I strutted out of the hairdressers feeling on top of the world. My French hairdresser always made my hair look fabulous, I paused for a second then thought ‘What the hell?’ and went into the French patisserie next door where Brice worked. Well actually he ran it for his father and he was indescribably beautiful with black hair that flopped into his mesmerising dark chocolate eyes. He was your atypical, gorgeous French man and I spent hours fantasising about the day I would walk into the café, order an espresso in my best French, take a seat outside with my big sunglasses on and read a copy of Le Monde. He would appear with my coffee and his phone number written discretely on the receipt. This would be the start of our whirlwind romance when we would spend weekends in bed in a hotel over looking the Eiffel Tower, he would cook exquisite Provencal dishes for me in our Kensington apartment and others would eye us enviously as we sipped expensive wine in London’s trendiest bars, so in love we didn’t notice another soul.
The bell on the door tinkled as I tentatively pushed it open, flicking my shiny hair over my shoulder. ‘Oui’ he said without looking up. ‘Um, un cappuccino s’il te plait’ I mumbled. He made my drink without looking and handed it to me ‘Un cinquante’ he said as I fumbled around in my purse looking for the correct money. ‘Merci’ I said as I departed, he didn’t notice.
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