Chapter 6
I can’t believe this is my first time in Paris. Not that I know what I’m doing here.
It’s not that I’m not excited about my new job, really, I am. I mean, I’d much rather work for a company that isn’t peddling an app that is frankly where the scum of the earth go to try to touch each other, but beggars can’t be choosers, and I’ve been begging for something.
I just need to focus on the positives – not only do I have a job but it’s paying me to go somewhere I’ve always dreamed of visiting.
Paris has always been at the top of the list; in fact, I’ve been talking about it a lot this past year, because I was trying to convince Ben we should go together.
I didn’t simply drop hints, I dropped full itineraries of all the places I wanted to go and the things I wanted to do there – it was practically a ready-made Valentine’s Day or anniversary or birthday gift.
All he needed to do was take the initiative and book it, no thought required (and being thoughtless was clearly his speciality).
Why on earth was I settling for such a terrible boyfriend? Never again.
Anyway, I’m here now and my first impression is that it’s big, beautiful but so busy.
I suppose we always think of places as they look on postcards, or in carefully constructed movie scenes, but in real life there is no director, no one to keep tourists out of your Instagram shots or help you get tables in cute cafés.
It’s hard to believe I’m here for work – mostly because I haven’t been given any work to do yet.
They’ve just shipped (well, technically flown) me to Paris, stuck me in a hotel and told me to wait.
That’s all Paige said to do, to wait, to hang out but not venture too far, to see if I was needed.
She isn’t even here, it’s the other owner, apparently, so I guess I have to do as I’m told, to ‘hang out’ and see.
So that’s what I’m going to do, that’s my plan. I’m just going to amuse myself until I’m needed… if I’m needed. This job is so strange.
I like that my plan of action is to basically have no plan at all.
That’s my new plan of action for everything really, because in my recent experience, if you simply go with the flow and hope for the best then it’s almost impossible to feel disappointed.
Spontaneity, that’s what we’ll focus on.
Well, what’s more romantic than being (technically) whisked away to Paris and then having no idea how the night will turn out, the endless possibilities?
It’s a dream, and not only a dream come true, but a silly fantasy, because I was brought here by my job, not a man, and let’s face it, if your man brings you here for V Day you’ll, what?
Walk around the overcrowded tourist hot spots, fork out a hefty wedge of brie for a meal and then probably feel so full you’ll get about three pumps of missionary before he falls asleep and you attempt to watch French TV alone.
Not that I’m still bitter since my break-up or anything…
Speaking of living in a dream world, I’m currently on my way out of my hotel, heading out to see the sights, doing my best impression of Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City – well, I’m taking inspiration from her Parisian outfits at least. I’m wearing a baby-blue tulle skirt – a big ruffly thing – and a cropped white jacket.
I’d say I don’t know who I think I am, but I do – the third-best Sex and the City girl (I’ll leave it up to you to figure out my ranking for the others).
I am beauty, I am grace, I have poise, I have… Oh, motherfucker, I’ve got my skirt caught in the revolving door.
The hotel is busy, of bloody course, so the door is moving pretty much constantly, and as much as I’m yanking away at my skirt, I can’t break it free.
At this stage I don’t even care if I rip it, but it’s a cheap thing from a fast-fashion website, not delicate couture, so it is unrippable.
It’s probably largely made of plastic – I’d have more luck melting it, versus ripping it, but with zero tools at my disposal, I can’t do anything but keep walking around and around with the door.
The occasional person steps in with me and generously I assume they don’t speak English, realistically I think they’re more likely ignoring the crazy English girl caught in the revolving door.
I need to keep calm – which would be much easier to do had I not just realised that each time the door goes around my skirt gets pulled in a little closer, so pretty soon I’m going to be up against the glass.
Could I die from this? Because I think if anyone could find a way to die from this, it would be me. Shiiiit.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ I blurt, yanking at my skirt again, to no avail.
Suddenly I know what I need to do – I mean, I kind of knew this was an option already, but I’d ruled it out for obvious reasons.
I need to find a way to get my skirt off.
