we already have a reservation,’ she said. ‘It’s a tasting menu. And I paid up front, so you can’t argue over the bill.’
It turned out that she’d booked a table at one of the best restaurants in Paris, and once Dante had tried the first dish he wasn’t surprised to learn that the chef had two Michelin stars. The restaurant itself was incredibly romantic, with plush chairs and damask tablecloths and real orchids decorating the tables. And he’d never seen Carenza look more beautiful, in a little black dress and a pearl choker and her hair in a swish updo. It made his heart skip a beat every time he looked at her.
And then, just before coffee, the waiter brought over a cone made out of tiny Parisian macarons, with a sparkler coming out of the top.
‘It’s not actually part of the menu. I told the maître d’ it was your birthday and sweet-talked him into asking the chef to do this especially for you,’ Carenza whispered.
Why wasn’t he surprised that Carenza would have the nerve to ask a Michelin-starred chef for a special addition to the menu? Or that the chef would be perfectly happy to do it for her?
‘This is my idea of a Parisian birthday cake,’ she said with a grin. ‘Happy birthday, Dante.’
‘Thank you.’ He reached across the table, took her hand and drew it to his lips. ‘This is definitely a first.’ He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a birthday cake.
‘I’m glad you like it.’ Her eyes were sparkling; she was clearly thrilled that he liked her little surprise.
‘I more than like it. You’re amazing,’ he said softly.
The macarons—two smooth, soft, flat-topped almond meringues sandwiched together with buttercream in the same pastel colours as the meringues, with a dash of dark chocolate ganache in the centre—were a little too rich for his taste, but no way was he going to spoil her pleasure in this. He knew the bitter coffee would take the cloying taste away.
She checked her watch when they’d finished the macarons. ‘Righty, let’s go for a stroll.’
‘You’re OK to walk in those shoes?’
She laughed. ‘Just because they’re designer, it doesn’t mean they’re uncomfortable, you know.’
Though he could see in her eyes that she was remembering the night they went dancing. When she’d worn shoes she couldn’t walk in.
They strolled hand in hand to the Champs Elysées, the wide avenues flanked with clipped trees and lit by wrought-iron lanterns. Carenza led him under the subway and into the middle of the Arc de Triomphe, with the huge French flag billowing from the centre of the arch and the flame burning steadily on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
‘You’re going to have to work for the view again, I’m afraid,’ she said with a grin.
There were literally hundreds of narrow spiral stairs; but at last they were at the top and could look down at the traffic, each lane a blaze of white or red from the car lights. Carenza pointed out the buildings illuminated across the city: the Sacré Coeur in the distance on the hill at Montmartre, and the Eiffel Tower lit up and with a huge beam sweeping across the night from the top of the tower.
‘I told you Paris by night was something else,’ she said softly.
‘You’re right. It is.’ And sharing this with her felt special. There were plenty of other people on top of the arch, but it still managed to feel intimate, as if they were the only two people there.
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