[paris] feel it still. [tag; charlie]

i'm a rebel just for kicks, now
let me kick it like it's 1986, now
it might be over now but i feel it still.

october 2002

"So, I have some ideas."

The voice belonged to a tall blonde young woman who was striding over broken cobbles without a care in the world. To anyone who wasn't a Parisian native, these things would easily claim a broken ankle or two. Winter always hit Paris hard and nearing November, it showed. The bright red leaves were catching in the wind, swirling around her like a confetti cyclone as they swayed in the increasingly bitter wind.

Under her arm, Florence was carrying a rather heavy looking and battered art folder. Black leather and embossed with her initials, she toted it everywhere. As a freelance artist, she couldn't afford to leave it behind in her apartment.

Montmartre must be a bit of a culture shock for her British companion.

This was her neighbourhood and she suited it beautifully. It was bright and it was noisy, with its topsy-turvy buildings that spilled out and onto the pavements that were shoved full of trinket shops. It was the Artists' Quarter and she was taking Charlie here for one reason; she was worried about him. His last few songs had been rather…dark. Deep, moody and a bit sad. At least there were in her opinion. The two had collaborated a few times for single and album artworks and she had some things to show him. She also hoped the ambience might wake something happy up inside of him.

The pair attracted glances but for very different reasons. Charlie was classically handsome in that bad boy rocker type of thing. Tall and dark, he had an innate swagger. He was alluring and charismatic and dangerous.  As women looked, she offered them a cheery wave which made them panic. She heard he was attached and she was not letting him cheat in Continental Europe. If she had to act as a blocker, then so be it.

The glances directed towards her were purely for her attire. A short denim dress and red tights, blue duffle coat and green hat and her most favourite thing, her mouse mittens. A gift from her husband that she adored. That, totalled with her lion's mane of bright blonde raspberry scented curls was enough to make anyone do a double take. Swiftly, she turned and plucked the cigarette right out of Charlie's mouth, the mouse ears on her mittens wiggling in the breeze. "I wish you wouldn't," she said with a wrinkled nose as she tossed the butt into a nearby bin. "It's a filthy habit."

On they walked with Florence bobbing her head to the off-beat and frankly squeaky music of a nearby accordion player. "Hands in your pockets," she instructed Charlie as she nodded to her left. There were three men, playing the classic game of "find the lady", or, as most people knew, daylight robbery. The idea was to guess where in the three cards was the queen once the cards had been shuffled. As the poor victim placed money, the men would counteract, goading them to bet more. As they got suckered in with their attention diverted, someone would come along and pick their pocket.

Florence, though no saint, hated people being taken advantage of so she decided to act. Holding up her hand to stop Charlie, she leaned over the jabbering crowd and played along, sliding in a couple of coins. The men running the scam assumed she was as thick as she looked. The pot was growing and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a hand nip into the pocket of a nearby gentleman. Quick as a flash, she bumped her hip into the pickpocketer, causing him to drop the wallet which she bent down and scooped up. "Sorry," she said to the gentleman next to her with a smile and she held out his almost-stolen wallet. "You dropped this."

She flicked her eyes over to the scam artist who looked alarmed and turned his back and turned and disappeared into the crowd. Taking a step back, she rejoined Charlie. "Sorry," she said swiftly. "People are so rude." With that, she opened a wallet that didn't belong to her. Casually as ever, she flicked through it, extracting notes and coins before throwing it over her shoulder; she'd saved an innocent bystander's wallet and in return, she'd stolen the wallet belonging to the man running the scam.

Taking a narrow side street, she slipped into the warm café. The hot air hit her quickly, smelling like toast and coffee as she plonked herself down at a small rickety table near the window and plucked off her gloves and coat. "Coffee's on this guy," Florence added, meaning the stolen wallet as she offered Charlie a wide grin. The low light of the café glinted off the two wedding rings she wore, a little quirk she and Arkasha shared.

With a grunt, she hauled the case on her lap and zipped it open, shuffling out a few papers as she blew at her long hair. On it was a forest scene. Beautifully drawn in shades of sea blue and green with high trees and a full moon. A path ran up the middle of the drawing and on it sat a single red fox, the back to the viewer. A moody piece, the full moon was shrouded in fog, the shadows high. "Song's called "Pretty Whisper", right?" Florence asked as she chewed on her lower lip, pulling out a pencil and hastily shading in a tree's leaf. "I thought of a dark forest, whispering trees, mischievous fox guiding the way?" She looked up at Charlie. "Do you like it?" She asked. "If not, I have one with a fat whale and one with a house on fire."


@Charlie Baker

Of all the cities he’d been to, Paris was one of his favourites to explore. Some might be surprised by this revelation, but there was simply something about the place that resonated with Charlie.  Perhaps it was just that everything felt more acceptable – being creative wasn’t unusual, it was appreciated. He split most of his time these days between London and the States, and he was never truly comfortable across the pond. Having just returned from California it was a relief to be back in cooler climes. An Englishman through and through, sunny San Diego had left him more than ready for some more miserable weather, and spending time with someone who didn’t have an obnoxious accent – cue a visit to a Frenchwoman. It was a business trip at the end of the day, but Liam and Paddy were both otherwise engaged, so Charlie was flying solo.

“Oh?” He gave a small smile to the blonde beside him. He was wearing dark jeans and a crisp white t-shirt under a black leather jacket; one hand in his pocket as he walked with Florence through her city, the other busy with a cigarette. Charlie had been friends with Florence for a year or so now, and she was a rare good influence. The brunette pretended not to notice the attention the pair of them were attracting, aware that his companion appeared to be warning his would-be admirers off. Had he been alone it would be quite a different story – and he had the distinct feeling that Florence knew it. Charlie liked to play dumb about his reputation, but not with Florence. He knew she knew, and she knew from experience. He’d only tried it on with her once, and she’d made it clear that he was never to do so again – he was fairly certain he could still feel the bruise. That didn’t mean he avoided being flirtatious with her completely, but they both had an understanding now that it was in jest only. Well, he was pretty sure anyway. The rings on her fingers were a constant reminder to him of her lovely husband – whom Charlie had very little in common with, but enough to actually get along and prevent him from breaking the ‘bro-code’.

“Hey!” He objected as the blonde seized his cigarette, gazing longingly after the lost butt as she flicked it into the bin. Part of him wanted to pull a fresh one out of the packet in defiance, but it wasn’t a battle worth fighting – she’d probably pinch the whole packet and bin it. “I’ve already got one girlfriend, thanks Flo.” They kept pace with each other along the street, Charlie inwardly thoroughly enjoying being in Paris though his face didn’t really show it.

“Hm?” He’d been daydreaming slightly as they strolled along, so the abrupt stop caught him off guard. Charlie pulled up behind Flo, belatedly obeying her instructions to mind his belongings and watching her next move with interest. Before Charlie could really comprehend exactly what was occurring, Florence outsmarted the conmen. “Very noble.” He smirked at her as they walked away and she produced a second wallet. “You’re a regular Robin Hood.”

