The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(47)

My toes sink into the carpet as I slide out of bed and cross to the window to peep round the side of the curtains. And then I slide my whole pyjama-clad body behind the curtain to get a better look, and gasp softly, overcome. It’s snowing out there, fat white wonderland flakes, and it’s unmistakably Paris. Of course it is. God, it’s picture-book beautiful. My breath mists the cold glass as a queue forms outside a small boulangerie down below, and before I can think too much I move around the room and throw my clothes on to go outside and join the throng. I’ve clearly come here prepared for a winter break: my boots and warm coat are by the door, and I wind Freddie’s scarf round my neck before I slip quietly from the room. The scent of him fills my head as I bury my face in the soft wool, and for a second I stand still in the hallway and just breathe him in. His scent has faded from almost everything I have in my waking world, but this scarf is fresh with his shower gel and aftershave, as if he’s standing right beside me. I’m almost undone. I have to push my feet in the opposite direction because they want to tug me back inside the hotel room, back to him. He’ll still be there when I come back, I tell myself. I know how this works by now. I have until I fall asleep again, and if we’re in Paris, I’m going to wring pleasure out of every last moment.

This place seems to be converted from a couple of tall town houses to create a small boutique hotel. I follow the winding staircase down through the centre of the building into the quiet reception, returning the smile of the receptionist who clearly recognizes me as a resident. Outside, I stand for a few seconds on the stone steps and just soak it all in. It can’t have been snowing for all that long. The covering is only a centimetre or two, but it’s enough to dust the scene with magic. We’re in a side street, and as I stand there on the steps, a giddy, soaring sense of euphoria comes over me. I’m in Paris in the snow with Freddie Hunter. I’m smiling as I cross the street, snowflakes settling on my face as I join the back of the queue outside the bakery. It smells delicious and decidedly French; a killer combination of fresh croissants and hot coffee that you just can’t recreate at home no matter how fancy your coffee machine is. I edge my way inside the tiny shop, enjoying the bustle and noise around me as people order over each other, all of us bundled into winter coats dusted with snow. It’s only as I get towards the front that I realize I need to try to ask for what I want in French; I haven’t said much more than oui or non since I sat my French Oral exam at school. I didn’t do all that well then, either. Nerves fidget around in my throat as the woman behind the counter finally glances my way, dark-eyed and expectant.

‘Deux cafés et deux croissants, s’il vous pla?t,’ I say – or at least I think I say – in very stilted schoolgirl French. Thank heavens my cheeks are already snow-cold pink, as I’m sure I’m blushing. Luckily for me, she’s used to people inelegantly mauling her beautiful language and she slides a couple of croissants into a pale-blue paper bag without requiring more of my pidgin French. I have a flash of panic when she asks me for money, but I find euro notes when I rummage in my coat pockets. I offer silent thanks to my other self for being more organized than usual, pressing myself against the doorframe to squeeze outside, past the ever-growing queue. Back on the street, a girl on the other pavement slides on the snow, laughing, and the guy she’s with catches hold of her and swoops her in for a lingering kiss. They don’t temper it, and I’m torn between my very British ‘get a room’ inner voice and swooning because it’s just so damn French. And then I look up at the hotel window to where a man waits for me, someone who’s going to sweep me off my feet in Paris too, and I’m grinning like a loon, veering around the still-clinched couple and dashing back inside the hotel.

‘You’re my fantasy woman,’ Freddie says, flinging his phone down on the bedside table as I go back into the room. He’s still in bed but wide awake and propped up on the pillows.

‘Is that because I have coffee?’

He nods. ‘And croissants. I thought you were kidding last night when you said you were going to do the breakfast run.’

Lord. There I was thinking I’d been swept across the street by impulse, and I’d already made the same plan twelve hours ago. I hand Freddie the paper bag. ‘Take your pick.’

He peers into the bag. ‘Both of them?’

I shoot him a not-a-chance look as I hand him his coffee, touching my cold hand against his cheek. ‘It’s freezing out there. Feel.’

He shudders. ‘Get back in bed?’

It’s tempting. God, it really is. But … Paris.

‘I’m dressed now,’ I say, shrugging out of my damp coat. ‘Let’s get out there and see Paris.’

Freddie hands me the paper bag as I perch on the edge of the bed, coffee in hand.

‘Are you mad you didn’t win the toss?’ he asks.

I’ve no idea what he’s talking about, so I pull a piece of croissant out from the bag and chew it slowly.

‘I won’t hold you to it if you’re dead set on seeing the Mona Lisa,’ he says.

I put my head on one side, trying to look engaged and amused, willing him to explain further. God, this croissant is divine.

‘You know me,’ he says. ‘I’m just not a museums kind of guy.’

I do know him, and no, he’s not a fan of museums. He’s not big into history at all really, and even though I’d love to wander hand in hand around the Louvre admiring art with him, I know it wouldn’t move his soul in the way it would mine. And that’s okay; he’s not an ignorant man, just a guy who knows what he likes. I wonder what his choice is, though.