The Art of French Kissing (3 page)

“Yes, well, it seems his personal publicist has quit, which leaves me solely responsible for him through the launch of his album,” she went on quickly.

“That’s amazing!” I exclaimed. I felt a swell of pride for my friend, who was obviously doing quite well for herself. Unlike me.

“Right, but our big press event in London is just five weeks away, and I could really use some help,” she said. She paused and took a deep breath. “I persuaded Véronique that with your experience and connections, you’d be the perfect temporary addition to my team, and she has approved some extra money in the budget for it. So how about it, Emma? Can you come over for a month or so and help me with Guillaume’s launch?”

“Come to Paris?” I repeated. I dropped my ice-cream spoon, and it clattered loudly to the ground.

“Yes!” Poppy said gleefully. “It will be such fun! Just a little something to get you through while you look for another job. And I can help you get over Brett!”

It sounded tempting. But there was a gaping hole in her logic. “Poppy, I don’t even speak French,” I reminded her.

“Oh, pish posh,” she replied. “It’s no matter. I’ll translate for you. And besides, you’re working on Guillaume’s English launch. I’ll have you dealing mostly with British, Irish, American, and Australian journalists. It should be a piece of cake for you!”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Emma, listen to me.” Poppy was suddenly all business. “You’ve lost your fiancé. You’ve lost your friends. You’ve lost your job. Do you really have anything else to lose by coming over here for a bit?”

I thought about it for a moment. When she put it that way . . . “I guess you’re right,” I mumbled.

“And let me tell you, Emma, there’s no place better to get over a wanker like Brett than in Paris,” she added.

And so, a week and a half later, there I was, on a jet bound for a city I’d only spent a week in a decade ago to work with an old friend I hadn’t seen in ages.

Unfortunately, it never occurred to me to ask a single additional thing about Guillaume Riche or why his personal publicist had quit so close to his album launch. If I had, chances are I never would have boarded that plane.

Chapter Two

T
he jet glided into Paris’s Charles de Gaulle airport an hour ahead of schedule, which I took as a good sign. On the approach, I’d strained to see out the window, sure that I would catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame or even the winding Seine River, all landmarks that would mark my visit. Instead, all I could see were strangely geometric pastures and a low-hanging mass of dense, gray clouds that obscured everything as the plane approached the airport. It was disconcerting; this was not the France I remembered. Where were the glittering monuments and the picturesque rooftops?

I’d brought my
Fodor’s Exploring Paris
and my
Frommer’s Portable Paris
with me on the plane, with the intention of reading both of them cover-to-cover during the eight-hour flight. It had been eight years since I’d been to Paris; I’d taken a weeklong trip there with Poppy at the end of our internship when we were twenty-one. However, between the overweight businessman in the window seat, the airsick woman on the aisle jostling me constantly in my middle seat, and the fact that I was moderately scared of flying, I couldn’t focus on my guidebooks.

Instead, I thought about Brett.

I missed him. And I hated myself just a little bit for feeling that way.

If I was going to be honest with myself (and let’s face it, what did I have to lose at this point?), I’d realize that he and I were probably never meant to be in the first place.

We’d met three years ago during a Saturday ’80s night at Antigua, a club in downtown Orlando’s Church Street district. I’d been vogueing to Madonna with Lesley and Anne when a tall, dark-haired guy leaning against the bar caught my eye. He was cute, he had an enticing smile, and he was staring right at me. When “Vogue” faded and “Livin’ on a Prayer” began pumping from the speakers, I’d mumbled an excuse to the girls and made my way casually to the bar.

“Hey!” Brett had shouted over the din as I landed next to him, pretending, of course, that I’d randomly chosen that very spot to order my vodka tonic.

“Hey,” I’d responded casually, my heart thudding as I noticed for the first time what beautiful hazel eyes he had.
Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear,
Jon Bon Jovi belted out in the background, his chiseled face giant on the video screens around the room.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. I hesitated and nodded. He smiled, his cheeks dimpling. “I’m Brett,” he said.

“Emma,” I said, taking his hand.

He shook my hand up and down slowly, never breaking eye contact. “You’re beautiful, Emma,” he’d said. There was something about the way he said it that made me believe he meant it.

After we talked for half an hour and he met Lesley, Anne, and Amanda, he’d asked me if I’d come next door with him to the rooftop bar Lattitudes. We had stayed there, at a table under the moonlight, sipping vodka tonics (we had the same favorite drink), discussing movies (we both thought
Shawshank Redemption
and the indie film
Primer
were two of the best films we’d ever seen), swapping concert stories (we’d both been to the last three Sister Hazel shows at House of Blues), and talking about what we wanted in our futures. We seemed to have so much in common, and the way he gazed intently into my eyes and then smiled slowly made my heart flutter. By the end of the night, I was smitten. We went out on our first date the next night, and a month later, he called me his girlfriend for the first time. It felt perfect.

