If Laurent knew what was going through my mind, he didn’t mention it. We drew up in a tiny little back street that wasn’t a thoroughfare at all, but rather a little three-sided place situated around a little bench. The buildings weren’t the traditionally grand arrondissement apartments; they were older and made of gray stones, which matched the color of the cobbles beneath them. They looked like they had been transplanted from some other part of France altogether. Many of the buildings had ivy growing up them, with balconies only on the top floor. He led me to one of these, a large door, painted bright red, slap bang in the middle of it.
“This isn’t an apartment,” I said, suspicious. “Where are we?”
He looked a bit awkward and pulled out a large set of old keys.
“I never have anyone here,” he said. “Well, welcome, I suppose, my shy English mademoiselle.”
Then he winked at me to show me he wasn’t really that nervous, turned the old-fashioned door handle, and waved me inside.
- - -
I gasped when I stepped inside, into a formal hallway opening into a huge reception room with paneling that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Hampton Court. A large, abstract candelabra with random candles dotted in it added to the illusion. The room was at the back of the house, away from the little square, and the entire back of the wall was glass. Outside was a spot-lit garden on several different levels, immaculately raked in squares and rows of herbs and vegetables, with gravel paths running between them. Looking through the glass, I could see to the right another glass wall which obviously housed the kitchen, a shining stainless steel affair, very professional-looking.
“Wow!” I said, unable to say anything else. From the hallway back, there were floating steps leading upstairs, presumably to the other levels. Bookshelves lined one side of the huge paneled room, and on another was an enormous fireplace, currently with a large glass bowl of limes sitting in the unused hearth.
“Why do you never come here?” I said, my voice echoing in the room. “If I lived here, I would never ever leave it, ever.”
Laurent looked a bit shame-faced. “Mm-hmm,” he said. “It’s…it’s my thing.”
“What do you mean? You drive a really rackety old scooter.”
“I know…I don’t spend much money really. So it all goes on the house.”
I glanced at him, a half-smile playing on my lips. “Your dad didn’t buy it for you?”
He looked fierce. “As if I’d take a penny.”
“Well, it’s lovely.”
“Would you take a house from your parents?”
I thought about it. “I can’t imagine anything making my dad happier than being able to buy me a house.”
Laurent winced. “He did offer…”
“Aha!” I said in triumph. “So he’s not totally evil?”
“I was so proud,” he said, miles away, staring out at the little garden. “I wanted to show him I could do it as well…do it better.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “You’re going to hate me for saying this,” I said. “Are you quite alike?”
Laurent half-smiled and shook off my hand as we headed into the kitchen. Unusually in my experience for a man’s fridge, it was full of butter and cheese and eggs and vegetables. I was impressed and made a mental note never to invite him around to dinner at Sami’s. He pulled out a bottle of champagne. I perked up immediately. I knew we hadn’t had enough to drink to do any shagging yet.
“When my dad moved to Paris from Lot-et-Garonne, he lived in a single room in an attic with no hot water or heating,” said Laurent. “He slept in every item of clothing he had in the wintertime. And he worked his way up. I’ve heard the story a million times…normally from Alice.” He snorted.
“So of course, you had to do the same?”
He nodded. Then he grinned. “Do I sound like an idiot?”
I shrugged. “It is,” I said, “a very nice house.”
His face lit up. “Thank you!”
Standing there, lit by the fridge, which was still open, and the spotlights in the garden highlighting the curls in his hair and the shadow of his long eyelashes against his cheeks, I thought he was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen in my life.
I moved forward and kissed him, and he kissed me back, with none of the amused nonchalance he’d shown before, but with a total, committed fervor. It was fierce and it was fantastic.
“Now can we stop talking about your dad?” I said, when we finally came up for air.
He put the champagne bottle down on the side of the counter. “I will sweep you upstairs,” he said, grabbing me under the arms.
My eyes strayed to the bottle he’d put down.
“Oh, my little English girl,” he laughed. “Do you think you need to get drunk to enjoy yourself with me?”
I wriggled, red in the face. “Not drunk exactly,” I muttered. “But a bit of Dutch courage wouldn’t go amiss.”
Laurent took my hands in his strong grip and stared into my eyes intently.
“You, my gorgeous Anna, are going to come upstairs with me. And we are going to make love, if that is what you want, and you will be perfectly sober, and you will enjoy every second. Oui ou non?”
Oh Lord.
- - -
The sun was coming up. It shone through the pale gauzy curtains where I lay trapped in Laurent’s arms. He was asleep, but I was not and felt that light, dreamy way when you’re not sure what is real and what’s a dream. I turned and kissed his hair. He had, in the end, lightly caressed my toes. He had lightly caressed every bit of me. Then we had become less gentle. A lot less gentle.
“Oh, Anna,” he said from his snoozing form.
“I have to go,” I whispered.
“Don’t.” A huge hairy arm came and trapped me.
“I have to,” I said. “I have to work.”
“Oh Christ,” he said, shooting bolt upright and searching for his watch.
“So do I. I said I’d take the early shift.”
“Surely not this early?”
“You’ve never worked in a hotel, have you?”
“No,” I admitted. He smiled at me and kissed me.
“You are even more luscious in the morning,” he said. “Oh, my love. Stay a while.”