From Paris, With Love

‘Ooh, close to that square full of artists that I’ve seen on the telly? Aren’t we the cultured ones?’

‘I believe it is excessively touristy nowadays, but yes, that’s the place.’ He leant forward and kissed me on the lips – an action which never failed to make my heart race, as if it only had a few beats left before giving out. ‘Oh, Gem, I can’t wait to show you my favourite Parisian haunts. When Mother brought me here, one school holiday, I thought it was the most wonderful place on earth. The view from the top of the Eiffel Tower is smashing – truly panoramic. And we visited the extraordinary Pompidou Centre and Père Lachaise, a magnificent cemetery where some of the greatest writers of all time are buried, like Oscar Wilde. The tombs are like nothing you’ve ever seen – even bigger than those on your favourite supernatural programme…’

I screwed up my forehead.

‘The one where high school students transform into werewolves or consume blood.’ He pulled a face.

‘Ah, the Vampire Diaries.’ AKA the greatest show on earth! And I wasn’t the only dedicated viewer at Applebridge Hall. Amazin’ cook, Kathleen, watched it too, under the guise of ironing in front of the telly. Proof that grey hairs and wrinkles don’t stop you appreciating hot men – well, bloodsuckers really, but still, what was a couple of sharp glinting teeth between friends?

Having said that, much as I liked watching lush vamps hang out amongst gravestones, I’d already selected more lively locations to visit during my stay here. For me, the French capital was all about wicked boutiques, awesome cafés and, of course, Disneyland Paris, dream destination to children of all ages – including forty-three year old Auntie Jan, who was Minnie Mouse’s number one fan.

Plus I could just imagine Edward and me sitting outside some fancy bar in the capital, sipping red wine, and eating slices of baguette with smelly cheese. We’d look all arty and refined, with a cluster of museum guides and shopping bags at my feet. All I’d need then was a beret and miniature poodle to make the fantasy complete. In the background, classy music would play – like that golden oldie about not regretting something or other… *Sigh*. I’d fallen in love with Paris already.

‘Pardon!’ mumbled a lady in a fur coat, who squeezed past us to get her bags.

‘Huh?’ I shrugged at Edward. ‘But I didn’t say anything.’

‘No, that means excuse me,’ said Edward as he studied the carousel.

Oh. Clearly my GCSE French was rustier than I thought. Mind you, I hadn’t forgotten everything and when the woman came back again, carrying a smart suitcase, and repeated the polite word, I said. ‘Au naturel,’ pleased to have remembered the phrase for “of course”.

The woman gave me a strange look and hurried on. Edward chuckled.

‘You just said “naked” to her,’ he whispered.

Really? Nah, he had to be wrong, even though he’d spent the last few weeks revising his French. Certain things from school lessons never left me – like the time I did an essay about me and Auntie Jan attempting to make homemade jam. Right healthy it was, and I wrote that we’d used no préservatifs. You should have seen the teacher’s face. Well, how was I supposed to know that was the French word for condoms? Cue, a fleeting moment of fame at school, as everyone thought I’d muddled up the words on purpose.

As the luggage went around on the conveyor belt, a man in a black suit and sunglasses stood on the other side of the carousel and stared my way. His light brown hair was styled army short. He had tanned skin, a strong jawline and chiselled cheekbones. All of a sudden he turned away and disappeared into the crowds. Perhaps Parisians might recognise us after all.

A fashionable woman struggled to retrieve her huge suitcase and Edward lunged forward, easily lifted it off the conveyor belt and bowed his head as she giggled and muttered her thanks in French. Yes, I was officially going out with one sexy, appealing hunk! Whistling, arm linked with my man, I eventually left the airport.

We pulled our suitcases on wheels, both of us carrying rucksacks on our backs. Once outside I took a deep breath, expecting to smell garlic or see strings of onions around people’s necks. This was France, right? Plus my first time abroad… But, disappointingly, everything looked much the same as back home, including the grubby pavement and grey clouds.

How could this be? I wanted glamour! The Exotic! Sophistication! Even the birds were the same, I noticed, as a couple of chubby pigeons ambled past. You’d think they‘d look all slim and sexy, living over the Channel. Edward hailed a taxi and muttered something in the local lingo. Apparently he’d got top marks for his French A-level and once stayed with family friends in the South of France. As a girl I’d always been lucky to get a week in Margate – not that I’m complaining. It takes a lot to beat a visit to the arcades, followed by a cone of chips and stick of rock.

We got in the car and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the strange man with sunglasses get into a waiting black BMW. Wow. Its windows were tinted. He must have been important.

‘Anglais, uh?’ said the taxi driver, as our car pulled away.

‘Yes,’ said Edward.

‘‘oliday?’

‘Non…’ I cleared my throat. ‘We are, ‘ow you zay… workeeeeng.’ I caught Edward’s eye and giggled, realising that just adding an accent to my English didn’t make me a linguist.

‘Nous travaillons,’ I said, racking my brain for the right words.

‘Ah… but still… Exciting, non… in Paris?’

‘Au naturel,’ I said, despite Edward thinking he knew what that meant. And, indeed, the car swerved, proving that the driver was impressed with my French.

