Chapter 7
There are certain obligations when it comes to exploring Paris for the first time, and I feel like Henri has given me a tour money can’t buy – or that money could buy, even, because it’s like he’s pulled our itinerary straight from a guidebook.
I would ask how I got so lucky, finding someone to show me the sights, but I could ask that question in more of a general way because Henri is a certified dreamboat.
He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s French – and he’s drop-dead gorgeous.
To look at, he isn’t the typical Frenchman you would conjure up – not that I’m one for stereotypes; then again, I’m a single Englishwoman in her thirties who just got her skirt caught in a revolving door.
He’s tall and broad with blown-back sandy blond hair.
He’s dressed effortlessly smart in a blue suit, and he has his jacket back now because he helped me buy a skirt.
Yes, he shopped with me – he even picked out a skirt for me.
He even tried to pay for it. I didn’t let him but he said he wanted to because it was his fault that when he saved me, he regretted that he couldn’t save my skirt too. How bloody French is that?
We’ve been everywhere. The Champs-élysées, the Arc de Triomphe, then onto Montmartre to see Sacré-C?ur – and, of course, The Louvre is a non-negotiable destination.
From there we went for dinner at the most charming bistro, where I consumed so, so much cheese – I had the best toasts de chèvre (that’s fancy cheese on toast to you and me) and Crêpes Suzette au Grand Marnier (really hope I’m not butchering the pronunciation) for dessert – the boozy pancakes of my dreams.
Now we’re strolling along the edge of the Jardin des Tuileries, because sadly it’s closed now, but our hotel isn’t far.
After Ben, and his wankery antics, I didn’t think I would ever have a good time with a man ever again – and that I certainly wouldn’t find one who wouldn’t give me the dreaded ick.
Since deciding that I was never going to settle for any icks ever again, it always feels like a matter of time before I spot one, but maybe, just maybe Henri could be different?
‘Thank you for such an amazing evening,’ I tell him sincerely. ‘Not just for saving me, but for showing me the sights. I’ll bet not many people get their own personal genuine French tour guide to show them around, buy them clothes, take them out for dinner – it’s like a French fairytale.’
Henri laughs.
‘You deserve – how do you say? – a hot date,’ he tells me.
‘Well, you are one seriously hot date,’ I confirm. ‘Ten out of ten. No notes.’
Finally, outside the hotel, we pause on the pavement. Even though we’re obviously both going inside, this still feels like a natural place to say goodnight.
Unless…
I notice Henri lick his lips, like he’s gearing up for something, his eyes darting between my lips and my eyes until he leans in and takes me in his arms, pulling me close, planting his lips on mine and…
wow. Wow, wow, wow. He kisses French too, in case you were wondering, his tongue flicking mine lightly before going in for the kill, turning it into something more passionate.
Eventually, we separate, if only to breathe, and ooh la la.
Henri glances in the direction of the revolving doors.
‘I see they’ve removed your skirt,’ he points out.
‘So they have,’ I reply, giggling awkwardly.
‘Perhaps, if you might like to come to my room, I could remove this one…’
Henri lightly grazes the back of his hand from my stomach down to my skirt, lingering between my legs for a split second. Not enough for anyone to realise what’s going on, but spelling out exactly what he has in mind for me.
Pulling the trigger on moving on, in that way, is not something I have excelled at thus far – why am I being coy? To put it plainly, I haven’t slept with anyone since Ben, and I’m not exactly sure why. It’s not like I’m planning on living a life of celibacy, it’s just that it’s never felt right.
I guess I need to look at it this way: I’m in Paris, I’m on a dream date, with a really nice man. If not now, then when, right? Plus, I don’t need to worry too much, because I’ll be back in London soon enough, and Henri will stay here, so what does it matter if it goes disastrously…
‘I’d love that,’ I blurt in a breathy voice.
Theoretically, I would. So maybe a little fake confidence is what I need for the real deal to kick in.
‘ Allez . Let us go inside.’
Henri steps aside to allow me to walk through the door first, I’d imagine so that he can keep an eye on me, to make sure that no one or nothing gets to take off my skirt before he does. Inside the lobby, he takes me by the hand and leads me towards the lifts.
