Cold Skin (Letters to Dan - Part II)

Part 1; Chapter 4

We arrived around midday, dropped our bags off at the apartment and went out in search of food. We'd eaten a little on the plane, but we were famished and tired and in need of refreshment. We settled on a patisserie not far from where we were staying, and stuffed ourselves with pastries and coffees until we were so full we could barely walk.

We walked around for the whole day, buying sandwiches and crepes from street vendors. Anna bought a souvenir beret. We ended up walking to the top of Montmartre and sat on the stairs overlooking the city. A guy in a stripy shirt was performing magic tricks and an audience of tourists in matching shirts ooh-ed and aah-ed. A couple jabbering away in French walked past us, seemingly oblivious to what was going on around them. They probably came here all the time. Maybe they worked here. Did people who lived in Paris stop marvelling at its beauty at some point? Did thy just grow used to it? Were they so acclimatised to the Eiffel tower that they didn't even look back when they walked past it on their way to work?

I couldn't imagine living in Paris without existing in a constant state of awe. I'd been living in London for over ten years, and still every day I would find myself admiring the beauty of it. And same with music - I'd spent more time on tour than off for several years, but it still gave me a thrill of excitement. I guess some things you just never get used to.

Anna sighed contentedly and leant her cheek against my shoulder.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

"I was just thinking that," I told her, unable to tear my eyes away from the view.

It wasn't my first time in Paris, and certainly not the last, but for Anna it was.

"Shall we go find somewhere to eat?" I asked.

"No, stay a little longer."

"Anna, as a Paris regular I can tell you that, without a booking, we will find nowhere to eat dinner for the next month."

I called up a few restaurants, but everything was booked. Eventually, I resorted to name dropping, trying to explain in what little French I knew that I was actually in a very successful band so please, give us a table?

The first two places I called didn't recognise the name, but the third one did.

"Ok, we have a booking at eight at Restaurant Guy Savoy. I've never been but I've heard it's good. Pretty fancy though. Do you want to go home and get changed?"

Anna perked up at the sound of fancy. She didn't come across as the sort of person to like glitz and glamour, but she really loved it. Never had I seen a more sparkly and colourful array of dresses than she owned. But then, I'd never really seen an array of dresses. Period. Half of what she owned belonged on the red carpet, and thankfully she thought ahead to take some with her.

The restaurant had a set five course menu, and I can't recall what we ate, but it was beautiful. I wasn't much of a foodie, never will be, but the food at this restaurant blew me away. I even snuck a photo so I could brag to mum later.

Anna was wearing a black dress, heeled boots and a coat, and her eyes were shining with the light of a million stars. She really was beautiful.

Plate after plate of food was brought out to us, and before dessert came a cheese platter, which we demolished in five minutes flat, save for a mysterious looking glob of brown jelly.

"I'll give you a hundred pounds if you eat a spoonful of it," I teased.

She glared at me. "No way, I don't want that thing anywhere near my mouth."

"Two hundred."

"Why don't you just ask the waiter what it is?"

"Because, Anna darling, I don't speak French."