I Heart Paris
Lindsey Kelk
Angela is in the city of love – but romance is taking a nose-dive…When Angela Clark’s boyfriend Alex suggests a trip to Paris at the same time as hip fashion mag Belle asks her to write a piece, she jumps at the chance.But even as she’s falling for the joie de vivre of Paris, someone’s conspiring to sabotage her big break. And when she spots Alex having a tête-à-tête with his ex in a local bar, Angela’s dreams of Parisian passion all start crashing down around her.With London and her old life only a train journey away, Angela can’t decide if should stay and face the music or run away home…
I Heart Paris
Lindsey Kelk
Copyright (#ulink_213b86d8-3ace-54f8-ae78-9518e30282bd)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
A Paperback Original 2010
FIRST EDITION
Copyright © Lindsey Kelk 2010
Lindsey Kelk asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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EBook Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 9780007368679
Version: 2017-08-10
Dedication (#ulink_d9f364c7-ae59-5d59-8352-dec4275006c9)
For Mabel, Kara, Joel and Chloe – hope you’re
not too ashamed of me when you’re old enough
to read this
Contents
Title Page (#u166e5031-8548-53d1-a8d9-46d110350b6c)
Copyright (#u7e599cf6-4db6-53f3-b0ed-48664792d7c7)
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE (#uc8d6d902-29ba-53e9-b08b-7cc959b2e23f)
CHAPTER TWO (#u7b6a11b1-c50b-549c-aa07-2d7700651ad5)
CHAPTER THREE (#ua197ab27-01cc-505f-87f5-44d7c1a7704a)
CHAPTER FOUR (#uc0256a70-ec75-521b-9efd-a6692e570f16)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u319d46c1-632b-5a22-a240-230226fc6d32)
CHAPTER SIX (#u04cac326-de87-5a1b-8e6f-b10cbfd2742d)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_61580dd6-66c2-5fa1-974b-ba923bd7f49c)
New York hadn’t even attempted to cool down in the three days that I’d been away. When my friend Erin had suggested we get away to her beach house for a long weekend, I almost threw myself out of her eighteenth-storey office window to get there quicker. But three days beside the seaside only made it harder to be back in the sticky city. I’d only walked two blocks to the subway and my heel had slipped into the melting, sludgy tarmac between the paving slabs three times already. Ick. It almost made me long for a wet summer Saturday in Wimbledon. Almost.
In this cloying heat, the only way I could cope was to wear as little clothing as possible whenever I had to be outside, and spend as much time worshipping at the altar of the air-conditioning unit as humanly possible. Today’s survival ensemble was pretty much nothing more than a really long pale pink vest from American Apparel and a bangle. The bangle was to show I had actually put some thought into getting dressed and hadn’t just wandered out in my underwear. Back in London, I would never, ever have left the house in something so skimpy, but it was just too hot to worry about bingo wings. When I left the house, I didn’t feel as if I’d forgotten to get dressed. Right now, I was one towelling headband away from the crazy lady that liked to sit outside the twenty-fourhour deli opposite my apartment in her dressing gown and bra.
Once I was safely on the air-conditioned train, I flailed around elegant as ever, hanging from the pole in the centre of the carriage and swapped my shoes for the ever-present flip-flops in my Marc Jacobs satchel. I thought back to the precious moment when the bag had come into my life. I had treasured it more than anything else I’d ever owned, I never put it on the floor, always checked that pens had their lids on, lip glosses weren’t leaking and there was no way on God’s green earth, I’d have ever put a pair of dirty street shoes in it. Rummaging around for my left flip-flop, I wanted to shed a little tear for the unravelled stitching and the used subway cards, crumpled napkins and dozens of half empty packs of chewing gum that now littered the lining. Classy.
Changing from the Six train onto the L at Union Square, I felt myself begin to smile. The same nervous flutter started to pick up in the pit of my stomach that always attacked me when I stepped onto the train towards Brooklyn. So, maybe there was an upside to being back in the city. Alex. Of course, I wouldn’t have the L train flutters nearly as often if I would just move in with him, like he kept asking. According to my friends, it was ridiculous that I was keeping our relationship ‘bi-coastal’. I’d spent an awful lot of the weekend trying to explain to uber-Manhattanite Erin, who didn’t even venture below 14th street unless she positively had to, that Murray Hill to Williamsburg wasn’t exactly bi-coastal. And besides, I just wasn’t sure I was ready to take that step just yet. Yes, I loved Alex, yes, I wanted to spend time with him but did that mean I should shack up with him right away? No.
After I’d shuffled off the train and hauled myself up the stairs to the street, I paused for a moment to let my eyes readjust to the sunlight. As always, Alex was propped up against the corner of Bedford and North 7th, bobbing his head to whatever was coming out of his iPod, his thick black hair pushed back off his face, messed up at the back, as though he’d just got up. Which, given that it was only one in the afternoon, I guessed he probably had. Sticky August weather or not, Alex’s wardrobe never changed. Skinny black jeans clung to his legs, his T-shirt was tight to his chest and he was sipping from a steaming cup of coffee.
I shook my head. How could he drink anything hot on a day like this? Just looking at the cup made me break out in a sweat. Just looking at Alex made the flutter in my stomach graduate into a full-body shiver. I ran my ring fingers under each eye, clearing any potential mascara smudges – not even the most waterproof of mascaras could survive ninety-five degrees of New York City heat – and pulled my sunglasses out of my handbag before I started over.
‘Hey.’ Alex dropped his coffee in the bin beside him and leaned his head down to mine for a kiss. ‘How was Erin’s?’
‘Amazing,’ I replied, reaching back up for another slightly longer kiss that made me catch my breath. ‘You should come with us next time. Provincetown is beautiful.’
‘I’m not really beach people,’ he said, catching my hand in his and pulling me down the street. ‘And from the look of those shoulders, neither are you.’
‘Oh, I know.’ I shrugged the strap of my bag back on to the narrow strap of my dress, revealing my attractive lobster red skin. ‘I should just stay inside until September.’
‘Hmm.’ Alex squeezed my hand. ‘That’s not going to play exactly into my plans, but I’m not entirely against the idea.’
There was that shiver again.
‘And what plans are these?’ I asked as we walked up the block to Alex’s apartment. His place was only five minutes from the subway, but in this heat, they were five minutes too many.
‘So the band has been asked to play a festival,’ he said, forcing his hand into the skintight pocket of his jeans, feeling around for a key that wasn’t there.
‘Really? That’s great,’ I dipped my hand into the tiny pocket inside my bag and produced my key to Alex’s flat as we reached the door. He took it from me with a heart-stopping grin. It was sickening how much I fancied him. It was like, I’d see him every day and after a while I stopped seeing him. And then, out of nowhere, I’d just get a sidelong glance at him and the wind would be completely knocked out of me, as if I were seeing him for the first time.
‘See? This is why I need you to move in,’ he slid his hand around my waist and pulled me in for another, deeper kiss as we staggered sideways into the apartment building. My skin prickled with goosebumps from the shock of the air conditioning.
‘Or you could just remember to take your key out with you,’ I whispered, pulling away with stinging lips. Must remember to buy lip balm with a higher SPF. ‘Tell me about this festival.’
‘Tell me you missed me this weekend,’ he whispered back, running his finger over my bottom lip.
I paused, looking down at my flip-flops for a second. It was moments like this that made me feel like a complete idiot for not running back to Manhattan, throwing all my belongings in a bag and pitching up at the apartment in Brooklyn in a heartbeat.
‘Of course I missed you,’ I took the key from his hand and opened the apartment door. ‘Did you cry yourself to sleep every night?’
‘I cry myself to sleep every night you’re not here,’ he shot me a grin and walked over to the fridge, producing two icy beers. ‘But since you won’t move in, I’ve had to find a way through it.’
I dropped my bag onto one of his knackered old sofas (better for it than the floor) and took the beer. This was the perfect time to have The Conversation. To say, I really do want to move in with you, but I’m ever so slightly shit-scared. But I didn’t.
Alex vanished into his bedroom and I didn’t follow. Instead I looked around the apartment. The tiny openplan kitchen, littered with take-out boxes and empty coffee cups. Two huge, squishy sofas faced the huge floor-to-ceiling windows with all of Manhattan laid out in front of us, sparkling in the sunlight. It didn’t look sweaty, hateful and oppressive from in here. It looked beautiful. And whenever I got bored of looking at the New York City skyline, if that was in fact possible, there was always the massive flat screen TV shoved in the corner, with the DVR already set to record all my favourite shows.
Was I being completely ridiculous? What was the worst that would happen? I’d move in, there would be fewer takeaway cartons in the kitchen, more products in the bathroom. We’d go to bed together every night, wake up together every morning, go out, come home, watch TV, cook, shop, clean, moan, bitch, stop having sex, stop talking, start cheating and end up hating each other.
Wow. I followed my bag down on to the sofa. Now that was not a healthy internal reaction to the idea of moving in with my lovely, lovely boyfriend.
‘So, the festival,’ Alex called from the bedroom. ‘It’s pretty cool, we’ve played it before, but they’ve asked us to come back and play again, it’s like the second headline slot.’
‘That’s amazing,’ I yelled back, trying to wipe those horrible thoughts out of my stupid head. ‘So when is it? Next summer?’
‘Uh, it’s kind of next weekend.’ He appeared in the doorway. ‘Yeah, it’s not that amazing. Someone else dropped out and we were first runner-up.’
‘But still,’ I let myself be distracted by the biceps peeping out of his T-shirt as he stretched against the door frame. ‘It’s better than a slap around the face. Is it in the city?’
‘That’s the other thing,’ he let go of the door and came over to the sofa, ‘it’s in Paris. France.’
‘Paris, France?’
‘Paris, France.’
‘Is there another Paris?’
‘Paris, Texas?’
‘All right smart arse.’ I rubbed my forehead. ‘So you’re going to Paris next weekend?’ At least that would buy me another couple of weeks to try and get over this whole moving in nonsense.
‘We’re going to Paris next weekend,’ he corrected. ‘You’ll come right? I figure I can’t leave you alone in the city after what happened in LA.’
‘Nothing happened in LA.’ I slapped his thigh. It didn’t matter how many jokes he made about my ill-fated work trip to LA, I still wasn’t OK with it. As much fun as an all-expenses paid trip to Hollywood to interview an up-and-coming Brit actor who turned out to be gay and tried to convince me to be his professional beard might sound, it almost cost me my job, my work permit and Alex. So I thought it perfectly understandable that I might still be a little bit sore about it.
‘OK, OK.’ Alex grabbed my hands to hold off the attack. ‘So how about you look at it like a romantic trip to Paris. We’ve never taken a trip before.’
‘True.’ I nodded, letting him slide his hands up from my wrists to interlink his fingers with mine. ‘And I have always wanted to go to Paris.’
‘You’ve never been?’ he asked, looking surprised. I shook my head. ‘But it’s so close to the UK.’
‘I missed the GCSE trip after I fell down a pothole on the geography field trip,’ I admitted. ‘Not my finest moment.’
‘I don’t know what a pothole is, but it sounds like something you would do.’ He kissed me lightly on the lips. ‘You know I love you even though you’re a walking disaster zone, right?’
‘Thanks.’ I couldn’t really be offended, it was true. I’d already broken two glasses in a week. ‘Won’t Paris be super expensive though? I’m still broke from LA.’
Broke, but beautifully dressed, I thought, just not today.
‘You don’t need to worry about anything.’ Alex started to plait a section of my hair. ‘I’m hardly gonna ask you to come away with me and then expect you to pay for it.’
‘But I want to.’ I frowned. ‘I don’t want you to have to pay for everything. You know I’m really not that girl.’
‘I thought every girl was the “let my boyfriend take me to Paris for the weekend” kind of a girl,’ Alex said, pulling my hair. ‘Or is this just an excuse for you to weasel out of the trip the same way you’re trying to weasel out of moving in with me?’
‘I’m not weaseling out of anything,’ I pulled the loose plait out of his hands. ‘I do want to go to Paris, I just don’t want you to have to pay for me to go to Paris. I’ll find a way to make it work. And if it’s next weekend, we’ll be away for your birthday. Your big three-oh.’
