Fatima Pt. 01: Genevieve

'Maybe you're their target, sweetheart?' ventured Hunter. 'You've never told me much about your past life in Pakistan. Goodness knows what you were getting up to under cover of your pharmaceutical studies.'

'You're not going to give me all the opium and heroin jokes, are you? I've heard them all before.'

'All I'm saying (and it was you who brought the subject up - very much an old spy's trick in its own right) is that, given you speak one of the local lingos and all that, you'd make an ideal agent. Not to mention your considerable feminine charms, of course.'

'Of course,' repeated Fatima slowly - a broad smile crossing her face - before she returned to her eggs benedict.

They had plenty of time that afternoon to cycle to the Pablo Picasso museum at Vallauris, where they admired the War and Peace mural, then up to Valbonne and back to the hotel via the charming village of Biot, where they stopped off for a drink. On the ride back, Fatima turned over a few ideas for what she might wear that evening. In the end she opted for a trouser suit, as something best suited for people who, despite their presumed westernisation, might still be profoundly conservative at heart. The one she had brought along was blood red with a nod to the seventies with its flared trousers. The jacket had a nipped-in waist, which suited her figure perfectly. What she wouldn't tell the Iranians was that she bought it after she had seen a photo of Israeli actress Gal Gadot wearing something similar.

As for Hunter, he decided to wear a jacket and tie ensemble (in various shades of blue), which he didn't usually do. Along with the cuffed tan chinos, he thought he looked quite dapper, even if Fatima's first reaction was to burst into a fit of giggles.

'Wait!' said Hunter, taking the ribbing in good part. 'You haven't seen the shoes yet.'

Going to the wardrobe, he bent down and picked out a pair of fringed two-tone tassel loafers.

'You look like a high-class gigolo!' cried Fatima, barely able to control herself.

'Excellent!' said Hunter. 'Just the look I was aiming for!'

When they got to reception a few minutes before seven, Masoumeh and her husband were already there. She had been right on some counts, and wrong on others, Fatima thought. Karim was around the same age as his wife, which she estimated to be mid-forties, but with his swept-back silver hair he cut a dashing figure - one who, she thought, could well be working for the government (but which government?) while fronting up as a businessman. Maybe antiques, maybe shipping, maybe a bit of this and a bit of that.

The Azizis had a car waiting for them in the hotel driveway, which materialised as soon as they had stepped through the rococo doorway. At first, Fatima thought that the driver was a local Uber service provider, but the way Mr Azizi spoke to him (in French) made her think that he was probably the couple's employee. The car was nothing showy (Fatima recognised the Renault's diamond logo on the steering wheel) but it was spotlessly clean and didn't have the array of deodorant devices that characterise taxis and Ubers. The seats were made of a woven fabric rather than leather, and the windows were not tinted in a way that suggested some nefarious activity. All in all, the impression given by the conveyance was one of comfort and respectability. A very effective cover, Fatima thought, if the couple were really Iranian government agents!

There were some roadworks on the outskirts of St-Laurent-du-Var, so the journey took a little longer than planned. Masoumeh, sitting in the back with her two guests, told them that their booking at the restaurant wasn't until 8.30, so they'd still have plenty of time for the pre-dinner drinks.

By the time they got to the bar, it had become quite chilly so they decided to sit indoors. It was an old-fashioned kind of place, with a pool table, where a group of locals were playing, and a jukebox, which one of them would feed from time to time. Some of the songs Fatima actually recognised - which surprised her, since that were all in French. She thought she probably knew one or two of them from old French films, which her first husband, Marc, had made her watch. She had to say some of them (even the black and white ones) were quite good; one called Children of Paradise she especially liked. And then there was one with Catherine Deneuve and her sister which she also liked. That one was a musical, but she couldn't remember its name.

