12 Shades of Paris

My chest is thumping incredulously; the same feeling you get when you accidentally skip a step whilst running down a flight of stairs.  A river of adrenaline floods through my veins like I've been injected with a thousand boosters of something my body can't seem to register.  I want more and more of it but it's making my vision hazy and I'm starting to feel like I could melt into the air in its all-embracing warmth.  I feel my chest starting to glow and a rush of heat cascades down my spine.

...

In some respects this is the perfect Saturday night, but in many others, it couldn't be worse.  He's affecting me in unimaginable ways and the more time I spend with him, the tighter the knot connecting the two of us is becoming.  And short of cutting the knot with a pair of scissors, it's becoming so richly entwined that untangling it seems virtually impossible.  Yet a big part of me won't consider untangling the mess I've created either, because despite the ultimate heartache, I couldn't be happier.  I suppose that's what you call living in the moment.  Or, as I like to refer to it, foolishness.

You know what?  I always thought there was something wrong with me.  Believe it or not, I have my struggles with falling 'head over heels' for any man, so why should the fact that he's French make it any different?  I can be passionate and intense in my own special way, but I try to escape heartache by not falling hard in the first place and it's worked so far.  I suppose I'm a pessimist in that respect; I always see some looming obstacle on the horizon and figure it makes more sense to back off than to take the plunge.  But this just feels different.  No safer, mind you, except I've actually fallen this time, and there's no turning back.

What has happened to the unabashed girl who always took the right footing?  How have I given away my heart in a matter of 5 days, and why am I embarrassed to admit it?

...

I hardly notice when he slips something into my pocket.

"Don't read it until you're alone" I hear him whisper.  Alone.  The word is like daggers to my chest, because I know it means 'without him'.  And I'm scared.

11 Shades of Paris

11th installment

 continued...

“I never knew you could cook so well!” I muse at him with a mouthful of spaghetti and my eyes full of wonder.   I can feel the warm chilli-infused sauce trickling down my chin but before I can wipe it off, he leans over his plate towards me and rubs it off gently with his napkin, holding my gaze all the while.  I can feel my cheeks blushing, tingling even, from this small gesture.  My tongue is burning and my mouth seems to go numb, but I can’t figure out whether it’s the chilli or my body’s reaction to this hot specimen before me.  He winks at me again and I fall into oblivion, clutching the table with my hand as I peer down at my shaking fingers, trying to keep my mind off the inevitable.  

I excuse myself and go to the bathroom.  Closing the door quietly behind me, I lean back against its wooden frame in pure delight, agony, confusion.  Part of me wants to scream with excitement, to share the feelings bottling up inside me.  I notice that my chest is thumping uncontrollably and my head is spinning in giddy circles.  Take a hold of yourself Anna, I tell myself, but it’s too late.  I have fallen under the Frenchman’s charm and he has wholeheartedly arrested my desires.  It is clearer now than ever before that I have become his captive.

I wander back into the kitchen to see that he has cleared away the plates and dishes and it looks like the untouched, glowing creation which first struck me.  How long have I been gone?  My giddiness has removed all sense of time and space and I scowl at my inability to remain calm, pinching my arm to assure myself I’m not just dreaming.  The red mark and lingering pain proves that I am not.  I feel a soft hand on my waist and my sanity hisses with anticipation.  “I’ve got something for you” he whispers.   I nod my head robotically, caught under his spell. 

10 Shades of Paris

10th installment

continued...

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. 

9 Shades of Paris

9th installment

continued...

His apartment is modern and spacious with artsy furnishings and impressive paintings.  He shows me around and I instantly fall in love with the high ceilings and subtle, sophisticated colour scheme of taupe, cream and red.  I discover things about him that I didn't know before.  I spy a library of books all in alphabetical order.  The latest copy of GQ sits at a perfect right angle on the coffee table in the lounge.  

