Pack Up the Moon (18 page)

Ah crap!

We didn’t bother with the Irish pub; Sean had too many places that he wanted to show us. Francoise, or Frankie as he liked to call her, was the rapper’s sister and she’d taken a shine to our friend the first day he met her. They had been inseparable for a week. This was mainly because he was ghosting her brother and she was her brother’s PA. She hung over him like a cheap suit while we ate lunch outside a pretty little cafe in Montmartre. Everyone was talking excitedly about what he or she wanted to do and

where he or she wanted to go. Their conversation faded

into the background while I took time to adjust to our

new addition, the lovely Frankie, who seemed to warm to everyone but me.

It was only when we were paying the waiter that I

took time to look around. It was beautiful. Old cobbled streets, artists painting American students and young couples on the footpaths all around. Little cake shops displaying fancy cakes and fresh bread, the smell of which wafted through the streets. The mopeds, the bikes, the attractive Frenchmen who whistled at the girls who walked by

confident and nonchalant, well used to being admired. The Sacre Coeur stood majestically in the background. I could see its spire from where I was sitting.

It didn’t feel like a city: it felt like a cosmopolitan glamorous village that belonged to another time and

place. I was in love.

*

We were following Sean and his French loaf back to the

apartment. Clo was busy taking photographs of pretty much everything that moved or stood still, birds munching on breadcrumbs, cute shop-fronts, a bike, a couple kissing, a waiter serving coffee to an old man wearing a silk scarf. She looked like an American tourist at a fairy fort. She just kept clicking, afraid she’d miss something. Tom was ably assisting by pointing out anything she could have

missed.

“That car is cool.”

“Got it.”

“The old woman!’

“Got her.”

“Oh wow, look at that carousel!”

“Get on it.”

He complied, smiling and waving.

“Pretend you don’t know I’m here — just sit on the horse and look wistful.”

He sat and attempted wistful.

“Got it.”

Anne and Richard laughed at them while holding

hands and whispering about making a baby in the city of

love. Frankie walked ahead with Sean, her hand inside his back jeans pocket signalling to all that his ass was taken. I just looked around, taking it all in. I felt like I was as close to heaven as is possible. The blue sky seemed to come from the ground beneath me. It was all around. If there were villages in the sky they would all look like

Montmartre.

We reached the apartment and took an old, ornate and ludicrously small lift to the top floor. The wooden floors smelt of polish, the windows were tall and encased in pretty white wood. The kitchen was small with a little oven and a large fridge. The sitting-room was surrounded by glass looking over the busy street below. A large painting of a young girl cycling through a tree-lined street hung on

the wall. She looked happy, but then why shouldn’t she be — she got to live in Paris. There were three bedrooms all immediately taken by the couples. I got the pull-out in the sitting-room.

“Are you sure this is OK?” Sean asked.

“It’s fine,” I nodded. “I’d rather this than walk in on a couple first thing in the morning!’

He nodded. It was a good point. It was obvious that

everyone was intent on having as much French sex as

possible. He pointed to the stereo.

“There’s a stereo.”

“I’ve got earplugs.”

He nodded again, grinning. He turned to join the others who were rammed into the kitchen attempting to

work out the coffee machine. He got to the door and he turned as though he was going to say something, but words appeared to fail him.

“What?” I asked hopefully, although I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to hear.

“What do you think of Frankie?” he asked.

“She seems nice,” I lied. She was arrogant and stuck out her tits whenever she wanted to make a point.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ll be seeing her after Sunday,” he said, searching my face for an expression.

I wasn’t sure what kind of expression he was looking

for so I just smiled.

“A girl in every port,” I laughed.

“Yeah,” he agreed, but he obviously didn’t find it as funny as I pretended it to be.

*

We ate in a quaint little restaurant of Frankie’s choosing. “It’s for the French,” she said mysteriously.

It was an odd thing to say, as we were in fucking France so who else would it be for?

