Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) (3 page)

BOOK: Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book)
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I love her to bits, but honestly, Mum drives me around the bend sometimes. I don’t want to play tag rugby. And I feel like I spent my entire childhood on marches. There were so many pictures of Nelson Mandela in our house, I used to think he was a relative.

‘Poppy?’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘I thought maybe we should go over the details of the publicity and marketing plans again,’ Charlie suggests, wedging his coffee cup into the bin. ‘Maybe divide it up, decide who says what.’

‘OK. Though we don’t want to sound too rehearsed. He has all the facts, now it comes down to whether or not he likes us.’

‘Chemistry?’ suggests Charlie.

‘I suppose so.’ I look up to find his blue eyes on me. Is he flirting with me? ‘Well, partly. I imagine he’ll want to hear that we love his book. You
have
read the book, haven’t you?’

‘Of course. We talked about it the other day, remember?’

‘And what did you think?’

‘I think it would sell,’ he says. ‘He’s pretty good.’

‘Is that it? For God’s sake, don’t overwhelm him with your enthusiasm, whatever you do.’

Charlie pats my arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

I look down at his retreating hand, thinking: I wasn’t imagining it; he does fancy me. Well, in the same way that he probably fancies everyone.

Across the aisle from us, a French couple are already getting their seduction on. Her skinny-denimed legs are slung in his lap, and he’s trailing his hands lingeringly through her wavy dark brown hair. I stare at them and try to remember how long it’s been since I sat in anyone’s lap – not counting my gay friend Anthony’s when we were in someone’s car coming back from a weekend in Brighton. Then I notice Charlie looking at me in amusement; he’s obviously caught me staring at them.

‘What? Nothing,’ I say in confusion, and bury my head in my e-reader. It’s a misconception that people of colour don’t blush: I’m mixed race and I’m a chronic blusher. I don’t see how I’m going to be able to seduce him if I’m this easily embarrassed.

It’s always amazed me that in less time than it takes to get from London to Manchester, you can be in a completely foreign city. The Gare du Nord isn’t that different to the new, revamped St Pancras – aside from being smaller – but it feels different; even the platform announcements sound sophisticated and mysterious. It’s much warmer than London too; it’s properly July here, where it still felt like March in London.

‘Now what? Should we get a taxi?’ says Charlie, gazing at the pert skinny-jeaned rear of the French girl who’s walking away with her boyfriend, still glued together like a three-legged race. ‘Where’s the hotel again?’

I immediately go off him once more as I realise I’m going to have to look after him for this whole trip. Why are men all so useless?

‘No, let’s get the Metro – much quicker and cheaper,’ I say, nodding towards the entrance to the station.

‘Lead on, Captain Poppy,’ he says, trailing along after me. ‘I’ve never been to Paris before.’

‘Are you serious? Not even on a school trip?’

He shakes his head. I suppose stag weekends in Ibiza are probably more his style. We head down into the Metro where I find a free machine and start feeding euro coins – left over from the Frankfurt Book Fair last year – into the slot, getting us two
carnets
of ten adorably old-fashioned paper tickets.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ Charlie says, as I hand him his tickets. ‘That’s a thought. I don’t have any euros.’

I recover from the ‘Thanks, Mum’ just in time to say, trying to keep my voice friendly, ‘There’s a cashpoint upstairs, where we were before. I’ll wait for you here.’

Maybe this seduction thing isn’t such a good idea after all, I think, as I watch the crowds sweeping in and out of the station. People dashing home from a late evening at work, pile-ups of tourists; it’s just like London, except with subtitles. And except for that person who really is carrying a baguette.

Charlie rejoins me and we descend into the Metro, with its distinctive and not unpleasant smell, almost flowery, with base notes of hot metal. It takes me right back to my last trip to Paris, with my ex, Crippo. He spent three hours contemplating an installation in the Pompidou Centre, and then dragged me to a ‘party’ at his friend’s place, where they spent the entire evening smoking weed and watching an experimental silent film set in a coal mine. Good times.

‘Are you sure we’re going the right way?’ Charlie says, looking at the map of the line on the carriage wall. I nod. After spending a year here as a student, I like to think I know my way around and could maybe even be mistaken for a local. I’m probably deluding myself, but still, a girl can dream.

Twenty rattling minutes later, we arrive at Odéon. I sigh with pleasure as we come out of the Metro and see all the beautiful familiar sights: the glamorous, leggy students exchanging cheek kisses by the statue of Danton, the cinemas with huge queues outside, the broad boulevards of tall white buildings lined with cafés with names like Le Danton and L’Odéon. Everyone is very chic and intense-looking; as we pass people sitting at the little cane tables and chairs you can tell they’re talking about philosophy, life and the universe, not last night’s TV.

