"I've been thinking," I suddenly blurt out one morning over breakfast. Hugo lowers his newspaper and stares at me from behind his hipster glasses. Setting my coffee mug down, I casually shrug my shoulder and announce, "I'm going to move to Paris."

While Hugo considers my words, I can't help but be proud of the fact that I'd made such a huge decision by myself. My entire life has been spent going along with what others wanted for me or being guilt-tripped about wanting what I want but since leaving Adam, I've felt far more in control and capable of making my own choices. That's the beauty of being with Hugo; he's never pushed me to choose and has been quite happy for me to do my own thing, although I secretly know that he's wanted me to move to Paris for a while. Not that I'm moving for him. I'm moving for me. 

"Ok," Hugo finally says before lifting his newspaper and going back to reading a lengthy article about some minor French celebrity that's been caught in a sex scandal with some junior minister in the government. "Where will you live?"

I grin. "Well, that's why I'm telling you," I happily continue with my news. "You know I'm clueless about Paris, so I will need your help in finding a flat-"

"Appartement," he corrects me. 

"Yes, you're right, I should learn the lingo before embarrassing myself in an estate agent's," I say, gnawing on my lower lip. I tilt my head to the left as I try to recall if I've ever been taught the French for 'estate agent.' It doesn't ring a bell. "Un agent... estate? Anyway, as I was saying, I don't know where to start. Is there a particular arrondissement I should be looking at? How does a Parisian choose where they want to live? I mean, in New York, we had to be close to Adam's work, then in London, we had to be close to an underground station so that Adam could commute to the office but now I don't have that worry, I don't know what I should be taking into consideration. I like museums and galleries, should I find somewhere close to those types of things?"

I was, apparently, very much mistaken. In Paris, choosing your location should not be based on work or public transport or hobbies. In fact, Hugo was making it sound like an art that needed to be perfected. Basically,  you should choose your arrondissement based on three things: budget, period versus modern, including size, and your personality type. The inner circle of Paris, which includes arrondissements one to nine, had the most expensive districts. The eighth, sixteenth and seventeenth weren't cheap, either, thanks to the pull factors for families. The eastern parts of Paris were cheaper but mainly filled with students. 

Larger flats tend to be in the west, in the eighth and sixteenth but you do often run the risk of stumbling upon beautifully tempting period flats which are badly soundproofed and have tiny kitchens. 

To make the flat hunt slightly more complicated was the idea of Parisian Quartiers, the more historic neighbourhoods of Paris. If I wanted vintage shops, beautiful cafés and art galleries, La Marais was definitely worth a look. The Latin Quarter has a lively atmosphere but due to the Sorbonne being close by, it was filled with students. That said, they have a medieval garden there, so it's possibly worth a look. Hugo told me to avoid Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Prés. 

"Extortionate," he muttered. "But I think up here is probably the best place to look. Pigalle and Montmartre. Pigalle has clubs, bars, cabarets. Yes, in fact, I have the perfect solution in mind. You could move in with me."

I shook my head and scrunch my nose as I looked around Hugo's flat. "No offence but this place is just a tad too-" I pause as I try to search for the right word. "Small. Your place is a shoebox, which is ironic because, with my shoe collection, a giant shoebox is exactly what I need. Plus, you know, I'm going to want children in the future and I'm not going to end up doing what Charlotte did- move while heavily pregnant. I want my family home before I have a family to home."

"Oh," Hugo said, forming an 'o' with his mouth. He folded the newspaper and set it aside, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table. Not once did he take his eyes off mine. "Just to be clear, who, exactly, will be the father of your children?"

I shrug. "I've yet to decide. So, are you coming house hunting or not?"

I learnt, not long after Hugo and I both dressed and left his flat, an estate agent in French is un agent immobilier. We went to one of the more exclusive ones, as recommended to me by Delphine, and I was promptly shown the very best that Paris had to offer. Both my top options were in the 16th district, one a four bedroom appartement while the second property was a four bedroom maison de ville (townhouse) on a private road. Despite not being able to visit the properties today, I made an appointment to see them later on in the week, freeing up mine and Hugo's afternoon to do whatever it is we wanted to do.  

"I have an idea," Hugo winked. 

On our way back, Hugo had us stop in a shop to buy some ice cream, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, strawberries and champagne. The ice cream and strawberries were to eat, the champagne to drink, but the whipped cream and chocolate sauce was for dessert, also known as getting naked, slathering each other in cream and sauce and then licking it off, head to toes, if necessary. 

It was all too tempting and I couldn't help but go giggly at the thought of it. The second we arrived back at Hugo's building, I was all over him, pressing myself against him as we rode up in the lift, tongues tangling. By the time the old, rickety lift door opened, half of the buttons on Hugo's shirt were undone and my blouse was hanging open, showing the lace bralet I wore. Stumbling towards his door, I failed to notice our audience until a woman cleared her throat and said, "Allo."