Fatima listened as Karim told stories about his early life in Iran. He'd been brought up in a provincial town and only met Masoumeh when he went to university in Isfahan. His narrative was noteworthy for its lack of a political dimension. The way he spoke, you'd never have guessed that a seismic shift in Iranian politics had occurred when he was a young child. He'd studied accounts and commerce; she was a year ahead of him and was majoring in Persian literature.

They hadn't hit it off very well at first, according to his version of events, since she saw him as a bit of a Philistine ('a country bumpkin', was the way she put it). Coming from Isfahan, she had grown up in a place full of historical monuments, to which she would take him when they started courting (as she quaintly put it). He showed little interest in these relics, eying them up as a property developer would, estimating how much per square metre they might be worth.

It was only after they got to the restaurant that they asked Fatima about her life. They seemed surprised that she had gone back to Pakistan for university when she had done most of her schooling in England, but could understand the draw of the home country, with so many family members around and the comfort that she could derive from centuries-old customs and traditions.

What Fatima didn't tell them was that she had decided to study abroad at the last moment, after the death of her parents in a rail accident in Spain. It was a case of survivor's guilt and a lot more besides. She had stayed behind in Madrid, when they travelled to Santiago de Compostela, because she had met a woman with whom she had embarked on a passionate affair - her first with a person of her own sex. She thought she could exorcise her demons by returning to her roots. In some ways, the move worked. She worked hard, got good results, spent a lot of time with her extended family. But then, in her final year, she had met an older woman (a PhD student from Brunei), the old feelings resurfaced and she ended up living a double life once more. Returning to England had in the end been, if not her salvation, then at least her refuge from the storm that threatened to engulf her.

When it came time to order, Fatima (no connoisseur of French food) put herself in the hands of the Azizis, who recommended the onion and anchovy tart for starters and sea bream with mushrooms and cream for the entrée. Hunter had seafood soup (he couldn't seem to get enough of these) followed by a Niçoise salad. Since the other three didn't order alcohol, Hunter opted for mineral water, while Fatima had Orangina - a favourite from childhood.

Hunter, who had been quiet up to now, was encouraged to talk a bit about his life, and, urged on by Fatima, regaled them with hair-raising stories from his surfing past, learning his trade on a borrowed board at Bondi, riding thirty-foot waves in Hawaii and fighting off sharks near Durban. Although she had heard these tales before, Fatima was thrilled anew, as the man she loved drew simple, yet dramatic word pictures of his youthful derring-do.

Karim expressed his admiration for Hunter's exploits, then began talking a little about his own business ('import and export'). For some reason, Hunter found himself thinking about opium, while Fatima was even more outlandish in her speculations, setting the Iranian at the centre of a gun-running operation. He spoke as if the couple had a place in England as well as an apartment in Paris.

'What did you think of them?' asked Hunter when they'd said goodbye (or 'au revoir', as Masoumeh insisted on calling it) at the hotel reception.

'I enjoyed the evening very much,' Fatima replied, sidestepping her husband's question, while still holding the business card ('Antiques and curios') that Masoumeh had just given her.

They walked back to their room in silence, holding hands. While Fatima thought Karim looked handsome in his khaki shirt with epaulettes and cuffs in hand-printed designs inspired by Persian art, her focus soon turned to Masoumeh, who combined glamour with modesty in her white blouse, white jacket and fawn coloured trousers, neatly accessorised by a pendant gold necklace with amber beads and a pair of comfortable strappy white sandals with a delicate rope motif. Hunter, for his part, was also thinking about the attractive Iranian woman, who had smiled so beautifully when he had been telling his stories.

'Would you like to see them again?' Hunter asked once they were back in their room.

'I'm not sure,' Fatima responded, not wanting to appear too keen or to be the one to initiate things.

Understanding this, Hunter suggested that she might like to message them before they left in a couple of days' time. He said 'them' deliberately, even though he knew that only Masoumeh had provided her contact details. But then, he reflected, it was Masoumeh who they were both interested in. Both of them being very tired, they went to bed without delay and were soon fast asleep in each other's arms.