It’s been thirty minutes since Cindy peeled Barbara off the ceiling and soothed her shrieks into silent shaking. Cindy’s left her BFF crouched in a corner, head down, knees up, pretending she’s in a bomb shelter, safe underground while she checks Sam’s enjoying the ride. Sam slouches against the railing while Cindy leans in beside him, twittering prettily. Sam nods occasionally to her birdsong and stares lazily out across Paris. The rest of us ring the lift like cake candles. Except Will. He’s pacing while David presses his forehead against the glass and drums his fingers. ‘Maybe we should press the emergency button again.’ Will turns and retraces his steps. David grunts. ‘I think they know we’re stuck. I can see workmen down below.’ Rupert has me cornered. He’s pointing to one lit building after another, as the sun slides slowly down beyond the horizon. ‘There’s the military school, there’s the Arc de Triomphe, there’s the Pompidou Centre.’ He’s been chatting at me since the lift juddered to a halt, more tedious than a telephone directory.