‘Here you go,’ says Charlie, handing my trunk back to me. I was so distracted, I didn’t even notice that he’s just carried it up the stairs for me along with his own.

‘Oh. Thank you.’ I look around, trying to get my bearings. We’re staying at the Relais Saint Germain, on rue Saint-Sulpice. I know exactly where that is; I just need to orient myself.

‘I’ve got a map in my bag,’ says Charlie. ‘And we’re on . . . Boulevard Saint-German?’

‘Saint-Germain,’ I correct him. ‘It’s this way – come on.’

I’m pretty sure we’re going the right way, and I keep expecting to see the rue Saint-Sulpice on the right, but then we find the Jardins de Luxembourg where they’re not supposed to be, and have to turn back. My case is getting really heavy now.

‘Let’s stop for a minute. My phone’s not working . . . I’ll get out my map,’ says Charlie.

‘No, it’s fine. I know where we are now; it’s just down here, past this square and left. I’ve been here before.’

Ignoring me, he crouches down and there on the pavement he starts rooting in his sports bag, which seems to be mainly full of underwear. An elegant woman carrying a huge Yves Saint Laurent carrier bag steps over him and gives me a reproachful look. I can’t even meet her eye, I’m so mortified. Then we end up getting directions from an American couple armed with maps, bum-bags and sensible walking shoes. It turns out we were looking for the wrong hotel: we’re at the Relais Saint Germain, which is right by Odeon, and I had the address for the Relais Saint Sulpice. So much for me being like a local.

At least the hotel is lovely: lots of dark wood, exposed brickwork, tapestries, and heavy velvet curtains. Charlie barrels up to the desk and starts talking in English to the pretty girl.

‘Ah yes,’ she replies, when he tells her our names. ‘I have two rooms – a single and a deluxe suite?’

‘Oh, but it was meant to be two singles,’ I say, dismayed. ‘Can we change?’

‘I’m sorry,
madame
, we are fully booked,’ she says apologetically. ‘Victor will show you the rooms, and you can choose.’

There being not much choice, we stump upstairs after Victor, who looks like a resting model, as he carries my massive trunk.

‘I’ll take the single,’ Charlie says, as we walk upstairs.

‘You don’t have to do that – we can toss for it.’ It doesn’t seem fair for him to have the single just because he’s a boy.

The single is perfectly nice, with pink striped wallpaper, flat-screen TV and a nice view over the Carrefour de l’Odeon. The deluxe suite, on the other hand, is
gorgeous
, with dark wooden beams on the ceiling, a seating area and a gigantic bed with a red counterpane and a fur throw. Behind a curtained alcove, floor-length windows lead on to a balcony, with pink geraniums and a view over the jumble of metal roofs towards the two towers of Saint Sulpice.

I look at it longingly. Gender equality be damned; I want this room! ‘You can leave us the keys,’ I tell Victor, in my best French. ‘We’ll arrange it between us.’

I’m quite proud of that construction, but Victor isn’t fooled, and replies in English: ‘Of course. Have a pleasant stay.’

I fish out a twenty-cent coin, trying to decide which is heads and which is tails. ‘Let’s toss for it, OK?’

‘I tell you what,’ Charlie says. ‘Why don’t you just take it, and in return you get to choose where we go to eat tomorrow night.’

‘But we’re not going out tomorrow night. We’re meeting Jonathan in the morning, right? For coffee?’

‘Sure, but you’re going to want to eat at some point, aren’t you? I certainly am.’

This would certainly aid my seduction plan. But I’m not sure about that plan any more, especially if it means spending an entire evening with him. I don’t want to be rude or hurt his feelings so I try and think up a quick excuse.

‘Oh, sorry . . . I have plans with a friend.’ This is a total lie, but he won’t find out, I hope. ‘My friend . . . Nicole. She lives in Paris. Didn’t I say?’

‘No, you didn’t,’ he says amiably. ‘Nicole, huh? What does she do here?’

‘She works for –’ I look out of the window for inspiration. ‘Renault. She works for Renault.’

Charlie shrugs, and says, ‘OK. Well, let’s flip for the room, if you insist.’

I wish I’d just accepted his offer of the bloody room, but it’s too late now.

‘Here goes. And it’s –’ I lift my hand. ‘Oh. Heads. You win.’ I watch as he flops happily onto his massive bed.