He was everything I thought I wanted—cute, successful, funny, good with people. My family loved him, and his parents grudgingly seemed to accept me. I thought we went together like peanut butter and jelly. Evidently, I hadn’t considered that one of my best friends would one day worm her way into the sandwich.

“Passeport, s’il vous plaît.”
The gruff voice of the stern-looking customs agent behind the glass cut into my thoughts. Somehow reminiscing about Brett had carried me off the plane and toward the immigration control area, like flotsam on the sea of arriving passengers.

“Um, yes, of course,” I stammered, fumbling in my bag, past the two unopened Paris books, past my pink iPod loaded with Five for Fighting, Courtney Jaye, and the Beatles, past the laptop computer I’d purchased with my holiday bonus last year. Finally, my fingers closed around the thick navy jacket of my gold-embossed American passport, and I pulled it out triumphantly.
“Voilà!”
I exclaimed happily, hoping the agent would appreciate the use of my limited French vocabulary.

He didn’t look impressed. He simply grunted, opened my passport, and studied it closely. My hair was shorter in the photo, just above my shoulders instead of just below, and since the picture had been taken in the winter, the blond strands were a few shades darker than they were now, in early May, which in Florida meant I’d already had two good months of sun. My current tan was a bit deeper and my freckles were a bit more pronounced. And of course, thanks to four weeks of unlimited cartons of mint chocolate chip (hey, it’s how I cope, okay?), I was a good ten pounds heavier than I’d been when the photo was taken. But my general dishevelment was the same. In the picture, I knew, my lipstick had worn off, my lips were cracked, and my hair looked like I’d been caught in a wind tunnel. I suspected I didn’t look much better today, having just stepped off a transatlantic flight.

“You are visiting?” the guard asked after a moment, his voice so thick with a French accent that it took me a full ten seconds to decipher what he’d said.

“Oui,”
I said firmly, although it occurred to me a moment after the word was out of my mouth that I wasn’t, in fact, a visitor. I was here to work. I wondered if I should tell him.

“For how long?” he asked, remaining stubbornly English speaking.

“Five weeks,” I replied. Suddenly the length of time sounded very long to me, and I had a strong urge to turn back around and make a dash for the departure gates.

The French guard muttered something unintelligible, stamped my passport, and handed it back to me.

“You may enter,” he said. “Enjoy your visit to France.”

And then I was in, being swept along in another tide of people into a country I hadn’t seen in years, to start a new life I wasn’t prepared for at all.

“Emma! Emma! Over here!”

I spotted Poppy the moment I passed through the doors on the far side of baggage claim, dragging my two giant purple suitcases behind me.

“Hi!” I exclaimed, feeling even more relieved to see her than I’d expected. I hoisted my laptop case and handbag up on my shoulder and dragged my enormous load of luggage toward her in what felt like slow motion. She was grinning widely and waving like a maniac.

“Welcome, welcome!” she said, clapping her hands excitedly before rushing forward to embrace me. Her shoulder-length, red-streaked dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a little too much makeup—which was pretty much how Poppy always looked. Three inches taller than me, she had a wide, ear-to-ear smile, rosy cheeks, enormous sea-green eyes, and curves she liked to describe as “voluptuous.”

Today she was dressed in a bright purple blouse, a black skirt that looked several inches too short and a size too small, and a pair of forest-green ribbed tights. She was currently giving me the signature Poppy grin, and I couldn’t help but smile back, despite my exhaustion.

“Let me help you with your bags, yeah?” she said.

With relief, I gave up one of the giant purple rollers to Poppy, who began lugging it toward the airport exit, her face promptly turning beet red from the strain.

“Emma, what on earth do you have in here?” she exclaimed after a moment. “A body?”

“Yep,” I said. “I’ve stuffed Brett into my luggage to dispose of him properly over here.”

Poppy laughed. “That’s the spirit! Give the tosser what he deserves, then!”

I smiled wanly, wishing that I felt as resentful toward Brett as Poppy evidently did. Clearly I had lost my self-respect, along with my job and fiancé.

As Poppy and I piled into a sleek black taxi and began to make our way toward the city center, I began to relax, soothed by the rhythm of her chirpy cadence. Somehow, being here with someone so familiar made the whole experience feel that much less foreign, even as everything around me was entirely unfamiliar. Gone were the Fords and Hondas and Toyotas I was used to back home. Instead the highway was a confused and honking mass of tiny smart cars, compact Peugeots, and boxy Renaults as it wove through suburbs that didn’t resemble anything I remembered about Paris.