The tall brunette followed Florence into a café, the warm, sweet-smelling air assaulting him immediately. Almost awkwardly he sat across the table from the Frenchwoman – he didn’t tend to frequent café’s unless on a date, and this had that kind of feel to it. Normally he wouldn’t object to being sat opposite a beautiful Frenchwoman, but he tended to feel a little like a scolded schoolboy with Florence. Ah, there were the wedding rings. Plural. Charlie couldn’t conceive wearing one at this present time, or any time in the near future, yet here was Florence and her husband (Arnold? Arthur?) who had doubled themselves up rather unnecessarily. It had taken every fibre of Charlie’s being not to gag when she’d first explained the sentimental reason behind this. Sat back in his chair, Charlie was unintentionally focused on her rings, a slight frown on his features – as if they offended him in some way.  “Just a latte, ta.” He requested, his dark eyes finally lifting from her delicate fingers.

As she proffered her illustration for him Charlie took the sheet in a calloused hand, “Yeah,,” he cast his eyes over the image, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “A fox, you reckon?” He lifted his gaze to meet Florence’s, “Is that a metaphor?” A hint of a chuckle escaping his mouth as she described her alternative designs, “Yeah, no. Might save the inferno for the next single.”

"Non," Florence replied sternly. She knew that Arkadiy smoked and Arkadiy knew that she hated it. She also knew that if she really wanted him to quit, he'd try. As of now, he tended to smoke on their little balcony or whenever he didn't think she'd notice. She'd played dumb, purely because it wasn't worth a fight but she was also flattered that he'd get that acrid smell of smoke away from her. She thought it was rather sweet.

The mentions of girlfriends made her blink swiftly. "I'd never date you," Florence said with such cutting honesty and a mix of nonchalance that only a Frenchwoman could deliver. She didn't know him well but of what she did know, he didn't seem like a very good boyfriend. "Sometimes, I wonder how you managed to get one," she added as she rubbed the tip of her pink nose with a gloved hand. It wasn't a character assassination by any means. "I think you are a -- what do you English say?" The artist asked as her pretty face creased in concentration as she rifled through words, in both languages. "A bellend," Florence said proudly with a sunny smile. The best of her English words were misinformed slang.

"Who?" Florence asked as she blinked at Charlie, not understanding his comment about Robin Hood. Was that one of his band mates? Tour mates? Stage crew?

Once ensconced in the warm air, Florence fluffed out her hair, the ends sticking up a little like a rather frizzy halo as it caught the mood lighting. She smiled as she saw his eyes focused on her rings as she tilted her head curiously. "Does it scare you?" The Parisian asked, her big blue eyes seemingly overly bright as though she'd spotted a weakness. It was true, she didn't particularly approve of Charlie's behaviour. But he was a modern man and marriage didn't seem to fit in with today's modern world according to some.

Though her original wedding ring on her left hand was beautiful, the older and slightly tarnished ring on her right was her favourite. It was a spur of the moment thing, snatched from a stall in a flea market as she and Arkasha tore through the square. She didn't think it was expensive in comparison but she still got butterflies in her stomach when she saw it. Smiling fondly to herself, she gave a wistful sigh as she rubbed the slight dent in the metal.

"It's not a noose," Florence chided Charlie lightly. His coffee order was followed up by one of a muffin, a pastry and hot chocolate with whipped cream,  marshmallows and sprinkles and another charming smile at the server. If Charlie thought she was sharing, he was mistaken. She'd stab him with her fork.

Florence shrugged. She'd always been uncomfortable with people critiquing her work which wasn't really ideal for an artist. She wasn't just presenting herself to the world, she was doing it for the musician, too. He had hordes of fans, some might even put the album art up on their bedroom walls like a poster.

Confused, her forehead wrinkled as she shook her head in earnest. "No," she replied to the comment about a metaphor. "Should it be?" Florence commented, missing the point. English was a funny thing and so was Charlie's accent. It was rough and broad and sometimes, she misunderstood. He once asked her if she was going to have "sprogs" with Arkadiy and she had no idea what it meant. It sounded rude and she still didn't know what they were and if she did want one, how she'd go about getting one.

Though he was polite about rejecting her rather ominous flames, her face fell a little before she corrected it in time, buoyed up by the idea of him wanting to use her again. She handed him the sketch as she leant back, allowing the server to deposit their orders. "I can change the font and stuff if you want me to," Florence told Charlie as she sipped at her large hot chocolate, getting a bit of cream on the end of her nose which she didn't realise. "How's the album coming along?" She asked him over the din of clinking cutlery and rowdy patrons, her cheeks puffing out like a gerbil's as she made short work of the marshmallows. "You should take Catherine around Paris," Florence said with a nod as she chewed. "Much better than London. But the men are a lot more vocal here," she said as she wrinkled her nose in distaste. The last man who wolf-whistled at her got punched. Not by her but by her nana.

Charlie smiled, brows raised, at Florence's comment. "Well it's a good thing I'm not asking you to." The Frenchwoman was undoubtedly attractive, and when they'd first met he'd certainly entertained the idea of going for a tumble in the sheets with her but she'd shut that down sharply. The more he thought about it, it did offend him. He rarely got told 'no', and though in some cases it simply made things more of a challenge, Charlie had decided with Florence it wasn't worth the effort. She was too high maintenance (in her own way) for his taste, and too hopelessly in love. It was easier on his ego to pretend he didn't find her attractive, and therefore it didn't matter that she wasn't the slightest bit interested in him. He smirked, "Come on, I'm not without my charms," he drawled, his brow furrowing lightly in anticipation as Florence struggled with her English, a light laugh escaping his lips as she finished her sentence. "Thanks. Always appreciate your brutal honesty, Flo."

"Robin Hood? You know, famous outlaw? No?" He shook his head, "Nevermind."

"Hm?" his brandy-coloured eyes flicked to meet Florence's and his mouth set in a hard line as he made sense of her words. The brunette didn't answer her -- it wasn't any of her business. Charlie didn't think he'd never get married, but he also didn't pine for it.  It wasn't on his horizon; he was perfectly happy living in the moment, happy with Kate -- but not ready to make it a permanent thing. Past relationships had always fizzled out at some point, and he was still waiting for Kate to wake up one morning and realise she could do much better. Besides, it was just a piece of paper and a ring. Was it really any different to just being together? Did people do it just so they could flaunt the fact that they were in a relationship, or simply because they felt like it was what everyone else did? He'd never been the type to do either. "Isn't it?" He gave a half-smile. It did scare him. Commitment had never been his strong suit. It had taken him several months to start calling Kate his 'girlfriend', as if doing so was asking for it all to end. And yet, he'd expected her to move in with him the moment she'd landed in London -- he certainly blew hot and cold. Maybe Florence was right, it was surprising that he had a girlfriend at all.

