by Kate Finnemore
The Frenchman
TAMSIN’S stomach lurched as she got off the bus, walked a few yards along the seafront then headed up one of Brighton’s side streets. One more corner to turn and she’d be there.
Her heart thumped. A lot depended on this audition. She had to get this job.
Like the seafront road, the street was clogged with slow-moving cars. Three Mods on scooters wove in and out between them.
Cliff Richard’s latest hit blared from the café she was passing and the rhythmic pounding of a pneumatic drill started up in a nearby street. So much noise!
She rounded the corner and drew in a shaky breath. She was in another street with shops, offices and almost stationary traffic. People everywhere were window-shopping or hurrying by laden with bags.
What caught Tamsin’s eye was a large, white Ford Transit van parked less than five yards away.
Words were painted in an ornate purple script on the side of the van.
Mr Magick’s Marvellous Mysteries.
Her heart thumped again. This was it!
The driver’s side window was open, the slow dreamy notes of Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade Of Pale” coming through it.
It was a song Tamsin loved – a good sign?
A man was working his way from the rear of the van to the side, buffing the bodywork with a chamois leather. Perhaps he sensed her gaze fall on him for he paused and looked up, his eyes going straight to hers.
The breath caught in Tamsin’s throat. With his dark hair and strong-boned face he reminded her of Montgomery Clift, her favourite Beatle.
Tall, lean and broad-shouldered he wore narrow-legged trousers and a shirt open at the neck. He was, Tamsin decided, one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen.
The song came to an end to be replaced by the fast, insistent beat of the Beach Boys. There was a transistor radio perched on the van’s dashboard, Tamsin saw.
“Come for the audition?” the man asked. “It’s that door there.”
“You’re French?”
The charming way he had pronounced “th”, like a soft “zz” had been the clue. But Tamsin felt colour flood into her cheeks.
He laughed.
“Yes, I am French. ’Ow deed you guess?” he added, exaggerating the accent.
Tamsin found herself laughing, too. She was grateful. He was fun and had taken her mind off the upcoming audition.
“I’ve just finished four years at university studying French,” she told him. “I spent the third year of the course in