Alex’s thirtieth birthday had been looming on the horizon for months and, while he was pretending to be super cool about it, the official line was that I wasn’t allowed to ‘make a big deal out of nothing’, which I had translated from boy-speak to mean ‘if I don’t acknowledge it, it won’t actually happen’. Typical boy-logic that could be applied to many, many of his actions.
‘Yeah, well, who doesn’t want to be in Paris for their birthday?’ he shrugged. ‘The record company want us to play a couple of warm-up shows, the festival is on Sunday, but I’ll keep Friday night free so we can do dinner or something. What could we do in New York that we can’t do just as good in Paris? Or even better?’
He kissed me lightly on the lips and waited for a response. Sneaky tactics, he knew I wasn’t at my full mental capacity when there was kissing involved.
‘I don’t know, I told you, I’ve never been to Paris,’ I managed to get in, between kisses. ‘When would we leave?’
‘Monday?’
Untangling his hands from my hair, I pulled away slightly trying to remember what day it was. That was the problem with working from home, I had absolutely no sense of time. ‘Today’s Tuesday, there’s too much to organize with work and the flat and, really, Alex, it’s only six days.’
‘It turns me on when you are so smart.’ He persisted with the kissing, moving on to my neck and pushing me backwards against the sofa. ‘There’s nothing to freak out about, Angela. You pack a bag, you tell work that you’re blogging from Paris for a week, you leave Vanessa in the apartment, we go to Paris. And if you’re gonna go all feminazi on me paying for your flight, you can make it my birthday present. Seriously, how many times do I have to tell you to stop over-thinking everything?’
‘At least once more,’ I said, giving up. I reached my arms up around his neck and shifted around on to the sofa as his hand moved up my thigh and under the thin cotton of my dress-slash-vest. ‘So you say you missed me this weekend.’
I felt his breath against my ear, giving me an altogether different case of goosebumps.
‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_51cd2585-a095-500c-a66d-8df47ab4c33c)
‘What is that noise?’ Alex groaned from underneath his covers.
‘My phone,’ I staggered out of bed the next morning and rolled into the living room, swearing and following the beeps. ‘Go back to sleep.’ I plunged an arm into the darkness that I hoped was the sofa until I felt my vibrating phone.
‘Yeah?’ I answered eloquently.
‘Hi, Angela?’
‘Muh?’ I mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. What time was it anyway?
‘Angela, it’s Cici? From the office? Were you still in bed, sleepyhead?’
There was no wonder I was shocked. If I had to name a New York nemesis, it would be Cici. She was my boss’s assistant at The Look, tall, skinny, loaded, desperately ‘On-Trend’ and, God bless her, she might hate me with a fiery passion, but at least I could rely on her to be consistent. Until today. Shit.
‘Erm, I was in the shower,’ I lied for absolutely no reason. I pulled the phone away from my ear. According to the clock flashing on bedside table, it was eight-thirty a.m. There was no conceivable reason why I wouldn’t still be in bed. Was there? Had I forgotten something? ‘What’s wrong, Cici?’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she giggled. Actually giggled. ‘Mary just asked that I give you a call to see if you could make an early lunch meeting today. Well, not really a meeting, more of a get-together. Twelve? Pastis?’
I almost dropped the phone. Mary Stein, my editor at Spencer Media, had never so much as walked me out of her office let alone taken me to lunch. ‘Yes?’ I asked as much as confirmed.
‘Awesome.’ Cici giggled. Again. ‘Oh, Mary said to let you know that Mr Spencer, as in Spencer Media, will be joining the two of you. So…and I just want you to know that I say this with love, you should dress up. You know, just don’t wear what you usually wear here. Or anything you’ve ever worn here. It’s kinda fancy.’
And there was the Cici we all knew and loved. Before I could even sigh in reply, she’d hung up. Sitting in my knickers on the cold laminate flooring, I stared out of the window at the city in front of me. Lunch with Mr Spencer as in Spencer Media? What was that supposed to mean? Surely it had to be good though, there was no way it could be a bad thing.
What was a bad thing, was the state of me, I thought, peering at my reflection in the window as I pushed myself back up. I couldn’t really show up at Pastis in a vest and flip-flops with just-shagged hair. Bedhead was great in theory, but in reality, it just looked as though I hadn’t showered.
‘Do I have any clothes here?’ I asked a sleepy-looking Alex, as I dropped to my hands and knees in the bedroom to search for a stray dress or errant smock under his bed.
‘Pretty sure you came in clothes,’ he mumbled, throwing his forearm over his eyes. ‘I know you lose shit all the time, but surely you haven’t managed to lose your clothes in a one-bedroom apartment overnight.’
‘You’re hilarious.’ I pulled the slightly worse for wear strappy dress from yesterday out from under the pile made up of Alex’s jeans and T-shirt. ‘Work just called, I have to meet Mary for a meeting at Pastis at lunch. I have to go home and get changed.’
‘If you lived here you wouldn’t have to,’ he replied without moving.
‘You make a fine point,’ I said, wriggling into my dress. Leaning over the bed, I gave him a quick kiss and a gentle slap around the head. ‘I’ll call you later.’
‘Yeah yeah,’ he smiled, still with his deep green eyes closed. ‘I know I’m nothing more than a booty call to you. You callous, British heartbreaker.’
I paused in the doorway, slipping my feet into my Havaianas, and watched him shuffle back under the thin white sheet on his bed. I was being stupid. Imagine waking up to that messy black bedhead every morning. And imagine not having to leg it back to Manhattan to use a decent brand of shampoo, conditioner of any kind, and find something to wear. How did boys keep their hair so soft without conditioner? Was the whole industry a sham? I shook my head and tried to concentrate. Now was not the time to worry about the effectiveness of Pantene.
‘You planning on going soon or are you just gonna stand there and freak me out all day?’ Alex asked from under his covers, making me jump.
‘Going,’ I said, grabbing my handbag from the sofa. ‘Gone.’
‘I’ll come over tonight? We’ll talk Paris?’ he called.
‘Tonight,’ I agreed, closing the door behind me. Shower and Pastis first. Alex and Paris later.
Putting myself together for my lunch meeting would have been a lot easier if I hadn’t started running through a million different terrifying scenarios in my head on the way home, during my shower, through every wardrobe change and while applying the few scraps of make-up that might not melt off on my way downtown to Pastis. I hailed a yellow cab outside the apartment in my LA-purchased dandelion yellow Phillip Lim dress and gold strappy flats, and tried not to think about all the reasons Mr Spencer might want to see me. Maybe he just wanted to meet the girl that had interviewed and inadvertently outed James Jacobs. Lots of people did. Mostly women, young and old, who wanted to give me a really, really filthy look and then ask me incredibly inappropriate questions about his boyfriend.
Or maybe he was a fan of my blog. My slightly random English-girl-living-in-New-York-rambling-on-about-her-everyday-life blog. Yes, that would definitely appeal to a sixty-something media magnate. Or perhaps he was a massive fan of the Shakira album review I’d just filed? Or perhaps he was a massive Shakira fan and didn’t like the album review? Surely not, I’d been super kind. No, there were just too many possibilities even to begin guessing.
I hoped and prayed all the way downtown that Cici would have booked us a table inside the restaurant, very near an air-conditioning unit, and not one of the see-and-be-seen tiny tables outside looking out on to the cobbles of the Meatpacking District, but as the cab swerved across the street, I could see Mary’s steel-grey bob sitting opposite an equally authoritative head of icy white hair. Not only was I the last to arrive, I was going to be stuck sweating like a pig in the street. Fantastic. Attempting to get out of the cab in a ladylike fashion and failing, I stumbled forwards, snagging the front of my sandal in the cobblestones. I caught myself at the last minute, stood up, straightened my skirt and gave Mary a half wave. I couldn’t see behind her massive black sunglasses, but I was fairly certain the smile she gave me in return did not make it all the way up to her eyes.
‘Angela Clark, this is Robert Spencer,’ she said, rising out of her chair as I hobbled around the table.
Mr Spencer held out his hand and gave me a very, very firm handshake. Ow.
‘Well, hello Angela,’ he said, gesturing for me to take a seat beside Mary. ‘I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a while. And please, call me Bob.’
I gave Mary a quick sideways look, but she was too busy spitting her water back into her glass to respond.
‘Thank you, uh, Bob,’ I replied, setting my handbag between my feet, underneath the table. ‘It’s really lovely to meet you. A real privilege. An honour, really.’ Mary kicked me sharply under the table before I could carry on. It seemed fair.
‘Not at all,’ he said smoothly, nodding to the waiter at his elbow to pour three large glasses of white wine. ‘I always like to take time out to meet our rising stars here at Spencer Media.’
He held up his glass. ‘To you, Angela.’
‘Thank you.’ I tried not to think about what could happen if I started drinking wine on a completely empty and panicky stomach and took a small sip.
‘So, Mr Spencer wanted to meet with you and talk about some new opportunities,’ Mary said, folding the menu with which she was clearly very familiar. ‘Things you might do outside the blog, outside The Look.’
‘He did?’ I asked, staring into the opaque glass of her sunnies. Was she serious?
‘Ladies,’ Mr Spencer folded up his own menu and placed it in front of him. ‘Shall we at least order before we talk business?’
‘Of course, Bob,’ Mary smiled tightly and sipped her wine. It was so strange. I’d never seen her outside her office and she did not look comfortable at all. In fact, nothing about this entire scenario was comfortable. I was starting to feel as if I were at dinner with my mum and dad while they were in the middle of a particularly nasty argument. And no one who’s ever argued with my mum would want that.
‘Have you eaten at Pastis before, Angela?’ Bob asked.
I shook my head and chugged my wine. I had a feeling that it was just going to be better to avoid talking whenever possible.
‘Then I’d recommend the scallops to start and then maybe the pasta puttanesca?’ Bob folded up his menu.
‘You know pasta puttanesca means whore’s pasta?’ I dropped in casually.
Mary coughed into her wine glass.
‘I mean, it’s what whores would make after they’d you know, worked.’ I looked from Mary to Bob and back to Mary again. Yep. Should have stuck with the no talking plan.
‘Perhaps the moules frites,’ Bob said quietly.
Before I could agree, someone’s mobile started to chirp. Bob pushed out his chair and took a tiny phone out of his jacket pocket. ‘So sorry ladies, that’s me. Excuse me for a moment?’
‘Of course, Bob,’ Mary said again, this time through gritted teeth as he left the table.
‘How is he even wearing a jacket?’ I asked, turning in my seat to watch him walk out into the street. My head span as I turned back around. ‘It is so bloody hot.’
‘If I were you, I wouldn’t drink quite so fast, Angela,’ Mary said, pouring me a glass of water. ‘This isn’t a social lunch.’
‘Arses. I was really, really hoping that it was,’ I reluctantly swapped my, wow, more than half empty wine glass for a tumbler of water. ‘So what is it?’
‘It’s a pain in my ass, is what it is.’ Mary drained her wine glass and returned my raised eyebrow with a look of her own. ‘I can hold my liquor, don’t you worry. This, Angela, is a “Big Deal For You”. Apparently one of Bob’s granddaughters is your “biggest fan” and she seems to think you should be doing more, I don’t know, “legitimate journalism” for some of Spencer’s other magazines like Icon or Belle.’
‘Legitimate journalism?’ I didn’t enjoy the number of times she had made air quotes during her last sentence. ‘Belle? They want me to write on a fashion magazine?’
‘Apparently so. I don’t know what though, so don’t ask me.’ She poured herself more wine. ‘I’m only here because I heard about this through Cici and called Bob to find out what the hell was going on.’
‘Hang on a minute, how did Cici hear?’ Now I was really confused.
‘Cici Spencer. She’s one of Bob’s granddaughters.’
I was sober in a heartbeat. ‘Of course she is.’
‘You don’t think I employ her for her charm, do you?’ Mary gave me an understanding grimace. ‘Bob and I are old friends.’