She must have copped my expression. “Not the stupid tourists. Good food, good price, no rip off,” she noted before sipping on her cheap wine.

Great, we’re stupid tourists.

Clo smiled before taking a picture of the flower

framed window The waiter took our orders. I was looking forward to the rack of lamb, having earlier chosen something that turned out to be wolf meat.

“Comment voulez-vous votre viande, Madame?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your meat, how would you like it cooked?” Frankie intoned while shaking her head knowingly at the waiter. Bitch.

“Well done!’ I didn’t look at either of them, instead concentrating on the menu.

“Bien cult,” she translated.

He nodded at her and walked away.

“It’s so authentic,” Anne said.

I could see Frankie give her the same look I have given

Americans who-say “everything is cute and small”.

Clo and Tom were holding hands under the linen

tablecloth. I was a gooseberry at my own birthday dinner. Sean must have noticed my pathetic demeanour. He raised his glass and the others followed suit.

“Here’s to the birthday girl — may she always stay beautiful!”

I blushed. The others laughed and smiled. Frankie looked me up and down, making it quite obvious she had no idea what he was talking about. You could almost hear her thoughts: You have to be beautiful to stay beautiful.

I didn’t give a toss. It was a nice thing to say, so screw her. The waiter arrived with our meals. Mine was last of course. Everyone made a big deal about waiting until eventually it was obvious their food was getting cold. When my meat eventually arrived it was barely cooked. The waiter

almost dropped the plate in front of me and walked off

before I could register the blood flowing into my potato

gratin. I cut into it, revealing pink flesh.

Oh my God, it’s alive!

Richard was the first to notice my horror. “I thought you said well done?”

Anne peered at my dinner plate. “It certainly took long enough.”

“Jesus,” was all I could manage.

Frankie leaned in to see what all the fuss was about. “What’s wrong? It’s fine — eat!”

I really didn’t like her. “I asked for well done,” I said snottily.

“It’s not blue. It’s cooked. Look, brown.” She was pointing at the outside of the meat.

I was pissed off so I held up what looked like roadkill

on my fork. “Look, it’s pink and bloody,” I said sarcastically.

Sean, realising this could get nasty, called the waiter back. He appeared over me looking down.

“Yes,” he said.

The bastard could speak English.

“I asked for well done,” I said, attempting to match his arrogance.

“Yes,” he said and he walked away.

Everyone stopped eating.

“What a prick!” Clodagh intoned while Tom nodded his head in agreement.

“Sorry, Em, they are a bit funny about their meat,” said Sean.

Frankie smiled as though she had secured some sort of

victory. I pushed the plate away and poured a large glass of wine.

Happy birthday to me.

*

The nightclub was on a street just off the Champs-Elysee. Music blared, people danced, big comfy booths lined the walls around the dance floor. They were full of young men watching the half-naked girls gyrating with one

another. Unlike in Ireland, there was no queue at the bar. At least something was going my way. I ordered a double vodka and Coke and sat at the edge of the booth that

Frankie had managed to secure.

“VIP will open soon,” she said.

“Are we going into the VIP?” Clo asked excited.

“Of course:” she said snottily as though Clodagh was a little slow. “My brother is a famous French rapper — where do you think we would drink? A barn?” She was pointing into Clodagh’s face. Her finger was inches away from Clodagh’s right eye.

“Why not? It would appear that you were brought up in one!” Clo said stepping back from her long finger. Frankie scowled. “You bore me!”

I wanted to punch her but I was a little afraid of her

— she looked like she could be vicious with those long nails

of hers. Clo obviously felt the same, as she waited until Frankie’s back was turned before giving her the fingers.

Within an hour we were in the far more salubrious

VIP room. Frankie marched us in like she owned the place. Anne, Clo and I hung back, not too concerned

about whether or not we got in. Our need to bitch was way too strong.

“What a bitch!” Anne said.

“She doesn’t like us,” Clo smirked.

“Yeah, well, she can piss off,” I concluded.