Stepping into the kitchen I find myself stopping in my tracks.  It hardly looks like he spends any time within its beautiful interior; an untouched gem.  I wouldn't be surprised if there's nothing hiding behind the multifaceted cupboards or the countless drawers.  A gorgeous granite island steals pride of place, and shining pots and pans hang from equally glowing hooks above the oven.  I stare at him in bewilderment, unable to keep the shock off my face.  ''I don't think this could get any better'' I say, gawking.  He half smiles as if he has something to add.  Then he turns to look at me and before I can do anything, he gently covers my eyes with his hands. 

He's standing behind me and gently shuffles me forward.  I try to peek through his hands but I'm met with complete darkness.  I hear a subtle click and a faint hum, but I'm disorientated and anxious to discover his secret.  ''Are you ready?'' he whispers softly into my ear.  I gently nod and he slowly moves his hands away from my eyes, massaging my temples as he does so.

My heart stops.  An unmatchable skyline gazing out over the entire city floods my vision.  The view penetrates the large glass doors which make the view possible, also showcasing the expansive balcony decked with what appears to be sun loungers and a telescope.  White fairy lights illuminate two green pot plants, shimmering like pearls.  I shake my head in awe.  He smiles dismissively, winking cheekily which makes my heart momentarily spin in lively circles.  ''I think I need to sit down'' I mutter faintly.

He walks over to an ivory cabinet and I watch as he brings out an old record-player.  I excitedly wait for the crackle as the needle taps the record and my heart warms at the sound of mellow jazz.  I sink into his suede couch, easing myself into the melody and loosening my shoulders. He covers my feet with a cashmere blanket and pours me a glass of 2008 Bordeaux.  ''You certainly pull out all the stops don't you?  You must have done this before'' I tease.  ''How can you possibly say that?'' he replies, pretending to take offense.  My eyes wonder around the room, envious of his home.  I glance behind me and glimpse a tiger skin rug mounted on the wall.  ''Shot it myself'' he says, his tone serious.  I double take, slightly worried that Mr. Perfect isn't quite as perfect as I thought.  He sees my face scrunch up slightly and shoots me a glance.  ''I'm kidding'' he sighs,  ''it was actually a gift.''  The puzzle fits back into place and I sit there looking smug, certain that if I haven't already, I will need to capture the heart of this extraordinary human being.

8 Shades of Paris

8th installment

continued...

He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.  "That's better'' he says, his voice hanging melodiously in the air.

I let the street artist paint my portrait with all the poise and elegance in the world, admiring how he holds the paintbrush so steadily over the canvas.  I stare into the distance, trying to look natural with a hint of sultry.  From the corner of my eye I glimpse him squeezing the tube of red paint onto his palette.  He's doing my hair.  I hear the rattling of the paintbrush in the water jar before he gently blends it into his plate of watercolours and I watch as he brings the brush to the board and stares deeply at his subject.

I close my eyes for a brief moment, letting the distant sun rest on my eyelids, frozen in a moment of uncontrolled happiness.  My nostrils flare at the familiar scent of roses and I feel something soft tickle my face.  I gently open my eyes to see my Frenchman caressing my face with the petals of the reddest rose before tucking it into one of my curls.  The painter frowns slightly, wanting him to leave the frame, and mildly irritated that I've tilted my head.  I giggle, trying hard to keep a straight face.

  

It's growing dark by the time he's done and the street begins to quieten.  I watch my dashing amant fold up a note into the artist's hand before delicately placing the painting in a paper bag.  ''Can I not see it?'' I say, slightly disappointed.  ''Later'', he whispers in my ear, pointing at a set of grey clouds which seem to be getting closer.

...

He grabs my hand, sheltering me from the pouring rain which begins to shroud the city.  We stand in front of a shop window, covered by an overhanging canopy sinking with the weight of the raindrops.  My damp curls begin to unravel and I can feel mascara trickling down my face.  He wipes my eye with the cuff of his pristine white shirt.  ''Don't cry sweetie'' he whispers.  I bite my lip, not knowing what to say or do next, the rain pounding down harder and harder and my chest thumping so loudly that I can barely make out his voice.  I rest the palms of my hands against the brick wall behind me, waiting.

7 Shades of Paris

7th installment

continued...

