Jonathan Danvers, a thirty-eight-year-old financial services professional and father of a two-year old daughter, was about to embark on the most important professional opportunity of his already glittering career. It was the last year of the century, the second millenium AD, and as Y2K director for a London investment bank, his job was to check other banks' computer system readiness for the transition from 1999 to 2000 (the 'Millenium Bug', as they called it). And no matter how high and mighty these banks were, Jonathan wielded power. Just the day before, he had 'outed' the Bank of England as not Y2K ready. He felt he could walk on water.
So, on the thirtieth of September 1999, he travelled to Paris as part of a credit advisory committee, comprising the great and good of world banking, due to assemble in the headquarters of a major French bank just outside the city, in the Chateau De La Putain, an ornate mansion that once belonged to Marie-Antoinette. Leaving his London flat at 3am and driving through largely deserted streets to London City Airport, Jonathan took a small plane at 5am and arrived in Paris Charles de Gaulle airport just after 7am, getting to the chateau by taxi just after 8am.
A trip from London to Paris in such a few hours felt strange, but his excitement at the tension of the meeting soon dulled that thought. Being part of this gathering was such a massive opportunity for him to impress the assembled movers and shakers of the financial world. And Jonathan did impress, comporting himself very well, concentrating with every fibre of his being, so that by the end of the day, he was exhausted, physically and mentally. Jonathan almost slept as a taxi took him to his hotel, the Crowne Plaza on the Place de la Republique, and once in his room, flopped on the bed, unsuccessfully trying to sleep. But too fired up by the day's events to sleep, an hour later he rose, and stepping outside the hotel's front door, looked into the distance, where a beautiful minareted building lay illuminated on a hill. Somehow, he felt drawn to it.
"That place," he asked the doorman, feeling slightly lightheaded. "A museum?
"The Sacre Coeur Basilica in Montmartre," the doorman smiled.
"I must go."
"Of course," the doorman said, giving Jonathan a quizzical look. "I will find a taxi."
As the doorman spoke, Jonathan failed to notice a woman of timeless beauty, wearing a broad brimmed hat, staring at him from the open window of a massive limousine.
After a short ride, Jonathan alighted by the Sacre Coeur, then walked through narrow streets to find himself in the Place du Tertre, a restaurant lined square at the top of the hill, bustling with portrait artists, all touting for business. Declining offers to sketch him, Jonathan sat outside a restaurant, ordered a glass of wine, and chatted to the waiter, Yvon. The two quickly became friends and were laughing together when a strange group of women, perhaps a hen party, Jonathan thought, came carousing into the square. They sat down close by, and he regarded them.
The first was a blonde and pigtailed girl dressed in a German Dirndl, with white stockings and traditional ankle strapped round toed shoes. Next to her sat a startling redhead with the fullest of ruby lips and darkly shaded black eye shadow, eyebrows applied in the fashion of a cat. Her slim hips were covered by the tightest of leather shorts that rode half-way up her pretty buttocks, seamed fishnet tights encased her legs (to die for, thought Jonathan), ending with spiked ankle length boots, and her torso covered by a leather jacket and white zip-up singlet stretched taught against pert breasts. She also wore a leather peaked cap, set at a jaunty angle (German World War Two U-Boat commander, Jonathan thought with a grin).
After that, a divine blonde, an Aryan beauty of unparalleled icy elegance, with close-fitting black satin cocktail dress covering a sublimely proportioned figure, the fabric stretching as best it could across the fullest of breasts, narrow waist, and alluringly curved hips. Her shapely legs were encased by what Jonathan felt sure were fully fashioned seamed nylons, judging by the slightest of wrinkles behind her exquisite knees, and all this was finished off with high black stilettos, which he'd noticed she tottered delightfully on when entering the cobbled square. To explain who she was, this Teutonic vision sported a sash that simply stated "Hier kommt die Braut".
Jonathan turned his gaze away, as the girls, giggling loudly, ordered drinks and a shared plate of cheese and pâté from Yvon. A few moments later, when the wine and food arrived, the girls, who had been raucous throughout, swigged deeply from their glasses, then turned towards Jonathan and pelted him with bread rolls. He laughed, shielding his face, but they kept throwing.
"They like you," whispered Yvon. "Let me introduce you."
"Oh," yawned Jonathan, as another bread roll hit his head. "I'm completely knackered mate. I couldn't do anything for them tonight."
"You don't have to," sniggered Yvon. "They're German."
Jonathan laughed again, and the girls, presumably realising nothing was doing, stood, put some notes on the table, then caroused off into the night. A few minutes later, Jonathan was about to pay and leave, when he heard words from behind, a sultry, feminine voice.
"May I join you?"
"Er.. yes," stammered Jonathan, as a middle-aged woman wearing a broad brimmed hat, features (he thought, appraising quickly), slightly beyond the cusp of her beauty but still able to stir a man's senses, and also blonde in the manner of the bride, sat beside him. She clicked her fingers at Yvon, a woman entirely in control Jonathan thought, as she ordered a glass of champagne. Yvon scuttled at her command, the finger click giving Jonathan an involuntary shudder.
"Hello young man. I am Gisele, and you?"
