‘What kind of girlfriend would I be if I left your side for one minute this weekend? I want us to sleep together, bathe together, and go to the football together. But I have only one condition. And it’s this. That you leave your awful pyjamas at home.’
‘They’re silk,’ I protested.
‘I don’t care if they once belonged to Louis XIV. I like to feel your bare skin against me in bed. Clear?’
‘Yes, Inspector.’
The train was full of people heading to Paris for some early Christmas shopping and these included some boisterous football fans who spotted me in the international departure hall at St Pancras and struck up with a chorus of,
‘You left ‘cos you’re shit, You left ‘cos you’re shiiiit, Scott Manson, You left ‘cos you’re shit.’
Which wasn’t so bad, all things considered. I’ve heard a lot worse about myself than that. Besides, I was the one who was travelling to Gare du Nord with a beautiful blonde on my arm, even if she was a copper.
‘Does that bother you?’ she asked.
‘Nah.’
‘Good. Because these days I’m only empowered to arrest people who are on Twitter. Going after real thugs and criminals is no longer a proper and efficient use of police time.’
‘I can almost believe that.’
‘It’s true.’
On arrival we checked into our hotel and went straight out again to have some lunch. Even in Paris there are times when food has to come before anything, although that wasn’t quite the way Louise saw it.
‘Soupe à l’oignon is just the thing to have inside you before a match,’ I said. ‘Not to mention a cassoulet and a good bottle of Riesling.’
‘I can think of something else I’d like inside me,’ said Louise. ‘As soon as we’ve finished lunch I’d like you to take me back to the room and fuck the arse off me.’
And so after an excellent lunch we went back to the hotel; there was just time to fuck the arse off her before catching the Metro from Alma Marceau to Porte de St-Cloud.
I liked going to a football match on the Metro. No one recognised me and it was like being an ordinary fan again — even in Edinburgh I’d had a few smart remarks on the way down Leith Walk to Easter Road. The PSG fans in the Metro carriage certainly smelled real enough; it was like a bar in there. But they were well behaved and I saw no sign of the hooligan element that was supposed to exist at PSG and which, in 2006, had resulted in one fan being shot dead by the Paris police following a racist attack on a supporter of Hapoel Tel Aviv. Millwall might get off on the fact that no one likes them but it has to be said that no one dislikes them enough to shoot them dead. Not yet, anyway.
Outside the Parc des Princes there were more cops on the streets than there were lovers’ padlocks on the Pont des Arts. They looked like they meant business, too. Most of them were armed and dressed for a riot which seemed less than likely: it wasn’t Nice but Marseille — currently topping Ligue 1 — who were PSG’s most bitter rivals.
‘They’re not taking any chances,’ said Louise, ‘are they?’
‘Every time I come to Paris it seems there are more coppers than there were before. I think if you’re looking for a job in France the gendarmerie is probably the best place to start. It seems the French government doesn’t trust the people.’
‘Can you blame them?’ It was just like Louise to speak up for another country’s police force. ‘Between 1789 and 1871 they had five revolutions in this city. Sometimes it seems that there’s a demonstration every other weekend. The French are an obstreperous lot.’
‘In an English-speaking world there’s a lot to feel obstreperous about. I admire their determination to hold on to what makes them French. We could do with a bit more of that in England. Maybe learn a lesson from the Scots. Have a referendum about whether we want to kick them out of Great Britain. Something like that.’
‘Have you thought about joining UKIP?’ she said.
Olympique Gymnaste Club Nice Côte d’Azur was eleventh out of twenty in Ligue 1, and Paris Saint-Germain was second. Nice, founded in 1904, was the older club by seven decades and doing rather better than the fire sale of players in the summer might have led us to expect. Paris had not lost a football match since the beginning of the season and while I’d come to France looking forward to seeing Thiago Silva, David Luiz and Zlatan Ibrahimovic in action for PSG, it was the Parisian number nine, Jérôme Dumas, who impressed me the most. He was as quick as greased lightning and just as unpredictable, with a left foot that was as sweet as any I’d seen; the player he reminded me of most was Lionel Messi. It seemed strange that there was a rumour he was for sale. He was full of running and might have scored had there been more of an understanding between him and Edinson Cavani, nicknamed ‘the matador’ on account of his flamboyant style on the pitch. Zlatan might have scored the only goal — from a penalty — but the Parisians did not convince and, after the goal in the seventeenth minute, unaccountably PSG took their foot off the gas which left the initiative with the Niçois, who looked unlucky not to come away with a point.
We went back to the Plaza and had a quick shower before going out for dinner.
The following morning I left Louise in bed and went down to breakfast with Gerard Danton, who was one of the directors at OSG Nice. He was a handsome, well-dressed man in his forties and I was glad I’d decided to take Louise’s advice and wear a blue blazer, a shirt and a new tie from Charvet that she had bought me the day before. We spoke in French. It’s a language I love to speak although my Spanish and German are better.
‘This is a nice hotel,’ said Danton. ‘I’ve not stayed here myself. I usually stay at the Meurice. But I think I prefer this.’
‘My girlfriend would probably agree with you. And of course it’s very handy for the Metro.’
He frowned, as if he didn’t quite understand why someone staying at the Plaza could think the Metro to be at all important.
‘I took the Metro to the match,’ I added.
‘You took the Metro to Parc des Princes?’ He sounded surprised as if he’d never considered doing this himself.
‘Quicker than the car. It took me no time at all. Besides, I like going to a match on the Metro. In London I can’t do it. Not for the present, anyway. I’d get too much stick.’
He glanced out of the window into the hotel courtyard. ‘What’s that they’re building out there?’
‘It appears to be an ice rink.’
Danton shivered. ‘Paris is too cold for me,’ he said. ‘I prefer the south. I take it you’ve been to Nice.’
‘Many times. I love the Riviera. Especially Nice. It’s the only part of the Côte d’Azur that feels like a proper city.’
‘With all the problems that brings.’
‘Not all. You’ve got the nicest climate in Europe. Spain and Italy are too hot. Nice is Goldilocks. Just right.’
‘Tell me. Why on earth did you leave City? You were doing so well there.’
‘I loved the club, it’s true and I miss it more and more. I suppose I was an idealist. You might say I believed in a certain style of football. And perhaps I was not pragmatic enough.’
‘That’s a very diplomatic answer.’
‘I’m afraid it’s the only one you’re going to get. Really, it’s best I don’t say any more. Since Tony Blair and George Bush diplomacy has a habit of sounding like a lie.’
‘Very well. What did you think of our football?’
‘The first half an hour was difficult for you. They wouldn’t have got that penalty anywhere but the Parc des Princes. But Grégoire Puel organised his players very well and you endured the storm, which was mercifully brief. Frankly, they allowed you back into the game when they should have closed it down. If you play with the same intensity you showed in the second half you’ve a good season ahead of you, Mr Danton. Given that you were missing some key players I thought you made a very good game of it. They were lucky to get three points.’