Ruby’s smile was as painted on as the rest of her face. Most men didn’t notice. The smile remained, even when he burst into French. A slight squint when she caught ‘Roxanne’, smile otherwise unflinching. Plenty of her clients spoke French, and some tried to impress her with it. Though she knew a few of the most common words (the ones used to mock the French, mainly), and some of what she heard from Sonia, her grasp of it was sand through fingers. Ruby depended more on physical cues with it.

“Oui, oui!” she said when Cheri pointed to himself. “Mon chéri!”

Then he pointed to the cellar, and she tilted her head. Did he want wine?

Cour-ti-… Oh! One of them. Like that word alone dropped strings from puppet shoulders, Lory sunk like a sack of potatoes across the couch. She sagged until her head was on the cushions (bad idea, but she’d smelled far stronger smells).

“Thank God,” she laughed. “I thought I was going to have to fuck you.”

Just in case he missed the important part of that, she made a hole with her left hand and poked the finger of her right into it repetitively, then pointed at him, shook her head, smiled, and fanned herself in dramatic relief.

She turned only her head to regard Chéri now, flinging her heeled feet up onto the other arm of the couch.

“Do you speak English?” she asked, carefully enunciated rather than slowed.