Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) (7 page)

‘We have some great shops for antique clothes here,’ she says. ‘There’s Kilo Shop in the Marais, which sells things by the kilo, and Odetta.’

‘Is there still that place in Clichy – I used to go there all the time – what’s it called again?’

‘Ah, Guerrisol!’

Jonathan and Charlie are talking about something, but it’s a bit stilted, and I get the impression Charlie’s waiting to jump in as soon as the clothes talk stops.

‘So,’ says Charlie. ‘Do you all have nice summer holiday plans?’

‘I will go to my parents’ place in Provence for three weeks in August,’ says Constance.

‘Three weeks!’ Charlie and I say in unison.

‘Yes, normally it would be four weeks, but we have to work so much lately, we are becoming like Americans.’

‘Nice,’ says Charlie. ‘I’ve got a golfing holiday in Portugal with some mates in September, I can’t wait.’

‘I love Portugal. I went to Lisbon last year for the Disquiet International festival,’ says Jonathan. ‘I ended up staying up all night drinking
vinho verde
with Ian.’

‘Ian?’ says Charlie.

‘Oh, sorry – McEwan.’

Everyone murmurs politely. I’ll admit, I’ve begun to notice a certain amount of name-dropping in Jonathan’s anecdotes. He’s also one of those people who reads out the entire name of the dish when ordering food: he’s having the
filet de boeuf, pommes Pont Neuf, jus lié au foie gras
. But nobody’s perfect.

‘How was last night, Jonathan?’ Constance asks. ‘How is Calyxte?’

‘Fine,’ says Jonathan briefly. Very briefly, in fact.

‘Who’s Calyxte?’ Charlie enquires.

Jonathan replies, ‘A friend,’ at the same time as Constance says, ‘Jonathan’s girlfriend. Her parents live near me, in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, which is just outside Paris.’

‘Your girlfriend,’ I repeat, staring at him blankly while thinking: His
girlfriend
?
Her parents?

‘It’s complicated,’ he says, looking harassed. ‘We were together for a while, then we broke up, then we became friends . . .’

‘Jonathan, you don’t have to complicate your life with these categories,’ says Constance, laughing. ‘In French we have one expression:
l’homme, ou la femme, de ma vie.
The man of my life, the woman of my life. Very simple. Calyxte is
la femme de ta vie
.’

‘Have you met Calyxte?’ I ask Constance, concentrating on sounding calm.

‘Oh, yes, she’s very charming and beautiful. She is the editor of a literary magazine.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ I say icily.

Jonathan is pretending to be absorbed in reading a wine label. ‘I think I’ve been to this vineyard,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s near Johnny’s place.’

‘Johnny?’ Charlie asks.

‘Sorry, Depp.’

I get to my feet. ‘Will you excuse me a minute?’

As I walk towards the loo, I think: Stupid, stupid, stupid. I am so stupid. I’ve been played, and now I’m in the most effed-up position ever. I slept with an author, who has a girlfriend. Who hosted him for dinner, with her parents, last night, while I was in my tiny hotel room watching badly dubbed
Friends
!

Now I have to work with him and talk to him about his book and hold his hand when he gets a bad review, and I just can’t do it. I splash cold water on my wrists, wondering if there’s any way out. Maybe I can hand him over to Ellen. But I’d have to explain why, and . . . aargh. I feel like such a stupid idiot. After all my plans to have a fling with Charlie, I had mindless, meaningless sex with
completely the wrong man
.

I’m so humiliated I’d happily stay in here all day, but I have to go back out and face the music. I’ll have to grin and bear it, and as soon as we get out of here I’ll figure something out. The elegant surroundings actually help; as I walk towards our table, I decide to channel Glenn Close in
Dangerous Liaisons
. Specifically, the bit where she practises smiling as she sticks a fork into her hand under the table.

However, only Charlie is left at the table.

‘They’ve gone over there for a smoke,’ he says. ‘Did you just drop something, Poppy?’

He hands me a small black Moleskine notebook. It looks like mine, but I think Jonathan has one like it. I open it up to check, thinking I’ll know as soon as I see the handwriting. I find myself reading this:

 ‘Isn’t Paris the City of Light?’

Cuff, bangle, bracelet – rich vocabulary

Skin the colour of
Coffee mocha
café au lait

Clashes with her mother – father complex?

‘Why are all French films about adultery?’

‘Are you all right, Poppy?’ says Constance, sitting down again.

‘Hey – is that mine?’ says Jonathan.

