‘It’s quite a walk.’
‘It’s such a gorgeous day I don’t mind. We can always stop. We have to have a drink at a pavement café in Paris. It’s in the rules.’
‘Is it?’ Luc took her hand and together they walked at an easy pace, passing through the locals, who all looked busy and in a hurry compared to the army of tourists who smiled, chatted and ate ice creams as they meandered in the same direction.
‘It’s nice to be a tourist. It’s like being on holiday.’ Hattie smiled, tipping her face up to the sun, glad of her sunglasses. The last time she’d been on holiday had been to a static caravan in the Lake District with Chris’s mum and it had rained every day for a whole week.
‘It is nice playing tourist.’
‘So where are we staying tonight?’
‘At my parents’ apartment.’
‘Is that where you grew up?’
‘No, we had a place out at Chatou which is about fourteen kilometres away but my father kept the apartment for business or if they came into Paris for a show or dinner.’
‘Will they be there?’ asked Hattie. She hoped not. God knows what the wealthy Brémonts would make of her.
‘No.’ He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘My mother is away in Switzerland and my father is down at the vineyard in Bordeaux.’
Hattie relaxed a little.
The wide tree-lined boulevard, full of grand old apartment buildings, was characterised by the elaborate wrought-iron balconies that trimmed the upper floors. All along the street imposing wooden doors, with stone surrounds, opened directly onto the pavement. There was a decidedly genteel atmosphere about the neighbourhood, with its café tables beneath red awnings on every corner, along with the tabacs and pharmacies.
They dropped down into the gardens of the Trocadero and Hattie took out her phone to take pictures of the Eiffel Tower, which was every bit as striking and impressive up close as it was at a distance. She wanted to pinch herself to prove that she was really here. Luc must think she was very gauche but when she glanced up at him, he was smiling at her and leaned in to give her a kiss.
‘You look so happy,’ he teased.
‘I am.’ She tucked an arm through his. What was not to like? Wandering the streets of Paris on a sunny day with a gorgeous Frenchman. Life didn’t get much better.
They covered a lot of ground that day, walking from the Eiffel Tower across the Seine to the Place de Concorde, through the Tuilleries. They took a boat trip along the river past the Ile de la Cité and Notre-Dame before stopping for a glass of wine and a plate of cheese at lunchtime in a pavement café that Luc complained was a tourist trap and ridiculously expensive. She admonished him with a laugh – ‘It ticks one of my boxes.’ They enjoyed ice cream as they strolled along the banks of the river but at Hattie’s quelling glance, Luc refrained from making a comment about the four-euro price tag.
Hattie couldn’t remember when she’d been happier.
‘Wow, this is … something,’ said Hattie standing in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in Luc’s parents’ apartment, peering through full-length voile drapes of pale grey.
Her feet ached but she wasn’t about to complain. Paris had been everything she could have wished for, from the stylish women, the extravagant patisserie displays, the manic traffic, astounding parking and the buildings. So many wonderful, elegant stone buildings. It was the most gorgeous city.
She studied the view out over a park, before turning to sigh over the oh-so-elegant and stylish room. The ornaments and furniture must have cost several million arms and legs. Dove grey linen sofas with deep feather-filled cushions that just begged to be sat on faced each other across a wooden table covered with glossy magazines, high-cheeked models staring from the covers. The palest of pale pink watered silk cushions were arranged at either end of the sofa along with an even paler pink cashmere throw.
‘It’s stunning,’ said Hattie.
‘Yes,Mamanhas excellent taste, although I prefer living at the château,’ said Luc.
She knew what he meant. This apartment was beautiful, with every luxury and no expense spared, but it was all show. The château was equally luxurious with lots of fabulous ornaments and furniture but they had an authenticity. They held memories and history – they were part of a story – and she thought, with a start, she was becoming part of that story.
‘I know what you mean,’ she replied. ‘The château is home…’ The thought bought her up sharp. ‘I mean homely. More homely. Than this. This is lovely but…’ She smiled vaguely at Luc, conscious of the odd slip. It didn’t mean anything.
He led her through the double doors back down the hallway to a heavy wooden door. Inside the room was a big wooden sleigh bed, covered in a puffy white duvet, perfect for snuggling under, and decorated with yellow and grey cushions. By the bed were pretty lamps with yellow silk lampshades on wooden bedside tables, topped with etched glass carafes and water glasses alongside silk-covered boxes of tissues and embroidery-backed hairbrushes. Several books nestled in niches, among little figurines, china trinket boxes and miniature bottles of expensive hand and body lotion.
‘Oh, I love the bath,’ cried Hattie, exclaiming over the claw-footed bath in the centre of the en-suite bathroom. ‘I’ve always wanted one of these.’
‘You know there is one in the master suite at the château. Why didn’t you stay in there?’
‘Because it felt like a bridal suite and to be honest –’ she tried not to smile ‘– I liked the balcony and the fact that you were next door.’
‘Did you now?’ Luc came towards her, slipped his arms around her and trailed kisses along her chin. ‘Why was that?’