"No, nevermind." He shook his head lightly, avoiding her gaze as he took the sheet of paper and sat up a little straighter. As their drinks and Florence's treats were set down on the table his stomach grumbled lightly, he was regretting not getting his own food now. Kate normally ordered too much and he'd just pick at whatever was left. His fingers twitched as if to reach and break off a bit of Florence's muffin but he had a feeling he might not have any fingers left if he did so. "No, I like it." Charlie lifted the drawing and looked it over intently, admiring the blonde's talent. He wasn't a bad artist himself, but he definitely wouldn't be able to make a living out of it. He paused, lowering the paper to look at the Frenchwoman, "It's goi--" he grinned at her, the whisper of a laugh escaping his lips, "You've er, got some.." He rubbed his finger on the end of his own nose, a smile still playing across his lips as he picked up his own drink and took a sip. He set the cup back down, his hand still curled around it, the warmth pleasant on his skin. "It's going well, should be out soon. I think they want it out just before Christmas."

"Who?" He asked quickly, before his brain kicked into gear, "Oh, Kate. Yeah." Charlie pressed his lips together, eyes roaming around the small cafe. "Yeah, she'd probably like it." He said, as if Paris wasn't on every girl's wishlist of places to visit. "Maybe I'll bring her next time." He offered, his gaze momentarily distracted by a leggy blonde who'd just entered with a tinkle of the bell above the door. "London's a shithole." He turned back to Florence, "Like, it's alright, but it really depends where you go." He might live there but it didn't mean he had to love the place. Charlie spent most of his time in his flat, or in pubs, and didn't believe there was much else to do in the city. He'd played the tourist once, when Kate had first arrived. Open-top bus tour and everything. It had cemented in him the opinion that it was just like any other city, just bigger. He lived there mostly out of convenience. "Vocal?" He repeated, oblivious to her insinuation.

Aha. He was scared.

It wasn't hard to miss the brief flicker of revulsion that crossed his handsome face. Florence shrugged casually, as though she hadn't just brushed upon a rather sensitive situation. Charlie was kinda-sorta her boss and these sorts of things should not be breached but she did want to know.

"I suppose it doesn't really fit in with your aesthetic," Florence remarked but not unkindly. She simply meant that he was a young globe-trotting musician with a huge fan base that if they found out that he was unavailable, would most likely cause a riot. In fact, even being seen out with Charlie Baker was a bit of a risk. She just sincerely hoped that his girlfriend knew about his reluctance to put a ring on it.

The tall blonde cocked her head to the side as she used her artist's eye to look him over. She imagined the attraction was because he was all cigarettes, leather jackets and dive bars. Charlie put a lot of thought and effort and feeling into his music but people knew little about him. Maybe that was why he had such an intense following. She couldn't speak for the rest of the female population but being able to tame and calm a man like Charlie was such a rush. If not slightly silly and misguided.

Florence had taken to married life like a duck to water and she saw the look on his face and she wasted no time in raising her hand and wiggling her fingers to attract attention of one of the waiters. It was the same sort of look that Arkasha gave her when he got  a bit peckish. She ordered him another pastry as she chomped on her own.

"Hm?" She asked, distracted. Frowning at his funny reaction, she lifted a spoon and examined her reflection in the back of it before snorting with laughter. With a delicate grace, she wiped the tip of her nose with a napkin before folding it again.

"Oh cool!" Florence enthused with a smile as she sipped at her hot chocolate. "Perfect timing," she added. The band wasn't stupid; they knew releasing new material at strategic times in the year would boost sales. While she liked the band equally, it wasn't really her taste. Flo liked a mix of folk and jazz, something dreamy and ethereal with an offbeat tempo. It was difficult to find that sort of genre blend but Arkadiy had somehow managed to find just that. There was a band, Hawkwind, who played in a dimly lit club down one of the Parisian side streets. Florence adored them. The club was pretty empty so it felt like a private concert.

Kate? Florence wrinkled her nose in distaste. "You English always shorten names," she added with a very Gallic tut and shake of her long blonde tresses. Seeing his eyes wander, she rudely reached out and clicked her fingers in Charlie's face to get him to refocus. It seemed rude that they were chatting about his lover and yet he was looking elsewhere. Pfft. Men.

"Of course she'll like it," she said quickly. "It's very romantic," Florence added with a nod. She was biased, of course, but this city was ancient. It was vibrant and classy and exciting and stuffed full of fun things to do as well as  many a secluded alcove. "I shall write you a list," she said as she clapped her hands. She flipped over the back of one of the discarded paintings and began to write. She had no idea if Kate was anything like her but she began to jot down the places where she'd first shown her husband around. She knew that Paris wasn't a perfect fit for Arkasha, so she breached the subject of perhaps splitting the year; six months here, six months in Russia. She knew he missed his mother.

A shithole? What a fun phrase. "It is," Florence added with a solemn nod as she sipped at her drink. "I hate it. Everyone is rude. It rains a lot," she said with a grimace. "You should take your Catherine to see the Paris-Plage," she said with a bright smile. "They put up artificial beaches along the Seine in the summer. They have floating swimming pools and stuff. Not a shithole," she added with a swift nod.

"Sifflet," the artist replied to Charlie's comment as she struggled to find the correct English word. "They do, how do you say? Kitten call at the girls?" Florence asked with a frown. "They whistle. Sometimes touch but not all the time. The men here can sometimes be a little…" trailing off, she struggled with the English. "Shitty?" She settled on before she shrugged. "It might be nice to have the attention not on you for a change, non?"

“My aesthetic?” he repeated, smiling a little incredulously at her, not missing the insinuation. Charlie wasn’t just not proposing to Kate because he thought it might hurt his ‘look’, or that he thought he’d lose fans. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know when or if he ever would be. Besides, as far as he could tell Kate wasn’t ready either – she wasn’t hinting, anyway. Isn’t that what girls did when they were keen to get hitched? Drop hints at every opportunity? Mm, no. She was only nineteen; he had a few years up his sleeve before she would start getting itchy about marriage and settling down, which suited him just fine.

Charlie noticed Florence looking at him a little more intently and tried to ignore it. He was used to being ogled at, and that wasn’t his ego speaking – it was part and parcel of being a frontman - but that didn’t mean he liked it. Thankfully this was a different kind of stare, but it still unsettled him a little. He almost asked if she wanted to take a picture because it would last longer, but he thought better of it, purposefully focusing his gaze on his drink, finding the pattern made by the milk and coffee mixing incredibly interesting.

Out of the corner of his eye Charlie saw Florence drawing the attention of the waiter, it was only when the boy approached that Charlie lifted his gaze to look at the blonde across from him. “Thanks,” he offered quietly as the waiter retreated, feeling a little foolish that she’d felt the need to order for him. He was a grown man, but he didn’t often act like it. Perhaps that also played a large part in his reluctance to put a ring on it. In his head he was still a teenager.

