Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) (6 page)

Instantly, we both go wild. All the pent-up frustration seems to explode and I’m kissing him back, running my hands through his hair, grabbing his body and pressing it against me. I don’t care any more about his book or how dangerous this is: I just want him, now.

‘Let’s go next door,’ he murmurs. He leads me into the bedroom, where we fall back onto his pristine white sheets. He slides the straps of my jumpsuit down, and I slip out of it, revealing the black and pink bra, which he takes off skilfully before kissing me all over and reducing me to jelly. Now we’re kissing again, and he’s driving me mad by sliding his hands up my thighs and slowly, delicately, stroking me between my legs, through the thin material of the jumpsuit, until I feel as if I’m going to explode. Sitting upright, I wriggle out of it completely, wishing I hadn’t worn something so awkward to take off. He pulls off his own clothes and I see that yes, you can spend all day writing the important literature of our time and still have a great body.

There’s a brief interruption while Jonathan produces a condom from beside the bed. Then he kisses me again, lowers himself slowly onto me . . . and then we’re moving together and it is incredible. He’s muttering all the most flattering things – about how sexy and gorgeous I am – in
French
. I feel as if I’m in a film or a music video, complete with four-poster bed and billowing white sheets. Or maybe this is a dream; I can’t quite believe it’s happening.

Afterwards we lie together, breathless and flushed, and wait for our heartbeats to subside.

‘That wasn’t exactly how I expected the afternoon to go,’ I murmur.

‘I know.’ I can feel him grinning; his cheek is beside my forehead. ‘We never did have that coffee. Would you like some?’

‘I would. But not yet – you don’t have to get it yet.’ I know it sounds sad, but this is something I’ve missed just as much: not just the sex (though, yes, I missed that) but being close to someone, lying together afterwards. With Jonathan’s arm around me, and his leg thrown over mine, I’m in a state of utter bliss.

‘Poppy Desmond,’ he murmurs, stroking my back. ‘You were not what I expected either.’

I have to admit, I love the sound of him saying my name. I also love it when, later on, he fetches me a blue silk kimono to wear and we lie curled up on his sofa, drinking his coffee.

‘This is really good,’ I say, sipping it. ‘That machine’s worth whatever you paid. The coffee’s good, too.’

‘Thanks. I get it from a little Italian shop near the Bourse. I’ve run into Carla there so I suppose that’s a good sign.’

‘Carla?’

‘Oh, sorry – Bruni.’ He knows Carla Bruni. Of course he does; he’s Jonathan Wilder. Oh, God. I can’t believe what we’ve just done.

Somewhere in the distance, a church bell is striking. Five o’clock. Any minute now reality is going to come flooding back.

‘What is that expression –
cinq à sept
?’ I ask quickly, to prevent any awkward realisations. ‘Isn’t is something to do with affairs?’

‘It’s the time when French men traditionally saw their mistresses, in between leaving the office and going home.’

‘How sexist,’ I sniff. ‘What about the women having affairs? Also, have you noticed how obsessed French cinema is with adultery? Every single French film I’ve seen is about an affair, it’s unbelievable.’ I could easily continue ranting but I stop myself just in time.

‘Yes, perhaps,’ says Jonathan. ‘I think it’s because they’re more tolerant of shades of grey – they’re not moralistic like American films.’

As we chat, I think: maybe this could actually work. I could publish him and have a relationship with him. There’s no law against it, is there? Plenty of couples work together . . . And then I thank God that he’s presumably not psychic, and has no idea what I’m thinking.

‘So,’ he says, after a while. ‘What are you doing this evening?’

‘This evening?’ I wish I knew what he had in mind before answering. If I tell him I’m free and he doesn’t ask me out, I’ll feel bad. Ditto if I make up some story and then he says he has tickets to the opera.

‘Well, no specific plans. Charlie suggested getting some dinner somewhere, but we haven’t pinned anything down . . .’ When he doesn’t say anything, I add lightly, ‘What about you?’

‘I’m heading out to dinner with some friends. It’s way out in the burbs – Saint Germain en Laye. It takes forever to get there, on the RER.’

God, he sounds so sexy when he speaks French. I can just picture the evening: a civilised, small gathering, all sitting outside on a candlelit terrace, talking about art and politics and books . . . but I think that was a subtle hint.

‘I suppose I’d better get back to my hotel. Check that Charlie hasn’t killed himself on Constance’s motorbike,’ I say as casually as I can, standing up and hunting for my clothes.

