I didn’t stop to think much, pulling my case across town from the station. I can hear the roar of traffic at a distance, the honking of car horns-but even that seems muffled, like it wouldn’t dare intrude on this elegant, hushed world. The only real sound comes from a scurry of dead ivy across the cobblestones. I look back down the street behind me: not another person in sight. And the streets that I walked through with the neon signs, the blaring music, the all-night food, the crowds spilling out of bars, the queues for clubs. I think of the area around that huge cathedral lit up on the hill, the Sacré-Coeur, which I passed beneath only twenty minutes ago: throngs of tourists out taking selfies and dodgy-looking guys in puffer jackets sharking between them, ready to nick a wallet or two. In fact, it’s so quiet and dark here that it’s hard to imagine it’s part of the same city I’ve trundled across this evening from Gare du Nord: all the bright lights and crowds, people spilling in and out of restaurants and bars. The clang of it bounces off the cobblestones, so much louder than expected in the silence. I lift up the knocker, cold and heavy in my hand, let it drop. These security measures feel kind of at odds with the elegance of the building.Ī strange feeling, knowing they can see me but I can’t see them properly.

And all along the high wall either side of the gate are embedded shards of glass. Along the top of the gate, I notice, is a bristle of anti-climb spikes. The metal gate in front of me has a brass lion’s head knocker: the fat metal ring held between snarling teeth. I know journalists probably earn more than bartenders, but not by this much. I suppose it only makes sense that he’s charmed his way into a place like this. But then Ben’s always managed to fall on his feet. He said a mate helped sort him out with it, someone he knew from his student days. I still can’t quite believe this swanky apartment building is where Ben’s been living. If I crane my neck I can see what might be a roof garden on the top, the spiky shapes of the trees and shrubs black cut-outs against the night sky. A big sprawl of ivy growing all over the front of it which looks like a creeping dark stain. Five or six stories, huge windows, all with wrought-iron balconies. It’s set back from the road behind a big gate with a high wall on either side, concealing what must be some sort of garden or courtyard. The others on this street are beautiful, but this one knocks spots off them all.

The paris apartment foley