Sliding her fingers across the soft grey leather to connect with his, she was on the verge of telling Nick how badly she wanted him when the limo came to a stop outside a quirky, vintage-looking restaurant called Le Plein Soleil.
Inside a woman with black wavy hair, gold hoop earrings and an antique watch chain looped around her neck showed them to a table at the back of the empty-ish restaurant. She had the air of a gypsy fortune teller. Layla wondered if she kept a crystal ball under the bar and did palm readings and tarot cards as a sideline when business was slack. She simmered in an invisible cloud of heavy scent, handed them menus with fingers that had neatly clipped, black-painted nails, and rattled off a list of specials. She had bright, beady, all-seeing eyes, and Layla couldn’t help noticing that she slightly resembled the caged mynah bird at the corner of the bar which every now and then burst out with a few bars of La Vie En Rose.
‘What’s that weird bird whistling? Is it the French national anthem?’ Nick whispered.
‘No!’ Layla nearly snorted her champagne. ‘It’s La Vie En Rose. With the odd line from Je Ne Regrette Rien thrown in for good measure.’ The look on Nick’s face told her he was none the wiser.
‘When you’ve stopped splitting your seams you can help me out here and give me a clue,’ he said.
‘Edith Piaf,’ she enthused. ‘She was a famous French singer. There was a film about her life. Mum’s got the DVD.’
Nick narrowed his eyes and straightened his knife and fork. ‘I’m not sure about this place. The concierge recommended it. I asked for somewhere quiet. But this place is a bit too quiet.’
The tucked-away restaurant screamed retro. Yellow Tiffany-style shades hung low over the tables, illuminating them with a citrusy glow. The dark corners, the shabby carpet, worn in patches by the tread of many feet, the mirrored bar lined with golden-foiled bottles of celebration-ready fizz … she could almost imagine that if she stepped through the door to the kitchen she might slip into a time-warp. Completing the mashed-up retro feel, an eclectic mix of pictures decorated the walls. The one above Nick’s head shouted sixties style pop art – a giant plateful of spaghetti in psychedelic pinks and greens.
Layla glanced around. ‘It’s certainly different,’ she protested. ‘I quite like it. To be fair to the concierge, it’s more interesting than dining on nouvelle cuisine in some minimalist upscale restaurant. But if you’re not keen we could pay for the champagne and do a runner.’
‘If you’re happy, I am too.’ Nick flicked a glance at the chalk board marked ‘Plats du Jour’. ‘Plus, I’m ravenous. And those specials look good.’
Layla checked that all the staff were out of earshot and whispered, ‘Do you think the owner lady recognized you?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m pretty sure we’re off the press radar. And I’m not delusional. I don’t imagine she’s going to tip off a paparazzo to come and hang about on the street corner just because some actor who used to be in a TV series is eating dinner at her restaurant.’
‘Not just any actor,’ she remarked. ‘And MOTV isn’t just any series.’
‘How would you know?’ he mocked. ‘You’ve hardly watched any of it!’
Her feelings bounced around like a ping-pong ball. She should be relieved, but nonetheless it stung a tiny bit that he was tactfully saying the celebrity gossip mags weren’t interested in photographing him with her. She studied the menu in her hands and all the unfamiliar French words swam before her eyes.
‘At the end of the day I’m a pretty shabby follow-up to dating a princess.’
‘Why would you say that?’ He closed the menu, which he wasn’t reading anyway, and set it on the table. Underneath his cutlery jingled.
‘What I’m trying to say is that it’s good that nobody’s taking photos of us together. And if you’re at all worried about the selfies on my phone you needn’t be. I’m not going to stick them up on the internet and make you look uncool.’ She opened her clutch bag and pushed her phone across the table to him. ‘You can delete them if you like.’
‘I don’t care about how you make me look.’ His lips set in a solemn line. ‘For what it’s worth, I happen to think you look pretty cool. Sure, I’d prefer to keep a low profile while we’re in Paris. But that’s not about me. That’s for you. After what happened with Joe I didn’t think you’d want to find pictures of …’ He glared across the table at her, a deep furrow carved in his brow. ‘… Us plastered all over the internet, or anywhere else for that matter.’ He hesitated. ‘Of course, if you want to post a selfie or two to get back at him, I completely understand. At the end of the day that’s what this – you and me – is all about, right?’
