Million Love Songs(97)
She does so. Somewhat grudgingly.
He’s even brought me on the promised return trip to the City of Love. And – double bubble – we’re here to see Take That. Yay! Be still my beating heart. Mason, of course, managed to get VIP tickets through a friend of a friend of a friend. Seated. Gold circle. We’re also having a pre-show Meet and Greet with Gary and the lads, plus unlimited champagne and I think I might just be in heaven.
Charlie and Nice Paul are here too. They’re with the official fan club trip and are staying in a hotel a few streets away from where we are. We, as you will gather, are in a much posher hotel booked by Mason.
Our hotel is elegant, quaint and the room sumptuously furnished in jewel colours. We still have a view of the Eiffel Tower over the rooftops, but from a different direction this time. The hotel is on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, a quiet street off the Champs-élysées and is home to a cluster of high-end boutiques and the beautiful élysée Palace. I’m trying to persuade Mason to take a tour of it, if we’ve got time. Though I’ve already grasped the fact that he’s not exactly a culture vulture and much prefers the cafés and restaurants to the palaces and museums.
I stand on our little balcony and look out over the city. This time the weather is kind to us – it’s warm, sunny, the sky a muted blue, speckled with wisps of cloud. ‘This is lovely.’
Mason looks up from his phone. ‘Yeah.’
My only stipulation for this trip was that I absolutely refused to go back to the hotel where Valerie works. Actually, I had two stipulations – different hotel, only two of us in the bed at any time. Mason was happy enough to comply. We have, as is Mason’s way, had a lot of sex – but maybe not quite as much as we did last time. These past few months have made me realise that it’s never going to be the missionary position every night with Mason. He definitely likes his love on the edgy side – which is, on occasions, exhausting. Maybe TMI, but I wouldn’t mind a bit of vanilla every now and again – especially when I’ve got to get up for work the next day. However, it’s nice that he’s keen and there’s no doubt that he’s a good lover.
A text comes in and it’s Charlie telling me that they’ve just arrived. They came over on the ferry by coach, whereas we took the Eurostar. We organise to meet for a drink before the concert and I can’t wait to see my friend. ‘Charlie and Nice Paul are here,’ I tell Mason.
He looks up from his phone again. ‘Cool.’
Mason and I arrived yesterday and, unlike our other trip which was a bit of a washout, I’ve already managed to cajole him into doing some sightseeing. I’ve fallen in love with Paris. We went to the Louvre which was fantastic even though I’m not much of an art lover and we queued for France to get in. It’s true that the Mona Lisa is much smaller than you think and it’s shielded by bulletproof glass, but it’s amazing and I’m glad that I know these things from personal experience.
After lunch at a little bistro, we went up the Eiffel Tower – which also took for ever and was crowded beyond belief. Despite my fear of heights, the view from over a thousand feet above the city was spectacular and well worth the effort. Mason wrapped his arms round me as we stood admiring the city and I felt the kind of contentment that I hadn’t in a long time. Perhaps I can be happy with him.
‘What are you smiling at?’ He throws his phone on the bed and comes over to join me on the balcony, snaking his arms round my waist and pulling me close.
‘I’m having a really great time,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you for bringing me back.’
‘Only the best for you,’ he says and nuzzles my neck. ‘Shall we go and do some damage to a decent red, then take a bateau trip? We didn’t manage it before.’
‘That sounds like a very relaxing way to spend an afternoon and I want to conserve my energy for the concert tonight.’
So we head out and do just that. We hold hands and kiss as we go along the street, like a couple in love. I look over at Mason, well-groomed, as always, in his designer T-shirt and jeans and I feel a rush of affection for him. I feel as if I’m finally starting to see more and more of the real Mason Soames rather than the face that he puts on for the world and I very much like what I see.
Lunch is a croque-monsieur and a bottle of Chateau la Croix something or another, enjoyed outside at a pavement café. We chat, laugh, drink too much. Then we walk down to the River Seine, hop on board a Bateau-Mouche boat and find a place on the open-air viewing deck. We drift down the river, passing Notre Dame Cathedral and La Conciergerie, the distinctive glass pyramid of the Louvre and more views of the Eiffel Tower. Mason throws his arm round my shoulder and laughs at the amount of photographs I take on my phone.
‘Selfie,’ I say.
‘Another?’
‘When I’m old and grey, I want to look back at these and remember that I’ve been here.’
He strokes my face. ‘It’s nice to see Paris through your eyes, Brown. It’s like seeing it through the eyes of a five-year-old.’
‘I take it that’s a compliment?’
‘Yeah.’ He laughs. ‘Let’s travel the world together and take selfies at all the best spots.’
I snuggle in next to him, my heart light. ‘Let’s do that.’