De Payns flipped breakfast pancakes and pointed to the coffee he’d made for Romy.
‘Drink your coffee,’ he said as she drifted around the apartment loudly looking for a favoured hairclip.
‘I said no TV before school,’ de Payns growled as Patrick hit the remote and the screen came to life.
It was 7.28 a.m. on Monday and de Payns was playing his part in the weekday morning routine, painfully aware that he’d soon be heading for Monaco and leaving Romy to cope on her own with the kids. De Payns and the boys had enjoyed the weekend, kicking the soccer ball, practising some karate and eating at a Japanese restaurant where the boys had food thrown into their bowls by a chef who played Abba on his little speaker. He’d drunk wine and gone to bed early with his wife. Not a bad result for a cowboy.
Romy returned to the kitchen, her hair up and her heels sounding harsh on the polished wooden boards.
‘I have a new rule for the males in this house,’ she said, sipping her coffee carefully so as not to ruin her lipstick or splash the white shirt she wore under her blazer. ‘Don’t touch my stuff.’
‘Where was it?’ asked de Payns, pointing to the tortoiseshell hairclip now in her hair.
‘On the Lego box,’ she said. ‘The boys are going to Ana’s after school and she’s taking them to karate. I’m picking them up from there.’
‘Okay,’ said de Payns.
He deposited the pancakes on a plate then walked her to the door.
She kissed him. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘And what I said about you playing cowboys and Indians? I only say things like that because I can’t bear to think about what you actually do.’
‘I know,’ he said, accepting a kiss.
She pushed away from his arms. ‘And remind the boys that Ana’s getting them from school.’
‘Okay,’ said de Payns.
She walked across the foyer, her shoes clicking on marble, echoing against the vaulted ceilings.
‘Eat up, boys,’ he yelled as he strode down the hallway. ‘We leave in nine minutes.’
■
Their walk to school involved a detailed discussion on Paris Saint-Germain football club and a teacher called Mr Simmons, who was from England and taught music. He apparently had a terrible sense of humour and liked to play ‘Deutschlandlied’ to see the looks on the French kids’ faces.
‘Tell him that a German wrote the music to “God Save the Queen”,’ said de Payns.
‘Is that true?’ asked Patrick as they emerged on Avenue du Maine.
‘Maybe not,’ said de Payns as they waited at a pedestrian crossing. ‘But we just want to see the look on his silly English face, non?’
The boys were still laughing as they crossed the street towards the school. He said goodbye, all the parents quickly putting on their COVID masks to prove they were responsible. One of them—a well-dressed Parisienne—walked towards de Payns and his boys, dropping her mask as she did.
‘Hi, Ana,’ said de Payns, as her son Charles ran to play-punch Oliver.
Ana Homsi smiled, a flash of teeth beneath intelligent dark eyes and a high forehead. ‘You have the idea, Alec,’ she said, pointing at de Payns’ face. ‘I should do that.’
‘Dad never wears one,’ said Patrick. ‘We tell him, but he never remembers.’
De Payns cottoned on. ‘Oh, this thing,’ he said, touching the mask that usually sat at his throat. ‘Do I have to wear one outside?’
Ana laughed. ‘Who knows?’
‘No one knows,’ said Oliver.
‘So many laws and rules that you can’t obey them all,’ said Ana, with a smile. ‘But the government always has something to arrest you for.’
‘Too many rules—maybe that’s why PSG keeps losing,’ said Patrick, and Ana laughed.
De Payns found himself laughing along with this charming woman, Syrian by descent but with no Arab accent. He had a flash of insight into his boys, accepting the care and affection of an adult outside their immediate family. He wondered where he had been during this transition in which Romy and Ana had stitched together a series of arrangements in order to pursue their own careers. It relied on a child’s trust and a parent’s authority, which in this group was Ana. De Payns felt like a bystander, and Ana’s attempts to make him seem less like one just made it more obvious.
The boys moved towards the school gate. ‘Ana’s getting you from school,’ de Payns reminded the boys as he hugged them goodbye.
‘We know,’ said Oliver, following his older brother into the school grounds. ‘It’s Monday.’
■
After two Metro journeys and a bus de Payns arrived at the Bunker and went straight to his office, where he took his small backpack from the safe in the corner.
A soft rap on the door behind him announced Margot’s presence. ‘Aguilar, boss wants to see you. He’s in the park.’
He descended the stairs past the Y Division gym, emerging into the cool morning sunshine of the fort’s parklands. Thirty metres away Dominic Briffaut gesticulated with his cigarette at a woman in her mid-thirties, Greta, who appeared to be listening but, judging by the expression on her face, not agreeing. De Payns stood off, waiting for his boss to call him over. Greta stalked away from Briffaut and gave de Payns an annoyed look as she passed—no doubt another OT who’d been told, Thanks for your opinion, now do as you’re told.
Briffaut extended a pack of Camels and lighter as de Payns approached. ‘We all set for Genoa?’
De Payns took a smoke and lit it. ‘We’ll be out of here by nine-thirty.’
‘Lolo’s using the big head?’ asked Briffaut.
De Payns shrugged. ‘I’m told Lolo’s sharp, he’ll find that phone.’
‘What about Monaco? You contacted Johnny?’
‘Yep,’ said de Payns. ‘We’re on for tonight.’
‘Be careful with him,’ said Briffaut. ‘His job is to get us on a boat. Don’t get lured into his bullshit.’
De Payns nodded and took a drag on his cigarette.
Briffaut’s gaze shifted to another OT who was waiting to talk to the boss. ‘Don’t linger down there. I need you back in Paris.’