“Mm, it should be good. We’re pretty happy with it, anyway...” he trailed off, reasonably sure that Florence wasn’t truly that interested. She didn’t seem like the type to listen to his music – she came across as the kind of person who didn’t want to listen to anything mainstream.  The minute a band became popular they were suddenly ‘too commercial’ and had sold out. Or, he could be wrong. She might be into Britney Spears for all he knew.

The Englishman didn’t miss her tone of disapproval. He bristled a little as she brought his attention back to her with a click of her fingers. “What?” He asked innocently, if a little offended, firmly believing in the mantra of ‘look but don’t touch’, except.. occasionally the latter didn’t apply either.

Charlie made a non-committal noise in response. Yes, Kate would like it. She probably would find it romantic. All girls loved the idea of Paris. Perhaps that was why he purposely had not invited her along for this little jaunt. He didn’t want her getting ideas. They’d only just started saying ‘I love you’ to each other, he didn’t need her thinking too far ahead. “A list?” he leant back in his chair, folding his arms, a smile tugging at his lips as she started scribbling, “Alright, then.”

It had been fine for Charlie to insult London, his adoptive home, but as Florence dismissed it he felt a little defensive. “It doesn’t rain all the time.“ He muttered under his breath. The waiter returned with his pastry. Charlie wasted no time in tucking in, listening as she gave him more suggestions for Kate. Still chewing as he replied, “Do I look like the beach is my idea of a good time?” Raising his brow at her.

“Oh...” he swallowed and grinned a little in recognition, finally understanding what she meant. With no hesitation he leant toward her, his lips curled and he let out a low wolf-whistle , just to see her reaction. Laughing as he reclined back again, “Yeah, no – that is shitty.” He agreed. He couldn’t recall ever seriously whistling at a woman for her attention, his mother would have clouted him around the ears if he had.

His face fell at her last words. “Excuse me?” He was offended by that. Did she think that he enjoyed all the attention? In all fairness, he did – to an extent. But he didn’t like to be told as much.

Florence flushed swiftly as she was called out on her comment. "I didn't mean ---" she stopped suddenly, realising she was on the verge of falling down a rabbit hole. She didn't know Charlie that well and if she mortally offended him, it was likely that he and his band wouldn't want to work with her again. "Nevermind," she mumbled as her blush deepened as she coughed.

"Wonderful," she said briskly with a wide smile. While she didn't really "get" his music, she could appreciate what a smart and creative person he was. She liked to surround herself with artistic types, which is why she'd fallen so hard and fast for Arkasha. He and Charlie were sort of similar in the fact that they were both tortured souls with deep emotions and the most delicate of touches. "I look forward to hearing it," she said truthfully. She wasn't, for one second, insinuating that the band would send their album for free. She'd simply meant that she'd hear it on the radio at some point.

Her pretty face darkened as she frowned. "You know exactly what," she added. She didn't want to tar all men with the same brush but she'd grown up with men like Charlie. They thought they were invincible and capable of juggling a dozen women at one time. Or they never blamed themselves. They blamed the alcohol or some other nonsense but never their lack of restraint. "I will box your ears," she told him sternly.

Ignoring his possible indiscretion, she carried on blithely with his list. "Babe, you need help," she told Charlie gently without looking up as her felt tipped pen made quick notes in a handwriting that looked as large and as scatty as she was. "Some museums have late openings here," she told him, writing down the names and the days they were open. "The Musée d'Orsay has one on Thursday nights which is nice. They let a small number of people in and you can get up close to the art. I think your Katherine might like it," she said proudly.

She'd ended up taking Arkadiy one Thursday night to show him one of her favourite paintings. It was called La nuit étoilée She liked the colours and the fact that she could see the brush strokes. She liked that the artist had captured the reflections of the gas lights on the water as it was new to the era it was painted. She was halfway through explaining this to her husband before they ended up making out in a darkened alcove and she forgot all about the post-impressionist movement.

"Je ne sais pas," Florence replied with a careless shrug of her shoulders. "But you should go," she said with a firm nod. "Go and find an artwork that reminds you of her and then show it to her."

The painted looked up, shocked. "It doesn't?" She asked, mild horror flicking across her face as though Charlie had just told her that Santa Claus didn't exist. She frowned, looking as though she was struggling to process the information. "It's always rained when I've been there," she added thoughtfully. Suddenly, she offered him a benign smile. "I don't know, do you?" She countered gently, still smiling. Who didn't like the beach? What a weirdo.

As Charlie leant across the table, she blinked then her eyes widened at the ear-splitting whistle he produced so rudely. Other diners looked in their direction and a busty older lady tutted at him darkly. "Funnily enough," she said eventually as she primly smoothed her napkin over her lap. "I still don't want to drop my knickers for you." With that, she promptly flung the hard remaining bit of her croissant at his forehead. "Il est un peigne-cul," she told the other diners, some of whom rolled their eyes, some laughed and the older lady gave her a sage nod of acknowledgement.

Again, it seemed like Charlie's frosty demeanour came as a bit of a shock. "I wasn't being rude," she told him as she plucked a small chunk of pastry off her chest and ate it swiftly. "I just meant that you're always in the spotlight so it might be nice to let Katherine shine. Not that I'm saying you don't," she added, holding up a finger in case he started crying or something. "My English," she said with a sympathetic smile. "Not great. We are getting our fuses in a tangle," she nodded. "You're easily offended." It was a statement, not an accusation. "Do you need a hug?"

Charlie was curious as to what exactly Florence’s excuse was going to be – he had the distinct impression that he knew exactly what she meant by that comment. Rather than push it, like he might normally for a bit of amusement, he sensed her discomfort and dropped it. This was technically a work meeting; he didn’t want to play too much with the boundaries of business and pleasure. He’d save the real toying for when the official stuff was all done and dusted.

“Mm,” he nodded, folding his arms on the table, “When we come to Paris, you should come to the show, with--” he paused, clearly having forgotten his name, “-- your husband.” He wet his lips slowly, “I’ll make sure there’s tickets for you, if you want to.” He figured if Florence wanted a free night out, she’d come. He wasn’t under any impression that she was a fan of the band, except for their pay checks. He’d just put her name on the door, probably with ‘plus friend’ to irritate Arnaud or whatever his name was. He smiled at the thought. If she didn’t come it was no big loss, but the more he thought about it Kate would probably like Florence. They were similar, in certain ways. Very different in others. Kate didn’t pick at his flaws quite so deftly.

Charlie tried not to grin at her threat and was only partially successful, looking at the blonde across from him with a funny smile on his lips. “I was just looking,” he countered, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back in his chair. His eyes quickly darted to the queue, where the object of his attention from a moment before was now waiting patiently to place her order, before glancing down at his coffee.

His attention was drawn to Kate’s list, leaning forward in his seat again to peer over the table and see what she was writing. “Museums?” he frowned, “I don’t know if Kate likes... art and stuff.” He flicked his gaze up to meet Florence’s, aware that ‘art and stuff’ was very important to her. “I’ll ask her.” He added quickly, almost sheepishly, hoping to salvage something.