It took everything I had not to raise an eyebrow. Old friends. That old chestnut.
‘But Cici hates me,’ I said, swapping my water for wine. Definitely time for wine. If I was going to stay in control of my facial expressions as well as my mouth though, I had to stay off the booze. ‘Why would she tell her grandfather to give me more work?’
‘Cici doesn’t hate you,’ Mary said, topping up my water again. ‘Cici is jealous of you. She knows she’s only my assistant because of who her grandfather is. She’s been trying to get on the writing staff since she finished college, but even Bob knows she can’t write for shit.’
‘Oh. Wow. That’s awful.’
‘Don’t start feeling sorry for her Angela, she’s a bitch. And she’d get rid of you without a second thought if she thought she could take your job.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said, packing away any blossoming Cici-sympathy. ‘But then why would she recommend me for more projects?’
‘I keep waiting for her to lose interest and embrace her trust fund like her sister, but that girl just will not give up,’ Mary nodded towards Bob as he strode back towards the table. ‘I’d be impressed at her tenacity if she were working for anyone else, but me. And don’t be a fool. She didn’t, it was her cousin.’
Bob took his seat opposite me as our starters arrived. The food looked delicious, but I really wasn’t very hungry any more.
‘Apologies ladies, I’ve asked my secretary to stop my calls for the next couple of hours, so I’m all yours,’ he said with another beaming smile.
‘What a relief,’ Mary replied, spearing a scallop.
I looked nervously from one to the other, Bob’s benevolent grin clashing with Mary’s openly pissed off expression, and reached for the wine. Sod it.
‘Let me,’ Mary said, snatching the bottle from my hand and splashing a mouthful of wine in the bottom of my glass.
This wasn’t going to be awkward at all.
‘I don’t know if you’re aware, Angela, but you have a great fan in one of my granddaughters,’ Bob finally got around to business over coffee. After Mary had refused dessert on behalf of both of us. Bugger.
I blew on my cappuccino and smiled nervously. It was still far too hot for coffee, but this really didn’t feel like a Diet Coke kind of situation. ‘Really? I didn’t know that,’ I lied, hopefully convincingly.
‘Oh yes. And Mary speaks very, very highly of your writing.’
‘She does?’ No need to fake surprise this time. ‘You do?’
‘I do,’ Mary replied, grudgingly. ‘Your blog is very good.’
‘And the piece you did for Icon, I read that one, Angela. Very good. You have a fun style, very personable.’ Bob set down his coffee cup. ‘I understand from Mary that you’re only with us on a part-time basis at the moment. On a freelance arrangement?’
‘Well, I don’t work in the office,’ I explained, trying to read Mary’s face,, which she was hiding behind her poker straight bob. ‘But my work permit is tied to my writing the blog for The Look, so…’
‘We own her ass, Bob, so just get to where you’re going,’ Mary interrupted. ‘You’re taking her off me, is that right?’
‘Not at all,’ he shook his head and covered one of her hands with his. ‘You know I’d never tread on your toes. Although I do think it would be in Angela’s interests to spread her wings a little. Get a broader experience of Spencer Media. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in, Angela?’
I bit my lip and nodded. I was worried that if I actually made a noise, Mary might throw her espresso in my face. And there might not be a lot of coffee in that cup, but it looked really hot.
‘Fantastic, maybe you could come in and meet the Belle team next week,’ Bob suggested. ‘Maybe think of a couple of ideas to bring to the meeting. I know Emilia is very keen to meet you.’
Mary and I choked on our coffees in tandem. Emilia Kitt, editor of Belle magazine, Spencer Media’s fashion monthly, was notoriously not keen on meeting anyone. As in anyone. I had been in for a meeting with Mary a few weeks ago and saw Angelina Jolie waiting in the lobby. And she was still waiting when I left. For Emilia.
‘This is probably a really stupid thing to say, but I’m actually going to be in Paris next week,’ I said, not sure whether or not I was making a huge mistake. ‘From Monday. For a week.’
‘You are? Since when?’ Mary asked.
‘I only found out yesterday.’ I turned to give her my best ‘help me out’ face. Bob’s expression really hadn’t changed all through lunch so I had no idea what he was thinking. ‘It’s my boyfriend’s thirtieth birthday.’
No one looked particularly impressed.
‘He’s in a band and they’ve been asked to play a festival in Paris.’
Still not impressed. And now Bob was looking at me as if I were a groupie.
‘And I thought it would be really good for the blog. Didn’t the visitor numbers go up when I was in LA?’
‘Yes, but you were plastered all over the gossip pages when you were in LA,’ Mary reminded me, unnecessarily. ‘Are you planning on making an international spectacle of yourself in Paris?’
‘Wasn’t planning on it the first time, so who can say?’ I defended myself pathetically.
‘I think this all sounds great,’ Bob said, finally breaking the stony silence that had built up between me and Mary. ‘Emilia is planning a European issue in a couple of months. Perhaps you could put together an insider’s guide to Paris for Belle? Off the beaten track, show us all the underground hotspots?’
‘I could do that,’ I agreed slowly.
‘Then you’ll come in and meet the Belle team tomorrow.’ Bob suddenly got up from the table. ‘I’ll have Emilia’s assistant call you later today, Angela.’
Mary stood up just as suddenly and, not knowing what else to do, I followed suit and accepted Bob’s overly dramatic air kisses.
‘Lovely to meet you, Angela, and Mary, always a pleasure.’ He smiled and walked over towards a long black town car that had just pulled up beside the restaurant. Mary sank back down into her chair and emptied her wine glass.
‘Cheap bastard didn’t even pick up the bill.’ Mary shook her head and pulled a huge wallet out of her even bigger bag. ‘Well, I hope you’re happy, Angela Clark.’
‘Shouldn’t I be?’ I asked, trying to work out what had just happened. And whether or not Mary was sleeping with Bob. Because she most definitely had been at some point.
‘Writing for Belle magazine is not going to be the same as writing a blog for me.’ She called over a waiter and passed him a black American Express card. ‘You’re going to need to know exactly what you’re doing.’
‘But I can do this, the travel guide to Paris,’ I said. ‘It’ll be fine. Won’t it?’
‘You know I like you, Angela,’ Mary said, putting her elaborate signature on to the credit card slip. ‘But if you fuck this one up, there’s no way I can help you. The girls on Belle are not the girls on The Look or Icon.’
‘But they want me to do this, don’t they?’ This did not sound promising. ‘I mean, it was their idea?’
‘It was Bob’s idea,’ Mary corrected me. ‘Worse, it was Bob’s granddaughter’s idea. Just, before you go in to the office, know that the girls on Belle make Cici look like a labradoodle. Each and every one of them has destroyed the career of someone else, or slept with at least three different married men to be there.’
‘They sound nice.’
‘Then I’m underselling what a pack of bitches they are.’ Mary tucked her wallet back into her bag. ‘They’re not going to love that you’re waltzing through the door with a Paris assignment without ever having so much as broken a nail at Fashion Week. Not that any of them have actually ever broken a nail in their lives. Unless it was to scratch someone else’s eyes out.’
‘Oh bloody hell,’ I said, breathing in deeply. ‘Any way I can get out of this?’
‘Not now Bob’s involved,’ Mary said, standing up again. ‘Look, I don’t want to be too cynical, this could be great for you. Just keep your eyes open, OK? And you might want to get a haircut before your meeting.’
Well, I thought, pinching the ends of my bob, checking the split ends and sighing, at least Paris will be fun.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_02e5dd10-e876-555d-83ca-6affa85152b0)
Three hours later, after a hastily arranged trim and several buckets of iced tea, I’d found the last shred of shade in Central Park and was halfway through my Rough Guide to Paris, with the Lonely Planet and Wallpaper guides well thumbed beside me. I scribbled down address after address in my notebook, but somehow my mind kept flitting back to an image of me and Alex skipping along the banks of the Seine, him in a black polo neck, holding a cigarette, and me in a very fetching stripy sweater dress and beret. Sometimes I was clutching a baguette. Sometimes I relocated us to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It was all very Tom and Katie. Except less creepy.
An irritating beeping snapped me out of my fantasy. I looked around, but for some reason, everyone was staring at me. It took me a couple of moments to realize that it was my phone ringing and a couple more redfaced seconds to find it in the bottom of my bag.
‘Hello?’ I answered, eventually.
‘Is that Angela Clark? This is Esme from Belle magazine. You have an appointment with Donna Gregory tomorrow at nine. Please be in the Belle reception at eight forty-five a.m.’
‘Uh, OK?’ Esme from Belle magazine was all business. ‘Will Emilia be in the meeting?’
‘Sorry?’ Esme from Belle magazine sounded confused.
‘Emilia. Bob, Mr Spencer, said she was keen to meet me,’ I explained, feeling a little bit like an idiot.
‘Oh. No.’ Esme from Belle magazine confirmed I was in fact, an idiot. ‘Do you need directions to the offices?’
‘No, I actually work on The Look so—’
‘Oh, cute. Then we’ll see you at eight forty-five,’ Esme from Belle magazine confirmed. And hung up.
I lay back on the grass and stared up at the sunshine. This was going to take some thinking about. Writing my blog was great, but writing for Belle? It could just be incredible…Everyone read Belle, it was global, it was massive. And surely Mary was just throwing a hissy fit because she was pissed off that Bob had gone over her head. It made sense, she didn’t like having her writers poached for bigger publications. She was the online editor at TheLook.com. With Belle, we were talking the printed pages of the world’s biggest fashion monthly. There was way too much at stake here for me to worry about offending Mary’s ego, that wasn’t going to get me anywhere fast. She had offered me the moon on a stick when I’d pulled off the James Jacobs interview and so far I’d seen an awful lot of the stick and not very much else. Where was my monthly column in The Look? Still ‘under discussion.’ This was an opportunity that I would not cock up.
My phone was still hot in my hand from my brief chat with Esme when I felt it vibrate into life again.
Did u get ur hair cut yet? It looked like shit last week xoxo
Of course it was Jenny. I checked my watch for the time difference between LA and New York, five p.m. here, two there. Knowing her, she’d probably just woken up. My best friend and first New York roommate, Jenny Lopez, had been out in LA for the last five months, and from the look of the constant stream of photographs she sent over, she was having a fairly good time. If you considered partying with pop stars, hanging out with celebutantes and twenty-four-seven shopping with someone else’s credit card for ‘work’ having a good time. Which I was fairly certain she did. And while it was much easier to get my work done without Hurricane Jenny in the apartment, I missed her horribly. Even with the continuous flow of text messages, emails, phone calls and, ever since she’d bought her new laptop a month ago, video calls, New York sometimes felt empty without her. And America’s Next Top Model marathons just weren’t the same without her screaming ‘Smize, bitch!’ at the top of her voice. It was good to know I could always trust her to be worried about the big issues at all times. Rolling over on to my stomach, I quickly tapped out a reply.
YES. Guess what? Going to Paris with Alex next week!
I checked to make sure my skirt was still covering my knickers while I waited for her reply. Maintaining your modesty was never easy when your skirt only just covers your pants in the first place.
GOOD. And Paris? 4real? Yay-we’re-movin-in-together trip?
I paused to tie up my newly chopped hair. The loss of my split ends was great, but it was just too hot to have my long bob flopping around the back of my neck.
Just a trip. Talk later x
Having managed to get myself into a relatively uncomfortable, relatively non-knicker flashing position that was, for the time being at least, out of the sun, I flipped through my phone book, looking for someone else to talk to so I didn’t have to move.
Hey Lou, you still up? A x
Before I could send another message, my phone started to buzz again and Louisa’s name flashed up on the screen.
‘Hey!’ I answered happily. ‘How are you? What are you up to?’
‘Hello you,’ Louisa replied over a crackly line. ‘I was just online. I’m trying to book a caterer for our wedding anniversary.’
Louisa had been my best friend for ever, but I hadn’t actually laid eyes on her since I’d accidentally ruined her wedding reception. It wasn’t like I’d meant to break her new husband’s hand, but I was a little bit upset having just found my fiancé shagging some tart in the back of our Range Rover. Of course I’d upped sticks and run away to New York the very next day. Who wouldn’t?
