothing else is written on it. Flashbacks of a splintered cello and a hot brunette beating me with her bow slam into me, and I sigh.Shit. Seems my car and my reputation weren’t the only things I totalled that night. I set the card on the nightstand. The second I find my phone. I’ll call.

“My phone? Have you seen it?”

“We have a phone, sir.”

“No, my mobile phone. Cell phone. You know? Handheld.” I gesture to my pocket. Then I remember I’m not wearing pants and I glance down at the sheet. My dick’s hard, but when is it not? The woman gulps and then her sharp intake of breath and the horrified expression lets me know I’ve insulted her. “No, not my dick. My phone.” Like an idiot, I gesture again to my pocket and pretend I’m dialling my hand.

“Phone.” I point to my chest. “My phone.”

She shakes her head. “No phone, only dog.”

I frown. “What?”

“Only dog in car. Dog and monsieur.”

“Christ,” I mutter. “I don’t own a dog, lady. I’m from Australia. I don’t live in France, so I couldn’t possibly own this dog.” The mangy mutt in question gives a sharp bark as if he’s tattling on me. “He isn’t my dog. I don’t have time for a dog. I’m a rock star.”

“Oui. Monsieur very famous. Buy big house to escape paparazzi.”

“No, I just lost the only girl I ever loved to another man and crashed my car into your front gate the night of her wedding.”

She nods. “Your front gate now.”

“No, lady ... what’s your name?”

“Je m'appelleMargaux.”

“Margaux?”

“Oui.”

“Je m'appelleLevi.”

“Ah, Levi.” Her smile is huge, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m attempting to speak French, or if she’s just some psychotic creeper who smiles a lot. Then again, maybe she’s a fan.

“Look, I don’t know what I told you, but I was drunk ... and possibly concussed. I can’t buy this house.”

“But monsieur, papers already drawn up. Where will Levi, Margaux, and dog go?”

Jesus Christ, it’s like talking to a toddler. “Margaux, that’s not my dog, and I can’t buy a house in the South of France. I can’t have you come work for me.”

“Why ever not, monsieur?”

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