“There’s our girl,” Clo laughed.

The bouncer was looking at us quizzically.

“We’re with Francoise,” Anne told them.

“Who?” the bald bouncer with the pecks asked. Exactly, I thought, pleased with myself.

Tom came back to the door. “They’re with us,” he smiled at Baldy.

“Go ahead,” he said and unhitched the red rope between us ordinary folk and French celebrity.

The room was dark and only lit by candlelight. Each booth was circular with high backs so as to give those

with high profiles the illusion of privacy. We found a booth with Frankie’s brother’s name on it. His posse was already ensconced. Introductions followed. I just nodded mutely while Sean shook hands with his new friends.

“Where’s Pierre?” he asked.

“Bar,” one of them answered.

I sat beside Sean just to piss Frankie off.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Great if you like banging your glass off your teeth.” “I love the dark,” he grinned.

I smiled. It wasn’t so bad. Clodagh and Tom were Slow-dancing to a fast track. Anne and Richard were in a deep conversation. Then Frankie shoved her tongue down Sean’s throat in a bid to get his attention. Some French guy tried to make conversation, but with the loud music

and the fact that his English was about as good as my

French, we gave up after mere seconds. Frankie looked up from her tongue-job.

“Pierre!” she waved.

Pierre, a tall brunette with golden highlights, gleaming

smile and a body carved out of precious stone smiled at

his sister. He said goodbye to a waif-like model that I

recognised from Vogue and she retreated into her own

dark corner. He approached and smiled at one and all. “Do you mind if I sit?” he asked and I shoved over. “I’m Pierre.”

“Emma.”

“Ah, Sean’s friend,” he smiled.

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“You like Paris.” It wasn’t a question.

“Beautiful.”-

“You’re dark Irish, not ginger!” He laughed at his own joke.

“You’re observant,” I said, attempting to be snotty, but it wasn’t as easy to be snotty to Pierre as it was to his sister. He smiled. “Fire,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Fire in your belly, no? You dark Irish.”

I just smiled. I hadn’t a clue what he was trying to get at. We sat for a while sipping at our drinks. He spoke to the others about his musical career and his chart success, tour dates, press responsibilities. I’d never heard of him.

Boring.

I smoked. The great thing about Paris is that smoking is not only tolerated, but also condoned, and although I was normally a light smoker, the circumstances ensured

that I would make use of this reprieve. I lit another smoke. He took it out of my hand and dragged on it long and

hard.

“Thank you,” he said, grinning.

I just lit another cigarette. This Frenchman was way too smooth for his own good. Still, he was pretty. I liked looking at him, especially when I realised that Sean was staring. After all, he wasn’t the only who could score.

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Maybe later,” I answered smugly.

Bet you’re not used to hearing that, are you?

He was intrigued. I could tell he was used to women falling all over him.

“Come with me?” he said and stood up.

I found my hand in his and suddenly I was on my feet

and crossing the dance floor. He was commanding, I’d give him that. I could feel Sean and Frankie’s eyes on our backs and when I looked around to wave neither of them

looked too happy.

He took me outside to a private balcony that

overlooked a little courtyard full of trees, flowers and little fountains lit up by blue lights. We sat on the bench and he put a fresh cigarette in my mouth and lit it. I inhaled and smiled at him hoping he didn’t notice that I was

feeling a little light-headed. He touched my hair.

“I like dark.”

“The blue lights are nice:’

“I meant you.”

“I know.”

“You’re single, no?”

“Yes.”

“Sean told me about his friend, your boyfriend. I’m sorry.”

I had been feeling pretty smug. Smug and dizzy, but this really threw me. “Oh,” I stammered.

“I didn’t mean to cause pain.”

“You didn’t,” I smiled convincingly.

“Good. Life is for living.”

“I never realised I was in the presence of genius.” I said it before I’d managed to think about it, but luckily enough he found my jibe entertaining.

He threw his head back and laughed. “I like you Irish. I like Sean. He’s fun.”