He was telling the truth though, he didn’t know if Kate liked art. He knew she liked music, and she was starting to enjoy watching films with him. But he didn’t know a whole lot else. They tended to stay home a lot, her working while he played video games or watched movies. Except for the first couple of weeks where they’d played tourist. In the evenings she’d cook for them or they might go out for dinner. He didn’t even know her favourite colour, or if she had had any hobbies in school. They spent most of their time together in relative quiet or having sex. He wondered if Florence knew Alphonse’s favourite colour. Or if he knew hers. Was that even a thing? Did adults have favourite colours? Now that he thought about it, did he have a favourite colour?

He was brought out of his tangent by her last comment, “An artwork that..?” He looked at her puzzled. He felt like saying he’d written her several songs, wasn’t that enough? But bit his tongue and just nodded. Flo would never know if he didn’t do her weird French romantic shit.

“No, not always.” He repeated. “Sometimes it’s fucking hot.” Kate had thought London climate wasn’t ‘so bad’ when she’d first moved over. She’d been treated to some shitty days but also some scorching hot ones. However, as autumn had approached, and now that they were heading into winter, she’d steadily grown more miserable about the weather. Charlie could tell because she’d start talking about how great California was at this time of year. He knew she wasn’t complaining, but he felt guilty nonetheless. She’d uprooted her whole existence for him, and what had he done in return? He frowned at the Frenchwoman, “No, I don’t like the beach. Fucking sand everywhere.” He grumbled.

Charlie scowled at the woman who’d tutted at him, clearly she couldn’t take a joke, and turned back to face Florence. He rolled his eyes, “Shit,” he sighed dramatically, “That’s me afternoon ruined, s’the only reason I came to see you.” He grinned at her, too slow to dodge the flying bit of croissant as it hit him squarely in the forehead. “Ow!” he exclaimed quietly, out of surprise rather than any pain. He frowned, glaring at her as she said something in French and the people nearest them tittered and laughed. “What did you say?” he asked, glowering.

Florence was doing a poor job of appealing to Charlie’s better nature. He wasn’t actually mad at her, just a little disgruntled at being called out. The brunet decided to forgive her initial comment, but as she continued with her excuse he was beginning to change his mind. “I--” he started, stopping as she held up her finger, as if the very action itself had rendered him mute. He visibly bristled, “I am not easily offended.” Charlie’s frown deepened, “No, I don’t need a hug.” He pouted involuntarily at the last word. He hadn’t come here to be picked apart. Perhaps this was why he only saw Florence in small doses; it was detrimental to his ego.

Florence smiled politely. "I think he is a lot like you in that way," she told Charlie slowly and thoughtfully. "Deep down, I don't think Paris is his one true love." She could understand. The city and the people were far different from Arkasha's childhood and how he grew up. At the mention of tickets, she brightened up. "That's very kind! Merci beaucoup," she concluded. "I'll ask him." She'd never presume to tell her husband that she did or didn't want them to go. If he said no, she wouldn't force him. Besides, she'd doubt Charlie would know she was even there.

The tall blonde scowled. Charlie would fit right in in this city, she realised with alarm. Not all men were the same but rules on dating differed wildly in Continental Europe. If a man said he was "dating", then he was usually seeing two or three other people at the same time. She hadn't met his Catherine but she automatically felt both sorry for and protective of the other woman. A wandering eye was different from a wandering hand but it still smelled of betrayal.

"Art and stuff," the Parisienne parroted with wide eyes as though Charlie had mortally offended her. "What woman doesn't like art?" Florence asked, looking confused as she squinted at him. "Don't ask. Take," she told the taller man briskly. "A man with a plan is very attractive," she added sagely.

Florence smiled sympathetically as she reached over and squeezed Charlie's hand briefly. She'd done something similar with Arkadiy…before she got arrested. Her husband wasn't a painting to her, he was a statue, a sculpture. He was her David. He was her life's pinnacle; their wedding day was her greatest achievement and she'd never be able to better that moment in time. She didn't want to, either. She realised that she and the musician weren't on the same page but that didn't stop her from giving unwarranted advice.

The artist pulled a face. "Icky," she responded. She was very good at picking up the unusual words in English and even better at using them at the wrong time.

She boggled at him. Was he deliberately trying to be obtuse? "Tu es fou," Florence told him plainly with a shake of his head. "It's beautiful. The best time of the year. You can play volleyball and buy ice cream and paddle in the fountains," she said with a dreamy sigh. Summer seemed so far away from the here and now, it was upsetting. His comment about the sand made her blink. "That's what the showers are for," she told Charlie with a tilt of her head. There were some showers erected along the banks of the Seine, as well as mist stations that cooled people as they walked through them. "They're big enough for two. Problem solved, no?"

She scoffed and rolled her eyes at Charlie's crude behaviour, satisfied at the croissant bonked off his forehead. Florence didn't tell him that she wasn't wearing any underwear as that might be deemed inappropriate coffee conversation. "Oh," she said casually and with a laugh as she waved her hand conversationally. "I called you an ass-comb," she said innocently as she blinked her big blue eyes, confused as to why he might be upset. "A person who has nothing better to do that sit around and comb the hairs of their ass. Ass-comb. Do you understand?" Florence asked with a bright smile.

"Oh you're not," she said with a nod as she tried to placate him. Artists, generally, were sensitive people. Maybe he just wasn't used to someone being so honest with him. People like Charlie were great. They were creative and vivacious but they also had a tendency to be a bit self-destructive, which was why she was trying to keep him grounded.

"Oh oui, you do. Venez ici." Florence reached out her arms and gestured for Charlie to come closer. She waited for a minute before she sighed heavily. She got to her feet and walked around to his side of the table. With no concept of personal space, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as she stood next to him, pulling him into a sideways hug. She squeezed him tightly, placing her chin on the top of his head like she would a small child as he sat rigidly in his seat.

"You are soothed now, yes?" Florence asked Charlie, rubbing one of his forearms as though trying to keep him warm. "You're an artist. It's okay if you need a hug. It's normal. Nothing to be embarrassed about, silly sausage," she added with a shake of her head as she finally let him go. "Shall we go somewhere else?" Flo enquired. "The Tuileries Gardens are nice this time of year. And I can help you pick out a little present for your Catherine to take home with you. It's a great idea because I thought of it," she said proudly.

"I don't know, she probably does." Charlie shrugged. He supposed that it would be unusual for Kate to not like art. In fact, most of the women he knew had an appreciation for at least some form of artistry. Probably came with the territory of being a creative type.