‘You know, Poppy, I’d invite you, but I haven’t seen these guys in a while . . .’

‘Of course not,’ I say quickly. ‘Anyway, I’ll be seeing you for lunch tomorrow.’ I finish pulling on my jumpsuit. ‘Now, where are my shoes?’

Jonathan goes back into the bedroom and re-emerges with them. ‘Let me walk you downstairs.’

‘It’s fine, honestly.’

‘Poppy,’ he says seriously, as we walk to the door. ‘Do we need to talk about this?’

‘No, of course not,’ I say again. ‘It just happened and it was great, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

He nods and bends his head and kisses me again. I feel my insides melt, but as soon as I can, I force myself to pull away.

‘OK, I’d better go. Have a good evening. See you tomorrow.’

‘
A demain
,’ he says. He reaches out, kisses my hand, gives me a last, regretful look, then closes the door.

Back down the stairs I go, in a daze. But I’m not thinking about centuries of history now: I’m thinking about tonight, and lunch tomorrow and . . . oh shit, I just slept with the author.

I can’t figure out how to open the door, so of course Madame Whatsit has to come and help me, devouring me with curious eyes as she does. I hope her manic interest means she hasn’t often seen Jonathan with a woman before. As I step back over the threshold, I feel a bit like a cat that’s been put out for the night. Was he trying to get rid of me? But then I tell myself not to be paranoid. He’s just going out this evening. That’s allowed!

Back on the rue des Francs Bourgeois, the shadows are lengthening. The city seems to have a new energy and people are coming alive for the evening. I gaze at all the couples going past me, intertwined. I’m sure lots of them started under dodgy circumstances: working together, already attached . . . But that’s dangerous thinking. I can’t allow myself to believe that Jonathan and I will be a couple. This could well have been just a one-off thing. In which case we’ll handle it like grown-ups.

As I walk along I find myself humming a tune. I realise it’s Air’s ‘Sexy Boy’. Oops. My subconscious isn’t exactly subtle. I hope I can appear normal tomorrow, in front of Charlie and Constance. Suddenly all my paranoia is back and I’m wondering: what is Jonathan thinking now? What’s it going to be like seeing him tomorrow for lunch? And what am I going to wear?

Walking by a shop window, I catch sight of my reflection and feel a moment of doubt. Is this jumpsuit as cute as I think, or do I actually look as if I’m in fancy dress? I’ve never been interested in expensive designer clothes; I’ve always wanted to have fun with what I wear. I’m used to looking at clothes in shops and thinking that I could make something nicer, or find the original that it’s ripped off. But the clothes here are something I could never make.

One dress in particular catches my eye – a simple sleeveless shift in a zingy orange colour. I walk into the shop and try it on. The size 40 fits me perfectly and the material is so lovely; a smooth silk-cotton mix.

‘I have the bigger size, if you would like it,’ the sales assistant says – in English, to add insult to injury. Surprised, I go back and check my reflection from different angles, but it seems to fit perfectly. What a cow. I tell her the 40 is just fine and take it to the till. It’s more than I’ve spent on a dress in a long time, but I tell myself it’s a professional investment. Also, it’s euros, which don’t count.

After walking home the long way round – via the Louvre (well, via a
millefeuille
pastry at Angelina’s next door), the Tuileries and the Pont des Arts – I arrive back at the hotel and run straight into Charlie in the lobby.

‘How’s it going? I see you’ve hit the shops,’ he says.

‘What? Oh, yes.’ I sit down in one of the couches to rest my aching feet, and he sits opposite me. ‘We had lunch and then coffee . . . and then I walked home. I think it went well. We talked about the book and he liked my suggestions.’ I pick up a flyer for the Louvre and fan myself with it, hoping he’ll attribute my blush to the heat. ‘How about you, how did you get on with the lovely Constance?’

‘It was fantastic! I talked her through our publishing plans, and then we went for a ride all along the quays – it’s a scooter she’s got, not a motorbike – as far as the Eiffel Tower and back. We stopped off at this amazing little café and had the best lunch . . . and then I went up to this park near here called the Luxembourg Gardens, that Constance told me about. Why did no one ever tell me about all this before?’

I don’t even know how to begin to answer that one.

‘Um, well, Paris is quite popular—’

‘All anyone ever talks about is the Louvre, though. But Constance says it’s too big, and she much prefers the Musée – D’Olay or something?’