I step quietly into the church, not wanting to disrupt the choir.  A gust of wind ventures to slam shut the heavy iron door but I catch it just in the nick of time.  A medley of pensive anthems are being performed and I stand at the back of the cathedral, overwhelmed by the rich sound which echoes through the pews.  Men and women young and old scatter themselves, some with their heads bent down in prayer and others kneeling on hand-stitched hassocks. 

I step over a grate in the icy building, being careful not to catch my heel.  I stare up at the imposing stained glass windows reflecting the Saints, the winter sunlight pouring through the glass to create a rainbow of colours.  My hair flickers gold.  I smile at the group of French babies in pushchairs who show their toothless gums as their Maman's wipe off the leftover yoghurt from their podgy faces.

He places his hand on the small of my back and I can feel my face glowing with a rush of heat.  The nerves on my cheeks start to prickle as I suddenly forget where I am, like an angel in the presence of God. 

 ...

He holds my hand and I take him vintage shopping in the Marais.  I hide behind clothes rails cluttered with fashion from the 50s; the clothes my Grandmother would have worn in young adulthood.  I try on over-sized knitted jumpers, ridiculous headpieces and unflattering dresses with bobbles and frills.  He takes photos of me with my Polaroid, telling me to pull funny faces.  We laugh and chatter until the film runs out.  He doesn't think I've noticed but I see him sneak one into his jacket pocket.  My knees turn to jelly and I sit down on the floor of the dressing room in my white bouffant skirt, my ragged red curls bouncing along my back and a tiny beaded corset clinching my waist.  "Is everything alright in there?" he asks.  I look at myself in the mirror, having fallen back into a different era.  He makes life more exciting.  I pull back the curtain and look up into his perfect face.  ''Gosh you're beautiful" he exclaims, before wrapping his finger sensually around one of my curls.

6 Shades of Paris

6th installment

continued...

I put on yesterday’s clothes and head out into the crisp air alone.  I’m wary of becoming overly attached to my Parisian counterpart and set it upon myself to have a day to myself to ponder and regale with a friend the prior day’s events.  He’s starting to occupy my mind more than is comfortable and I try to knock him from my thoughts for just a second, but he keeps biting back more aggressively.  I look at my reflection in a shop window, my hair slightly frazzled and my rosy cheeks accentuating my red locks.  I helplessly try to mend my appearance, embarrassed by my ‘bed head’.  I really should have brought a hairbrush.  The cold, fresh air is jarring to my lungs and walking past a crepe stand I see a man with a comic moustache and a wide smile who perches over freshly made pancake batter.  I stop for a moment and order myself one for the journey home, covered in lashings of creamy nutella.  It starts dripping out of the bottom of the flimsy cardboard holder so I lick the underneath, smearing it all over my face.  A passerby stops and stares in disbelief.

I peer nosily into a second hand vintage shop where the owner is sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a cigar.  Rings of smoke blur his face; in fact the whole surroundings smell of musty smoke mingled with a faint stench of alcohol.  Everything is covered in a sheet of feathery dust and I flick through a card stand, spinning it around, trying to find something meaningful, or poetic.  I buy a 50 cent black and white postcard of an abandoned guitar sitting on the metro.  There’s something beautifully nostalgic about the picture but I can’t put my finger on why.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and my heart momentarily stops.  I nervously giggle to myself, trying not to share my sentiments with the rest of the world.  I wait a few minutes before opening the message, focusing on quelling my overactive delight

…

A restless night is spent dreaming about him.  We haven’t even kissed, but there’s something so wonderfully gallant about him.  He strikes me as the sort of man who owns a chateau in the French countryside and spends his afternoons galloping on his various horses.  I don't think I've met a more versatile creature.  One who values glamour, but not excess.  I create endless scenarios of us spending summer days together in the South of France, soaking up the sun on his yacht and snorkeling among the coral reefs.  I picture each step; introducing him to my parents, and spending New Year with his friends.  I’ve known this mysterious man for a grand total of three days but I’m already his captive.  I start biting my nails.

5 Shades of Paris

5th installment

continued...

“That was absolutely amazing.”