Instead of quaint neighborhoods, rooftops with flowerpot chimney stacks, and windowsills framed by flowers, there were factories with smokestacks and enormous, characterless modern apartments with tiny balconies. Clotheslines hung with brightly colored T-shirts and jeans dotted the landscape, interspersed with hundreds of makeshift antennas. This wasn’t quite the charming France I had envisioned.

“We’re not into the city yet,” Poppy whispered, perhaps catching my worried expression.

“Oh. Right.” I felt moderately appeased.

But then our cabbie, who was mumbling to himself and driving at what seemed like the speed of light, shot off the highway, and the industrial skyline of the eastern suburbs suddenly gave way to my first glimpse of the Gothic towers of Notre Dame off in the distance.

It was the first time it had hit me—
really
hit me—that I was in Paris, a continent away from the only life I’d ever known.

I gasped. “It’s beautiful,” I said softly. Poppy squeezed my hand and smiled.

A few minutes later, as we emerged from a crowded thoroughfare, the rest of the Parisian skyline came into view, and my breath caught in my throat. In the evening light, with the sky streaked with rich shades of sunset pink, the Eiffel Tower was a soft outline against the horizon. I could feel my heart thudding against my rib cage as our taxi wove its way farther into the city, around pedestrians, past stop signs, through streets soaked with history and tradition.

As we crossed the Seine, I could see the sprawling Louvre museum, the looming Conciergerie, the stately Hôtel de Ville. The fading sunlight melted into the river and reflected back a muted blend of pastels that seemed to glow from beneath the surface. It was, I thought, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“Welcome to Paris,” Poppy said softly.

Already, I felt a bit like I was coming home.

“So what’s Guillaume Riche actually
like
?” I asked once I had settled my bags into the tiny second bedroom of Poppy’s small apartment, where I’d be staying for the next several weeks. She had misled me
slightly
when she’d said that her place was a “spacious two-bedroom flat.” In fact, it couldn’t have been more than five hundred square feet, and in the room that would be mine, I could stretch my arms out to the sides and touch both walls at once. Its one saving grace—and it was a huge saving grace—was that it was a mere two blocks from the Eiffel Tower; if you looked out the living room window, you could see the graceful iron structure rising upward behind the apartments across the courtyard. My throat felt strangely constricted each time I caught a glimpse of it.

“Oh, Guillaume? He has quite a lovely voice,” Poppy said vaguely. “Would you like a café au lait?”

“I’d love one,” I said with a smile. Poppy walked over to her tiny, crowded kitchen area and busied herself with a bright red espresso maker that hissed and spewed steam when she pressed down on the handle. “So he’s talented? Guillaume Riche?” I tried again. “I’ve never heard him sing.”

“Oh, yes, he’s quite good, really,” Poppy said hurriedly. “Would you like cinnamon on top? Or whipped cream perhaps?”

I had a nagging feeling that she was purposely avoiding my questions. “I think it’s really cool that you’re working with him. He’s huge right now,” I said, making a third attempt to bring him up. “I heard a rumor he was dating Jennifer Aniston.”

“Just a rumor,” Poppy said promptly.

“How can you be so sure?”

Poppy shot me a sly grin. “Because I’m the one who started it. It’s all about building buzz.”

I stared at her, incredulous. “And the rumor that he wanted to adopt a baby from Ethiopia, like Angelina and Brad?”

Poppy smiled sheepishly. “I started that one, too,” she admitted.

“But that’s why the press have started calling him
Saint Guillaume
!” I exclaimed. “It’s not even true?”

“Not at all,” Poppy said, winking at me.

“So what
can
you tell me about him?” I asked as we walked into the living room and settled side by side onto the sofa with steaming mugs in our hands. “Is he as perfect as he always seems in the magazines? Or have you made that up, too?” The sofa was lumpy, and I could see water stains on the ceiling, but there was something about the window box of yellow daisies and the quaint rooftops across the miniature courtyard outside that made the apartment seem much more luxurious than it probably was. I took a sip of the café au lait Poppy had made.

“Er . . .” Poppy seemed to be at a loss for words, quite a rare condition for her. “Yes, he’s wonderful,” she said finally. “Do you fancy a croissant with that café au lait? I picked some up this morning from the patisserie on the corner.”

“That sounds great,” I said, suddenly realizing how hungry I was. Poppy hopped up from the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen, where I could hear the rustling of a paper bag.

I stood up while I waited for her to come back and studied the tall bookcase against the wall, which was overflowing with more than forty of what appeared to be self-help books. I read a few of the spines:
How to Make Men Lust After You,
Forty Dates with Forty Men,
Boys Love Bitches,
Love Them and Leave Them.
I shook my head and smiled. Poppy had always gone overboard on things. I’d had no idea that self-help dating books were her new obsession.

“This is quite a collection you have here,” I said to Poppy as she returned with a pair of delectably flaky-looking croissants on a pale pink plate.