‘Oh my God, it’s been a year already?’ I couldn’t quite believe it. So much had happened. ‘It’s gone so quickly.’
‘It’s been a year,’ Louisa said. ‘Think you’re ready for a repeat performance?’
‘Maybe not just yet. You’re having a party?’
‘Er, yes. Tim thought,’ she sounded as though she was picking her words very carefully, ‘it might be nice to have a bit of a do what with last year’s…fireworks.’
‘Right,’ I pressed my lips together in a tight, thin line. ‘Well, you can tell him not to worry about me. I’ll actually be in Paris.’
‘You’re going to Paris?’ Lou squealed. ‘But that’s so close by! You have to come to the party.’
I held my phone away from my ear. ‘Oh, I’d love to,’ I was lying a lot today. ‘But Alex is playing at a festival and I’m reviewing it for Belle, so I just wouldn’t be able to get away.’
‘Really? Belle? Wow!’ Louisa made a small mewing noise that I chose to ignore. ‘But you can’t be so close by and not come and visit. What did your mum say?’
‘My mum hasn’t said anything because I haven’t told her yet,’ I said quickly. ‘And I’m not convinced I’m going to so please don’t say anything if you see her.’
‘Oh, Angela,’ I could feel a lecture coming, ‘I know your mum can be hard work, but she does miss you.’
‘Playing the mum card is the wrong way to guilt trip me into coming home. You of all people should know that,’ I warned. ‘Besides, since she and dad took that internet course I can’t bloody get rid of them. Did you know they have Skype?’
‘I had heard,’ Louisa said. ‘She’s always on about it to my mum in the supermarket. So Alex is playing a festival? I can’t believe you’re going out with a rock star. Is it amazing? Has he written any songs about you?’
‘He’s not a rock star,’ I gave my official line. ‘He’s just Alex.’
I felt myself flush from head to toe. It wasn’t entirely true. I absolutely loved that Alex was in a band. I loved that I got to watch him get all sweaty onstage, singing songs he’d written for me. I loved to see a room full of chin-stroking hipsters and doe-eyed girls with ironic tattoos in vintage dresses staring at him while he did something he loved, something he was amazing at. But really, day in and day out, it wasn’t about him being a rock god. It was about him buying tea bags for his apartment without me asking, even though he hated tea, the way he always Tivo’d Gossip Girl for me, even the repeats, and how, when he was writing a new song, he would sit cross-legged on the living-room floor with his acoustic guitar, fringe flopping into his eyes, tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, always with a Diet Dr Pepper. Everyday life really wasn’t rock and roll, but it was sort of wonderful.
‘Yeah, right,’ Louisa said, entirely disbelievingly. ‘You love it.’
‘Well, maybe.’ No point even trying to lie to Lou. ‘He’s actually asked me to move in with him.’
‘Wow, really? Already?’
‘It’s not that soon, I’ve known him for a year,’ I said, surprised to find someone who wasn’t jumping up and down with joy while simultaneously packing my bags for me.
‘But it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing, has it, honey?’ Louisa said diplomatically. ‘I just don’t want you to rush into anything. You’re not lonely out there, are you? You know you can always come back. Any time. Just say the word and I will have your room ready.’
‘Louisa, calm down, everything is fine.’ Bless her heart. ‘I’m fine and I’m not rushing. Honest. I haven’t even decided if I’m going to move in yet.’
‘I just worry about you, that’s all,’ Lou replied. ‘Anyway, if you can’t come to me, how about I come to you? Will you have an afternoon free for lunch or something? Are you there on the Saturday?’
‘That actually sounds brilliant,’ I said, suddenly excited at the idea of seeing Louisa, not in a wedding/wedding reception/wedding anniversary/anything to do with weddings situation. ‘I would love that.’
‘Fantastic!’ Louisa squealed again. ‘Let’s be really cheesy and meet under the Eiffel Tower or something.’
‘Yeah, OK.’ I smiled. That was just the sort of thing Jenny would want to do. God forbid the two of them should ever be in the same place at the same time. The universe might implode or something. ‘I actually cannot believe it’s been a year.’
‘I know,’ Louisa said. ‘I think the longest I’d gone without seeing you before you abandoned me was something like four days.’
‘Surely not more than three,’ I was surprised at how upset I was all of a sudden. I really hadn’t been that homesick since I got to New York. When had I had time? ‘I’ll text you when I get to Paris. Love you, Lou.’
‘You too honey. Can’t wait to see you and maybe you could bring this non-rock star of yours for my approval?’
I pursed my lips. ‘Yeah, if he’s not rehearsing or something, then yeah, definitely.’ Was it weird that I felt a bit queasy at the idea of mixing my two lives up like that? ‘Talk to you later.’
I hung up and smiled. It would be amazing to see Louisa. It would be amazing to go to Paris. It would be amazing to write for Belle. It would be amazing to take a trip with Alex. Really, this wasn’t turning out to be the worst Wednesday in the world ever.
After another hour of lounging in the park, the sun finally worked its way around to my safe little spot and forced me to drag myself home. Vanessa, my temporary roommate, was at work at The Union and so the apartment was eerily quiet and ridiculously hot. I bashed the air-conditioning unit sticking out of the living-room window and grabbed a Popsicle out of the freezer before sitting down at my laptop. What would the Adventures of Angela reveal today? I logged into TheLook.com, clicking through the links until I got to my blog.
When I started writing, almost a year ago, I’d found it so hard to put my thoughts well, not exactly down on paper, but it was tricky to write about what was going on in my life and then post it online for all the world to see. But now I found it so cathartic. Writing the blog really helped me clear my head and make sense of things. I’d learned what was safe to put up there and what wasn’t, how to share what was going on without spilling anyone’s secrets, and for the most part, I only got nice comments and emails, at least no one had ever chased me down the street with flaming torches and pitchforks. And apparently, my mother had got bored of reading it some time ago. Thank God. I started tapping away into the empty white box.
The Adventures of Angela: Ooh la la
Today has been one of those days when everything happened at once. My boyfriend asked me to go to Paris with him next week, I had a really important work meeting which has led to a really really exciting new project, I arranged to meet up with my best friend from London, oh, and I got my hair cut. It’s been a big day.
But aside from the massively dramatic event that was taking half an inch off the ends of my bob, how exciting is Paris? I know I’m a bit rubbish for not having gone before, especially when I lived in London for five years, but yay, I’m going now! And sigh, with my boy. And that’s the only way to do Paris isn’t it? It’ll be all romantic walks down the Left Bank, holding hands outside Notre-Dame, watching the sunset from the top of the Eiffel Tower. I am a little bit concerned about the wardrobe though – my experience of Paris is more or less limited to Funny Face, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and the last third of The Devil Wears Prada. So it’s either black turtlenecks and pedalpushers or haute couture. Hmm. And bugger.
So, while I try to resolve my sartorial crisis, please let me know if you have any Parisian advice – I want to know exactly where to sip my chocolat chaud and bag the best baguettes. And obviously, any shopping suggestions are more than welcome. My heart says Chanel, but my head and credit limit says flea market. Why don’t you send both and I’ll work it out once I get there…
Before I could really start thinking about actually getting to Paris, I had to get through my meeting at Belle. Maybe it would be a good idea to write out a proposal for this Insider’s Guide. Maybe it would be a good idea to find some Parisian insiders. Maybe it would be a good idea to spend three hours hunched over my laptop, scouring the internet. I checked in at all the usual places, Time Out Paris, Gridskipper, Citysearch, and started to pull together my synopsis. Several hours later, I had, well, something. For want of further inspiration, I swapped my crumpled sundress for a stripy Splendid vest and Hello Kitty knickers. It was just too hot to wear anything else. I took an icy can of Diet Coke from the fridge and draped myself across the sofa, rummaging around for the remote. Maybe just fifteen minutes of E! and then I’d do some more research. Or half an hour. And then an episode of America’s Next Top Model. Two hours later, looking back guiltily at the sleeping screen of my laptop, I tried to convince myself that there was in fact such a thing as too much preparation. And turned back to the TV. It really is amazing what I can talk myself into.
The next morning, it wasn’t quite as easy to believe that being over prepared was a mistake. Determined not to fall into my regular trap of waking up late and scrawling at my face with a kohl pencil, I woke up bright and early, washed my hair, did proper grown-up girl make-up and selected my most Belle appropriate ensemble, a simple vintage sky blue shift Jenny had guided me towards at a vintage store in Williamsburg. I figured that even the biggest fashion bitches would struggle to find fault with it. It couldn’t be the wrong designer because it wasn’t designer in the first place. Anyway I wasn’t worried about what these girls thought of my dress sense. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to pitch an article on the hottest trends coming from the catwalks of Milan, was I? Besides, I thought, slipping my synopsis into my bestest swankiest bright blue Marc Jacobs handbag (OK, so I was a little bit worried), I’d seen Ugly Betty, I’d seen and read The Devil Wears Prada, there was no way these girls would actually be like that. Yes, Mary had been fairly snippy about them, but then I’d never seen Mary out of jeans and Converse. She probably just didn’t like the fashiony types. It would be absolutely fine. And I had Bob’s backing. My good friend Bob. Bobbity bob bob. Oh shit, I’d gone mad.
With one last look in the mirror, I smoothed down my hair and wiped away the tiniest smudge of mascara. I could do this. I’d been writing for The Look for a year. I had my column in the UK magazine. I’d interviewed a movie star for God’s sake. All they wanted was a tourist guide to Paris. A city that hardly anyone who was going to read this magazine would ever visit. This was going to be brilliant. Easy even.
‘What this isn’t going to be is easy,’ Donna Gregory barked at me, my synopsis crumpled up in her hand. ‘Belle readers have no interest in some tragically obvious tourist piece about visiting the Eiffel Tower and taking a boat down the Seine. Our readers want to know the most exclusive, most stylish, secret sides of Paris. Not where to get the best crêpes according to Gridskipper or Time Out’s top ten scenic parks.’
I flinched in my chair. As far as I could tell, during the ten minutes I’d been in the office, Donna hadn’t even looked at my synopsis and yet she was still managing, quite adequately, to pull it apart, word by word.
‘Why do you think you should be writing for Belle, Angela?’ she asked.
‘Well, I—’
‘I mean, seriously, what makes you think that you –’ she paused to hold her hand out towards me and then wave the hand up and down to make sure I understood her critique encompassed every last little thing about me. ‘– that you should be allowed to write for Belle?’
Silence. Allowed? Why should I be allowed?
‘I’m waiting for an answer,’ Donna said.
I was stumped.
Donna wasn’t very nice.
‘Well, I might not have written a specific travel piece before, but I write about a lot of different things in my blog and I interviewed James Jacobs for Icon earlier this year so I think that I could do this,’ I said. Very quickly. All of my confidence had vamoosed and all I wanted to do was get out of the office, bury my face in a pan of chocolate brownies and cry, like the porky talentless excuse for a human being Donna so clearly thought I was.
It was fair to say that Donna Gregory wasn’t the glamazon dragon lady you might expect to find sitting behind the features editor desk of a fashion monthly. She wasn’t that tall for a start, her glossy (OK, very glossy) brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was actually wearing jeans. Very skinny and presumably expensive jeans, but jeans nonetheless. But while she might not be wearing Prada, she was certainly proving herself to be the devil. From the second I’d walked through her door, she’d more or less done nothing, but insult me.
First, I wasn’t allowed coffee because I looked like I needed a good night’s sleep and the caffeine wouldn’t help, then I was refused water in case I needed to use the bathroom, which was for staff only. The implication being that I was not now and would never be staff. But she did suggest I try drinking at least two litres a day outside of her office because I really did look a lot older than thirty. When I mentioned that I was only twenty-seven she actually made a little gasping noise and held her hand to her mouth.
Bitch.
‘Hmm, I heard about the Icon piece,’ she said, flicking through some printed out emails. ‘You’re the girl that turned James Jacobs gay, yes?’
