Baker Boy ~ T.N

Chapter One

Martha Phillips moved to France on the first day of summer when the burning golden sun hung high in the sky, casting dancing shadows on the cobblestone streets of Paris.

She was to spend the next twelve months in the city of love, as part of her study abroad programme — with an internship at one of Paris' renowned art galleries.

Martha was currently studying History of Art at Oxford University and jumped at the chance to study in one of the cities that was top on her bucket list. When she landed at Charles de Gaulle airport, the reality hit her, along with the humidity of the air. She couldn't contain her excitement for what the next three hundred and sixty-five days had to offer as she slipped into the back of a taxi and headed for the city.

When she arrived at the apartment building she'd be living in for the next year, she sighed with discontentment. Of course she'd be staying on the very top floor, and of course the bloody lift would be under maintenance.

Hauling her herself and her two suitcases up the several flights of stairs, she took a minute to regain her breath and stop her chest from heaving so heavily, once she'd reached the top. The only sound filling the hallway of her apartment floor, was in fact her heaving breathing.

God she was so unfit. She thought to herself, she contemplated taking up running or some other form of exercise if she was to do this every single day.

Twisting the key in the lock, she pushed the door open with her back, pulling the suitcases with her. The door clicked shut behind her and she set her belongings aside and placed the keys in the dish on the sideboard to the left of the door.

She took a deep breath and, this time, exhaled a content sigh. She'd made it.

Martha shuck off her cardigan and neatly folded it over the chair in the kitchenette to the right of the main room. It was a small nook in the apartment, which lead out to the seating area; company to an average size grey sofa, with a blanket strewn across the arm, and coffee table which was situated opposite a tall ceramic fireplace, scattered with a few French fashion magazines. A brass rimmed mirror hung above it and a small TV sat on a separate wooden stand in the corner.

Cosy and just the way she liked it.

She was still stood in the kitchen area, taking in every surface, every nook and cranny of the place she'd be calling home for the foreseeable.

She took slow strides around the kitchenette, her fingers mindlessly running across the counter tops as she took it all in. The whitewash walls and the gold embellishments. Slowly she made her way to the balcony opposite the front door and she gasped as she saw the view from her window.

The Arc de Triomphe, stood proudly in the distance, she opened the double French doors and stepped onto the balcony. Leaning her forearms against the grey iron barrier and clasped her hands in front of her, she took in the hustle and bustle of the Paris skyline.

She took the time to drink it all in. The way children danced in the street and the way couples looked at each other with pure adoration. The beeping of a car horn from a frustrated taxi driver and the angry foreign semantics of an even more frustrated cyclist — who has no doubt, almost been knocked off their bike by said frustrated taxi driver.

Lunatics, the lot of them.

Taxi drivers that is. It was the same in London.

She laughed to herself and shook her head. What a crazy city she'd landed in. The next twelve months was going to be an adventure, that's for sure. Hopefully one she'd have the best memories of, so she could cherish them forever. Stories she could tell her future grandchildren, stories on how she fell in love in the city of love.