She nodded her thanks and took a satisfying slug, straight. In any case, she was too wound up to concentrate. Kurtiz turned her attention to the street. Expectant audience members, thrilled to be there, men with small boys on their laps, adrenalin surging for this floodlit game. The spectators were singing, waving flags, swaying. A band of men decked out in black costumes, some with drum kits hanging from their necks, were readying themselves for the national anthems. A scoreboard flagged it in the top right-hand corner of the screen. France, in the blue shirts, was about to play Germany, in white. The players were shaking their bodies, hopping from booted foot to booted foot, limbering up, loosening their well-toned muscles. As was the custom in all these watering-holes, it was tuned to a sports channel. The flat-screen television, the sound muted, attached to the wall above the bar, drew her attention. ‘Un whisky, s’il vous plaît, avec une grande carafe d’eau sur le côté, je vous remercie.’ ‘We’ll be three, but not until a little later.’ Twenty years on, what will be the story for this couple? Will they fare better than her family life had? She sighed and turned her gaze elsewhere. Kurtiz smiled, remembering her own Lizzie-carrying days and her early life with Oliver.
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