‘For fu—I mean, no, not exactly.’ I wasn’t quite sure why I was still sitting in the office. There was no way I was going to get this job. ‘I’m pretty sure he was gay before I walked in on him and his boyfriend going at it in a public toilet. But I suppose you never know. It’s possible that my extreme level of dehydration turned him.’
Donna paused for a split second and looked at me again.
‘That dress, I don’t recognize the designer. Where’s it from?’ she asked.
‘I got it from Beacon’s Closet, it’s vintage,’ I said with a modicum of pride. Vintage was cool, wasn’t it?
‘Right.’ She sighed and leaned back in her chair, stretching up to let her tiny cropped Alexander Wang T-shirt reveal a couple of inches of taut, gym-toned stomach. And I knew it was Alexander Wang because she had gone out of her way to tell me almost as soon as I walked in the door. ‘Of course it’s vintage. And your boyfriend’s in some band?’
‘Alex? Yes?’ I was confused. Which, to be fair to the witch, was pretty easily done. I didn’t want her taking any sort of pleasure in that achievement. ‘But I don’t really see what that has to do with a travel piece?’
‘It has everything to do with it, Angela,’ Donna said, leaning towards me across her desk. ‘I’m going to try and be as kind as I can when I explain this to you, but whatever, there’s no point trying to sugarcoat it. You’re really not the sort of person I would have write for Belle.’
‘Really?’
This was just getting embarrassing now. How badly did I want this again? Oh yeah, really badly.
‘Really.’ Donna nodded, missing my sarcasm. ‘But Mr Spencer is very keen for us to use you for something. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that people who wear vintage don’t have a place at Belle, it’s just…it wouldn’t usually be writing for me. One girl in the art team once wore this amazing Diane von Furstenburg original. To a fancy dress party. That’s a beautiful bag though.’
‘Thank you, it was a gift.’ I lovingly stroked the soft blue leather on instinct, momentarily forgetting the torrent of insults that were coming my way.
‘Of course it was.’ Donna sounded almost relieved. As if the idea of my buying my own Marc Jacobs bag might cause the end of the world. ‘Basically, the only way I can see this working is if we position this as a two part piece. I’ll have someone else put together a high end Paris piece, a feature on the haute couture, the salons, the five-star hotels, and you, the quirky “vintage” girl with the boyfriend in a band, can provide the other side of things. The, oh, I don’t know, the cool, hipster side of Paris?’
‘Oh God, honestly, I’m not cool,’ I said altogether too quickly. ‘I don’t have any tattoos. I don’t even live in Brooklyn. I’m just very, very English.’
‘Oh. Well that could be a problem then.’ Donna leaned back in her chair. ‘Because either you give me Paris’s best flea markets, vintage stores, late-night cafés and dance clubs, or you don’t give me anything.’
Meep.
After sitting through another hour of Donna’s directions on exactly how she wanted the piece to come out – quirky, but not too quirky, edgy, but not too edgy, underground, but not grimy. Just very, very Belle – I was finally released from the office, none the wiser, but actually relatively chipper. I might not have received any compliments, but I had got the job. That was good, wasn’t it?
There was only one person I could talk to about this. And that person better not be screening her calls.
‘Pick up the phone, Jenny,’ I said quietly, dashing into the shade of the nearest skyscraper and following it along 42nd street.
‘Angie, baby, it’s seven-thirty a.m.,’ Jenny crackled all the way from LA. ‘Are you dying?’
‘No, listen, I just had this meeting at Belle—’ I started.
‘You’re not dying, I only got in two hours ago, I’ll call you back later,’ Jenny interrupted.
‘No! Jenny, listen, I have the most amazing news. Did you hear what I said? I’ve got a job writing for Belle magazine.’ I hoped that dropping the name of one of her style bibles might keep her on the phone for five minutes more. ‘Belle. Your favourite magazine. B-E-L-L-E.’
‘No offense, Angie,’ Jenny yawned into life, ‘but what are you going to write for Belle?’
‘None taken.’ I pouted. What about me was so fundamentally un-Belle-like? I had sorted myself out massively in the last year. Well, Jenny had sorted me out massively, but I could do my own eyeliner and everything now. I could do an entire evening out in proper heels if I had my roll-up ballet pumps in my bag. ‘They want me to write an insider’s guide to Paris. They’re going to get some other girl to write the swanky high-end stuff, she’s going to do, who did Donna say, uh, Balmain? Is that right? And you know, Chanel and whatever, and I’m supposed to write about the cool, underground stuff. But I could really use your help, I want this to be good. Do you know any stylists in Paris? Anyone who might know some cool second-hand shops or flea markets?’
‘Balmain? Oh…’ she breathed.
‘Jenny, listen to me,’ I said slowly. I should have known better than to start talking designer at her. ‘Do you know anyone who can help me in Paris?’
‘Oh honey, you know I think you’ve come a real long way,’ Jenny snapped back, ‘but you are so not ready to write a fashion piece, a fashion piece about Paris for Belle magazine.’
At least I had her attention.
‘Firstly, thanks for your confidence and secondly, it’s not a fashion piece, it’s a travel piece,’ I said. ‘I’ve just got to write about a few vintage stores, a couple of cafés and then cover Alex’s gig. It’s going to be fine. I thought you’d be excited for me?’
‘But it’s Belle, Angie. And I don’t want you to look stupid,’ Jenny insisted. ‘’Cause, you know honey, some people know you know me.’
‘Really, your belief in me is incredibly reassuring and I promise not to show you up in any way. Especially if you answer my bloody questions and tell me if you know any stylists in Paris.’
‘Is Belle going to style you? Have they given you a list of places to go?’ She carried on ignoring me. ‘Are there going to be photos of you in the feature?’
‘No they’re not styling me, no they haven’t given me a list of places to go – that’s my job – and no of course they’re not going to let me be in the bloody photos.’
‘I guess that’s a good thing at least.’ Jenny sighed, audibly relieved. Cow. ‘OK, I have an idea. I’m gonna pull some pieces together for you, OK? When are you leaving?’
This was the first part of the phone call I did not hate. Jenny being a million miles away in LA was completely shitty. Jenny being a stylist with access to lots and lots of beautiful free clothes was not shitty in the slightest. ‘Monday, but really, don’t go to too much trouble, you don’t have to do this.’ Yes she bloody well did.
‘Honey, I got you covered. Skinny jeans, slept-in eyeliner, beret, I’m all over it. I’ll just take it up a notch. You’ll be like, a Belle-hipster. A Bipster.’ Her laugh turned into a yawn. ‘Seriously, I’m freaking dying here. Email me the details, what you’re doing when you get there and I’ll send some stuff over. And I’m sure I must know someone in Paris. I’m on it.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Angie, it’s like, totally what I do. Now let me go back to sleep.’
‘Like, totally go back to sleep.’ I laughed. ‘You’ve gone totally LA on me, Lopez.’
‘Like, rilly. Screw you, Clark.’ She yawned again. ‘Go buy Belle, let the intimidation build a little more. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
Or at least, I’d thought that I loved Jenny until the three giant DHL packages arrived the next morning. It turned out, I really hadn’t known what love was. Love was one box labelled ‘evening’, one box labelled ‘day’ and one box labelled ‘I don’t know when the fuck you’ll wear these, but they’re awesome’. I hacked into them desperately, using my keys to slit the package tape and carefully pull out one beautiful outfit after another. In each box was a manila envelope with handwritten (well, scribbled) notes along with gorgeous sketches of how each ensemble was supposed to go together. The Joe Jeans with the Tory Burch flats and Elizabeth and James blazer. The DVF royal blue silk romper with the YSL wedges. The beaded Balenciaga flapper dress with the Giuseppe Zanotti platforms. The Miu Miu purse with everything. After an hour and a half of playing dress up, I perched on the edge of the sofa in a pale blue silk Lanvin number, flustered, redfaced and grinning maniacally. At the very bottom of the ‘Fuck Knows’ box, under the Kenneth Jay Lane pendants and bangles, was a note from Jenny.
I know you said not to go to too much trouble, but you’re going to Paris. For Belle. And people know you know me so there’s no way I’m letting you head over to the fashion capital of the world, head-to-toe in American Apparel – don’t tell me you weren’t wearing it when you opened the box, even if you’re in the Narciso Rodriguez jumpsuit by now—
I paused to look at all the outfits on the sofa, there was a jumpsuit? Had I missed it?
—because it’s awesome. You’re going to be amazing at this, Angie, I’m so proud of you. Just take the clothes, wear them, rock them, take photos and BRING THEM BACK, preferably in one piece and without ketchup all over them.
Love you, JLo xxx
It was only eight in LA, four hours before I was legally permitted to call Jenny without it going on her ‘you’re dead to me’ list. Three strikes and you were out and I already had one from the time she caught me ironing the collar of a Thomas Pink shirt I had borrowed from her with my hair straighteners. Apparently, she had never done it. I did not believe her. What I did believe was that the collection of clothes, currently acting as a very expensive throw on my sofa, was a) amazing b) worth more than my apartment and c) going to make me the best dressed bargain hunter in all of Paris.
I tapped out a text to let her know that the package had arrived and that I would love and cherish the clothes as though they were my firstborn child. Which I would be more than happy to trade to keep this stuff for ever. Clutching a pair of pale blue Stella McCartney widelegged trousers to my heart, I stared at the assembled selection of swag. Truly, it was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever had the honour to behold. How was Paris supposed to compare?
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_92b017b9-de37-523c-bd59-babde9e8a486)
While the actual being-on-an-aeroplane part of flying had never been a problem for me, I really, really hated airports. The thrill of Duty Free wore off in approximately fourteen minutes when I remembered I was broke and the fact that I was left alone, slumped in an uncomfortable metal chair scarfing a soggy McDonalds while Alex was already up, up and away, didn’t make me feel any better. Cici swore she had tried to book us on to the same flight, but his was already full. Even though his manager booked his flights on the exact same day she tried to book mine.
So instead of joining the mile high club with my boyfriend, I had a nine-hour flight sandwiched in between complete strangers to look forward to. Ramming a fistful of chips down my throat, I checked my (newly reinstated) Spencer Media-sponsored BlackBerry again only to see another message from Esme. Joy. I’d managed to avoid any further face time with the delightful people at Belle magazine, but there was nowhere to hide from Donna and Esme’s terse, borderline bullying emails. And brilliant, here was another.
Angela.
French Belle magazine are sending an assistant to keep you on brief. Be in your hotel lobby to meet Virginie at ten-thirty.
Esme.
Oh dear God, no. They were ‘sending me’ a super cool, super hot French fashionista to make me feel inadequate. Mary had been right, the girls at Belle were really not happy at all with my being foisted on them by Bob, but I was determined to prove myself. I was a real journo girl with a real talent and I deserved this opportunity. My boyfriend said so.
And it wasn’t as if everyone at Spencer Media was against me. Since everything about my assignment was a little bit last-minute, Cici had magnanimously stepped in and offered to help sort out my travel details. Even when she couldn’t get me on Alex’s flight, she did say she would ask a friend that worked for my airline to try and get me upgraded and she had couriered over a package with my BlackBerry, a corporate credit card, a map of Paris and even a DVD of Funny Face. And if that weren’t scary enough, she had signed off the accompanying note ‘xoxo Cici’. Either she had undergone some sort of complete personality transplant or Grandpa Bob had some serious influence on that girl.
Obviously, Grandpa Bob had some serious influence everywhere at Spencer. I’d had email after email from Donna Gregory checking on my research progress, reminding me time and time again what it was that she did not want from this piece. But next to no detail on what she did want. Not so helpful. I’d spent all week researching, but really, I couldn’t wait to get to Paris, to really get stuck in. I couldn’t help, but feel that this was my big break. I mean, I’d thought the blog was my big break and I suppose it kind of was, it had got me the James Jacobs interview. And then I’d thought that the James Jacobs interview would be my big break, but that turned out to be a traumatic, potentially liferuining pain in my arse instead. Although it had sort of lead to this. A piece for Belle. And a new Marc Jacobs handbag, so I suppose it hadn’t been all bad. But this was definitely it. I could feel it in my waters. Whatever that meant. Actually, that was a bit gross, wasn’t it? Hmm.
