He presses a button on a slim remote and a silver screen appears from behind the sliding wall. ''You hide your TV?'' I ask, impressed at such a high tech furnishing. The huge wide screen glimmers from a gap within the taupe coloured wall and I wonder to myself whether, like the kitchen, he ever has time to use it. He drifts through a few channels until he finds one in English and pauses. ''Are you interested in nature?'' he asks jokingly as we both stare at a butterfly hovering over a leaf. I giggle, not knowing how to answer. He leaves the remote on the table beside me and slides away from the sofa, scruffing my hair up slightly with his hand.
I turn around and watch him open a tall ivory cabinet which appears to be concealing a mini fridge and some rather expensive looking bottles of scotch and whiskey. ''Don't look'' he orders, pretending to shelter his eyes with his hand. I obey him and stare at the butterfly on the screen, the vibrancy of the colour intensifying each flutter of the wing. I become so engrossed in it that I almost forget where I am until he clears his throat and I turn to look up at him, holding a Margarita in one of those fancy crystal glasses with a salty rim. ''I almost forgot'' he says, walking back to the cabinet and popping a little umbrella into the aqua blue concoction. ''Where did you learn to be so classy?'' I joke.
I take a sip and sink back into the sofa with my arm stretched out. ''Cheers'', I say with a wide grin. ''To us'' he replies, returning the grin. For a short moment I find myself staring deeply into his piercing blue eyes, over-analysing the word ''us''. He knows as much as I do that I only have two days left in this gorgeous city but we both refuse to discuss my imminent departure.
''Are you hungry?'' he asks, startling my thoughts. My stomach is starting to quietly grumble and I nod my head at him guiltily. ''Me too'' he replies triumphantly, ''what do you fancy?'' ''If you have a take-out menu I don't mind ordering something in'' I say smoothly. ''Are you sure? I can make you something, it's no problem at all'' he suggests. I wince slightly, not wanting to cause a fuss. He winks at me the way he always does when he's in control of the situation, so I fold my arms and bite my lip. ''Whatever you say'' I reply softly.
While he busies himself in the kitchen, I walk over to his CD collection which sits beside a box of records and smile at the quintisentially English rock bands which sit on the top rack, clouding the few French bands whose names are alien to me. I'm stopped in my tracks by the pungent scent of fresh herbs and spices coming from the kitchen and become immediately intrigued. I tiptoe quietly into his sanctuary to watch the chef at work, admiring the multiple pots and pans bubbling and frothing. I don't want to distract him from the task at hand so I quietly step out of the room and return to the butterfly.