Morning had disappeared already in the Paris arrival and the drive to our target area. Now checked in and trying to get comfortable in our allotted space, I followed Jack and the concierge, Madame Sorya. "But please, call me Rosie," she told us, beautifully rolling her r's. Rosie, sixty if she was a day, appeared as practical as her no nonsense straight woolen skirt and cardigan twinset, but she showed her true personality with the brilliant lapis lazuli around her throat and at her ears. She kept up a running dialogue as we climbed the winding stairs to a room, with her promise of bouillabaisse for dinner, one of the few words she said in her nasally French that I could truly understand the first time I heard it. She unlocked the door before handing Jack the key and stepped back, murmuring something about enjoying our stay, I think. No promises on that front until I saw how well the détente between Jack and I held. Jack, sensing my silent simmer, politely pushed me into the room and closed the door.
What do You think about Counterfeit Conspiracies (2013)?