I waited impatiently to be called to board, flicking through the pages of the newest issue of Icon for the millionth time, wishing I’d left my Paris guidebooks and notes in my hand luggage so I could work on them on the plane. There was no way I’d be able to sleep on the flight, I was full of butterflies. Nervous about the article, nervous about not being able to speak French, nervous about getting to the hotel on my own and, for some reason, nervous about spending almost a straight week in another country with Alex. Good nervous, I was pretty sure, but still definitely nervous. Not as nervous as Alex however, who had spent the previous three days becoming increasingly uncommunicative and turning an attractive shade of pale green. He had explained that he didn’t like flying at least twenty times and no matter how many times Graham and Craig, the bassist and drummer in his band, Stills, slapped him on the back and offered to get him shitfaced before they boarded, he never seemed to look any better.
I looked around for any telltale patches of puke at the boarding gate to show he’d been there, but it was clean as a whistle. But then, JFK airport probably sorted that kind of thing out fairly quickly. The Americans were pretty up on cleanliness.
It was really quite cute. Even when I was climbing the walls about something, Alex was always so laidback, and to see him panicking about the flight was sort of reassuring. So he was human after all. Even when I’d tried to reassure him with my ‘more people die in hippo attacks than in plane crashes each year’ favourite factoid of all time (not that I actually knew it was definitely a fact), he had just kissed the top of my head and gone back to pretending he wasn’t flying anyway.
Eventually, the flight was called and I hauled myself and my wildly overpacked and battered MJ handbag over to the gate. I’d packed my beautiful blue number and decided to carry on my trusty old (well, I’d had it almost a year) satchel for fear of the new bag being scratched or stained or touched by human hands other than my own. And besides, I’d more or less convinced myself that the knackered satchel actually looked better for being worn in. Kind of. Shuttling down the windy tunnel on to the plane, a reassuringly boredlooking flight attendant took my tickets, checked my passport and then pointed down the right-hand side of the plane with a Joker-sized smile. I returned a tight grimace and shuffled down the aisle, trying not to wedge my bottom in the faces of all the club class passengers already boarded. One day they’d tell me to turn left, one day.
Predictably, I’d been blessed with a teeny, tiny economy seat in the middle of a row of four and all three surrounding seats were taken. According to an overly sincere Cici, it was Spencer Media travel policy to fly economy on all flights under twelve hours, but for some reason, I just didn’t believe her. And besides, there was economy and there was the nine hours of living hell I was about to endure. Wedging my handbag under the seat in front of me, I glanced to my left to take in the extraordinarily large man currently crossing himself with closed eyes, a very large Bible in his lap. To my right, love’s young dream sat giggling and holding hands. Catching my eye, a (not actually so young) blonde woman thrust her left hand under my nose.
‘We just got married!’ she shrieked, waving her hand around to give the ginormous solitaire sufficient opportunity to blind me. ‘In New York! Married! We’re from England. But we got married in New York. Not Vegas. Tacky, that is.’
‘Right,’ I stuttered, trying to pull my head away from the hard, shiny thing that could potentially blind me. ‘Congratulations?’
‘Oh you’re English too! Dave, she’s English,’ my seat buddy went on, oblivious. ‘It was just at City Hall, quiet, but very classy, you know? And we stayed at the Waldorf Astoria. We haven’t told anyone at home. I mean, they knew we were engaged, but they didn’t know we were getting married. Dave’s been married before you see, so we didn’t think we needed to make a big deal of it.’
‘I’ve been married before,’ Dave confirmed, leaning across to show me his massive, diamond encrusted wedding band. Mmm, tasteful. ‘She was a right old cow. Not like this one.’
‘Well, yeah, congratulations,’ I said again, fiddling with my seatbelt as a polite ‘leave me alone’ signal, while seats 47 F and G began a rather aggressive PDA session.
‘It was lovely,’ Dave’s wife said, pushing her amorous husband away. ‘I got them Loobootin shoes, didn’t I, Dave? Lovely.’
‘She did,’ Dave nodded. ‘Loobootins.’
I managed a wan smile and tried not to start crying. How long was this flight again? Jenny would have actually slapped her around the face by now, my tolerance levels were most impressive.
‘And now we’re going to Paris for the honeymoon. Nice that, isn’t it? He’s a romantic, my Dave. Always said I’d marry a romantic. You married, love?’
‘No,’ I smiled, shaking my head. ‘Not married.’
‘Engaged?’
‘Nope.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Actually, yes.’
‘Well there you are,’ she said, patting my knee. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’
I smiled brightly and speedily plugged my ears with my earbuds before she could start up again. Only to have the flight attendant tell me that I couldn’t keep them in for take-off. Cow. Happily, Dave’s wife wasn’t a terribly good flier and had to bury her face in Dave’s reassuring chest throughout take off and for a good fifteen minutes after, by which time, I’d got the earbuds in and was pretending to sleep. Not an easy task when the man to the other side of me was a) incredibly sweaty and b) reading out Bible passages under his breath, just loudly enough to convince me he might be a serial killer. Fantastic.
I squinted to see the screen on my iPod, trying not to open my eyes enough to be busted and I scrolled down to the play lists. Alex had promised to upload something ‘other than Justin Timberlake and Gossip Girl’ to put me in the mood for Paris. I smiled and clicked on ‘Adventures of Angela: Paris Edition’ and tried not to look incredibly smug that I had a wonderful boyfriend who had made me a mixtape – the internationally accepted Token of True Love from a Boy. I settled back in my seat for some musique en français, but instead was jolted wide awake by the sound of Alex’s voice.
‘Hey Angela, so I put some songs together to help you get through the flight although, I guess it’s me that needs the help, right? Uh, anyway, I really wish we were flying out together, but I’ll see you when you get to the hotel and I promise it’s going to be a great trip. And yeah, this is a new song I’ve been working on…’
His quiet, smoky voice trailed off into a quick cough before his guitar took over. I closed my eyes quickly, not wanting to give The Second Missus Dave an opportunity to spoil this moment. Not that she could. I felt a hot flush in my cheeks while my stomach dropped and my heart pounded. It felt like falling off the kerb in my sleep, only in a good way. It felt the same as opening my eyes in the morning and seeing Alex’s face. The same as getting off the subway and spotting him waiting for me. The same as I felt whenever I thought about him being within a three-foot radius of me. Honestly, what was my problem? He was amazing. And he wasn’t my ex. My ex wouldn’t have even asked me to come to Paris with him in the first place, probably because he’d have wanted to bring his mistress, but still.
Of course I should move in with Alex.
I felt as if someone had just slapped me around the face with the Great Big Stick of Obvious Revelations. Of course I should live with him, I loved him. Excitement bubbled up inside me, we were going to live together! And I could tell him on his birthday. Which would really help if he didn’t like the watch I’d got him…
The rest of the flight passed relatively uneventfully, me struggling through fits and starts of sleep, the happy couple pawing each other throughout and only very occasionally grabbing my thigh accidentally (I hoped?), and my religious friend making it happily through a good couple of books of the Old Testament before the attendants came around with breakfast. Yawning widely and stretching as best I could, I shuffled from side to side and scraped my frizzy hair back from my face. Post long-haul was so not a good look for me. Across the aisle and past several people’s heads, I could see land below us. I scarfed the World’s Heaviest Danish Pastry as quickly as humanly possible, then slathered on a gob of Beauty Flash Balm and sat back, suddenly desperate to be on the ground.
‘Oh, you’re awake then, sleepyhead!’
Brilliant.
‘I thought we were going to have to leave you on the plane,’ Missus Dave said, giving me a jovial and yet oddly strong punch in the shoulder. ‘So, are you meeting this boyfriend of yours in Paris?’
‘Oh, um, yes,’ I said, trying to apply mascara without poking myself in the eye. Give me some slack, I’d only just learned how to do this on the ground let alone in midair descent.
‘Ahh, that’s nice,’ she said, fastening her seatbelt and settling back with Dave’s arm safely around her. ‘Who knows, maybe he’ll propose.’
It really was an instinctive reaction. I really didn’t mean to shoot my mascara-wand-wielding arm into the face of my Bible-toting seat buddy. And I really didn’t mean to make him throw a scorching cup of coffee down his trousers.
‘Holy Mary Mother of God!’
Oops. And I’d done so well not to offend or maim anyone for so long. I’d seen enough episodes of Friends to know that pawing at his crotch with napkins wouldn’t help, so instead I muttered my apologies, leaned back into my seat and closed my eyes. If that was the worst thing that happened and I’d got all the way to Paris, I would be very happy.
‘What do you mean my bag had to be “destroyed”?’
I stood in the baggage reclaim section of Charles de Gaulle airport, listening to an incredibly boredlooking official type person repeat himself for the fourth time.
‘Madame Clark, as I explained,’ he sighed, ‘your suitcase failed our safety screening and was destroyed. This should have been told to you at JFK. In fact, you should not have been able to travel.’
‘When you say destroyed,’ I rubbed my temples and blinked a few times waiting to wake up, ‘and you know, it’s Mademoiselle.’
‘Pardon, Mademoiselle. Destroyed. It is gone.’
I rifled around in my battered handbag, checking just what I had with me. Sunglasses, lip balm, two lipsticks, phone, camera, wallet, passport, laptop, US Weekly. Well, at least I wouldn’t be stuck for some educational reading material. Thank God.
‘But why?’ I heard my voice start to crack. Apparently, I was starting to grasp the reality of what had happened. ‘Why would it be, oh God, why would it be destroyed?’
‘There are many reasons, Madame, security is very high right now. Possibly you have something forbidden in your suitcase? Something dangerous?’
‘The most dangerous thing in there was a pair of shoes once involved in a case of GBH.’ I pursed my lips together, determined not to cry. There had to be a mistake. ‘Who can I talk to about this?’
‘I am afraid it is me.’ The officer sighed. Again. ‘Perhaps there was something, ah, battery operated?’
‘Battery operated?’
‘Possibly vibrating?’ he expanded discreetly.
‘Vibrating? A vibrator?’ I screeched. Wow, I could really be shrill when I wanted to. And given all the looks I was getting from every other passenger in the airport, vibrator was a word that translated globally. Brilliant.
‘But when you say destroyed?’
‘It has been securely detonated.’
‘Securely…’
‘Yes.’
‘Blown up?’
‘Oui.’
‘I…what?’ I suddenly felt very, very unsteady on my feet.
‘I am sorry Ms Clark. I am able to let you pass through the airport as there is no security alert on you, but your baggage has been destroyed. That is all I can tell you. Would you like me to escort you to a taxi?’
‘But really, how can it—’ I tried once more as the officer took my arm and lead me out of the airport and towards the large double doors.
By the time I got in to the city I’d just about made it through to the third stage of grief. I had ploughed through disbelief by the time the airport official had physically tossed me into the back of a taxi and I powered straight on to anger halfway down the motorway. Once I’d finished swearing vengeance on the firstborn children of every airport worker at JFK and Charles de Gaulle, I moved on to depression. My Louboutins. My beautiful blue Marc Jacobs satchel. All of my clothes. All of them. Oh God, all of the clothes Jenny had sent over. All blown to smithereens by a sweaty man in a short-sleeved shirt at the airport. Who probably had a moustache. They all had short-sleeved shirts and moustaches.
Somewhere inside my brain, a part of me tried to tell me about all the clothes shops and shoe stores and lingerie I would be able to buy on my research trips, but every time I closed my eyes, I just saw my dandelion yellow 3.1 Phillip Lim sundress flying up into the air and scattering into a million pieces while several French security guards stood around wearing berets and guffawing. Armoured berets. And the Lanvin. Dear God, the Lanvin. My fevered imagination preferred to imagine the case had been blown up in France.
According to the last text I’d received from Alex, he had to be at some place called Café Charbon by seven and told me to meet him there. It was way too late to get to the hotel first and besides, what exactly was I planning on changing into? This wasn’t Project Catwalk, I wasn’t going to be able to cobble together a Parisian evening look from the pages of US Weekly and a Lancôme Juicy Tube.
