#5 Monday in Paris

My darling darlings, strap yourselves in for Monday in Paris!

I was up and down during the night taking photos as you do. That‘s the view from my bathroom window—also part of the original La Maison Rose. No murderers lurking—that I could see. Do you see the wisteria?

I woke at 4am—my body clock still firmly stuck in where’s the rosé gone? mode. As the sun rose somewhere behind the thick overcast, I pulled on pretty much the same clothes I wore on the plane except not the jacket, a jumper, and raced up a couple of darling little streets, past the Musée de Montmartre to the Sacré-Cœur church. Ten minutes max.

This is the water tower for Montmartre which means that all the taps are gravity fed. Those were the days when utilities were built to be beautiful. And isn't it great that Paris has the cleanest water in the world so you can fill your water bottle from the tap? I hate buying water.

Walking those streets, I kept thinking: this can’t be real.

Then I turned the corner at the church and almost walked straight into five green-beret soldiers in full camouflage, carrying very serious machine guns. Foreign Legion.

I froze.

The Middle East situation had clearly arrived in Paris. Rather than feeling safer, the water delivery truck with its back doors open suddenly became a potential threat. In my head, I crash-tackled the driver, was taken hostage, and driven to a secret location outside Paris—where I found a way to phone Interpol. And was shot dead with the phone in my hands.

I noticed several more soldiers patrolling the front of the church.

It was all rather exhausting, so I decided none of that was happening today and carried on inside.

I love churches when there is no one in them, don't you?

Such a great view of Paris from up here.

These are the steps in that movie. You know the one where they fight and tumble all the way down?

I had things to do in the city so I raced home past the Place du Tertre where the artists work during the day—will I have a portrait done?

OMG couldn't we do a reno job on this????

Rue de l'Abreuvoir again. The one from my window last night remember? Same same. I had the world’s fastest shower, used the hairdryer with only one speed—minus ten—and prepared to brave the métro.

Ticket machines and I have never seen eye to eye. I always get messages on the screen like: Are you reporting a lost umbrella? Do you require a disabled monthly pass?

I instantly go super silly.

But yesterday, a glorious creature appeared beside me—Sissi, young, sweet, helpful, and, just as a plot twist, a screenwriter—she and her brother write movies together. I asked her to please make a movie of Son of Hydra. She put her phone number in my WhatsApp, so I have not the slightest doubt it will happen. Russell Crowe eat your heart out.

Anyway Sissi managed to get me a Navigo card, helped me load five trips onto it, and casually mentioned we were standing in the deepest métro station in Paris. I thought that was interesting, but after all, we are on a hill.

Fast-forward to the afternoon when I was halfway up those six million steps, lungs screaming, calf muscles locked up, gasping. Ah, now I get why Sissi told me that. Lesson learned. The metro is not a transportation system; it’s a fitness cult.

But enough suffering—onto the glamorous bits!

I arrived stupidly early at Concorde—classic overthinker behaviour—where Louis XVI among many others was guillotined. But that gave me time to float through the Jardin des Tuileries, then back along the Rue de Rivoli to the Hôtel de Crillon. Where by the way, Louis‘ execution order was signed.

Jane Webster—yes, the famous Château de Bosguet Jane—has a book club discussion in the absolutely ravishing room Le Jardin d’Hiver every Monday, and she very generously welcomes visitors. A dear follower on Insta reminded me of that, so I wrote to Jane a few weeks ago. They choose one book for the month, so there’s not the pressure of a one-day-only event. Yesterday it was the letters of Mme de Sévigné, which I read years ago but have started to re-read. The first time, I was intrigued by the record of the society and court of Louis XIV, but this time I was struck by the mother’s almost suffocating love for her daughter, who, as Jane said, went to Provence and didn’t come back. I could see why.

Jane arrived in the most divine overcoat I have ever seen, with her lovely quiet easy charm, her mastery of her surroundings and laser focus. Ruth and Sarah were there too, and we had the loveliest, most civilised chat. Me swooning over Jane’s wildly successful books and her plans for more. I am kicking myself we didn‘t take a photo.

Jane also runs writer and other residencies and French immersion classes at the château and in Paris—used to be only month-long; now she’s adding shorter two-week ones. My ears perked up like an Egyptian tomb dog. I mean, truly—what better place to write than doing a full-body immersion in a château? Sign me up! Hey hang on, I‘m doing that next week! Yayyyyy.

We parted in a cloud of bonhomie, with Jane, Sarah and Ruth going on to Sothebys to see the two Monets which have just come on the market fresh from the original owner's family who bought them from Monet.

I was off to meet Monique, my son-in-law’s stepmother—yes, I insist on saying it that way because it sounds like a French farce waiting to happen, and when she and I get together it often is. Monique had booked in the upstairs restaurant at Ladurée on rue Royale. The asparagus risotto with parmesan—eaten in between non-stop chatter—was so obscenely good I nearly died of happiness then and there. Then we caught a bus to Avenue Montaigne as French ladies of leisure do.

We had time to kill before our 4:30 tickets to the Galerie Dior, so we wandered through Dior itself, window-shopped, peeked into Ralph Lauren where I lusted after a linen blazer and Monique admired a very nice white shirt with striped bib and jeans.

Finally into the exhibition. It was perfectly pleasant—lots of gorgeous 1940-50s frocks, thousands of amazing miniature models of dresses, bags, hats etc, plenty of reading if you’re a fashion nerd. Did you know he consulted a fortune teller before the launch of each new collection?

But nothing made me actually gasp drop-dead gorgeous except one thing: that iconic J’adore commercial with Charlize Theron striding through the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles like she owned the entire 18th century.

OMG. Seriously. She is a goddess. I stood there with my mouth open. Have you seen it? If not, fix that immediately. Truly. I mean it. It is uh-mazing.

Afterwards, Monique vanished into the métro toward Neuilly—we‘ll see each other again on Saturday—and I, feeling suddenly, dangerously competent but not prepared to do a change on the métro, not yet, walked back along the Champs Elysées from Avenue Montaigne to Place de la Concorde. With a very black sky looming behind.

I navigated the métro home like a Parisian who knows her gauche from her droite. Only had one minor panic attack when I wasn‘t sure I was going in the right direction. So I was ready to hurl myself onto the next platform if I’d chosen wrongly. If I could get out of the sardine crush.

Victory tasted like champagne.

Which brings us to the grand finale: I collapsed into the apartment, slightly damp from a llittle misty rain, bushed from all the walking, and poured myself a triumphant glass of real French bubbles, some toasted baguette slathered with a glorious orangey pink rind Époisses Germain from Burgundy—the one with the official appellation, a teeny bit of attitude in the smell department, but the mildest, most seductive taste on earth. I threw some chopped garlic olives on top because I am clearly no chef, just a happy eater. I could have been Charlize.

It was fabulous. Or, as Monique says. Fah-poo-lersss.

I went horizontal on the bed, gave thanks to the universe, the soldiers, the screenwriter angel, Jane’s brilliance, Monique's elegance, Charlize’s cheekbones, the deepest metro stairs in Paris, and whoever decided cheese this good should exist.

Paris, to quote Christian Dior—I adore you.

Sleep well. I know I will—after one more tiny victory sip. À demain, peut-être, ma chérie. Je t'attends toujours.