Page 37 of Shout Out To My Ex

The very least I can do after my blunder is pick up the tab – ‘onNouveau’, of course. Cassie feigns a protest, but I insist.

As we’re walking away from the bar, she leans close. ‘I hope you can make it happen.’

So do I. I’ll text Nasrin in a sec to check if there’s any chance of turning that six inches into a double-page spread, with glossy photos to match.

‘Leave it with me,’ I say with a confident smile.

Her lips flatten into a line – one of her staple expressions, I’m learning – and I wave the sisters off as they slide into the backseat of a cab, the bouquet of peonies on the seat between them. Elle may have gifted them to me, but I asked Cassie to take them back to the hotel so I don’t have to lug them around Paris all afternoon.

After sending a message to Nasrin, I head off to sightsee. It’s a guilty pleasure while working but, well,Paris!

Leaving Le Fumoir, I make my way past the Louvre, skipping a jaunt through the Tuileries Garden, as I’m in my new kitten heels (that gravel would shred them to bits), then head up to Place de la Concorde. The view straight up the Champs-Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe is one of the most iconic views in the world for a reason and, as it does every time I’ve been here, it takes my breath away.

Oh, I could live in Paris, I think, emitting a dreamy sigh. But then, doesn’t everyone think that when they visit?

As I cross Place de la Concorde – the safe way – I remind myself that my husband is now worth an eye-wateringly large sum of money. If I asked about us living here – even just fora few months, or perhaps a year – he could make it happen.Wecould make it happen. He’s always reminding me that his inherited fortune belongs to both of us. Which I suppose is fair considering he only inherited it because we got married.

I walk the length of the Champs-Elysées, home to some of the most exclusive shops in the world, dodging hordes of gawping tourists – from the accents, mostly Brits, North Americans, and Antipodeans. The uber wealthy are also here – those of the see-and-be-seen crowd. I’m not even surprised when several Kardashians burst out of Longchamp, cooing over their purchases. They must be here for Fashion Week, but I really couldn’t tell you which one is which.

As I continue walking, my phone rings.

‘Hey!’ I say to Shaz. ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s cold and raining and miserable. Please tell me it’s sunny in Paris.’

‘Yep. Hang on.’ I snap a selfie of me with the Arc de Triomphe in the background and send it to her.

‘I hate you,’ she says and I laugh. ‘No, I love you really.’

‘Wait.’ I spin around and snap a second selfie and send it.

‘Oh my god, are those Kardashians?’ she shrieks in my ear.

‘Yes, we were just hanging out in Longchamp.’

‘I want your life,’ she quips, and we both laugh.

‘So, how’s your week going?’ I ask. A heavy breath comes down the line. ‘Shaz? What’s going on?’

‘Lauren asked me about moving in again.’

‘Okay, and how do you feel about that?’

‘Terrified!’

‘No need to shout, Sharon.’

‘Sorry.’

‘But do you get the sense that if you don’t move in with her it’s…’

‘Over?’

‘Yes.’

She’s quiet for a moment. ‘No. She hasn’t given me an ultimatum or anything – I don’t think she’d do that.’

‘I’m glad.’

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