‘Henry… Henry… Oi, Henry… Henry… Henry, oi, are you deaf, pal?’
Henri keeps walking but I turn my head and see that there’s an Englishman hot on our heels.
‘Erm, I think someone wants you,’ I tell him.
‘No, no, it can’t be me,’ Henri says, picking up the pace.
‘Henry, pal,’ the voice says, getting louder.
I notice a hand reach for Henri’s shoulder. Henri stops and turns around.
‘Deaf git,’ the man says, laughing. ‘I was going to say where were you, you missed half the conference, but suddenly it all makes sense. You pulled a French bird, eh?’
I can’t help but cock my head as I stare at the man.
‘Sorry, love, no offence, but they don’t make ’em like you back in Milton Keynes, where we’re from,’ he tells me. He turns his attention back to Henri. ‘Is this why you ducked out early? Did you plan this?’
I look to Henri. He’s ghostly pale right now.
‘Ehhh… no, I went for a cigarette,’ he replies.
The man cracks up.
‘Give over with the fake French accent, you’ll offend your bird,’ the man ticks him off.
I look to Henri but he can’t return my gaze.
‘Yeah, no, sorry, I bobbed out, but me and her just met,’ Henri – well, Henry – explains.
Oh, my good God. Henry’s voice is much higher pitched than he’s been letting on – which hardly seems worth mentioning, given that he’s clearly been pretending to be bloody French this entire time. His real accent is much different.
‘I’ll leave you to it, pal,’ the man says, slapping Henry on the back. ‘But have you still got your guidebook? I’ve lost mine. I want to go out, and it looks like you’ll be staying in…’
He wiggles his eyebrows.
Henry says nothing. He takes the guidebook from his pocket and hands it to his friend, who soon makes himself scarce.
Okay, that’s why the tour seemed like something out of a guidebook, because presumably that’s exactly where it came from. Not from Henri, the sexy Frenchman, but from Henry, Milton fucking Keynes born and fucking bred, who obviously clocked me as a ditzy English bird and thought he’d try his luck.
‘Liberty, I’m so sorry,’ he says, his real accent still completely alarming to my ears.
Oh, God, this is why he sounded so French before. And why everything he said felt like, I don’t know, like something you’d hear in a movie. I kept thinking to myself: wow, I can’t believe the French actually talk like this, and now I know – they don’t. They absolutely don’t.
‘I thought maybe, if you were English, you’d be looking for a Frenchman, and you wouldn’t be arsed about some businessman from Milton Keynes, but we’ve had such a good time, haven’t we?’
I mean, yeah, we have had a good time. It’s been a lovely day, the food was good, the kiss was amazing, and Henri – I mean Henry – is a good-looking guy. But does any of that matter if he’s a liar?
‘What do we say we still go up ze stairs?’ he says, playfully adopting his French accent at the end – which, now that I think about it, sounds so, so fake.
And just like that my ick alarm sounds, blaring in my ears, telling me to run.
Why should I settle? His fake accent makes me cringe, no doubt about it, but more than that I hate that he lied to me, that he actively deceived me for hours.
Oh my God, that explains why the waiter was so rude to him; he could tell he was faking it!
‘You know, I think I’m just going to get an early night,’ I reply, backing away.
‘Liberty, come on, don’t be daft,’ he calls after me.
Daft! Oh, he’s so ruddy, bloody English. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.
‘No, merci ,’ I reply, subtly sarcastic, to let him know that he’s blown it.
As the lift arrives, I step inside, alone, and press the button to close the doors. Just before they do, I notice Henry sigh heavily. He knows he’s messed up and he’s clearly feeling really sorry for himself.
I know, I could have still gone to his room, it’s just one night in Paris and I’ll probably never see him again regardless, but it is what it is, and when you get the dreaded ick, there’s nothing you can do about it.
I told you, I refuse to settle, and I’d rather spend the night alone than be with Henry, who would probably have been groaning fencing terms to try and keep up the French act. Criiinge, no way, I’m not having it.
He’s clearly taking the piste .