‘Yes, it is,’ I say, handing it over to him. ‘And so’s this.’ I pick up my half-full wine glass, and empty it over his head. I take one satisfying look at his stupid gaping face, drenched in red wine, and then grab my clutch and walk out, ignoring all the scandalised looks from everyone in the restaurant.

Outside, I stab the buttons of the lift and get myself to the ground floor, where I emerge into the groovy landscaped gardens of the museum, which has a living wall and which I would find really interesting at any other time. I hurry across the road and find myself on a bridge, I’m not sure which one. It really doesn’t matter right now.

‘
Excusez-moi, vous n’auriez pas une cigarette
?’ I ask a man passing by.

‘Yes, of course,’ he replies in English, handing me one.

‘Thank you, but if you don’t mind, I am TRYING to practise my FRENCH!’ I scream at him irrationally.

‘Poppy!’ Charlie rushes up behind me, out of breath. The guy leaves, looking scared. I don’t blame him; I am completely losing the plot.

‘What the hell was all that about? Hang on a sec.’

He taps the shoulder of a passing intertwined couple – another one! – and gets a light from them.

‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ he says.

‘I don’t . . . this is sort of an emergency.’

Raising his eyebrows, Charlie steers me off the bridge and down onto the quays, where we find a seat on a bench.

‘Did something happen yesterday, with you and J-Wild?’ says Charlie.

I take a drag of my cigarette and try and get my voice under control. ‘Yes.’

‘What – oh.’ There’s a pause, while I can see the penny dropping. ‘Oh.’

‘I know,’ I mutter. ‘Please don’t tell me how awful it was. I’ve never done anything like that before in my life.’

‘No wonder you flipped when Constance mentioned his girlfriend,’ he says.

‘It wasn’t just that, it was the notebook. He’d been taking notes on me – writing down things I said, things about my life. It was so horrible.’

‘Well . . . but he’s a writer; that’s what they do.’

‘Yes, except this has happened to me before,’ I say. ‘My ex-boyfriend devoted an entire art installation to our relationship. It was called “Bitch Done Me Wrong”.’

‘Oh,’ says Charlie.

I stare at the murky waters of the Seine, thinking: what is it about me that makes men want to use me for material? Am I just some kind of ‘exotic’ character to them? And is that whole lunch going to appear in a novel, complete with the drink in the face?

‘Oh, God, I’m so embarrassed,’ I mutter, as the whole horror of the thing begins to sink in. ‘I can’t believe I threw a drink in his face.’

‘I was quite surprised myself,’ Charlie says.

I moan again and sink my face into my hands. Then I think of something else. ‘Did you pay the bill?’ I ask.

‘No, I did not. Jonathan can pick up a bill for once in his life.’

‘Oh, no, Charlie – poor Constance will end up paying. And did the waiters look shocked?’

‘The waiters? Not particularly. This is Paris, don’t forget. I bet half the women in this city have slung a red wine in someone’s face at some point. Or a
vin rouge,
as Jonathan would say.’ He starts to laugh.

‘I really can’t see what’s funny here,’ I say coldly.

‘I’m sorry, Poppy, it’s just . . . his face was so priceless. I know he’s a good writer, but he was a bit of a twat, don’t you think? With his French phrases and Johnny Depp’s vineyard and getting drunk with Ian McEwan.’

I finish my cigarette. I’m tempted to flick the butt into the river but, ever my mother’s daughter, I stub it out and find a bin for it. I’m beginning to feel as if Charlie has a point.

‘What kind of things did he jot down in his notebook?’ Charlie says. ‘If that’s not a rude question.’

I groan. ‘Just stuff I told him about my mum and dad. And random things I said. And something about mocha-coloured skin, in case I was in any doubt.’

‘Seriously? Isn’t that a Ricky Martin lyric?’

I start to laugh.

‘That’s better,’ Charlie says. ‘Look. We’re not going to salvage the whole book thing, are we? Unless you want to go back to Jonathan and tell him you have Tourette’s or you had a flashback to when you were in Vietnam, or something. Do you?’

I shake my head violently, feeling panicked at the thought of having to see Jonathan ever again.

‘And our train isn’t until tomorrow morning. So we might as well enjoy ourselves. I still haven’t been up the Eiffel Tower, you know.’

‘Charlie, I can’t swan around pretending I’m on holiday. I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to tell Ellen. And what is Constance going to do, and Jonathan? If the whole thing gets out, I could be fired.’