I turn around to see a young British woman waving at me with a white satin glove.  “We absolutely loved it, didn’t we Dickie?  He couldn’t stop raving about you.  You marvel!’’ I hear her say.  But as touching as the young woman’s words are to me, all I can see in front of me are black dots.  My skin is becoming hotter and her voice drowns into a general noise vacuum which disorientates me.

…

I wake up in an unfamiliar room.  It smells different, like rose-scented candles.  My head moulds into the pillow, made from the softest goose feathers, and the fluffy duvet envelops my body in sublime warmth.  I’m not sure whether I’m still dreaming but I stare absent-mindedly up towards the cream ceiling, covered in sculpted angels; a glimpse of heaven.  I try to pull myself up from the heavy duvet when I see something sparkle.  Crawling to the end of the king-sized bed I study the sparkling object more closely and recognise almost immediately a gold satin slipper.  I start frowning.  I search around for the other one but it’s nowhere to be seen.  

The floorboards creak and I stop in my tracks.  “Who’s there?” I whisper, grabbing the slipper as my sole weapon.  “Brilliant, you’re awake…” comes a voice, but it’s too late.  I’ve already thrown the slipper at him, but I watch it miss and fall straight through the window, beneath the venetian blinds.  I hear a woman scream “merde” from down below and I put my hand to my mouth.  “I’m, I’m sorry” I cringe, “I thought you were trying to attack me”.   “Attack you?” he repeats, bewildered, “now if I really wanted to hurt you I don’t know how far I’d get with a croissant”.  I snigger.  I watch him take a hearty bite out of the buttery croissant and I immediately pace towards him to try snatch it off him.  “Not so fast” he remarks, lifting it higher in the air.  “What about girls first?” I moan.  “That must be a British thing” he laughs, “in France, it is always men first”.  “You big joker!” I retaliate, jumping back onto the bed and doing my best puppy dog impression.  “Don’t do that, it might give you early wrinkles” he says, winking.  “That’s not how the story goes though!” I say, pretending to whine.  “What story?” he asks.  “The story where I look like a cute, lost little puppy and you become so mesmerised that you simply can’t take your eyes off me and proceed to give me everything and anything I want” I retort like a baby.  “Ah, that story.  You’re living in a fairy tale you know, ma Cherie!” he whispers in my ear.  I sit on the bed with my arms folded, looking like a grumpy school-child.  “You have multiple personality disorder, you know” I say, comically.  “Multiple…?” he says, confused.  “Well what about last night?  The dress, the corsage, the diamonds, the…anyway, it seemed last night that you would have given me anything I wanted” I confess.  “Well of course, but if I treat you too much you might get bored of me.  I need to keep you on your toes.  Especially now that you have no shoes” he jokes, glancing towards the open window.

 

4 Shades of Paris

4th installment

 
continued...

''You're on in five minutes'' he whispers.  I look up, confused.  ''What do you mean?'' I ask.  ''I know it's not quite the West End, but it's a start'' he says, grinning at me.  I stare into the mirror, a tight ball of fear beginning to clog my throat.  Could this really be happening?  “But I don’t have a song prepared” I squeak.  “But you do” he mutters earnestly.  Ever since I was a little girl I’ve always dreamed of performing “Maybe This Time” from Cabaret, to recreate the one and only Sally Bowles.  Nights would be spent practicing under the bed covers to mirror the vocals of Liza Minnelli in the 1972 film.  I foolishly told him this whilst gorging on a plateful of food in the restaurant.  “But how…?” I attempt to struggle with him, but he places two fingers against my lips.  “You ask too many questions” he responds, smiling.

I begin to feel that all too familiar sensation of butterflies flitting around excitedly in my stomach.  A rush of adrenaline makes my heart pound and my breathing becomes shallower.  He gently touches my arm and I shiver.  “Follow me” he says, gripping my hand.  “But what about my shoes?” I fret.   I lift up my sweeping ball gown to show him a pair of navy blue converse.  “I thought you might be wondering” he chuckles, “will these do?”