I attempted to explain where I wanted to go to the driver, but was eventually reduced to showing him Alex’s text. He grunted and sped off down some tiny cobbled streets, lined with tiny tables and even tinier girls, all with extraordinarily long hair and pouty, miserable expressions. Vive la France.
Eventually the taxi pulled to a stop and the driver turned to stare at me. Even though I knew I couldn’t be a pretty sight, I stared back. Had he just lost everything he’d ever owned that was shiny, pretty and beautiful? No. No he had not. As rudely as I could manage, I pulled out a fistful of Euros and handed them to him in what I hoped was a vaguely ignorant fashion. Although it probably ruined the effect when I awkwardly thanked him and told him to keep the change.
Attempting to compose myself before I saw Alex, I paused in front of a beautiful glass-fronted café and breathed deeply and slowly. Dozens of people stood outside smoking and laughing and all of them were beautiful. To be fair, I would have been overdressed in Jenny’s Balmain sequined dress, but that didn’t help me feel any less crappy than I did in my travelling clothes. Actually, my only clothes now. All of the girls were wearing blue jeans so tight, I was pretty certain that no matter how badly all the dark-eyed, dark-haired boys that were eyeing them up wanted to give them one, it would be physically impossible. How on earth did they get them on and off without specialized equipment? Standing around nodding and gesticulating with their cigarettes, I noticed that they all had perfectly dishevelled bedhead hairdos, as opposed to frizzy, flat plane hairdon’ts, and instead of mascara-stained cheeks and dark circles hastily covered up with too much Touche Eclat, every single girl looked as though she scoffed at make-up and was in fact, just a fresh-faced beauty. Bitches. And they had to rub in the fact that I wasn’t allowed to drink red wine because I was incapable of drinking a single glass without spilling it all down myself. Or someone else in my immediate vicinity. Basically, there was no way I was going to be mistaken for being a French girl. Homeless French sixteen-year-old boy, maybe, but one of these sophisticated sex bombs? Not so much. Mew.
Eventually, I let out a huge sigh and pushed through the crowds and into the café. I spotted Alex almost immediately. Even in a sea of skinny, dark-haired boys stroking their chins and nodding, he was the first thing I saw. Unfortunately, the second thing I saw was an impossibly pretty blonde girl, sitting on his lap with her arms wrapped around his neck, laughing her arse off. And the third thing I saw was the inside of my eyelids because that’s about when I passed out.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_c042abd0-529b-5be9-ada8-9bf24bdb16f1)
‘Jesus, Angela. Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, go back to sleep,’ I muttered, pushing away the familiar voice. I was so tired, couldn’t he just let me lie in?
‘Ahh, shit. Get me some water?’ A hand brushed my hair off my forehead and, as I tried to roll over, I couldn’t help but think the bed was very uncomfortable all of a sudden. And cold. And floor-like.
‘Don’t worry, she kind of makes a habit of this,’ Alex said, helping me find my feet, then a chair and then a very large glass of water. ‘At least she didn’t throw up this time.’
‘I’m not drunk,’ I muttered into the glass, gulping down the water. ‘I’m jet-lagged. And stressed.’
‘Hi by the way.’ Alex gave me a half-smile and brushed a chunk of frizzy hair behind my ear. ‘Bienvenue à Paris.’
I looked around, but the mystery blonde I vaguely recalled setting up shop in my boyfriend’s lap had vanished. Had I imagined her?
‘Muh?’
‘Welcome to Paris.’ His smile turned into a frown and his green eyes peered closely into mine. ‘Angela, are you OK? Do you need a doctor?’
‘No.’ I breathed in deeply. Really, no blonde anywhere. ‘I’m fine, I just had the worst journey.’
‘Bad turbulence?’ An American voice across the table asked. Turning too quickly and getting a shooting pain through my temple for my efforts, I saw Graham and Craig, Alex’s bandmates, waving from across the table.
‘Great entrance.’ Graham gave me a reassuring smile and pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘You could have just called if you couldn’t see us.’
‘I liked it,’ Craig added. ‘But uh, no offence Angie, but you might have changed? This is Paris, you know, not Brooklyn.’
‘Thanks Craig.’
He wasn’t nearly as polite as Graham, but then he wasn’t nearly as gay either. I had almost, for one second, forgotten the fact that I’d been wearing the same clothes for almost twenty hours. And that I hadn’t looked in a mirror for more or less the same amount of time. Although that one was through choice, not because all my belongings had been ‘securely detonated’.
‘You look great.’ Alex gave Craig a filthy look on my behalf. ‘But uh, you didn’t have time to change? Not that you need to change. Cus you look great.’
Holding my head in my hands, I relayed the whole sorry story, pausing to let Craig laugh his arse off at appropriate points and finally ask if that meant I didn’t have any underwear.
Graham shook his head. ‘Angela, that’s awful. But at least you’ll get to replace your wardrobe in Paris, right? What a place to shop yourself blind.’
‘Except my credit card is completely maxed from LA still.’ I tried to smile.
‘We’ll sort something out, I’m so sorry you had to deal with all this shit.’ Alex put his arm around my shoulders and pulled my head down on to his shoulder. He smelled so good. Another reminder that I probably did not. ‘Just relax now. You’re here. In Paris. It’s going to be awesome.’
‘Yeah.’ I closed my eyes and sighed. ‘I guess. Although I do need to get some clothes. I have literally no clothes. But I honestly don’t know when I’m going to have the time. I’m supposed to meet this assistant from French Belle tomorrow and I’ve lost all my notes and stuff.’
All of my notes, my camera, my laptop charger. All the research I’d carefully and painstakingly knocked off from other magazines and guidebooks, gone. Everything in my suitcase, gone. I could feel my second wind of grief coming on and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Tears prickled in my eyes as Alex stroked my arm and listened to Craig read out the menu. What was I going to do in Paris for almost a week without any of my clothes? Without my shoes? Without my hair straighteners? My stomach fell through the chair and hit the floor. And oh my God, Jenny’s clothes. How was I going to tell Jenny I’d lost everything she’d lent me? I didn’t want to get her into trouble, but there was no way I could pop into Balmain and buy a three-thousand-dollar sequined mini dress to replace the one I absolutely, one hundred per cent knew I shouldn’t have brought with me in the first place.
‘You’re totally gonna want to get some nice shit for the festival, Angie,’ Craig said. ‘You should see some of the girls in the other bands, man alive they are hot.’
‘Really?’ I asked, looking to Graham for confirmation.
He half shrugged, half nodded. ‘I guess, but hey, what do I know?’
Brilliant. Something else to worry about.
‘Don’t sweat it, Ange. You’re probably as hot,’ Craig offered. He stopped eating for a second and squinted at me. ‘In your regular clothes. And I guess you’ll want to pick up some make-up or something.’
‘Who died and made you Tyra?’ Graham asked quickly. ‘Ignore him. You look great.’
‘Yeah you do. Beautiful, in fact.’ My lovely boyfriend kissed the top of my head and stood up. ‘Just running to the bathroom. You want to stay and eat or just go back to the hotel?’
‘Hotel.’ I nodded. ‘I just want to sleep for a month.’
Alex nodded and bobbed off through the crowded bar. Even from the back he was gorgeous. Possibly I was biased and/or a bit mad, but really, he was hot from every angle. Being able to spot his slightly slouchy posture in a darkened room from twenty feet was one of my keenest talents.
‘Sorry for being so rubbish.’ I offered Craig and Graham a pained expression and glugged another mouthful of water. ‘Not to go Yoko your evening, but I really do need to go to bed.’
‘We totally get it, go get some beauty rest.’ Graham waved away my concerns. And I elected to ignore his beauty rest comment. ‘I’m sure Alex doesn’t want to hang out with us anyway. Craig was a pain in both our asses on the plane.’
‘Yeah, he won’t want to hang out with his best friends when his best girl is here.’ Craig sipped his beer and smiled. I wanted to be embarrassed, but instead I actually giggled. For shame, Angela. ‘And y’know, he’s totally pussy whipped again.’
‘Again?’ I asked.
‘Like with that French bitch he used to date.’ Craig nodded over his beer, ignoring Graham’s warning cough. Which ironically, I picked up immediately.
‘French bitch?’ This was new information. Why didn’t I know about a French bitch? ‘Alex never mentioned dating a French bit—I mean, girl?’
‘Yeah?’ Craig carried on ignoring Graham. ‘Yeah, she was—’
‘For ever ago. It was for ever ago,’ he interrupted. ‘He’s so over it. Totally.’
‘He dated her in New York?’ I asked, flicking my gaze between the two suspicious-looking boys.
‘Yeah, well—’ Craig started.
‘Yes. And it was a long time ago,’ Graham said sternly. ‘Which is why he never mentioned it. I’m sure.’
There were a million more questions swimming around my mind, but before I could form a coherent sentence, Alex reappeared with two large glasses of red wine.
‘I know you want to leave, but Sam on the bar just gave me these and I couldn’t say no – you want?’ Alex asked, sliding into the chair at the side of me. ‘I thought maybe a drink might do you some good.’
On one hand, this clearly was a bad idea. I was exhausted, I’d already passed out once and I needed a clear head in the morning. On the other, I could really, really, really do with a drink. But back to the other hand, it really was a bad idea.
‘Sam on the bar?’ I asked, nodding and holding out my hand for the glass. I could maybe just take a sip.
‘Old friend,’ he explained, pushing the glass towards me. ‘Just this one drink and we’ll make a move.’
I nodded and leaned against Alex, taking in the mirrored walls, high ceilings and racks and racks of bottles behind the bar. It reminded me of Balthazar in New York, except instead of posing as a French bistro, it actually was one. Every single table was full, and it immediately made sense to me that the guys had picked the café. There wasn’t one ugly person in the place and I was pretty certain that none of them were bank managers or geography teachers either. Nothing so ordinary here. So this was where Paris’s pretty people came to hang out. Note to self. And Belle magazine.
The boys talked band while I held my wine quietly, concentrating on not spilling it down my T-shirt. The odds were pretty good that I was going to have to wear it again. Oh, it had been a long time since I’d washed something out in a hotel sink – where was my mother when I needed her? Although her area of expertise was really knickers in a Mallorcan bidet rather than American Apparel V-neck in a Parisian boutique hotel. Much of a muchness though, surely? Maybe it was in my blood.
I clutched my wine, but just couldn’t bring myself to drink it, so I people watched instead. I couldn’t help but stare as four girls rose from a table at the back and started dancing around a raised DJ booth. They were laughing happily, pushing each other on to the dance floor, and just like everyone else in the café, they were all skinny jeans, long messy hair tossed over one shoulder and at least a fortnight’s worth of eyeliner smudged all over their faces. But my God they were gorgeous. I’d never had so much as a same sex leaning in all my life and even I wanted to go over there and lick their beautiful faces.
The tallest of the four, a slender blonde with masses of Debbie Harry-a-like white-blonde hair hanging in her bright blue eyes, looked over at our table and then disappeared behind a door in the back wall. Was that her? The girl I thought I saw with Alex when I walked in? I looked back at the boys around the table. They were discussing their set for Sunday’s festival and without meaning to, more or less ignoring me altogether, aside from an occasional arm stroke from Alex or lewd grin from Craig. Once Alex was into ‘work stuff’, he was impossible to distract. I could have stripped off and performed an entire Pussycat Dolls routine and he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. It might have slipped into his subconscious enough to throw an ironic cover into the set, but that would have been about it.
Not having eaten anything in, bloody hell, I had no idea, the wine was making its way through my system fairly quickly. I slipped away from the table and followed the blonde girl through the door at the back of the room, hopefully to the toilets. Not that I wanted to give her the wrong idea, I wasn’t nearly that drunk. Although maybe some girl-on-girl action would get Alex’s attention back. Wow, sometimes I wondered if I’d been spending far too much time with Jenny. The blonde girl was washing her hands as I pushed through the door.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, bashing into her. Face to face, she was absolutely stunning. Her heart-shaped face looked to be bare of make-up aside from the lashings of eyeliner, and her platinum hair wasn’t even dyed. I wasn’t jealous at all. ‘I was just looking for the loo.’
