Page 35 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘Je t’attends au Pont des Arts, à midi.’ He had pulled me back into his arms and was whispering in my ear. I thought I might melt with the joy of it. I didn’t want to let him go, but we couldn’t stand here all night.

‘Pont des Arts, à midi,’ I nodded. ‘À demain.’

‘Night night,’ he said, and his accent made my heart melt.

I twisted the huge iron handle on the door, pushed it open and slipped inside. I felt so different from the girl who had stepped outside into the street this afternoon. How could twelve hours bring about such a change? I floated across the flagstones and opened the door to the apartment block, kicked off my boots as soon as I got inside and crept up the stairs.

I let myself in as quietly as I could, not wanting to wake anyone and also conscious it was much later than I’d thought I would stay out. I didn’t want them to judge me if they noticed what time I’d got in. I hung my coat on the peg in the hall and I realised I was still wearing Olivier’s yellow scarf. I took it off and pressed it to my face, my head spinning as the smell brought his presence back to me. I slept with it all night.

On Sunday, I stood on the Pont des Arts at midday, not sure on which side of the wooden bridge we were supposed to be meeting. It was one of those incredibly bright autumn days, when the sky seems unnaturally blue, and everything stands out against it with a sharp clarity. The Seine was showing off, her surface glittering, proud to be wending her way through the middle of this glorious city, showing off her bridges and the splendours on her banks. I was right in front of the Louvre, and in the distance, like a lucky charm, I could see the Eiffel Tower again, as if it was reassuring me that, yes, I really was in Paris.

Dozens of people were walking backwards and forwards over the bridge from the Left to the Right Bank, embroiled in their Sundayness. Perhaps they were going to see family, or friends, or, like me, a new love, but wherever they were going and whoever they were seeing, there was an aimless purposefulness in the air that comes with the weekend, the joy of doing something for yourself, the luxury of not having a deadline, being free from the tyranny of work.

On the wide banks, I saw artists setting up their easels and it reminded me of the Place du Têtre the night before. Everywhere in Paris made me want to paint or sing or write and I felt a surge of energy that must have been inspiration. How did I capture that feeling and do something with it? How could I share my experience of this incredible city? I wanted to stretch out my arms and dance across the bridge, revelling in the joy I felt.

But as the minutes passed, and I realised I’d been standing alone on the bridge for more than fifteen minutes, I began to feel anxious. What if Olivier had woken up this morning and cringed when he remembered last night, realising he’d made a massive mistake? Or what if he was the kind of guy who picked girls up for fun, then dropped them? Or, the worst scenario of all, what if some girl from his past had turned up at his apartment this morning with a warm pain au chocolat and an even warmer embrace? All thoughts of meeting me would have disappeared from—

At last, I saw a figure coming towards me at great speed. I laughed as I realised that Olivier was rollerblading, the distance between us getting smaller and smaller until he arrived in front of me with an impressive twirl, arms outstretched.

‘I’m sorry to be late. I could not get in the shower – my flatmates …’ He gave one of his dismissive shrugs. Then his face lit up with a smile, and he pointed at his feet. ‘So I had to put my skates on.’

He fell about laughing and I laughed with him, impressed by his command of English.

‘You’re crazy,’ I told him, my heart swelling with even more adoration. He was such a mixture, of supercool and silly. He looked so intense some of the time, yet didn’t take himself seriously. ‘Are you going to keep those on?’

‘No!’ He sat down on the bridge and began to take his skates off, pulling a pair of trainers out of a rucksack on his back. ‘This is my secret way of getting quickly around the city.’

As he sat there tying his laces, I looped his yellow scarf round his neck, secretly hoping he would tell me to keep it, but he didn’t. Instead, he tied it in an impossibly chic knot, then jumped up. ‘Let’s go.’

I followed after him. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To the best experience in Paris.’

‘Which is?’

‘Père-Lachaise.’

He looked triumphant as he said it, but I shook my head.

‘La cimetière? The cemetery?’

I stopped in my tracks, dismayed. ‘A cemetery?’

‘Trust me. It is where all the important people are buried. It is a … pèlerinage? I don’t know how you say …’

‘Pilgrimage?’

‘Oui. C’est ça. Oscar Wilde, Chopin, Edith Piaf. Jim Morrison.’

‘Let’s go, then. Seems like the perfect way to spend an afternoon.’ I laughed, realising that I was never going to get the expected with Olivier.

We set off along the banks of the Seine, walking hand in hand underneath the bare trees until in front of us was the Île de la Cité, and Notre-Dame in all her magnificence. I gasped, and Olivier looked proud.

‘Elle est belle, Notre-Dame, non?’

I nodded, feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all. I put it down to the very late night, but how could I be here, in Paris, hand in hand with a boy who was beyond my wildest dreams, feeling as far as possible from the drab little shopgirl who had arrived here the week before? The buildings on the island glowed in the sunshine. I blinked back tears, just as I had the night before with Nathalie, wondering why on earth this place was having such a profound effect on me.

Olivier peered at me, concerned. ‘Why are you crying?’

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