Cafe Tuileries
The cafe is emphatically Parisian: white chairs, small round tables, and old French men drinking espressos as they admire women in cotton dresses swirling past. The trees above Susie cast filigreed tablecloths of shadow. The air is abundant with the smells of spring, and the laughter of tourists. The gravel pathways of the Tuileries are awash with petals.
Adriene sits alone, toying with a short black and scanning the crowd, trying to spot which of the tourists is the middle-aged Australian she’s supposed to be meeting.
“Hello? Are you waiting for someone?”
The man is young, good-looking and speaks English with a slight British accent. His hair is cropped short and as if to make up for it, he sports a fashionable goatee.
“Yes.” But now I wish I wasn’t.
“You’re Australian?”
“Is it so obvious?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You’re English?”
“No actually, I’m from Melbourne, but I’m working in London and the pommie accent does rub off on you. You’re Adriene aren’t you?”
“Yes.
You’re not going to tell me you’re Matt’s Uncle?”
“Surprised?”
“Yes. I expected you to be different. Older.”
"You can tell all that from an email?”
“You write formally, like an older person.
And you know… Uncle… it conjures up certain images.”
“Old, fat, and balding.”
“Something along those lines, yes.”
“So, can I sit down?”