Shadow Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

guaranteed, even for the verbally hesitant.
    A bientôt!

    Lightning-fast results, exactly what she is looking for. Though when she first read the ad, she did find the reference to the modern woman intriguing. She had no idea what it meant. A specific type of vocabulary? A chance to discuss — en français — how to balance your job and family? How to negotiate the pitfalls of a society that remains by and large sexist?
    In any case, she thought, there was no danger of sitting through boring conversation pieces designed for tea-sipping retirees. She texted a short enquiry and got — to paraphrase the ad — a lightning-fast answer. She took this as a good sign and promptly set up a meeting.
    She turns away from the panoramic bow window and reaches for her phone. She has already begun to dial Yaouen’s number when the crystalline chime of her doorbell echoes through the lounge. She hurries to the door and opens it with an assertive hand swing.
    The words ‘you’re a bit late’, which she fully intended to target at her visitor, do not make it past her lips.
    She is, in truth, taken aback by what she sees: a tall, athletic-looking man, dressed in an impeccable white linen suit that contrasts sharply with his dark hair and light-brown skin. He exudes elegance and quiet strength. From the thin lines etched around his mouth and the creases lengthening his eyes, she judges him to be in his late thirties. Possibly early forties. There is no trace of the soft belly often visible among the men in his age group.
    He holds what looks like a large box of sweets under one arm. A box brightened by art deco motifs and adorned with a belt of colourful tassels.
    She had formed in her mind a different, more traditional picture of a French tutor. Someone younger, shorter and lighter-framed — scruffier too, with unruly hair and a cooking manual poking out of his pocket, figuratively speaking. This guy ticks none of the boxes.
    The man picks up on the hesitation in her eyes.
    â€˜You are Sandra Banks, no?’ he enquires.
    â€˜Yes, yes,’ she responds, her poise restored. ‘And you are Yaouen, of course.’
    He takes a slight bow.
    â€˜Indeed, madam. Yaouen Bellepeau, from Mauritius.’
    â€˜You do speak French, don’t you? I mean, French is your native tongue, isn’t it?’ She asks, suddenly suspicious.
    Yaouen chuckles. ‘Please, have no fear, chère madame , my mother is French and my father Creole. I speak perfect French, as well as Creole like all my fellow islanders. And very commendable English, since, after all, it is the language used by the teachers and politicians of our small island. I also possess a smattering of Hindi, Mandarin and Spanish, which I picked up while on business in Mumbai, Shanghai and Panama, during an earlier phase of my life. I have travelled quite a bit.’
    His eyes, she notices, are puzzlingly iridescent, reflecting as it were ambient light and colours.
    â€˜Sorry for asking,’ she says, ‘but I am on a very tight schedule and I can’t afford to waste time with . . . with . . .’ — she searches for the right word — ‘with an amateur.’
    â€˜I can assure you, Sandra — may I call you Sandra? — I am anything, anything but an amateur.’ He punctuates his statement with a broad smile and a slight wave of the box he is holding.
    She lets him in, and makes a beeline for the small mahogany desk by the bow window.
    â€˜Please sit down, I’m very keen to begin. As I explained in my texts, I’m taking a business trip to France in three weeks, my French is in tatters and I need to brush up fast. Very fast. But you’ll find me an eager student.’ She pauses. ‘Let’s call this a trial session, shall we? If either party’s not happy, we call it quits.’
    Yaouen gives a courteous nod but seems in rather less of a hurry than his hostess. He looks around the