‘Do you want me to use you to get at him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Me neither.’ Between them sat a small vase containing fresh summer flowers and a glowing, flickering tea-light in a glass holder. She pressed the palms of her hands together, and wrapped her head around what he’d just said. ‘So,’ she began. ‘This isn’t about Joe. I’m not sure it ever really was. It’s you and me. Nobody else. And. Well. I won’t take any more selfies anyhow.’
The corners of Nick’s mouth twitched into a half smile that promised to erupt into a full on devilish beam. ‘You can take as many selfies as you like. Knock yourself out. In fact. Let’s take one now.’
He twisted in his seat so that he could take the picture. Grinning, happy that he was okay about her taking photos of them together in Paris, she leant across the table to get closer. A wisp of green chiffon from her dress dangled dangerously into the tea-light holder. Unnoticed, it smouldered and in a microsecond an acrid whiff rose from the table centre. Layla shrieked as she realized that the beautiful dress was singed.
In a flash Nick blew out the candle, leapt from his chair, removed the champagne from the ice bucket and dumped its entire contents of frigid water and ice cubes all over Layla. When she shrieked again with the shock of being doused in ice, he frantically clutched for the tablecloth, yanked hard, and like a magician performing a spectacular fail, sent a clatter of cutlery, side plates, and glasses smashing onto the carpet. Kicking the flower-strewn mess away he rugby tackled her to the floor and rolled her over and over until she was wrapped up in the tablecloth like an Egyptian mummy.
The raven-haired woman ran over from where she’d been polishing glasses behind the bar, flapping her dishtowel and brandishing a fire extinguisher. Without further ado she proceeded to blast Nick and Layla with a whoosh of foam.
At the bar, a portly elderly customer who’d been hunched on a stool and swirling amber Armagnac around a balloon glass, whistled through his teeth and muttered, ‘Oh là là là là’ over and over like he’d never seen anything quite so entertaining in all his days. To top it off the mynah bird launched into a full and uninterrupted rendition of Je Ne Regrette Rien.
The old gentleman guffawed with laugher, knocked back his drink and hopped down from his perch. He winked at Layla and Nick and snapped a couple of photos on his phone, posing for a final selfie. ‘No Regrets!’ he shouted. ‘C’est bien vous? L’un des frères télé-vampire?’ He reached down to shake Nick by the hand.
‘Yep! It’s me alright, the telly-vampire!’
With a wave of his wooden walking stick the man pocketed his phone and exited the restaurant, still chuckling.
‘Great,’ Layla spluttered, struggling to stand up. ‘What did you do that for? Bit of an overreaction don’t you think?’
‘That’s gratitude for you.’ He got to his feet and pulled her after him. ‘I thought you were on fire.’
She unwrapped herself from the tablecloth and looked down at the bedraggled dress. ‘It’s totally ruined.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ His face was ghostly pale. ‘The point is – are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not hurt?’
She gently touched his face and wiped away a blob of foam. ‘Nick, I’m okay. Honest. I’m sorry I scared you.’
The small gaggle of other customers in the restaurant cheered as he pressed a soft kiss to her lips and there was a ripple of applause.
‘So much for romance!’ The cold damp dress clung to her body and her teeth chattered.
‘You’re freezing. I’ll ask if they’ve got anything we can change into.’
While a waiter cleared up the mess, the bustling owner relocated the couple into the storeroom where she produced two pairs of black and white checkered chef’s trousers and t-shirts with Le Plein Soleil scrawled across the front in loopy letters and the restaurant’s address on the back.
They changed sheepishly. Stuffing their wet clothes into a plastic bin liner Layla whispered, ‘This is going from bad to worse. Do you think she’s going to make us wash dishes?’
Nick smiled. ‘I’ll try a charm offensive. Promise I’ll pay for the damage.’
Admiringly, she watched as he diplomatically smoothed things over with the restaurant owner. A frisson rippled along the length of her spine. She felt like someone had pushed her into the middle of the River Seine in a rowboat without any oars. Paris had taken her out of her comfort zone and Nick had stolen her heart. She had fallen in love with him.