His dark eyes widened slightly at her command, "Alright, alright, I'll take her -- keep your hair on." He waved his hand at her softly before resting it on the table, turning his attention to look out the window at passers-by in the street. As he felt cool fingers touch his Charlie snapped his attention back, raising his eyebrow and looking at their joined hands with an expression of mild confusion. It felt strange to have physical contact with someone other than Kate that wasn't... inappropriate (and therefore where not much thinking was involved). It was a caring gesture. Charlie flicked his gaze up to meet Florence's and drew his hand back, sliding it under the table and out of her reach.

The brunette frowned as he listened to her prattle on about how wonderful Paris was in summer. He didn't doubt that Florence was right, but he was thoroughly uninterested in the notion of playing volleyball -- he'd much rather be doing something else that got him hot and bothered if he was going to go to the effort of bringing Kate here. Charlie's ears pricked up as she made a suggestive comment about the shower capacity, however. He tried to hide his smirk by biting his lip, in effect probably just making it more obvious. "That something you're familiar with?" He teased.

"An ass-comb?" he repeated in his thick Yorkshire accent. His scowl deepening as he listened to Florence’s explanation. He leant back in his seat and glared darkly at the woman across the room who had tittered in approval, finding himself unable to direct his irritation at his companion.

Charlie was still disgruntled at being called out, but he softened slightly as she agreed with his denial. Maybe she hadn't meant it, but more than likely she had and was just trying to apologise in an indirect way. It frustrated him that she picked at him; most women he interacted with simply sang his praises, so he was unused to this dynamic. It was an unpleasant sensation, to be reminded that he had flaws. And boy, did he have some. Perversely, Charlie struggled to express himself. Up on stage he adopted a sort of act – someone who was and wasn’t him in equal measure. He could be dramatic and cocksure and not worry about the implications of any of it – it was all part of the performance. In close quarters, however, it was a different kettle of fish. He didn’t like letting his guard down, but Florence, and women like her, were very good at finding chinks in his armour and niggling away at them.

And then they expected him to not be offended.

Charlie remained staunchly in his seat, despite Florence gesturing him to her. He was not really the hugging type. Well, that was a lie. He was very much the hugging type -- but he was very specific about when and with whom. Here and with Florence did not meet his criteria. He liked physical touch, craved it, but only on his terms. The brunette just glared at her, making his position clear. He thought he was off the hook when her arms fell with a sigh, and he visibly relaxed – until she got up out of her chair. “Flo—“ His shoulders tensed and his lips pressed together in a hard line as she enveloped him in her arms. An audible grumble rose in his throat at this forced-love. The former Slytherin sat immobile – not rude enough to shirk her off, but also not willing to return this show of affection. “… I’m fine.” He replied quietly, both answering and avoiding her question. He was acutely aware of the looks they were attracting from other people in the café and as she finally let go he focused his gaze on the table, his cheeks flushing red as he frowned deeply; avoiding the inquisitive stares coming from all angles.

“Yeah, let’s go.” He replied quickly, standing up promptly – almost knocking his chair over in his haste. Charlie was keen to get out of here and away from the attention they had drawn to themselves. Or rather, Florence had. He made for the door and exited the shop, holding the door open politely for Florence to follow him out. “A present?” He sounded slightly surprised, as if the idea had never crossed his mind. “Sure, whatever. Lead the way.”

"My hair?" Florence asked, confused as her fingers went up to her pale golden locks. "Is it on," she told Charlie with a bemused frown. The English were so strange, she thought, with her accents and their inability show emotion. She didn't rise to the bait about the shower comment. Instead, she nodded, unashamed. "Oui," she replied candidly,  nodding again. "The showers there are larger than the one I have at home so we try to make every chance count."

As he repeated the insult, Florence smiled patiently at her employer before she nodded again. He was an ass-comb. He had some sort of deep rooted issues. A psychologist would charge perhaps a couple of hundred Euro per hour whereas she was offering her services for free.

"So prickly. Like a petit cactus," Florence tutted as she held Charlie tight and close. Unaware of the curious glances, she rocked him back and forth gently, singing a French lullaby softly in a surprisingly pleasant voice. Without warning, she dropped a chaste kiss on his forehead and stepped back as he tried to escape. Sighing heavily, she took out the stolen wallet and paid for their drinks, leaving a hefty tip before wrapping up the left over muffin in a napkin and slipping it into her pocket for later on.

"Thank you," she said with a bright smile as Charlie held the door open for her. An icy blast of Parisian air blew through her and she huddled down back into her coat, slipping on her fox mittens and fluffing out her hair. "You do not buy each other gifts for no reason?" Florence asked the older man, surprise clear on her face. She didn't realise that what she and Arkasha did might not be the norm. Whenever she travelled, she brought him something back; a lapel pin, a fridge magnet, a post card or a bottle of wine. Just something small to let him know that she was thinking about him. In return, he often gave her little trinkets on his travels and she cherished them all.

Paris was firmly in the midst of the festive season. There were lights hanging up, as well as those huge garish red bows on shop fronts that Florence absolutely adored. Paris was a shopper's paradise. Anything and everything a person could want was right in front of them. Christmas was always special. Understated and sophisticated perhaps but no less pleasant. There was an ice rink and a large carousel and sweets and happy songs; it was no surprise that she adored it.

It must have been a bit of a culture shock for her husband when he was thrown into this sort of sugary-sweet celebration but, as always, he handled it like a champ. And Florence was going to buy him another gift. Just because.

"There is some gorgeous knitwear in the markets," she told Charlie. "I assume you've bought your Catherine clothes before? What colour is her hair?" If she had dark hair, a nice pale grey would be nice. If she was blonde, pastel blue or pinks. Like a true Parisienne, Florence didn't wait to cross the roads when the lights were on red. Pausing, she saw a gap in the flow of cars and strode across the intersection to the sound of screeching tyres and blaring horns.

Florence spun around in the middle of traffic, her hands outstretched. "Hey!" She yelled, her pretty face darkening in anger as she proceeded to shriek a long line of colourful phrases at the driver. In shock, the man wound up his window and kept his eyes focused on the steering wheel as he skirted around her. "Toi idiot!" She called after him to his rapidly disappearing tail lights before offering him a middle finger salute in the process. Calmly, she stepped over the road and on to the other side safely with a dark tut and a shake of her head.

"Come on," she told Charlie with a wave of her hand as she took off down the road, taking a left and entering the garden. Huge and sprawling, the Tuileries were beautiful at any time of year. She lead him down a quiet part of the park, the path wide and surrounded by large trees, the wind stripping the branches of the last remaining leaves as they walked deeper into the park. She walked along the edge of the Seine, the gentle trundle of a tourist boat making waves in the murky waters before she turned her attention back to her friend.

"So," she said briskly. "Tell me more about her," she pressed Charlie. Around the pond they went, cutting across and around the large lit up Ferris wheel and around the lime green chairs that were there all year around. "Are you going to America for Christmas?" Florence asked, intrigued. "Or is she staying with you? I think you should get her a box of macarons," she added quickly. "Pink and purple ones. C'est parfait."

