‘No, it seems obvious now a Frenchman wouldn’t be out in gale-force winds to visit the most clichéd tourist attraction in Paris.’
He gazed up at the tower. ‘You know, I thought I’d be disappointed because it looks ugly in pictures. But it’s rather gorgeous up close. If you find screws and rivets pretty.’ He looked concerned for a second. ‘Is that a weird thing to say?’
‘That screws and rivets do it for you? Yeah, pretty weird.’
‘I’ve had extensive therapy for it.’
It was only then that I noticed the sliver of blue ribbon under the collar of his jacket.
‘How’s this for a coincidence?’ I pulled out my own blue-ribboned lanyard. ‘I think we’re both here for the OCD conference.’
He peered at my badge. ‘Pleased to meet you …’ He paused as he read my first name. ‘Lentil.’ He frowned. ‘I assume your friends call you Len?’
I shrugged. ‘They get my weird surname right, but manage to muck up Nella.’
‘I don’t buy you as a Nella. A Lentil, yes.’
I laughed. ‘Thanks a bunch. Any weird typos on yours?’
He disentangled his name badge from under his collar and my eyes went wide when I saw the name. ‘Richard Benson? Aren’t you supposed to be delivering the keynote speech in ten minutes?’
‘That would be Doctor Richard Benson,senior– my father. Should I be offended that you’ve decided to skip it?’
I grimaced. ‘Busted. But in my defence the video replay will be up on the website tomorrow, and I wanted to see Paris before I leave.’
‘Your secret’s safe with me.’ He paused and looked uncertain for a moment. ‘Would seeing Paris include having coffee in an overpriced café on account of its proximity to the Eiffel Tower, with the son of a famous psychiatrist who’s a terrible disappointment to his family?’
He had dark blonde hair and stormy blue eyes, and the longer we’d been talking, the more I’d noticed the astonishing symmetry of his face.
‘I think I can squeeze a coffee into my busy itinerary.’
He smiled and a dimple appeared in his left cheek – the only asymmetrical thing about him. ‘Lead the way, Len.’
The coffee was followed by an impromptu cab ride to Montmartre, to a bar with a live accordionist and Toulouse-Lautrec posters on the walls. We talked for hours while chuggingabsinthe cocktails, with names like The Corpse Reviver and Death in the Afternoon, courtesy of a boisterous Russian couple who had just got engaged and wanted the whole bar to celebrate with them.
Then, we jumped in another cab and made our way to the Louvre, because I’d told him I’d never been and I wanted to see the Venus de Milo, the goddess Cypriots claimed as theirs. My parents had at least two miniatures in the house and countless tea towels/pillowcases/shot glasses bearing her image. But the museum was closed – of course it was – it was nine o’clock.
So we walked through the Tuileries Garden, up the Champs-Élysées and made it to the next most famous Paris monument – the Arc de Triomphe. The white marble dazzled against the starry sky, and while we stood under it, gazing at the intricate sculptures, Rich reached over and kissed me.
We slept together that night. Rich eschewing his room at the super posh Hyatt that his dad had booked, and instead coming back to my two-star establishment that smelt of cigarettes and bins.
I’d never slept with a man on the first date before. But I felt so sure about Rich – sure that he was kind and caring and that he wasn’t going to turn into one of those men who says he’ll call but then doesn’t. He had a kindness and enthusiasm about him, and I was sick of the moody bad boys I gravitated towards, thinking I could fix them.
I fell hard, and I fell fast. Within a month of us being back in London we were seeing each other twice a week, and a year later I moved in with him. The irony was, he had bad-boy tendencies all along. He just knew how to hide them.
Chapter 8
I’m woken by my parents’ raised voices. It’s seven – far too early to be awake at the weekend. Mum is demanding Dad admits he’s been using her Boots No7 moisturiser on his feet again, and Dad is explaining that it’s the only thing that stops his feet itching when his athlete’s foot plays up.
A door slams, a few minutes of silence follows before the buzz from Dad’s electric shaver starts. I guess no one’s a fan of a lie-in?
The cat clearly isn’t because he’s scratching my door, waiting to be let in. Zorba apparently likes to sleep in my room, specifically on top of my wardrobe, a habit I wish Mum had mentioned last night. Instead, I’d found out at three in the morning when he’d jumped down with an almighty thud and given me the fright of my life. Cats are supposed to be light-footed, but Zorbs obviously didn’t get the memo. He’s a hefty beast – black and white, with angelic green eyes, but Jesus, he’s grumpy. I’d got up to let him out, but it had taken me ages to fall asleep again.
And now he’s outside again, scratching to be let in as if I’ve outstayed my welcome in our weird human/feline bedroom timeshare.
He lets out a long meow that ends up like a growl. No one keeps Zorba waiting.
Well, he can bloody wait now.
