I stared at him. “Twenty thousand?” I repeated. “That sounds insane!”
“It is,” he replied with delight. “It’s the most insane thing ever! It’s the biggest group skate in the world. There are dozens of police along to block off the roads. But it’s the best way to see Paris, Emma. You must come along!”
I looked at him dubiously. “You’re not pulling my leg?” I asked.
“No, no!” he exclaimed. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a computer printout. “Look. This is the route for tonight. It comes out each Thursday.”
He handed me the crumpled sheet, and I studied it for a moment. It was a map of Paris that seemed to have been colored over with an interlocking, zany design.
“That’s the route,” Gabe said, pointing at the tangled mass of zigzags. “It’s nineteen miles long. It’s fantastic! My baby sister Lucie and I used to go every week, but then she moved back home to Brittany to live with our father. So I’ve been going alone, but it would be perfect for you! It’s the best way to see the city!”
“Oh,” I said. I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. “So . . . you’re asking me to come?” I said. It sounded like a zany idea. But I had to admit, the longer I looked at the piece of paper, the more intriguing it sounded. I’d never considered seeing Paris on skates.
“Yes, yes, you’ll love it!” he said. He was grinning like a lunatic.
I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. “Is this just another way to trick me into giving you information about Guillaume?” I asked. “Or are you going to try to corner me into an interview?”
Gabe looked taken aback. “No, Emma, I wouldn’t do that,” he said, the smile slipping from his face.
I made a face at him. “I think you would.”
He frowned. “Emma, I promise,” he said. “I won’t say a word about work this evening.”
“Really?”
“I give you my word,” he said solemnly.
I hesitated. “I’m just not sure if it’s professional,” I said reluctantly.
Gabe looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
I blushed. “I don’t know. Since you’re a reporter and I’m a publicist and everything. Isn’t this unethical?”
“Emma,” Gabe said. “I’m not asking you to spill all your Guillaume Riche secrets or give me exclusive information. I’m asking you to go skating.”
I thought about it for a moment. What did I have to lose? My alternative was spending an evening alone. And when would I have a chance to skate all over this city again? It sounded fascinating. And perhaps, if we could stay away from talking about Guillaume for a night, I could curry a bit of additional favor for KMG with Gabe. Obviously, I’d need the extra store of goodwill for the next time Guillaume did something stupid.
“But I don’t have skates,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” Gabe said. “My sister left hers at my apartment. If they don’t fit, we’ll figure out a way to rent you some.”
“Well . . . okay,” I said after a moment. I smiled. “I guess I’m in.”
“Great!” Gabe said. “Why don’t you meet me in an hour and we’ll eat first.”
Against my better judgment, I was at the door of Gabe’s apartment in an hour, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, as he had suggested. It felt crazy to be there, but I kept reminding myself that it was for the good of Guillaume. After all, if I was friendly to Gabe, he might forgive more of my rock star’s wackiness, right? He might be easier to charm the next time Guillaume did something stupid. Unfortunately, there was no doubt in my mind that there would be a next time.
Plus, I had to admit, I’d spent the past hour getting excited about the Pari Roller. I had looked it up online to make sure that Gabe wasn’t making it up, and as wacky as it sounded, it was true. From 10 p.m. to 1 a.m. every Friday, a group of nearly twenty thousand skaters, most of them in their teens and twenties, went roaring north from the Montparnasse station into the heart of Paris, snaking their way past monuments and landmarks in one noisy stampede on wheels.
When Gabe opened the door to his apartment, which was indeed just a few blocks from mine on Rue Augereau, he was holding a pair of skates in one hand and a baguette in the other.
“My sister’s,” he said in greeting, holding up the pink Rollerblades. “And dinner,” he said, holding up the baguette. “Well,” he amended. “Part of dinner, anyhow.”
“You cooked?” I asked. I’d assumed we would just grab a sandwich or crêpe on the way.
Gabe shrugged. “We’ll need the energy. Believe me. Besides, it’s nothing special. I’m not so great in the kitchen. But I do make a fantastic spaghetti Bolognese, if I do say so myself.”
I laughed. “It sure smells good,” I said. And it did. The pungent aroma of tomatoes, basil, and garlic danced down the hallway toward the door, enticing me in.
“I’ll go get things ready,” Gabe said. “Why don’t you try on Lucie’s skates?”