Claude’s studio was located on the fourth floor of an old warehouse building in Soho. A few minutes before noon Eve found herself in front of one of those old nineteenth century cast-iron buildings she had often passed in her rambles through the area. She went through a tall wood and glass double door towards the elevator. It was an old elevator, noisy and cramped, and exited into the middle of a dingy gray corridor. She turned to the left and reaching his door rang the bell.
The door opened and Claude stood in front of her, casually dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck shirt that cast into relief the pale skin of his face. He greeted her with a warm smile.
“Hello, Eve. I am so glad you could come. Have you eaten lunch?”
“Uh, no.”
“I feel hungry. I know a nice little French bistro n
