Paris Trance Read Online Free Page B

cracking the eggs he smashed the cup he was banging them into. By the time they sat down to eat, the cooker, work surfaces and floor were awash with debris.
    ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking the kitchen,’ said Luke sagely. Very sagely, as it happened, for at the last moment Miles had emptied half a pot of it into the pan.
    ‘Quite. How’s the omelette?’
    ‘Great,’ said Luke. ‘Almost completely inedible.’
    ‘Marvellous. You know, I’m so happy you’re here. Would you like some more wine?’ Luke held out his glass. His vision was becoming somewhat slurred. Miles, meanwhile, contradicting his earlier claim, said that there would be no problem finding an apartment to rent in this neighbourhood.
    ‘Really?’
    ‘We’ll find a place tomorrow. I’ll put the word around. You can get a place easily. I’ve got two or three in mind already. People are going away the whole time on some loony expedition or other.’
    ‘Really? That’s great because I’ve got to move out of the dump I’m in at the moment in a couple of weeks.’
    ‘We’ll sort it out tomorrow.’
    ‘And you mentioned earlier about maybe being able to get a job at some warehouse.’
    ‘Oh yes we’ll do that tomorrow as well.’
    ‘Really?’ said Luke, conscious that his side of the conversation was coming to consist entirely of ‘reallys’.
    ‘Yes. Really,’ said Miles. In a moment of surging clarity Luke saw his future as fixed, settled.
    In the morning it looked blurred, as unsettled as his stomach. After the omelette and more wine they had gone out to a bar and drunk a few beers. Luke had walked home, not caring about anything. Now he felt awful, hung over, certain that Miles would have forgotten about both the job and the apartment. For the first time his circumstances offered a flattering reflection of how he felt. His mouth was parched, his head ached. It was a Tuesday morning and there was nothing to get up for except to wash the smell of smoke from his hair. When he had done that he dressed, checked his mail box – empty except for a menu from a new pizza pit – and went out for breakfast.
    It was drizzling or not drizzling, warm. Once he had drunk his coffee he could think of nothing else to do but go back to his apartment. On the way he bought an English newspaper, a third of the size and three times the price of the non-export version. From now on, Luke resolved (as he did most mornings), I will buy French papers.
    The phone was ringing when he stepped through the door of his apartment.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Good morning, Luke.’
    ‘Hi Miles.’
    ‘I’m not waking you am I?’
    ‘No. I’m kind of hung over though.’
    ‘Have you ever said yes to a single joy? Then, Luke, you have said yes to all woe. Besides, we hardly drank anything.’
    ‘I think it was the omelette.’
    ‘Ha! Now, Luke, I’m afraid nothing has come up yet on the apartment front but I do have the number of that loony who runs the mad warehouse. His name is Lazare Garnier. You should give him a call. He lived in America. He speaks English, or American. That’s to say, he swears in American. Have you got a pen?’
    By a fluke Lazare himself answered the phone when Luke called. He was furious because Didier had once again failed to turn up on a day when there was a massive backlog of urgent orders.
    ‘Ah bonjour. Miles Stephens m’a dit,’ Luke began, not very impressively. ‘Excusez-moi. Parlez-vous anglais?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Ah, yes. My name is Luke Barnes and I’ve been told by Miles Stephens—’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Miles Stephens.’
    ‘Who the fuck is that?’
    ‘He—’
    ‘Oh that English guy. The guy who lived in Afghanistan?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘He said that it might – that at certain times you took on people to work, packing. I wondered if there were any—’
    ‘Where are you phoning from?’
    ‘Um, the First.’
    ‘What time can you get here?’
    ‘Today?’
    ‘No, next year. When the hell do you