Présentation de l'éditeur Molly Clearwater had always wanted to escape the confines of her small-town upbringing to make a splash as a career woman in London. But somehow, working as a low-level assistant for the boorish Malcolm Figg wasn't nearly as fulfilling as she had hoped-until Malcolm offered her a "perk"-a free weekend business trip to Paris. She's ecstatic until she discovers that Malcolm's idea of "business" isn't exactly the same as hers. Horrified, Molly storms out of the office. With nothing else to lose, she impulsively boards a train to Paris, intent on treating herself to a long weekend in the City of Light. Within moments of stepping onto the cobblestoned streets of Paris, Molly is swept up in an adventure that defies her imagination. From infiltrating a conference in a Cleopatra wig to sharing her deepest secret with a complete stranger, Molly's weekend away from her troubles turns into a dizzying voyage of passion and self-discovery, transforming her absolutely... Extrait Eighty feet below Trafalgar Square the train rattled southward, steepening its angle as it prepared to plunge beneath the Thames. It was Friday rush-hour on an unseasonably mild afternoon in early October. The overcrowded carriage simmered with body heat and eau-de-commuter, a musty composite of stale perfume and warm armpit. Wheels screeched. Conversations droned. From all directions came the rhythmic hiss of personal stereos, like a chorus of invisible crickets. Molly Clearwater stood midway between the doors, wedged between a dandruffy male shoulder and an enormous backpack, with one arm crooked for support around a metal pole. At her feet was a small, worn suitcase. She held a paperback inches from her nose, the pages flat and open. But she wasn't reading. 'A stupid secretary.' That's what Malcolm had called her. The tormenting words repeated themselves over and over in her head, and unconsciously she raised her chin, and shook back her tumble of fair hair, like a swimmer coming up for air. She was not a 'secretary'. And how, she would like to know, could you call someone 'stupid' who had a first-class degree in English Literature? Plus a distinction for her dissertation ('The Gothic Novel: from Mrs Radcliffe to Daphne du Maurier'). The image of Malcolm in his exec-on-the-make suit, smirking with the conviction of his own sportswagon-driving, Men's Health-reading, investment-checking, cellphone-blathering, hair-gelled rightness made her cheeks glow pink. The man couldn't even spell 'accommodation'. It was pathetic to remember how excited she'd been, only six months ago, to get this job. No more living at home, being driven barking bananas by her mother. No more slaving for a pittance at Bloom 'n' Veg in Minster Episcopi, sleepiest town in the universe. Destiny called! She and Abigail, her best friend from St Swithin's comprehensive, had gone out to celebrate at the Horse and Groom in the high street and got so plastered on Bacardi Breezers that Molly could barely ride her bike home. Abigail, who was a beauty therapist now (but a really good one), had conjured up a magical vision of Molly's future - chic clothes and funky haircuts. Notting Hill restaurants and Soho bars, sophisticated men for whom an evening out did not mean a McDonald's and a snog in their van. There would be promotion, her own swanky office, business trips. (Oh, bitter irony.) The job title was 'Marketing Officer', and the advertisement had specified a creative self-starter with degree-level education and superior writing skills - 'Right up your Strasse,' as Malcolm Figg had said himself at the interview. Molly hadn't cared that it was a pharmaceutical company rather than something more glamorous. The point was that she had a job. In London. She was launched on life, big-time. To begin with, it had seemed a tremendous adventure, joining the commuter rush to work, getting kitted out with free pens and multi-coloured paperclips, and taking possession of a fat stack of bu
