Barclay, Linwood Novel 08 - Never saw it coming

her plate, that’s for sure.”
    “Is she sorry she didn’t get to become president?”
    “I’ll tell ya, I don’t think she’s had a moment to think about it.”
    “I suppose that’s true.”
    “Anyway, carry on.”
    “Thank you, thank you, Mr. President. It’s—it’s still proper to call you that, isn’t it?”
    “Of course. You retain the title, even when you no longer hold the office.”
    “I’ll be in touch.”
    “I know you will.”

Four
    “Let’s say you were staying at the Hotel Pont Royal and you wanted to get to the Louvre, how would you do that?” Thomas asked me. “Come on, this is a super-easy one.”
    “What?” I said. “What city are you talking about?”
    He sighed and looked at me sadly across the kitchen table, as though I were a child who had disappointed him by not knowing how to count to five. We looked a lot alike, Thomas and I. Both around five-eleven, thinning black hair, but Thomas had a few pounds on me. I was the slender Vince Vaughn from
Swingers
, Thomas the meatier Vince Vaughn from
The Break-Up
. I was definitely healthier looking, but that had nothing do with physical build. When you hardly went outside and spent twenty-three hours a day in your bedroom—he managed to pack breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the kitchen into three twenty-minute interruptions—you developed a pasty, washed-out complexion, an almost sickly pallor. He was probably suffering from a Vitamin D deficiency. He needed a week in Bermuda. And even though he’d never been there, he could probably name me all the hotels and tell me what streets they were on.
    “I said
Louvre.
Doesn’t that give you some idea where I’m talking about? Louvre,
Louvre,
think about it.”
    “Of course,” I said. “Paris. You’re talking about Paris.”
    He nodded encouragingly, almost frenetically. He’d already finished the frozen meatloaf dinner I’d heated up in the microwave even though I wasn’t even halfway through my own and was unlikely to finish it. I’d have been happier with buttered foam core. He was sitting in the chair with his body twisted in the direction of the stairs, like he was getting ready to bolt back up there any second. “Right, so you want to get to the Louvre. Which way do you go?”
    “I have no idea, Thomas,” I said tiredly. “I know where the Louvre is. I’ve been to the Louvre. I spent six whole days there when I was twenty-seven. I lived in Paris for a month. I took an art course. But I have no idea where this hotel is you’re talking about. I didn’t stay in a hotel. I was in a hostel.”
    “The Pont Royal,” he said.
    I gave him a blank look, waiting.
    “On the Rue de Montalembert,” he said.
    “Thomas, I have no fucking idea where—”
    “It’s just off the Rue du Bac. Come on. It’s an old hotel, all gray stone, has a revolving door at the front that looks like it’s made of walnut or something like that and right beside it there’s a place that does x-rays or something, because it says mammography and radiology above the windows and above those are some apartments or something with some plants in the windows in clay pots and the building looks like it’s eight stories and on the left side there’s a very expensive-looking restaurant with a black awning thing and dark windows and it doesn’t have any tables and chairs out front like most of the cafés in Paris and—”
    All this from memory.
    “I’m really tired, Thomas. I had to go in and talk to Harry Peyton today.”
    “The Louvre is like the simplest place to get to from there. You can almost
see
it when you come out of the hotel.”
    “Do you not want to hear what happened at the lawyer’s?”
    He waved his hands busily in front of me. “You go across the Rue de Montalembert and then across a triangle of sidewalk, and then you’re on the Rue du Bac, and then you go right and you walk up that way and you cross the Rue de l’Université and you keep going and you cross the Rue de Verneuil—I’m not sure I’m pronouncing these right because I never took French in high school—and there’s this place on the corner that has all these really good-looking pastries in the window and bread too and then you cross the Rue de Lille but you keep on going and—”
    “Mr. Peyton said the way Dad’s will is set up, he left the house to both of us.”
    “—and if you look straight down the street you can actually see it. The Louvre, I mean. Even though it’s on the other side of the