Charlie let the door close, huddling into his jacket and walking beside Florence down the street. He was sure to keep a safe distance should she try to hug him again, or link arms with him or some shit. ”No.” Charlie replied sharply, his grumbling mood at being touched against his will still lingering over him. He sighed, then added “No, we don’t.” a little more softly, aware that he was being somewhat rude. “We haven’t really... got there yet.”

They walked in silence for the briefest of moments before Florence felt the need to break it. “Er,” he started, momentarily caught off-guard by the questioning. Well, two questions. But even that felt like an interrogation to Charlie when it was about his girlfriend – especially when hardly anyone knew they were officially together, yet. “I haven’t, no. She’s got brown hair. Dark brown.” He paused. “Chocolatey.” Was the shade important? He didn’t know. It didn’t occur to him to ask why this information was relevant, other than for Florence to visualise what Catherine might look like—Kate. To Charlie, her name was Kate. Jesus Christ. If he went home and started calling her Catherine she’d think something was up. “She’s got brown eyes too— wait!”

Charlie watched Florence step out into the traffic as if it was in slow motion. He’d braced himself mentally to witness his friend be hit by the oncoming vehicle, but with a screech of rubber it swerved just in time to avoid her. “What the fuck are you doing?!” He called out at her, quickly checking it was safe to follow her into the road before jogging after her, waving an apologetic hand at the next oncoming car that let him cross.

The brunette caught up to her after a moment, just looking at her with an expression that was a near equal mixture of awe and anger. “You know they invented pedestrian crossings for a reason?” He shot at her, his heart still racing a little in his chest. Charlie’s dark eyes finally left Florence’s face, taking stock of their new surroundings. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was trying to turn this into a date. A nice romantic stroll through the gardens, along the river in Paris – it was very cliché, wasn’t it? Although really, doing anything in Paris could be misconstrued as romantic.

Charlie balked a little at her next question. He didn’t like talking about girlfriends. He wasn’t good at it. He felt like he always sold them short, because he was too awkward and insecure to openly admit what he really thought. He swallowed and wet his lips slowly to buy himself more time before answering. “She’s... erm. Well, she’s kind. Talkative. Funny.” He felt his cheeks flush at trying to describe Kate, and was thankful that with the cold wind he could blame that for their warmer colour. He felt like he couldn’t really do her justice with words alone. “You’d like her; she’s a lot nicer than me.” He finished with a wry grin.

“Um, yeah. We’re going to my parents first and then we’ll go to hers for the actual day.” He was dreading both equally. Charlie would feel a lot more comfortable in Sheffield, but it would be the first time he’d brought a girl home – so it was highly likely that his mum would have a mild stroke before proceeding to interrogate the poor girl. And Charlie, for that matter. San Diego was unappealing simply because Charlie was a real fish out of water. He didn’t blend in, and he still wasn’t sure how Antonio Duenas really felt about his daughter dating a man seven years her elder.

“I—macarons? Yeah, we can get some.” He said distractedly, still thinking about the upcoming hell awaiting him. “What about you?” He turned to look at the blonde beside him, “For Christmas? Where is your husband from again?” All Charlie could remember was that the man was not French. Malenkova suggested Russian or thereabouts, but the Englishman didn’t want to offend Florence by getting it wrong. He knew how touchy Europeans could be about borders.

Charlie's ire caught her completely unaware. Florence blinked at him in mild surprise at his reaction. A few people looked in their direction, horns still beeping as the traffic began to pick up the pace once more. Pedestrian crossings? "I don't know what they are," the tall blonde told Charlie honestly. Instead, she offered him a sunny smile. "I figured it'd stop," she said, gesturing to the cars. "And they did so it's not a big whale," she reminded him with a nod. The phrase she meant to use included the word "deal", not "whale" but it wasn't important.

"Did you think I was gonna die?" She asked him, eyes wide as she grinned. Swiftly, she bounced on the spot and clutched his forearms briefly. "I am flattered."

Kind, talkative, funny. Florence found herself nodding in approval. Charlie was so weird sometimes. He was a lyricist and yet, he couldn't seem to describe his one true love better? It sounded like Catherine was a nice juxtaposition. She smiled again and tilted her face up towards the heavy laden sky, stopping to catch a snowflake on the tip of her tongue. "A kick in the balls is nicer than you most of the time," she added innocently as her heels echoed on the well worn path. "She sounds darling. You are very lucky to have her."

The idea of spending Christmas in the sun was, to her, both exciting and unusual.  "Very busy," Florence told him with a nod. Things were easier with Arkadiy's family; he was going to hers for Christmas and she was going to his for New Year. "But exciting," she assured Charlie swiftly. "Her family are nice to you?" She asked, pressing for information in a way that made it seem friendly. Arkasha fit right into her family and there was never any ruffling of feathers, even after their quick wedding. Her mother liked his dirty sense of humour and her father seemed confident that Arkadiy would die for her. The fact placated Mr. Robineau but made Flo feel a bit sick.

"I know the perfect place!" She gushed as she lead Charlie through the park, past the frozen pond with the quacking ducks and around the green chairs that were set out all year round. She wasn't going to take him to the traditional places that served macarons. Though delicious, they were overpriced. She knew a family run business not too far, tucked away down a side street that would be perfect. "They're totally Parisian," she assured Charlie, chattering away. "And not too tacky, you know?" She smiled at him. "And they're thoughtful. You can make up a box of her favourite flavours and they can wrap them up for you. I'm really good at this," Florence replied with a toothy grin.

As the subject of her husband was breached, she lit up. "He's from Russia. Moscow," she told Charlie, as though it mattered but it mattered to her. "It is very cute," she mused, snowflakes catching in her blonde curls. "It is very different here for him. I sometimes worry that he might not be happy," she frowned, sighing a little. Florence knew that her husband missed him. He missed his family and his friends. Him going to France in the first place was a decision borne from necessity, not choice, but it didn't matter. His tangled love life lead him to her and that was all that mattered.

"I'm going over for New Year," she announced as they reached the exit of the park and back onto one of the many sprawling rain soaked streets. "They're having a party and I'm going to meet everyone. And his ex-girlfriends. I'm excited to introduce myself," Florence added with a grin as she thoughtfully touched her wedding ring. She wasn't jealous and she wasn't possessive but she liked showing Arkasha off.

"I like his granny," she said gently, this time pausing before she crossed the road in case Charlie started crying or something. "She taught me fourteen different swear words last time I saw her." Arkadiy's babushka was the type of woman everyone needed in their life. "I dunno," Florence sighed happily, a dippy little smile on her face. "I just really love him,  you know?" She asked him with a broad smile. Sometimes, the ferocity of her feelings for the Russian man spooked her. He could just be reading the newspaper at breakfast and she had the sudden urge to lean across, grab his face and scream at him just how much she adored him. So far, she had resisted.

"Oooh," Florence said, stopping suddenly, her hands against the windowpane of a very beautiful and expensive shop. In the window was a collection of fancy looking bottles. It seemed like a person could make a custom scent. "Would your Catherine like perfume?"