Installed at a different table with a fresh bottle of champagne, they whizzed their way through snazzy starters followed by a traditional main course.
While Nick read the dessert menu she picked up the salt pot and spilled some onto the table. Absently she swirled her finger through it.
‘Isn’t that bad luck?’
She looked him hard in the eyes. ‘It’s salt. Anyway, I’m getting better about that stuff.’
He nodded, took a pinch of salt between his finger and thumb and threw it over his shoulder. ‘Just in case.’
Layla’s heartbeat skipped. She pinched some salt, and did the same. She didn’t care that the night had turned into a fiasco. She was deliriously, irrationally, head-over-heals happy and she didn’t want anything to change that.
Nick poured her some more champagne and clinked her glass with his. ‘Cheers.’ He passed her the menu. ‘What are you having for dessert?’
‘You!’
‘No, really,’ he said, plainly not taking her seriously. ‘What would you like?’ He pinned her with his gaze and she blushed. Heat spread up her neck, rose into her cheeks, and burned. ‘How about Crème Brulée to share, two spoons, one plate?’
‘You know the way to a girl’s heart.’ The cheesy line was out before she could stop it.
‘I have another irresistible suggestion. When we’re done here let’s take a tour of Paris by night.’
‘Fab.’
When the waiter brought the Crème Brulée she tucked in. Its deliciousness didn’t sweeten the fact that Nick had sidestepped her attempt at skipping dessert and going back to the hotel. The direct approach was an epic fail. After a couple of mouthfuls, she set her spoon down. ‘Beaten by dessert,’ she confessed.
‘In that case.’ Nick pulled the plate that had been sitting between them closer. He loaded his spoon with another mouthful.
She raised an incredulous eyebrow. ‘The words “photo” and “shoot” come to mind.’
‘The hotel has a gym.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll work it off.’ He scoffed the lot, ‘That was fantastique.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers flamboyantly into the air. ‘Mwah!’
A tight knot twisted beneath her ribs. ‘Do you think the pictures that man took are up online already?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Don’t you mind?’
‘For myself?’ He gave a shrug. ‘Not really. I’ve gotten used to it.’ He reached across the table and touched her hand. ‘For you though? Yes. I mind.’ He sighed. ‘The thing is I can’t protect you the way I’d like to.’
‘From what?’
‘From my not-so-stellar reputation.’
‘I don’t care about your reputation. I know the real you. Anyway, I’m mainly interested in your stellar body.’
He reached across the table and his hand covered hers. ‘I liked having you to myself – without people snooping and taking pictures.’ He paused, gauging her reaction. ‘Being together without …’ He paused, hooked his fingers in the air and pulled a mocking face. ‘… The “celebrity” magnifying glass was the most fun I’ve had in …’ He stopped abruptly and looked down at the table for a second. Raising his gaze to catch hers he added, ‘I was going to say in a hell of a long time, but actually it feels like forever.’
A lump of emotion clogged her throat. She was a million miles from resembling the sophisticated women he was used to. She steeled her heart to prove that she could be the cool take-what-I-want-and-walk-away woman she had claimed she wanted to be.
‘This is a moving on thing, right?’ She leaned towards him and rested her palm against his smooth jaw. ‘Short and sweet?’ Her instincts tripped her up. She was saying one thing and feeling something different.
‘I don’t want to you to regret that I brought you to the “city of romance” without the romance.’
‘I don’t have any regrets.’ He was a man in a million, so much more than a man-shaped sticking plaster and moving on sex. ‘About any of this. Today has been brilliant. I loved being at the opera with you tonight. But if it’s alright with you I’d like to concentrate on what we’re really good at.’ She fixed a smile on her face. Did she have to spell it out? She wanted to hide away with him in their fabulous hotel suite.
He narrowed his eyes and looked at her for a long moment, his face muscles taut. He was about to reply when the restaurant lady who’d been scrutinizing them from behind the bar whilst making a production of polishing an already sparkling clean glass approached the table and interrupted, ‘C’est terminé?’
‘We’ll have two espressos, s’il vous plait.’ His sexy smile pierced her heart. ‘We’re not quite finished yet.’