Sure, I’ll be here just, you know, in my knickers, but if my options are death by revolving door or flash and maybe get done for indecent exposure, well, I’d choose…
Hang on, I’m still thinking…
‘ Excusez-moi ,’ a man’s voice interrupts me from my spiralling – no pun intended. Actually, scratch that, I’m the kind of girl who uses humour to deal with things when life gets hard; there’s always a pun intended.
He’s in the same – what would we call it? – door compartment as me, walking around in circles with me.
‘You are English?’ he asks in the most French French accent I’ve ever heard, if that makes sense. I know, I’m in France, but all I can think about is how much he sounds like Lumière from Beauty and the Beast – not to sound like the ‘childless millennial Disney adult’ I absolutely am.
‘What gave me away?’ I ask, smiling, because in Britain we keep calm and carry on, right? Carry on going round and round in a revolving door.
‘It was when I hear – how you say? – “for fuck’s sake”,’ he replies – and it sounds so, so much better when he says it.
‘Ah, that’ll do it,’ I reply.
I just smile at him – far too calmly and politely really, given my situation.
‘Can I ’elp you?’ he asks, nodding towards my skirt.
‘Oh, if you could, mate,’ I reply, and I’ve never sounded more English. I don’t even say ‘mate’ – what am I doing?
‘I think we could stop the door,’ he says, strolling beside me. We’ve done at least four rotations together now. ‘But I fear the skirt may need to come off.’
I fear that too.
‘Erm, yeah, I’m not sure how…’
‘ Alors ,’ he says, taking off his long coat before placing it over my shoulders. ‘Wear this.’
I do as he says, fastening up his coat over my outfit.
‘What now?’ I ask.
The Frenchman reaches out and places his hands underneath my armpits. Then he lifts me into the air, somehow keeping up the steady pace of the still-moving revolving door, and I feel my skirt slowly being tugged from my body so I wiggle my legs to help it come loose.
Look, I know this is highly embarrassing, and I’m not coming across as my best self right now, but bloody hell, this is like something out of a movie.
Finally free, the Frenchman carries me outside, out to the street, where he carefully sets me down on the pavement.
‘ Voila ,’ he says with a grin, and I’m almost amazed my knickers didn’t remove themselves too.
‘You’re my hero,’ I tell him. ‘My knight in shining trench coat. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Your skirt…’ he says, nodding towards the door.
Oh, boy, it’s really mangled up now. Most definitely destroyed. Thank God it was only cheap.
‘Ah, yeah, never mind,’ I say with a bat of my hand – yeah, genuinely, now I’m trying to play it cool, like that whole mess didn’t just happen. ‘I’m sure someone in the hotel will take care of it.’
‘A great attitude to have,’ he says with a smile. ‘I’m Henri.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Henri. I’m Liberty,’ I say, offering him a hand to shake, which is awfully formal given that he just lifted me out of my skirt.
‘What are you doing here in Paris, Liberty?’ he asks.
The way he says my name makes me melt – ironic, given how chilly my lower half is underneath the coat. October in Paris is not the time to be bottomless.
‘Well, first things first, I’m going to buy a new skirt,’ I half joke, although that might not be a terrible idea, because I only brought the one fancy outfit with me, and I can’t exactly visit a fancy restaurant in my travelling or work clothes.
‘And then, well, I’m seeing the sights. I’m here to write an article about why Paris is a great place to visit for a getaway, so I’m going to explore, find somewhere nice for dinner and… yeah.’
Yeah, I just came up with that. Well, I can’t exactly tell him why I’m really here, can I? On call, for something that I might not even be called on for – for my assistant job at a dating app. It sounds made up. I want him to think I’m cool and chic like he is.
‘Alone?’ he blurts in disbelief.
‘Yeah, well, I’m single, so…’
‘ Non, non, non ,’ he replies. ‘We can’t have that. Come, I know a beautiful boutique. We will get you a new skirt, and then I will show you the sights, and I will take you for dinner – let me show you the romance Paris has to offer. What do you say?’
‘ Oui ,’ I blurt, unable to hide the mild breathlessness I’m feeling, because wow. This man has game – and somehow he’s fallen into my lap, semi-literally, and I’m swooning. ‘Yes, I’d love that.’
Best to clarify, lest my French be as clumsy as myself.
‘Come,’ he insists.
Honestly? I think I might. It’s the accent.