As the plane landed in Paris the butterflies in my stomach had multiplied by a billion and I was feeling terribly sick.

I looked out the airplane window as we approached the landing strip and braced myself for the inevitable bump when we hit the ground. I was sitting next to an older woman who was taking her 3 year old grand daughter to her mother in Paris. She was a talkative lady, and I found the distraction of listening to her life story quite comforting.

I was nervous. I was excited. All of a sudden I felt terribly shy to be with FP again. This time we would be alone together. I wondered if he had forgotten that I wasn’t as pretty as he first thought. I imagined myself walking towards him in the airport lounge, me wearing a terribly freaky grin and him backing off as he realised he had made a huge mistaken.

It had been a long day already. I had travelled from Edinburgh down to Glasgow in order to get a cheap Ryan Air flight from Prestwick to Beauvais. I had been battling the nerves and excitement all day long, in an attempt to appear confident and beautiful when I finally did arrive in Paris.

Thoughts had been running through my head. What would I do if he wasn’t waiting for me at the airport? What would I do if a whole week spent with him was too much? Would he get bored with me? Where did I go if we had an argument?

I calmed myself down by thinking rationally, by reassuring myself that we were already good friends; that we were becoming more than good friends, that I trusted him and that he had been looking forward to this reunion as much as I had.

‘Well, have a lovely stay with your boyfriend,’ the old lady next to me smiled. I had told her I was going to stay with my boyfriend, I didn’t know what to call FP yet, and I didn’t want to blurt out the whole story to this stranger.  ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, darling’ she said as she helped the little one out of her seatbelt, picked up her bags and waited to get off the plane.

I looked around me. I couldn’t believe I was here. I was one of the last people to disembark the plane, taking my time walking down the steps carefully in fear that I would trip and tumble down them (it wouldn’t have been the first time).

I sauntered towards the entrance of the passport control, noticing the building of Beauvais Airport and the people inside who were watching us from the full length windows. I wondered if FP was one of them.

I tried to look cool and sexy and as though I hadn’t noticed people were watching.

My suitcase appeared quickly, and I struggled to get it off the revolving counter in the baggage claim area. The place was busy, and I didn’t want to be the first person to walk out into the arrivals, for everyone to be staring at me, and me, searching everybody’s faces for that beautiful angel of mine.

I disappeared into a corner and took out a compact mirror. I ruffled my hair a little to give it more body, I applied and reapplied my lip gloss, checked my teeth for any traces of that tomato and tuna panini I’d eaten at Prestwick Airport, and watched as people walked by me and out into the arrivals area.

Taking a deep breath I stood up, smoothed down my carefully chosen mint green vest and mini denim skirt, checked the chicken fillets in my bra were still in place, and off I marched, confidently towards the doors.

I didn’t see him right away. I felt a surge of electric fear pumping through my body. I stood in front of a small crowd, people who were here for someone else, scanning for evidence of him.

Where is he?

*** 

And then, he appeared, walking out from the crowd. His face was smiling, his eyes were shining. He was wearing a cream jumper that gave him the softness of a boy but the sexiness of a man. He was cleanly shaven, and looked wonderful without the ex hanging on his arm.

I walked towards him, I couldn’t look away from him; he was so handsome; even more handsome than I could remember. He had allowed his hair to grow a little longer and his skin was a lovely soft caramel colour, which brought out the blue greyness of his eyes. His grin was wide and I could see the little dimples in his cheeks.

I was shaking. I was sweating. All of a sudden I was too hot and very, very nervous. My hands became clammy. Why had I worn tights in September? Had I forgotten that I was coming to France where the sun shines?

I slowly held up my arms as he approached me and he came into them. The crowd faded away and I was no longer aware of anything except the two of us. Putting his hand lightly under my chin he lifted my head and kissed me.

His lips were deliciously full. They were warm, soft and luscious. As soon as our lips met my heart melted, I was standing on tip-toe and my legs were shaking. I Felt like I had never been kissed before.

‘Salut, ma petite puce,’ he greeted me with a smile.

I smiled back up at him, hoping I looked as wonderful as I was feeling inside. ‘Salut, darling.’

FP took my suitcase from me and we turned and walked out of the building together. He was asking me how the trip had been; was I tired? Was I hungry? Did I want a drink?

God, I could do with a vodka, I thought to myself as we crossed the road, my legs still shaky, my cheeks burning with desire and nervousness at the same time.

I looked down at his right hand. I reached out and slipped mine in his.

It felt so right.

Looking back the signs were clear.  In all the months we had spent apart, FP and I were growing closer.  Our feelings were apparent in every word we said, every email we wrote and every conversation we had.

Several times FP had tried to show how much he cared for me.

“I never want to see you get hurt.  You’re a wonderful girl.  You deserve only the best,” he’d write to me.  My heart would skip a beat and the smile that only seemed to appear when we spoke crept slowly across my face.

Two days after FP’s birthday and the day I was ‘set free’ from an unfortunate relationship, FP and I spent the whole day talking to one another about everything and nothing at all.

There came a pause in the conversation.

“Princesse…”

“Yes?”

“Princesse…I’m in love with you.”

A pause.  

“I love you.” He repeated, his voice a little gravelly.

My heart skipped a beat, my palms grew clammy, my eyes filled with un-spilled tears, brimming, but not falling. 

Did he just say he loves me?

Seconds passed that felt like minutes.  Minutes passed that felt like hours.  I tried to hear the words he had said, over and over again in my head I repeated it.  Did he really say it?  Or was I simply dreaming?

If I had heard wrong, imagined that he said something that he hadn’t actually said, then I was about to make a huge fool out of myself.  But I was ready to take that chance.

I cleared my throat, slowly leaned forward and took a deep breath.

“I love you too.”

As though he had been expecting laughter, there was a shocked silence.  What did we say next?  We had just declared our love for one another, what do you say after that?

Breaking the growing silence I uttered softly, “Do you really love me?”

“Oui,” he replied, his own voice soft and shy now.  “Je t’aime Princesse.  Je t’aimais, je t’aime et je t’aimerais…”  The famous words to my favourite French song; I always loved you, I love you and I will always love you.

I blinked, releasing the tears to roll slowly down my cheeks.

This man loves you, I thought.  And I love him.  I love him!  I LOVE him!

All of a sudden joy filled my heart, my soul and my whole body.  There was a surge of electric excitement buzzing through me.  A million butterflies fluttered inside my tummy.

“FP, I’m coming to
France to see you!” I exclaimed.

“But I’m still in
Germany…”

“Oh yeah…”

“I’ll be back next week.  Come then!”

And so I did.