He gives her a little cheerful hiss, but doesn't have a spare hand to bat hers away. Instead he wrinkles his nose at her and bumps her leg with the end of his duffel. "People are staring," he jokes, all faux seriousness and affront.

Minding the gap between the train and the platform is the only part that takes any real maneuvering, but once over it moving through the station isn't difficult - just slow. It's the start of French then: signs that are half unreadable and the pre-recorded drone of a woman speaking over the loudspeaker system. The taxi wheel at the top of the station is crowded with people with briefcases and suitcases, tourists and professionals. With his duffel over his shoulder, he's got a free hand now: uses it to pinch back at Chloe's hip in full sight of France, the President and maybe God.

"Why don't you jog ahead and get us a car, love."