Mr & Mrs Smith

There’s a pleasant buzz in the Leisure Select carriage, and happy chatter floats above the reassuring whoosh of our high-speed Eurostar train. Reassuring because it means we are ever-nearer to our romantic-weekend destination: Paris. A family across the aisle plays Pass the Pigs, a game that involves throwing miniature plastic hogs and scoring points on their landing position. ‘Maman, was that a Leaning Jowler or a Snouter? Can you get a Piggyback?’ Mr Smith and I exchange eye-rolling glances.

Further down the carriage, a glamorous couple in their fifties are locked in an embrace. Snogging, actually. Her hand is slipping inside his shirt. They’re not even French. Mr Smith and I exchange more glances; but this time, excited by the prospect of two nights of us-time at a sexy boutique hotel, we find our fingers creeping towards each other across the fold-out table to meet by the laptop sockets and snazzy light.

Our train is rerouted due to heavy rain, and it’s past midnight by the time we arrive, so our plans to find a cosy Parisian café for a nightcap are scuppered. But our spirits are undampened, and we’re soon heading across Paris by taxi, bound for Saint-Germain and our petite pied-à-terre, Le Placide. Mr Smith has already cracked a few jokes about its location on the Rive Gauche (‘Oh gosh, how gauche!’), but as it turns out, there’s nothing gauche about this hotel.

Le Placide’s night porter Bernard is charming and friendly, springing up from behind the polished reception desk with its perfect miniature planter of grass and snowdrops, and wasting no time with boring formalities before taking us to our room. We’re ushered into a teeny tiny lift for two that requires us to stand nose to nose, making us giggle like naughty schoolchildren hiding in a cupboard. Incredibly, Bernard has beaten us there, up the winding emerald-green staircase (tackled three steps at a time, reckons Mr Smith), and unlocks the door, the key fob jangling with pretty ribbons and etched-glass beads.

Our eyes light up as soon as we cross the threshold, ping-ponging from Cole & Son forest-print wallpaper to minimalist white leather headboard and elegant mirrored wardrobes. You'll have to excuse us for employing such a hackneyed description, but this Paris hotel surely beats the competition into submission in the 'small but perfectly formed' category. Discovering its bijou charms amid Paris' stiffly grand establishments is akin to finding a fresh and bright spring pea among so many stodgy sauté potatoes. Here, a gleaming canvas of white is enlivened by splashes of vivid colour, Perspex and chrome furniture, and warm walnut veneers.

Any vestiges of tiredness evaporate instantly as we knock into each other in our attempts to discover all the room’s treasures. There are vintage postcards of 60s French film stars trapped brightly under the glass desktop; design details delight at every turn. Mr Smith is oohing over the iPod dock, flatscreen TV and Philippe Starck furniture, while I’m cooing over the range of coathangers, clever room layout and thoughtful welcome gifts, including a shoe bag (which I plan to fill with something new and chic), divine-smelling bubble bath (which I intend to use in the massive rectangular bath tub) and tiny cake stand stacked with chocolates (which I try to polish off before Mr Smith gets a look-in).

The phone rings, making us jump out of our skins; who’d be calling at such a late hour? It’s Bernard, asking if we would like a bottle of champagne to ease the disappointment of our late train? Well, oui, Bernard, we would. We pop open our duly delivered bottle of perfectly chilled Pommery, demolish the (remaining) chocolates and retire to our super-comfy bed. We have fallen in love again – with Le Placide, at least.

In the morning, it’s tempting to lounge around in bed all day, but Paris awaits, so we head downstairs for our oh-so-Continental breakfast. A beautiful display of freshly baked mini pastries, fruit, breads, confitures, cheese and charcuterie is spread alongside the window – such is its glory that passers-by pause to press their noses against the glass, looking crestfallen when they realise this isn’t a café or patisserie. Which makes us feel nicely smug while we dunk heart-shaped sugar cubes into our café crèmes.

This being Paris, there’s a wonderland of weekending delights to partake in, and we are just a few minutes’ walk from Saint-Placide metro station. We kick off with an exhibition of Philippe Starck design and a little Rothko gazing at the Pompidou Centre, followed by lunch and boutique browsing in the trendy Marais district. There were more things on our to-do list, but I hit a sale-shopping winning streak that lasts into early evening, picking up an amazing Vanessa Bruno bag, an Oakwood leather jacket and an Erotokritos dress. Mr Smith picks up the tab, which makes the shopping all the more pleasurable.

We haven’t booked anywhere for dinner and it’s already gone seven, so we race back to the hotel to ditch our haul and freshen up. The indefatigable Bernard is there to greet us, and manages to score a late table for us at Guy Martin’s Sensing restaurant, a fine-dining destination just a 10-minute walk away. Now we have a great table for dinner, and plenty of time to get ready. He is rapidly becoming our NBF.

After a surreally good meal involving some serious wine and lots of dishes in triplicate (asparagus three ways; trio of rabbit; coffee, cocoa and crème de menthe granitas), Bernard pours us a generous Cognac back at Le Placide. We have a few illicit smokes while we chat about art, architecture and all the banned topics (politics, religion, the bourgeoisie). He even offers to give us a personal tour of the art nouveau exhibition that’s on at the Musée d’Orsay (it’s his day off tomorrow). Now that’s what I call service.

Alors, it is time for bed. Rather inebriated and wondering how we made it up here to our room, I slip on a pair of Le Placide’s Japanese-style padded slippers and sashay into the bathroom. Dramatic plum velvet curtains screening the glass wall between bathroom and bedroom provide the perfect backdrop for a little Folies Bergère-inspired folly on the way, by way of thanks for Mr Smith’s generosity in the shops. This saucy dance routine is a prelude to our next act: adopting the position known to Pass the Pigs aficionados as ‘Snouters’, and falling heavily and happily asleep. My last thought before slipping into sublime unconsciousness? Every hotel should have a Bernard.