Chapter 10
Turn on the computer. Google. Facebook. Four notifications, one message, no friend requests. He began with the message. Arthur. For a change. Hi Mil, lost my notes for the French assignment, LOL, can you scan them for me? Lol? What was so funny about that?
Milo turned to his notifications. Two invitations to play online games, a “like” from Arthur, and a message from Arthur.
Milo clicked on it. It was a photo of a dog with a stately bearing and a haughty look named Clint Eastwoof, next to a black cat with a squashed muzzle and eyes slightly too far apart, named Samuel L.
Catson. Underneath Arthur had commented: LOL.
Plus they look like each other. Don’t forget the French assignment.
Milo was careful not to click “like” so as not to show he’d been on Facebook, then sighed when he realized Arthur would already know he’d read his message.
He clicked “like,” then swiveled forty-five degrees on his desk chair, located his backpack on the other side of the room, and stood up to get it.
As he walked by the window, a movement in the next-door yard caught his eye. He didn’t stop moving until he was already past the window, as if the image he’d seen had only just reached his brain. Slowly he turned back to look.
His bedroom looked out onto both yards, so he had an unimpeded view of what was happening on both sides of the hedge.
Inès was strolling across the grass toward a sun lounger, wearing a bikini and holding what appeared to be a BlackBerry attached to a pair of earphones whose cord reached up to her ears.
She had her back to him. Instinctively, Milo went closer to the window to enjoy the view.
She was very pretty, with black hair tied back in a ponytail, dark skin, long legs, and a nice ass.
Milo swallowed.
He watched her for a few seconds, and then nothing more happened—she was lying down now and not moving—so he went back to his desk, sat down, checked his Facebook page, remembered about the French assignment, and got up again to get his backpack.
Back at his computer, he thought for a moment. Then, briskly, he left the room and went down to the front door and out onto the street. He walked a few feet to the house next door, where he peered at the names on the mailbox: Nora Amrani, Inès and Nassim Depardieu.
Inès Depardieu.
He turned around and went back into the house, strode up the stairs two at a time, and sat back down at the computer.
He typed Inès’s name in the Facebook search box, consulted the first four suggestions, and clicked on the second.
There she was, grinning mischievously at him.
He dragged the arrow to the “add friend” icon.
The arrow turned into a hand. He hesitated, briefly, then clicked.
That was it. He’d cast his hook. Well, an invitation, anyway. Social formalities in the third millennium. A virtual initial contact without risk of rejection. No stammering or blushing. The only drawback was that now he had to wait.
With nothing better to do, he stood up and went back to look out the window.
The girl was still lying on the sun lounger, looking at her BlackBerry.
Too late, he realized she must have just received a ping alerting her to his friend request: suddenly she turned her head to his window and caught sight of him spying on her.
It was too late to conceal himself; Milo could think of nothing better than to hurriedly hide behind the curtains.
What an idiot! What did he look like now?
How on earth was he going to fix this? But even in his discomfiture, a thought occurred to him that made him smile.
His profile picture was a drawing of the hero of Assassin’s Creed, which meant that if Inès had identified him, which she clearly had, she must know his name.
And there was no way she could have known it if she hadn’t made inquiries. Which meant she must have noticed him.
Milo cowered behind the curtain, not sure what to do next. His attention was drawn by a ping indicating he had a new Facebook notification. He went over to his desk and, with a click, saw that Inès had accepted his request.
Milo smiled in delight.
A few seconds later, he received a new message.
His heart began to beat a little faster.
She’d clearly wasted no time in contacting him.
He knew that when he read the message, she’d be notified immediately, so he forced himself to wait, so as not to betray his impatience.
After ten minutes, which felt more like an hour, he opened his mailbox.
It was Arthur, reminding him about the French assignment.