The Orchid Affair

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“That was a short flight,” I said, peering out the window as the wheels of our plane touched tarmac at Charles de Gaulle. It was amazing how short a flight could be when one was in no particular hurry to arrive at one’s destination.

“We can go back and do it again,” Colin suggested. “Just to drag it out a bit.”

I tilted my head so that my cheek briefly touched his shoulder. At least, that’s what I’d intended to do. Instead I head-butted the side of his seat.

It’s the thought that counts. “I knew we should have taken the Chunnel.”

“Next time,” he said, although both of us knew that there wasn’t going to be a next time. At least, not for this particular trip. It was purely a one-off, and one on which neither of us had particularly wanted to go.

It sounds insane, doesn’t it? Anyone would think I should have been delighted at the prospect of a long weekend in Paris with my still new-enough-to-be-exciting boyfriend. We could stroll the Champs-Élysées, drink coffee in little cafés, smooch on the platform of the Eiffel Tower. Paris is for lovers. Everyone knows that.

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