We spend a few days in Nice, he insists on staying at the Negresco ("call Stéphane" he says, "he'll make you the best Tom Collins in this part of the world"). The shopping is not as good as in Cannes or Monte Carlo but the atmosphere is calmer, much less nouveau riche.
We're at a café on the Promenade when I
remember: this is where we met when he first needed to see me almost two
years ago. He wanted to tell me about Carl but waited until Paris, he hasn't mentioned it since and I never answered his question.
fear still grows inside me like a weed, I can't control it and I know
it still gets to him too. It's easier to keep quiet so we do, hoping we
will some day both forget about it and move on with our lives, apart or