Charlie scowled, jerking his arms out of Florence’s grasp just as she let him go of her own accord. His frown intensified as she insulted him, softening only as the conversation was brought back to Kate. He agreed – he was lucky to have her, he often wondered what he offered Kate that even came close to what she offered him, but he didn’t know how to respond other than with a simple nod.

“Er, yeah.” For the most part. Fran was a piece of work, but Tony and his wife were both a lot nicer to him than he felt he deserved. Probably because they didn’t know what kind of man Charlie was – or rather, Tony had likely heard, but perhaps he was giving Charlie the benefit of the doubt. “Yeah, they are.” He said a little more firmly, his brow still lightly furrowed as he thought over the many ways Kate, and her family, were too good for him.

Charlie shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, his gaze drifting along with his attention as Florence prattled on about her macarons, “Mm.” He offered by way of reply, clearly not focused on the conversation or thrilled about trying to wade through what was bound to be endless flavours, guessing at what Kate might like best.

As Florence buoyed herself up with talk of her husband Charlie found himself wishing he hadn’t asked. “Sounds cold.” He replied succinctly, unsure what else he could add to the conversation about a man he’d never met, from a country he’d never been to. When Florence voiced her concerns that Arkasha might not be content in Paris Charlie found himself sympathising with the blonde despite himself – he frequently worried that Kate was unhappy in London. Perhaps he had more in common with the Frenchwoman than he had realised. “I’m sure he’s not—” he hesitated, “Who wouldn’t like Paris?” He deflected, hoping to distract Florence.

He looked away hurriedly, avoiding her gaze, but snapped his head back as she explained how much she was looking forward to meeting her husband’s exes. The brunette let out a short, sharp laugh, “Oh, so you’re one of those girls.” He teased, a little surprised. "Trouble."

Charlie checked the road before they stepped into it, paying a little more attention to Florence now that they were off less comfortable subjects. He allowed himself a grin as she described her grandmother-in-law. Charlie swore like a sailor in daily life, but any time he was around his Nan he was impeccably behaved – she was of the opinion that butter wouldn’t melt in her grandson’s mouth.

Charlie just looked at her, a mild expression of disgust on his face as if some unpleasant smell had wafted up his nostrils. “Sure.” He said in a dead tone. He was glad that Kate wasn’t this overbearingly in love – it was just too much. Although, in all honesty he didn’t know what Kate was like when he wasn’t around to hear her. For all he knew, she could be this bad, or worse. God he hoped not. It was embarrassing just looking at Florence froth at the mouth.

Charlie stopped a few steps after Florence, looking back at her over his shoulder before turning and coming up behind her to see what she was looking at. His eyes widened briefly as he locked onto the window display, “Erm. Yeah, she does — she’s got loads of it — but I don’t know what she likes.” He had a feeling he was going to be dragged into the very expensive looking shop regardless.

"Freezing," Florence told Charlie quickly, her pale eyes wide. She grimaced as though the biting cold was somehow threatening to creep over her. Unwittingly, she shuddered. "I thought I was going to die for a while." Though her tone was light, she honestly did think that she'd freeze to death, only to be discovered sometime later like an Ice Age woolly mammoth.

Detecting that her boss was softening a little, she managed to give him a small smile and what she hoped was a carefree shrug. "Not sure," she answered him truthfully. Paris was Florence's first love. She adored it. Growing up in the suburbs, she'd been close, within touching distance but moving closer had ignited some sort of spark deep inside of her being. It exploded in a cacophony of noise and colour. It fit her so well. Paris had never upset or disappointed her or left her lonely. It was littered with ex-boyfriends and broken promises but it didn't matter; Paris made it better.

As they walked, she began to panic, shoving her hands into her coat pockets to stop herself from fidgeting. She and Arkadiy had started a life together here. They could afford a bigger apartment with better heating but their neighbourhood was perfect. She could paint in the living room and he could smoke on the balcony as he worked on his poetry. She didn't understand why he might want to leave. Was Paris stifling him? Suffocating him? Was the way of life unsuitable here? Did he miss his family too much? Florence knew, even though it'd be a wretch to leave, she'd give it up for him if that was what he really wanted. Maybe they needed to have a conversation about it.

Realising she'd been deep in her thoughts, she looked up at Charlie and cocked her head. "I have no idea what you mean," Florence replied innocently as she offered him another smile. Trouble. No one had ever referred to her as that before, she liked it. Arkadiy wasn't a prize to be won but she wanted people to know that he was off the market. It wasn't often that she got possessive but if anyone made eyes at her husband, she'd punch them right on the nose.

She ignored Charlie's lack of enthusiasm as her eyes scanned the bottles. It looked like a very expensive and modern apothecary. Small vials, well dressed and attentive ladies in smart black suits with short skirts, faint and non-invasive music floating out of the door. This was Muggle perfumery and she was intrigued.

Incredulous, Florence shot Charlie a filthy look over her shoulder. "Do you not know anything about her?" She blurted out accidentally. "If you were my boyfriend, I'd throttle you," she said casually. So, Catherine had lots of perfume. Maybe she didn't need any more but Florence couldn't think of anything more personal than a custom made scent. "But what do you like?" She asked. "Apart from the  smell of beer and dive bars," she tacked on, unable to control herself.

"Oh hello," the witch said politely as a pretty young woman opened the door, her dark hair slicked back in a neat ponytail. The woman's smile widened as she took in Charlie's face and Florence hastily looped her arm through the crook of his elbow and stepped closer. It was a non-verbal warning shot that she'd fired and the other woman took a step back and let them in. There was a couple present and a few single men, opening vials and sniffing them, looking utterly perplexed.

Her actions were for Charlie's benefit. In the cafe, he'd shown he had wandering eyes and the last thing she needed was for him to have wandering hands, too. Anyway, they were here for his Catherine. The assistant spoke, her eyes trained on Charlie as she asked what they wanted. Florence felt herself roll her eyes at the audacity of that woman.

"A present," Florence addressed the brunette woman who finally gave her a cursory glance. "For me. It's our anniversary," she liked, laying it on thick in hopes of that other woman getting the hint and pissing off. "I think we'd like something light," she spoke, digging her nails into Charlie's forearm as she felt him trying to extract himself from her vice-like grip. Catherine, despite them not meeting, sounded light. Like jasmine or vanilla.

"Isn't that right, mon petit caneton?" She asked Charlie with a smile, her eyes wide in a silent sign for him to agree before the assistant tried to ask him out. It was her duty to keep him focused on his girlfriend. "Floral is good," she told the other woman, pointing to the other end of the shop as she left to grab some bottles with a sigh. In her absence, she turned to Charlie. "Stop fighting me," she hissed at him lowly. "And at least pretend you think I'm cute before she comes back and invites you out for a drink. I'm trying to do you a kindness," she reminded him. "Honestly," Florence scoffed. "Englishmen are so strange."