‘Bit of a luxury this, isn’t it, a taxi?’ I said to Edward as the driver looked in his mirror to give me a weird look and turned up the radio.

‘Quite. After years of watching every penny, to save Applebridge Hall, my instinct would have been to take the underground.’

‘You mean Métro,’ I said airily. ‘Yes – but I’m glad we took the convenient option, instead of dragging our cases across the capital. It’s made our whole trip a lot easier.’

‘Our first trip together…’ Edward smiled fondly at me. ‘I wonder where we’ll go for our second? Imagine going on a cruise, like the girl whose flat we’re borrowing. Even though she’s working on the ship, it’s a chance second to none – a life on the waves…’ Edward stared dreamily out of the window.

It had been weird for him – the fallout from last year’s reality show. The world suddenly realising that his cousin Rupert – not him – was the rightful heir to Applebridge Hall. Once Rupert took over, after graduating later this year, Edward would be free of his aristocratic responsibilities, if he wanted, to carve out any career path.

I gripped his hand and gave it a squeeze, before gazing out of the window. Whoaa! This was more like it. Clearly we were entering the centre of the Paris. Just look at those cute cafés with people drinking beer and coffee outside, under the early rays of spring sun. And those shop windows had gilt-edged windows… Glamour at last! Plus an old man just cycled past wearing a beret!

Mind you, he’d have been better off wearing a sturdy helmet. My eyes widened as cars weaved randomly in between lanes, hooting and winding down their windows to swear. Perhaps I’d need to head for the Champs-Elysées to experience French elegance at its best. And sure enough, we drove down that huge avenue eventually – not that I took in much detail, after the psychotic way our car had hurtled around the Arc de Triomphe a few times, seconds before.

‘I suspect we’re being taken on the sightseeing route,’ said Edward and glanced at the taxi meter before pulling out his travel guide. I held onto the door, heart racing as if I’d just done the scariest ride at Alton Towers. I must have been confused, cos I was sure I saw that black BMW hurtling around with us, as well.

Not long after, however, the streets narrowed and, able to focus once again, I saw Parisian life up close. Away from the busy boulevards, people walked at a slower pace. They talked on their phones or, carrying a newspaper, stopped to chat with café owners. The most adorable balconies with plant pots fronted white-washed flats above shops, shutters either side of the windows. I sent Abbey a quick text to let her know how cute the city was.

‘Are you going to miss Applebridge Hall? And your dad? It’s ages since you’ve been away, what with the financial stresses,’ I said.

Edward chuckled. ‘Father and I could probably do with a break from each other after all this time. But seriously? I feel happier leaving him behind, now that he enjoys the companionship of Lady Constance.’

I nodded. Theirs was a mega sweet romance, fuelled by a mutual love of birdwatching. ‘Shame she won’t be with him for Valentine’s Day.’

‘At least she’s only in Switzerland for a few days.’

‘True.’ Dear old Lady C – well into her seventies and still giving advice on running finishing schools. Having owned one for years, she’d become something of an expert in the field, plus appearing on Million Dollar Mansion had raised her profile. She’d been mega chuffed to be invited to a girls’ college in Zurich for three nights.

‘Almost there, now,’ said Edward, as we pulled into a busy street which was cobbled, full of pedestrians and increasingly narrow. How adorable! I’d have to take loads of photos later and upload them to my Facebook page, with the status “Wish you were here.”

‘We can walk from here.’ He paid the driver and we got out.

Towing our luggage, we eventually came to a tiny square where I did finally breathe in garlic – along with a whiff of seafood wafting out from a bottle-green painted bistro on the left called “La Perle”. Next to that was a gift shop with racks of postcards outside. Opposite was a butcher’s with a queue coming out of the door and a tiny supermarket. A van pulled up near the gift shop to unload fresh produce for a grocer’s further along. Edward pointed upwards, to the right.

‘Voilá!’ he murmured.

Wow – it couldn’t get better than this. Our home for the next month was bang on top of a patisserie – that’s a cake shop, to you and me – called… Ah, I could translate those words – the sign said “The Golden Croissant”. Roll on breakfasts of fresh swirly Danish pastries… And down the end of the avenue, along from there I could just see a red canopy over small tables – a bar!

‘Come on!’ I said and hurried towards the flat. Pulling my suitcase, I charged towards the cake shop and headed up a staircase on its right, whilst Edward nipped inside the Golden Croissant to get the key. Five minutes later, we were inside the flat and surveying our new home in silence. Talk about fab.

The small, functional kitchen and lounge were open plan, with a welcoming fireplace in the middle, near an ivory sofa and chairs. Underneath the glass coffee table lay a turquoise patterned rug, over oak-laminated floor. On the ornate black balconies, outside the windows, sat potted plants. There was a dinky bathroom and the cutest bedroom, with rustic bedcovers, a bowl of potpourri and a wash basin and jug. A beech table with four chairs just about fitted into the far corner, on the window side….

‘Our Parisian abode really is quite charming,’ said Edward as he took out a notebook from his pocket, to jot down some notes.

‘Look at you, ever the writer,’ I said and winked.

He nodded. ‘It’s just a few random thoughts of our taxi drive and the sights so far. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to squeeze a few weeks’ columns out of this trip and not just report on the commemorative First World War events.’