‘No you won’t,’ says Charlie. ‘I promise. Don’t forget, he doesn’t come out very well from it either. Now, how about you show me some of the sights of Paris?’

Six hours later, I’m sitting at a table in a bar near the Eiffel Tower, flipping through my Instagram pictures of our day out. There’s one of me flattening my nose against the window of Ladurée; me afterwards with a box full of
macarons
. There’s Charlie having a huge pistachio ice cream on a
bateau mouche
river trip down the Seine, which he insisted on us taking although I told him it was a rip-off, strictly for tourists.

‘But we are tourists,’ he pointed out.

To my surprise the
bateau mouche
was great, dodgy loudspeaker commentary aside. And there’s the two of us at the top of the Eiffel Tower, my hair blown vertical by the wind. Charlie claimed to be scared of heights and said he needed a drink afterwards, so we’re now having very overpriced gin and tonics off the Champ de Mars. The trauma of lunch has receded, and I’m actually having a great time. Charlie doesn’t quote Virginia Woolf, and he’s not going to expand my horizons, or anything: but he is fun.

‘I’m sorry we didn’t have time to go into the Musée D’Orsay,’ I say archly as he rejoins me, wondering if he’ll remember that this was a tip from his beloved Constance.

‘The what? Oh, the art museum. To be honest, I don’t see the point of hanging around in art museums when you’re in a foreign city. I mean, they have lots of art in London, right?’

I smile, thinking: he is sweet, but he’s still a bit of a philistine.

‘Much more important,’ he says, ‘is where you want to eat tonight. I’ve heard good things about a place across the river.’

‘Sure.’ I’m about to ask where he got his tip from before remembering: of course, it must be from Constance. I wonder what the deal is with them. When they went out together yesterday – was that a date? I might ask him over dinner. Not that I’m curious of course.

After a short Metro ride, we get out at the Pont d’Iéna, and start walking down one of the massive avenues that run parallel to the Seine.

‘Are you sure we got out at the right stop?’ I ask doubtfully. I should have known better than to trust him with something as important as dinner. I’m now starving, and if we have to trek for hours before we eat I’m going to be very bad company. I’m like the Incredible Hulk; you wouldn’t like me when I’m hungry.

‘Here we are,’ he says, sounding pleased with himself. We’re outside a vast stone modernist building right by the river.

‘Wait. Is this the Palais de Tokyo? It is!’ I remember this place: it’s a gigantic space dedicated to experimental art. Outside it looks like a 1930s stone palace; inside, it’s all unfinished, like an aircraft hangar or Battersea Power Station.

‘Apparently it has a very good restaurant. Art museums always do.’

He’s absolutely right. The dining room is a huge, buzzing space, with Manga cartoons decorating the windows and futuristic-looking giant red lanterns hanging from the high ceilings. The menu looks very exciting – we’ve barely sat down before I’m eyeing up a caramel chicken dish. Screw the diet; I’m in Paris.

‘It seems a bit of a waste not to look at the art,’ I say guiltily, as we take our seats. ‘I saw a sign for some kind of pop-up exhibition about Chanel No. 5—’

‘I wouldn’t understand it. I haven’t seen number one, two, three or four.’

I laugh. I’m relieved to see, in the mirror opposite, that the orange dress is still going strong after a day trekking up and down towers. I wish I’d thought to bring my make-up bag to do a touch-up – but it doesn’t matter, I remind myself. It’s just Charlie.

‘I might have a cocktail,’ he says, as the waiter comes over. ‘What about you? One of your Kirs?’

‘Definitely not.’ I shudder. I order a glass of white wine, and for once the waiter doesn’t reply in English.

‘This is my happy place,’ I tell Charlie, when he’s gone. ‘Most people here reply in English when I’m trying to talk French; it’s very annoying.’

‘I think they’re just trying to be helpful,’ Charlie says. ‘I find it helpful, anyway. I’d be a bit stuck if I had to rely on the ten words of French I know.’

‘Fair enough,’ I say, laughing.

When our drinks arrive, Charlie lifts his glass to me. ‘To Paris,’ he says. ‘And to you. And to me. And to publishing. And to world peace. And to Manga—’

‘OK. Very funny.’ But I’m laughing. He does sound a bit like Jonathan. ‘What are you going to have?’

‘Hm. Difficult, but probably the cauliflower soufflé, and the seared liver.’ He frowns. ‘They’ve put cow’s liver in the English menu, but they must mean calf’s, no?’

‘I’m sure they do. Beef liver is practically inedible, isn’t it?’