Cinderella’s glass slippers are nothing in comparison to what my eyes behold.  Gold satin heels with shimmering gold beads, hand-stitched into a forest of wild flowers.  Time is running out and I gently slip my left foot into the silky insides of one heel, followed by my right.  Like a magician, he brings out a gorgeous corsage of cream roses from behind his back which he promptly ties to my wrist, with all the delicacy of a bee to a flower.  My hair is still tied in a firm bun from earlier, but I feel him gently ease his hand through my locks and before I know it my vibrant red tresses are bouncing and flowing in perfect ringlets.

...

I'm centre stage.  The bright lights are blinding me somewhat but I don't let them vex me.  A sea of black stares back at me, and I'm not able to make out any faces in the glaring light, but I can sense the heaviness of the crowd, the murmurings, the chinking of wine glasses.  I hear the first note on the piano loosen up, joined by a faint drum beat.  My cue is getting closer, but it's as if the words are stuck on the edge of my lips and can't seem to move.  I take one large breath and open my mouth.

3 Shades of Paris

3rd installment

 

continued...

We make our way towards Montmartre, home of The Moulin Rouge.   Passing an array of magasins selling erotic memorabilia and dramatic head-pieces, we follow the bright red lights and the momentous fan.  I tiptoe out of the taxi, overwhelmed by what I see.  Women wearing vibrant feather boas float around the entrance provocatively.  But before I can fully take in the spectacle, I’m taken backstage through a door of hanging jewels that twirl and rattle in the breeze.  I watch the reflection of each bead bounce off the surrounding walls, made up of slanted mirrors, magazine cut-outs, messages written in lipstick and remnants of spray-on fake tan.  I walk past heavily made-up women in lavish, cleavage-inducing costumes and faux diamonds, and I immediately hold on more tightly to the real ones I’ve just been given.  I want to ask what all the fuss is about, until he takes me to a glamorous room set behind a red velvet curtain.  Lipsticks, hairbrushes, combs, curlers, and bottles of the dearest perfumes are neatly lined on the glass top of a majestic dresser.  I bring my hand to my mouth and turn to face him.  “Oh you shouldn’t have” I whisper, but when I turn around I see that he’s disappeared.
 

I slip on the emerald green dress, being careful not to catch the zip on my pale skin.  It fits perfectly.  I powder my nose with a brush as soft as cashmere, watching the silky particles softly melt into my complexion.  Opening five different lipsticks, I find the perfect shade.  With one short lick of lipstick my lips turns from neutral pink to a deep, bloody scarlet.  With a black eyeliner pen I gently draw one small black beauty spot above my lip.  Opening a bottle of perfume I breathe in the pungent scent, an aroma of rose and vanilla tingling my nostrils. 

Just as I’m about to open the box from Tiffany’s, my wealthy suitor enters the suite.  I’ve never seen a man look so dapper.  His hair is perfectly coiffed, wearing his tuxedo like he’d been born in it.  “Wow”, I hear myself saying.  He nods at me.  “You don’t scrub up too badly yourself” he says, causing me to giggle.  “Scrub up - it’s a phrase you people say in England, yes?” he comments.  I nod, equally amused by the phrasing of “you people”.  

I hand the diamonds to my glamorous cavalier who neatly places them on my chest before delicately fixing the clasp.  All the while I’m staring into the mirror which is reciprocating the finest elegance.  I touch the diamonds with the tips of my fingers and feel the lightness of his warm breath resting on my scalp.   

2 Shades of Paris

2nd installment

 

continued...

...the following day

I make chitchat with a street vendor outside the Notre Dame who excitedly shows me an eighteenth century manuscript of the Bible.  I watch as he fumbles through the pages of his most prized possession with the purest of pride.  He turns it over and I squeal at the price tag.  His neighbour points poetically at his antique collection of toy soldiers and I hold them up to the sun delicately, afraid the forever chipping paint might seal my fingers.  I then spend the early afternoon getting lost in Shakespeare’s company amongst piles of dusty books which have that glorious, pungent smell of leather. I tiptoe quietly behind a stack of books and delve in before I am awoken from my reverie by a young child hitting the vintage keys on an out-of-tune piano.