An hour later, having unpacked and gone for a stroll by myself, I open the window of my room and look out at a stream of people walking up and down the street. It’s a quarter to ten in the evening. I can’t quite erase the sight of Charlie lounging luxuriously in the four-poster bed.

Hmm. Am I actually going to try this seduction thing? Tonight?

While I think about it, I get out of the polo neck and trousers, which are way too hot for this evening, and have a quick shower. I ran out yesterday lunchtime and had a Brazilian and full leg wax – I lied and told Sorrell I had a work lunch, in case anyone asked. And I bought some brand new underwear: a cute, frothy little black and pink bra from Coco de Mer and matching frilly knickers, that cost as much as a full outfit. It seems a pity to waste them.

OK, I’m going to do it. I’ll pop next door and see what happens. The key to the whole thing, obviously, is alcohol, so I’ll ask Charlie if I can have a drink from his minibar. And if it all goes wrong, I can just blame it on my hay fever medicine – tell him it makes me go crazy.

I pull on a seventies denim baby doll minidress and some low wooden mules. I spray on a bit of Vivienne Westwood Boudoir on my pulse points and between my legs for good measure. I’m just on my way to the door when I remember to grab my handbag and put in a condom. In a spirit of optimism, I take two. My pulse is hammering in my throat; I can’t believe I am actually doing this!

Charlie answers the door with no top on, which seems a promising start. ‘Oh, hi,’ he says. ‘Sorry, I just got out of the shower. Wait a sec.’ He pulls on an Adidas T-shirt over his tracksuit bottoms. ‘What’s up?’ The TV is on in the background.

‘Not much. I feel like a drink and I don’t seem to have a minibar in my room,’ I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘I have one, help yourself.’

‘Do you want one?’ I ask as I pour myself a vodka and tonic, hoping my legs look OK in this dress.

‘Sure,’ he says, sounding distracted. I turn around to find he’s lying on the bed, eyes glued to golf on the TV. ‘I’ll have a beer, please.’

Feeling less and less like a seductive siren and more like a waitress, I retrieve a can. I’m guessing he won’t want a glass.

‘Thanks,’ he says, barely looking at me as I hand him the beer. ‘Sorry. Big game tonight, it’s just starting.’

‘Oh. I don’t really follow –’ I’m about to say ‘golf’ when Charlie shushes me and holds up a finger. ‘I just want to see this – go on! Get it in there! Get in the hole!’

Unfortunate choice of words. I sip my vodka and tonic. I wish I could just leave but it would look too obvious, so I have to sit through half an hour of the most agonisingly boring sport ever invented – with the most hideous clothes, too. The sleeveless wool vests! The visors!

‘Not a golf fan, no?’ Charlie says, when finally there’s an ad break.

‘Oh, I don’t mind a bit of golf,’ I lie. ‘When does it finish?’

‘Another couple of hours. Do you want another drink?’

A couple of hours! I’m not that desperate.

‘No, I think I’ll head to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow – meet in the lobby at a quarter to eleven?’

‘Great. See you then,’ he says. ‘Oh, here we go. What’s he doing now?’

Charlie barely looks up as I leave the suite. Back in my bedroom, I bury my face in my hands and let out a stifled shriek. What was I
thinking
? That was excruciating. I rip off my cute dress and seduction underwear, and get into my nightie. I thought Charlie fancied me, but he rates me somewhere below
golf on the scale of attractions. Honestly, if it was football or Wimbledon it wouldn’t be so bad, but golf!

I shudder as I remember how he called me Captain Poppy. And another memory I blocked out: the way he said ‘Thanks, Mum’. Aargh. He obviously sees me as some kind of
parent
figure. So much for our one-night stand; it looks like this weekend is going to be all work and no foreplay after all.

The next morning, Charlie and I set off from our hotel on foot to meet Jonathan. We’re not going far; he’s suggested a rendezvous at the bookshop Shakespeare and Company, which is right by the Seine, opposite Notre-Dame. I adore this place. I haven’t been since I was a student, but I remember it having so much much character; it’s crammed from floor to ceiling with dusty old books, and there are chairs everywhere so you can sit peacefully reading.

Unfortunately, the peace and quiet I remember is nowhere in evidence as we squeeze ourselves into the shop. It’s still crammed from floor to ceiling with lovely books, but also with tourists, most of whom are manically taking pictures despite the signs everywhere telling you not to. I lead Charlie upstairs to the second-hand section. There are two Japanese girls photographing each other in an upstairs alcove, but it’s more peaceful here at least.

BOOK: Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book)
4.88Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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