Diva. Carrie Duffy

away at an alarming rate. If she didn’t find work soon … Alyson swallowed. There was no way she was giving up on her dream.

      As she stood fumbling with her purse she noticed the café on the corner, the waiters bustling in and out in their smart uniforms. Alyson thought for a moment, gathering her nerve. She could do that easily.

      It felt horribly like a step back – she didn’t want to return to waitressing – but surely it would only be temporary, until she got a real job somewhere. Right now, earning money was her priority.

      Before she could change her mind, Alyson crossed the road.

      ‘Pardon,’ she began, in hesitant French. ‘Do you have any jobs available?’

      It had been an impulsive gesture, completely out of character. She hoped the gamble would pay off.

      The waiter she’d approached shook his head. ‘Non,’ he offered curtly, before heading back inside. Alyson stood on the pavement, feeling stupid. Then she mustered her dignity and moved on. She’d taken enough blows today – a little more humiliation was hardly going to make a difference.

      The Latin Quarter was a mecca for cheap tourist restaurants, but everywhere she tried she got the same response. It was like a replay of her morning spent at La Défense. So much for being proactive, Alyson thought in frustration. She couldn’t even get a job as a waitress.

      But she persevered, making her way from one low-rent eaterie to another. Some kind of dogged determination kept her going, a perverse instinct to keep putting herself through the wringer. One more place, she told herself. Just one more, and then she would go back to the scuzzy little hotel room she was staying in. It was hardly a cheering thought.

      The final bar on the street was illuminated by a gaudy green and white flashing sign. It was an Irish theme pub, all shamrocks, leprechaun hats and pints of Guinness. Even the name was a horrible cliché – Chez Paddy. Alyson walked in without hesitating.

      Inside it was dimly lit, decorated in dark wood panelling to give it a rustic feel. About half a dozen of the tables were occupied, and Alyson walked straight up to the bar. At first she thought no one was serving, but then a guy appeared out of the back room.

      He was tall and slim, with dark hair, and he smiled when he saw her.

      ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, in a rich Irish accent.

      ‘Do you have any jobs?’ Alyson blurted out, not even trying to hide her desperation.

      The guy smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘When can you start?’

      ‘Straight away?’ she suggested, wondering if he was joking.

      ‘Well, get behind the bar then,’ he laughed, throwing her a black T-shirt with Chez Paddy stitched in green just above the left breast. ‘I’m Aidan, by the way.’

      ‘Alyson,’ she told him, shaking the hand he was holding out. His grip was firm, his skin warm.

      ‘Welcome to the team,’ he grinned.

      For the next month, Alyson worked solidly, six-day weeks and taking on any extra shifts she could. Life was reduced to little more than travel, work and sleep – métro, boulot, dodo, as the French said – but hard work didn’t faze her: it was all she knew. She was so busy that she forgot no one had rung her back with a more serious job offer.

      To her surprise, Alyson found she was enjoying life at Chez Paddy. Aidan was a lifesaver – funny, warm and patient as he showed her round the bar, teaching her how to pull a pint of Guinness and make a shamrock design on the head, or how to mix cocktails over the back of a spoon so they sat in perfect layers.

      She found that she was far more relaxed than she’d been at home. Back in Manchester, Alyson had always been something of an outsider. Her natural shyness was often misinterpreted as hostility, the other, more popular, girls labelling her snooty or stuck-up.

      Here she was less defensive, confident enough to let her guard down and make small talk with the endless stream of tourists that were passing through, or the Irish expat regulars who came in to get drunk on Jameson’s whiskey.

      She didn’t realize that, night after night, Aidan watched her and marvelled at the difference in her already – from the nervous young girl she had been when she’d first come in to beg for a job, to the incredibly beautiful, confident woman she was fast becoming. He knew she had a history. That much was obvious. She didn’t like to talk about herself, and she was clearly running away from something. But he didn’t ask her, and he didn’t rush her. Almost instantly, Aidan felt incredibly protective of her and wanted to help her in any way he could. He daren’t ask himself what his motives were.

      ‘Any luck finding a place yet?’ Aidan asked one afternoon as they cleared away the tables after the lunchtime rush.

      Alyson shook her head. ‘I haven’t had time to look. I’ve been so busy here.’

      ‘You’re not still living in that crummy hotel?’ Aidan asked in disbelief. ‘Go on. Take the afternoon off.’

      Alyson stared at him in confusion.

      ‘I mean it. Seriously, I can manage here. Have you been to the American Church?’

      Alyson shook her head.

      ‘It’s on the Quai d’Orsay, along the river. They have ads for flat shares, au pairs, hostess work, that kind of thing. But don’t go getting another job! There’s no way I can do without you here.’

      ‘Thanks, Aidan,’ Alyson grinned shyly, as she grabbed her bag and slipped out of the door, stepping into the bustle of the busy street.

      It was a beautiful day and she decided to walk, eager to see as much of the city as she could. She took a left and followed the curve of the river. Heavy sycamore trees swayed gently in the light breeze as the traffic rumbled incessantly on the other side of the Seine.

      A group of young Parisians, not much older than herself, whizzed by on rollerblades, their bronzed limbs sleek and toned as they yelled to each other. Their French was rapid and full of slang, but Alyson was learning fast, the colloquial phrases quickly becoming familiar to her. Yeah, she was really making progress, she thought happily, as she strolled along enjoying the warm spring sunshine.

      ‘Mademoiselle?’

      Alyson felt a hand on her arm and turned sharply. A man stood in front of her, nervously clearing his throat. He was in his forties, a touch overweight and beginning to go bald. There were sweat patches under the armpits of his shirt, and the top of his head barely came up to her chin. ‘Vous avez l’heure?’ he asked.

      Alyson checked her watch. ‘Oui. Quinze heures trente.’ She went to move on, but the man stopped her.

      ‘Vous êtes très belle, mademoiselle. Vous voulez prendre un café avec moi?’

      Alyson reddened, looking away sharply. ‘Non, merci.’ She began to walk off. The guy watched her go for a moment, as though considering whether or not to pursue her. He decided not to. He didn’t stand a chance, and he knew it.

      The incident had unsettled Alyson. She hated the way men came on to her like that. It had happened ever since she’d arrived in Paris. They would follow her down the street, hit on her when she was sitting in the park reading a book – even chat her up when she was in the launderette, trying to wash her clothes She knew that the French reputation was legendary when it came to romance, but so far all she’d encountered were a bunch of sleazeballs with appalling chat-up lines. Besides, she’d lost her trust in men when her father had walked out on them …

      Angrily, Alyson stomped up the stone steps of the American Church, trying to banish the unhappy memories. Away from the road it was quiet, and the cloisters were cool after the heat of the street. Shading her eyes from the sun reflecting off the windows, Alyson skimmed the ‘To Let’ adverts. There was very little that was suitable – too small, too expensive, too far out of the