She arrives five minutes early. I’ve been waiting for an hour. I hear her before I see her—that signature clip of stilettos on paving stones. Small, hurried, excited steps.
I turn to watch her. Jacket, pencil skirt, white blouse, slim folio case and serious sandals. Her gaze flits across the street, and I relish these seconds where I can just observe her. When she finally sets eyes on me her business face melts into a broad smile. Her steps quicken and she flings herself at me, arms wide open.
“You managed to get away?” We grip each other perhaps tighter than is appropriate for a public setting and break away quickly… too quickly… that fizzy anticipation causing unnecessary nerves.
“Naturellement,” she replies, in a playful French accent. “Would I let you down? Pas moi.”
She never lets me down. Ever. She gets precious few opportunities to slip away from her husband so when one presents itself, she always sends a message well in advance to give me time to make my own plans to be with her.
But this was her—my—most audacious rendez-vous yet: Paris. For her—a conference (that was one hundred per cent genuine). For me—a meeting with a client. Well, probably about fifty per cent genuine. But my wife believed it all right.
So here we are in the most romantic of cities with two whole afternoons and two glorious nights ahead of us. We’ve never had a whole night to ourselves before. Now there’s no need to rush. There’s time to do what we want, when we want.
“Rodin?” I ask
She turns to the museum behind us.
“One of the most sensual of sculptors.” I continue. “Famous for The Kiss. His work was deemed so explicit that many of his pieces were covered in cloth so as not to offend. He came to define French erotica…”
She cuts my guidebook narrative short.
“I know we said it would be great to see the exhibition, but if I’m honest I’d rather have something to eat. Then enjoy a bit of legendary French erotica back at my hotel.” She squeezes my buttocks. “My room is fab. You’ve got to see the view. And I know just the place to eat.”
“Oh really?” I say, casting my gaze to her breasts, then her mound which is beautifully encased in that skirt… “Me too.”
She rolls her eyes and bats at my upper arm playfully and tuts, knowing exactly what I’m getting at.
“When I was a nanny in my gap year I always headed to a particular bistro.” She nudges me along. “Looks like a bit of a dive on the outside, but the food is to die for.”
“Sounds good to me. Is it far?”
“Just round the corner.”
Le Bistrot
We walk, her hand tucked through my arm in true continental style though she is doing the leading. A tug and we turn sharp right between two small shops. Only locals would know the location of that opening.
The moment we are engulfed by the darkness of the...
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Read all about the wonderful author: Jonathan Aldfrith