Hugo sprung away from me, his cheeks blushing a furious shade of red as he stared, wide-eyed, at the woman behind me. All I could think of, please don't let it be one of his former flames. Thankfully, when I finally found the courage to spin around, I was greeted by the very amused smile of Simone Rousseau, Hugo's mother. 

"Bonjour," Simone said, her eyes moving between myself and her son. I couldn't help but be intimidated by Simone, a former model from the sixties and seventies who hadn't lost any of the qualities that had made her famous. Her once-blonde hair was now grey but the vivid blue of her eyes is ever-present. Simone was tall and slender and was immaculately dressed, favouring a crisp white shirt and black pants cropped to the ankles, paired with ballet pumps. A Kelly bag hung from her wrist. Her accent was anglicised, her voice husky from the countless cigarettes she smoked, past and present. "Am I interrupting?"

Hugo bashfully shook his head. "No, maman."

"Good," Simon grinned. She stepped forward and levelled her gaze on Hugo. "Hugo, I need you to leave. I would like to speak with Emma. Alone."

I silently prayed that Hugo wouldn't give into his mother. I've known Simone all my life, thanks to her friendship with my mother, but to say I was her least favourite Clément girl would be an understatement. She never got over the fact that Hugo didn't marry Sophie or pursued Charlotte a little more in his teenage years. I always felt like she looked down on me, like I was perpetually a child in her eyes, never worthy of being with her precious son. From the way she observed me now, not a lot has changed. 

Hugo left. He handed me the grocery bag and the keys to his flat, pausing only to whisper, "I'm sorry," in my ear. In return, I said, "I'll make you regret this later on." He was in no doubt what I'd meant by those words. Oh, he'll be really bloody sorry. 

I placed the key in the lock and twisted, walking into the flat and scouring the place of anything that I didn't want Simone to see. Were there any dirty dishes in the sink? Was any of my underwear lying around? Had Hugo cleared up the empty condom wrappers? Deciding that Simone was going to think the worst of me whether there were incriminating things around or not, I walked to the kitchen and started to put the groceries away. 

"Celebrating?" Simon asked when she saw the bottle of champagne in my hand. I shook my head. "Oh. Why are you buying champagne if you're not celebrating?"

I shrugged my shoulder. "Why not?" I finished putting everything away and moved to busy myself, pulling out two mugs and placing them near the kettle. "Tea?"

"How English," Simone muttered. I didn't need to turn around to know that her nose was scrunched up in disgust. "I'll have coffee. Although, I'd appreciate it if you would stop fussing around and sit with me so we can talk."

Simone was waiting and I knew that she wouldn't drop whatever it is she wants to talk to me about. Leaving the kitchen, I went to join Hugo's mother in the living area, wincing slightly when I notice that she's sitting on a part of the couch where Hugo and I had had sex last night. Knowing that it was better not to mention that to her, I sit opposite and wait for her to speak. 

First, she quizzed me about my divorce. Had it gone through yet? Was Adam finally out of my life? What had my conservative family said about the whole thing? What part had Hugo played in it all? Were we happy together? 

I answered as best as I could, telling her that yes, I was divorced. Adam was out of my life, permanently. My family just wanted me to be happy. Hugo had nothing, essentially, to do with the divorce. And as far as I was concerned, Hugo made me the happiest woman in the world; I assumed that I make him happy, too, since he was asking me to move in with him this morning. 

"Move in?" Simone scoffed. She shook her head and I readied myself for a lecture about how I wasn't good enough for him. Instead, what she said next shocked me. "He shouldn't be asking you to move in. He should be asking you to marry him. That boy! Finally finds a woman who is too far out of his league and doesn't tie her down immediately. 

My mind wanted to scream, "Technically, he has tied me down. Numerous times." Knowing that it was wholly inappropriate to say to my boyfriend's mother, I choose, instead, to say, "Oh, okay."

"Emma, you and I have known each other for a very long time," Simone said, shifting forward in her seat so that she was now perched at the edge. "I feel like I can be honest with you. You know that I am protective of Hugo and I wouldn't see him with anyone who I didn't deserve him but I have seen a change in him since you and he began to date. He doesn't go out, partying, anymore. He doesn't drink half as much as he used to. And he's stopped smoking. He's different, in a good way. It's as if he wants to be a better man for you."

I laugh. "I liked him just as he was. Well, not the smoking bit," I admit, apprehensive of insulting Simone's thirty-a-day habit. She nodded in understanding. "He doesn't need to be a better man because he's already the best. To me, anyhow."

"As a mother, that's all I need to know," Simone tell me. She stands and holds her arms out. Awkwardly, I stand and step into the hug she offers. After a short embrace, she pulls away and nods towards the fridge. "I know my son, Emma. Ice cream, whipped cream, chocolate sauce and champagne... he's got something planned, I just know it."