‘The Musée D’Orsay. Yes, that is a great museum.’ My head’s beginning to hurt from a combination of sun, Kirs and anxiety, and I decide I have to get away from Charlie, have a cold shower and lie down somewhere.

‘Anyway,’ Charlie says. ‘When are you meeting your friend?’

‘What? Oh. Not till later. I’m just going to have a little freshen-up first. What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to head out with Constance. I would have asked her if you could join us, but you said you were busy. I booked us a restaurant for tomorrow, by the way. Not the one Jonathan said – that was a bit pricey – but another one.’

‘Great. Lovely. Look forward to it,’ I say, and flee up the stairs before he can ask me any more questions. Let him go out with Constance; I’m staying in my hotel room tonight and ordering room service, before I get into any more trouble.

‘Are you nervous?’ Charlie asks me the next day, as we go up in the lift towards Les Ombres restaurant. It’s on the roof of the ethnographic museum on the Quay Branly, which seems an odd place to find a great restaurant, but Constance recommended it and presumably knows what’s good.

‘Nervous about what?’ I say, edgily.

‘About whether they’re going to accept our offer? I get the impression they’re going to tell us over lunch.’

‘Oh. Of course not,’ I say. And it’s mostly true. I think it’s going to be OK. Jonathan loved my editorial suggestions. Constance loves our publishing plans. And Jonathan and I will figure all the other stuff out.

The terrace has a fabulous view of the rooftops of Paris, dominated by the Eiffel Tower. It’s so close by that you can see people going up and down in the lifts. The other diners are mostly men and women who I presume work in the government buildings nearby – though, in their designer suits, they look considerably more dashing than British civil servants.

‘You look great, by the way,’ says Charlie. It’s nice of him to throw a bone my way when he’s so clearly got a crush on Constance. He’s made an effort himself, wearing a self-consciously trendy, shiny navy blue jacket with the sleeves rolled up over a grey T-shirt. Then Jonathan and Constance arrive. Constance looks lovely in a white high-necked blouse and skinny black trousers. I can’t take in what Jonathan’s wearing, other than that it’s some kind of jacket and tie; I concentrate on making sure that I smile, stand up to receive his cheek kisses, and generally act normal.

Occasionally when I’m in an important meeting or other formal situation, I get a mad urge to say something completely inappropriate. This is one of those times: I wonder what would happen if I told everyone, ‘Hey! Jonathan and I slept together yesterday.’ Luckily I’m prevented from doing so by our waiter, who wants to know about drinks.

‘Actually,’ says Jonathan, ‘why don’t we make it champagne?’ He shoots me a modest look. ‘We certainly feel like celebrating.’

For a surreal moment I wonder if he’s about to tell everyone we’re an item, or something, but then I see that Constance is smiling too. She says, ‘We’d like to accept your offer to publish Jonathan’s book.’

Praise the Lord! As the waiter comes back with our champagne, I thank baby Jesus and all the angels that what happened yesterday obviously didn’t mess anything up. Or . . . a very icky thought strikes me. Could it actually have
helped
? Does Jonathan think he’s landed himself an editor with benefits? Surely not.

‘That’s great news. We’re thrilled. Well, Jonathan, here’s to your book,’ I say, holding up a glass.

‘To the book.’ Jonathan holds my eye as he toasts. Then he pauses, glass mid-air, and thinks for a while before adding, ‘And to our partnership.’

The conversation turns to writers we might send Jonathan’s book to for an endorsement. Jonathan has lots of celebrity and literary friends, but Constance also seems to be on first-name terms with all sorts of big fish.

‘Wow, Constance, you have great contacts,’ I say.

‘Yes, I do know lots of people,’ she says calmly.

This reminds me of her reaction to my inane compliment yesterday, about her being brave to ride her motorbike. I’m not used to people – especially women – accepting compliments with such ease instead of contradicting them or apologising. Maybe it’s a French thing.

‘How about Denis Last?’ Charlie is saying. ‘He could be a good person to endorse the book.’

‘Denis Last,’ Jonathan recoils. ‘He’s very popular, of course, but –’ He makes the word ‘popular’ sounds like a skin condition. Which seems a bit odd. Jonathan writes really well, but he is on the popular end of the literary spectrum, after all.

‘I love his books,’ says Constance. I find myself warming to her more, especially when she tells me how much she admired my ‘costume’ of yesterday.