In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

I called Dick, she lives with him when she is in town, and he knows
nothing! I dunno. I telephone Thierry, the guy with the mo cap place
by La Bastille, but he knows nothing!”
"Ah!" he said, pointing at the ceiling. "But there is another
place, at Republique, now I remember, I search the number." He
scrolled through. "No, I call Minitel." He punched in a number, pacing
in ever smaller circles now. Muttering under his breath in Italian, he
dialed again.
"Oh, that thing won't work down here, use this." Penny handed
him her cordless.
Alessandro stared at it for a moment, then punched the long
international code from his cell into Penny's phone. "Allo? Le numero
pour Cyber Ciné? Oui, c'est ca." He listened, following the ceiling's
uneven patchwork maze of pipes and nozzles. He punched in another
number, tucking his cell phone under the cordless holding arm.
"Cyber-Ciné? Eh? Ah! Pardonnez moi!" Squinting at his cell
that he'd just dropped into his other hand, he punched in the number
again and waited for the phone to be answered.
"Allo? Etes vous CyberCiné? Bonjour, euh, bonne nuit. Avez
vous une cliente inscrite chez vous au nom d'Ula Nova? Allo,
monsieur?" Long pause. The guy's French was certainly more polished
and polite than his English.
"Vraiment? Et elle a rendezvous a quel heure? Demain a
quatorze heures trente? Merci, monsieur, et pourriez vous lui relluer se
message quand elle arrivera? 'Alessandro et Penny sont en ville, chez
Deek.' Oui, c'est ca, d'accord, merci, vous etes bien gentil, monsieur.
Au revoir."
He handed the phone back. "At fourteen, em, two thirty
tomorrow, she has appointment." Collapsed into the futon, he began
appraising her as if she was an objet d'art in a museum.
"What's this about 'Penny chez Dahveed in Pahree? I'm not
going anywhere! I don't know you, either of you. And she only
acknowledged my presence for the first time yesterday. This has
absolutely nothing to do with me. and even if it did I've got work to do
here. I can't just pick up and jet over to Paris! Hey, none of this is my
fault, okay?"
His eyes followed her like the Mona Lisa's as she paced and
pivoted. What was he doing, searching for that microscopic breach of
form like her gymnastics coach? Of course! Choreographer plus, what
was it the New Yorker called him, her metteur en scène? But what was
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