My stomach rumbles and I look up at an imposing Grandfather clock.  Late lunch in a Swiss-style Bistro with a mysterious suitor awaits me.  A set-up from a friend back home in England: ''a real catch".

I arrive to a gourmet spread.  An oozing raclette, steaming potatoes drenched in butter and herbs, cured ham and crusty brown bread.  A good bottle of red sits majestically on a rustic wooden table.  The fire-place is blazing, the waiter smiling, and the complimentary Spanish olives rolled with feta and sunblushed tomatoes wet my appetite.  A cough startles me.  I turn around to see a man in a smart black trench coat with his back to me.  There's something about his posture I recognise from somewhere but I can't seem to place it.  Or perhaps it’s the leather satchel.  It suddenly clicks - I'd met him on the metro the day before.  He grins at me, the awe-struck red-head.  "Have you been following me?'' I ask.  ''Of course not'' he says, equally as surprised as I am.  ''Fate?'' I declare, cringing slightly at my dreamy remark.  ''Someone had to say it'' he replies, his mild French accent making my stomach churn with excitement.  ''Sophia was right about you'' I tell him sheepishly.  ''About what?'' he says, grinning.  ''Oh, nothing,'' I reply, ''nothing at all!''


We talk and talk into the early evening and he tells me all about his future plans to travel the world and become a writer.  He marvels at my life-long ambition to become a musical theatre actress in London's West End and make it big.  Like a true gentleman he slips a credit card onto the table and pays for everything, even the extortionately priced scoop of mango sorbet which I insist on having.  ''You like your food'' he remarks as I begin to satisfy my sweet tooth.  I make mmmm noises and he laughs.

It’s almost 20h.  I look up at the star-studded sky, clad in a beret and stripy scarf, my knitted Hermes coat with navy blue tassels squeezing my ribcage slightly more than normal.  He steals my attention by producing two shiny tickets from his wallet.  "The Moulin Rouge'' he announces rather nonchalantly, “fancy going?”  My face lights up immediately.  ''But I don't have anything to wear'' I say, looking down at my bulky attire.  He opens his briefcase and pulls out what looks like a crisply folded package from Marchesa.  He pulls a dress out of the pink tissue paper, ''to match your eyes'' he says, smiling.  ''I thought these would look nice too'' he says as he brings out a familiar turquoise box from his pocket.  Diamonds from Tiffany's.  “Oh you do know how to treat a girl” I retort, as I cradle the dress in my arms.

1 Shade of Paris

A short story

1st installment

Winter.

The leftovers from autumn’s leaves are swept into a bed of tousled confetti.  Christmas lights are projected through the crystal air, broken only by a faint whisper of cloud.  The wind blows momentarily and the leaves tumble down in a cascade of deep magenta.  One settles on my scarlet scarf - emblazoned with sprinting stallions - and curls into a heart.  Douce Nuit ripples out of an old record player on the Champs Elysées, glittered with festive spirits and candy wrappers.  A gentleman offers me a glass of freshly brewed mulled wine.  Christmas is arriving in Paris.

I spend my days funnelling through little side streets with their quaint Latin architecture and intricate black iron balconies.  I stumble upon Rue Ferou with lines from the poet Rimbaud inscribed on its musty yellow bricks.  I withdraw my Polaroid.
 

Hopping on the metro, I find an empty seat between a dog, its owner and a cheerful old man.  I peer above my broadsheet newspaper to stare at a dashing Monsieur; a 20-something year old young professional with a leather satchel and glossy brown hair which he flicks to the side occasionally with help from his chiselled jaw line.  He pretends to read a free copy of Le Direct Matin but I know he secretly can't help looking at me, the mysterious red-head with the sea green eyes hiding behind the giant canopy of words.  The metro gets busy and we stand up to make way for loved up couples and map-bearing tourists on their way to elegant soirées and cheerful Brasseries.  He accidentally brushes my hair with his perfumed lapel before I bite my lip and giggle.  Charmed by my British allure he darts me the eyebrows but before he can say anything, I disappear into a sea of faces, ready to discover what Paris has next in store for me.