‘Pardon?’ she replied.
Right. I was in France. Completely forgot.
‘Uh, la toilette?’ I asked, pointing at what was very obviously the toilet.
‘Oui?’ She looked at me without quite the same reverence I’d sent her way. In that she looked at me as though I was slightly retarded. Which was probably fair.
I made some sort of laughing, oh-I’m-so-stupid snorting noise-cum-hand gesture and locked myself in the toilet cubicle. OK, so I couldn’t even attempt to make myself understood when trying to get in the lav, but that wasn’t going to be a problem, was it? Alex was practically fluent, and when I wasn’t with him, I’d have my French Belle assistant. Surely she would be ecstatic to spend all her time translating for me. And lead me around town all day long. Surely the super trendy, young, hot, French fashionista would love that. Oh crap.
When I came out of the toilet, the gorgeous girl had gone. Reluctantly, I checked myself out in the mirror, trying not to compare and contrast. My light brown bob looked better for its trim last week, but without hair straighteners, a half-decent conditioner or even serum, it was a fluffy, bird’s nest mess. Flat at the roots, puffy at the ends. My skin was dry and greyish from the flight, but for some reason, my nose and forehead were so shiny, I could see a reflection of my reflection in my forehead. How could my skin be dry and shiny at the same time? For want of a better idea, I pulled down the V-neck on my T-shirt until I could almost see the edge of my bra. Admittedly, it wasn’t my finest moment, but a girl had to fight with whatever weapons she had, and until I’d been to a pharmacy or something and picked up hair product, my 34Cs were all that I had.
But they weren’t going to be enough.
Wandering back through the busy bar, I fought the fug out of my brain and tried to spot our table, but I couldn’t seem to see it. Mainly because the tiny table populated by three very American boys that I was looking for, was now covered in four very French girls. Most notably, the beautiful girl from the toilets, who appeared to be compensating for the lack of chairs at the table by kneeling on the floor. At Alex’s feet. I paused by the maître d’s station and watched for a second. She took his hand in hers and cocked her head to one side, smiling. Alex was not smiling. Instead, he pulled his hand out of hers, took his phone out of his jeans pocket, stood up and walked out the door. And down the street. The girl laughed, said something hilarious to the others and hopped up, taking Alex’s seat. I looked down, breathing deeply. What was that all about? Was that the girl I had seen when I came in? And why was there a number listed by the phone for ‘Centre Anti-Poison’? Well, she’d be needing a number for an ambulance if she touched my boyfriend again. Not that she could, given that he’d completely disappeared out of sight.
I cautiously wandered back over to the table, standing awkwardly beside Graham and waiting for him to acknowledge me. Instead, he and Craig giggled with the other French girls, chattering away. Did everyone speak French except me? The blonde stared at me from Alex’s seat, then picked up his wine glass and drank deeply. Colour me stunned.
‘Marie,’ she said to the brunette girl to her left. Who I was relieved to see was at least wearing make-up. Even if she was still hatefully good-looking. ‘C’est la fille qui était dans les toilettes.’
Now, even with my shoddy ‘je voudrais un croque monsieur, s’il vous plaît’ GCSE French, I managed to pick up ‘fille’ which was girl and ‘toilettes’ which was toilet (she wasn’t getting anything past me). She was totally talking about me. The other three girls stopped talking, put down their drinks and turned to stare at me. I felt like I was back in year nine, knocking on the common room door and asking the sixth formers if they wouldn’t mind awfully turning their stereo down because we couldn’t hear our recorders in the music room.
‘Oh, shit, Angie, I so totally forgot you were here,’ Craig said, once he’d realized everyone had stopped talking. ‘This is Marie, Lise, Jacqueline and Solène.’
The blonde raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down. ‘Angela?’ she asked Craig. He nodded into his fresh beer.
‘Solène,’ she said smiling and holding out a hand, but still not standing up or getting the hell out of my boyfriend’s seat. ‘We are playing the festival. Please, this is your wine?’
I really, really wanted to hate her, but her smile actually seemed genuine and her heavily accented voice made me want to curl up with my head in her lap. I awkwardly accepted my own drink, still standing by Graham’s chair, trying to look casual, but actually bloody well waiting for him to get up and give it to me. He didn’t. Some bloody gentleman.
‘So, you’re in a band?’ I asked.
‘Oui,’ she replied. ‘Yes, we are called Stereo. We play with Stills many times before.’ The rest of the girls carried on laughing, the brunette kicking Craig under the table. Well, it certainly looked as though they had played together before.
‘Right.’ I nodded, not really knowing what else to say.
‘You are not in a band,’ Solène said. I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a question or not. ‘You are a writer?’
‘Yes,’ I said, relieved that she seemed to know who I was. ‘A journalist.’
‘You write about the band?’ she smiled again. ‘About the festival?’
Oh. She thought I was a music journalist. Was that good?
‘Angela is here with Alex,’ Graham said. ‘She’s here with us.’
‘So you are not a writer?’ Solène looked confused. ‘You work for the band?’
‘No, I am a writer, I’m writing for Belle magazine in America,’ I explained, trying not to patronize her. I didn’t want her to think I was an idiot. ‘I am a writer, I’m just not writing about the festival.’
‘I am sorry, I do not understand,’ she frowned slightly, her tiny little, button nose wrinkling up, ‘you write about Alex for a fashion magazine?’
‘No.’ I tried to think of a simpler way to explain myself, feeling completely inadequate. Why didn’t I speak French? Why had I done history A level? No one cared about my knowledge of the Industrial Revolution right now. Or ever actually. And never in my life had I wanted another girl’s approval so badly. Solène was beautiful and in a band and so, so cool. I was willing to bet she could play guitar and everything. She was like a blonde Carla Bruni except without the dodgy, short presidential husband. Jenny would hate her.
Before I could start again, we were all interrupted by a knock on the window. It was Alex. He looked at me and then at the table before gesturing for me to come outside.
‘Sorry, won’t be a minute,’ I said, putting down my wine, picking up my bag and practically stumbling out of the café as fast as my jet-lagged legs would carry me.
‘Hey, sorry, I had to take a call,’ he said, taking my hand and leading me away from the café.
‘Right,’ I said, spinning around to look at the scene unfolding in the window. Craig was practically salivating over Marie while Graham was playing Lise and Jacqueline something from his iPod while they nodded intensely to the beat. Solène turned around in her chair, in Alex’s chair and waved to me. I waved back before Alex pulled me around the corner. ‘We’re leaving?’
He nodded and kept walking.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked, stopping in the middle of the street, holding him to a standstill. ‘What happened on the phone?’
‘Sorry, just band stuff. The record label want us to play tomorrow night and I’m just so tired.’ He draped both his arms over my shoulders and gave me a half smile. ‘I was hoping we’d be able to do something tomorrow night. There’s like, a million places I want to take you.’
‘It’ll be fine, we’ve got ages.’ I pushed up on to my tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips. I pulled back suddenly and stared at Alex. ‘Did you smoke?’
‘Does it count if I took a drag off someone else’s?’ he asked sheepishly. ‘Sorry, I was just kind of stressed. On the phone.’
I tried not to make a face. It was incredibly unsettling for me to feel physically sick from kissing him.
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I said, feeling a little bit weird. Was it strange that I didn’t know he used to smoke?
‘I don’t,’ he said, fiddling around in his pocket for chewing gum. ‘So there’s nothing to know.’
‘Good, because it’s rank,’ I said, taking his hand and squeezing it hard. ‘And you’re brushing your teeth before bed.’
‘Whatever turns you on,’ he said, squeezing mine back even harder.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_012f3ba7-c5c9-5115-b3ac-f98c25618dbb)
‘Alex, I’m not trying to be a bitch.’ I yawned as we sailed into the Hotel Marais, Alex waving to the guy on the desk as we passed through reception. ‘I just don’t think you understand. I am ecstatic to be here. I am over the moon to be spending a week in Paris with you. But I have nothing. I’m in another country and I have nothing. No knickers, no phone charger, no carefully selected, one of a kind vintage ensembles. Nothing.’
‘You mean those crazy eighties dresses you picked up in the thrift store?’ Alex asked as I waited for him to unlock the bedroom door.
‘One of a kind vintage ensembles,’ I repeated. ‘Honestly, it’s like you’ve never read a single issue of Belle.’
‘Is that going to be a problem? Because I haven’t,’ Alex said, kicking his own battered suitcase into the wardrobe. ‘And until about three days ago, neither had you.’
‘You’re not helping,’ I sulked, using every last ounce of energy to throw myself dramatically across what I took to be a normal bed, only for it to separate in the middle on impact, slide apart and unceremoniously dump me hard on the floor in a bundle of sheets.
‘Angela?’
I popped my head up in between the beds like a very confused meerkat. ‘Can I go home now?’
‘It’s going to be fine.’ Alex tried not to laugh and pulled me out from between the beds before pushing them back together. ‘You have had a bad day. I know you’ve been unlucky.’
‘Falling down the bed was unlucky,’ I conceded, collapsing back into the pillows. ‘Getting my suitcase blown up was ridiculous.’
‘Yeah, but ridiculous things happen to you, don’t they?’ Alex said, flopping beside me on the bed. Which of course did not part for him. ‘Maybe this is one of those blessings in disguise things.’
‘It’s a bloody good disguise,’ I said, rolling towards the edge of the bed.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Alex asked, grabbing my arm and pulling me back on to the bed. ‘Get back in bed this minute, Clark.’
‘I have to take a shower,’ I whined. His hand was warm and strong around my wrist and, without an awful lot of resistance, I let him roll on top of me and cup my face in his hands.
‘You don’t need to shower.’
‘But I’m gross.’
‘You’re not gross.’
One warm, soft kiss that made my stomach flip and I was sort of over the idea of a shower.
‘Did you like your song?’ Alex asked, his voice rough and tickly in my ear.
‘I loved my song,’ I whispered back. It had been a very stressful day after all and wasn’t sex good for jet lag? Hmm, I’d probably heard that the same place as the hippo story, but it sounded as if it could be true.
Apparently it was not true. I’d dozed for a while, coiled up in Alex’s arms and thought I’d sleep for days, but by four-thirty a.m., after I’d checked the clock by the bed for the fiftieth time after just a couple of hours sleep, I accepted I was wide awake and in fact, completely jet-lagged. Alex had been snoring steadily for hours and as much fun as waking him up might be, it really didn’t seem fair. Instead I slid out of the bed as quietly as possible and snuggled into the armchair by the window with my laptop.
The room was nice. Small compared to rooms at The Union and The Hollywood, but clean and pretty. I was so used to the stark white decor of chain hotels, the floral throw on the bed and patterned cushions on the couch seemed sweet and homely. A bit like something my mum might have if she had any sort of taste at all. Which, God bless her, she did not. She could cook a hell of a roast dinner, but she couldn’t pick a coordinating cushion to save her life. With that thought in mind, I logged on to TheLook.com and started typing.
The Adventures of Angela: Can’t Speak French
Hmm. I’m not very familiar with French superstitions and customs, but I would imagine that I’m right in thinking that airport security blowing up your suitcase isn’t very good luck. Unless it’s one of those mad things like when a bird shits on you and it’s supposed to bring you good luck. It isn’t? No, I didn’t think so.
In that case I’d like to take a moment to mourn the passing of my beautiful things – the Louboutins, the Marc Jacobs satchel, sob, the GHDs. All gone. Seriously. Blown up. But anyway, I’ve decided not to dwell on it (having done nothing, but weep andwail for the last twenty-four hours) and to move on. I’m in Paris, it’s beautiful and I have lots to do to keep me busy. Did I mention I’m writing for Belle magazine? I did? Oh. And did I mention that my boyfriend is playing at, no, headlining a festival here? Yes again? Oh dear, I’m shameless, aren’t I? That wasn’t actually a question, but thanks.
So here I am in Paris, any suggestions on where I should go/what I should do? It feels a little bit like everyone else in the world knows Paris like the back of their hand, so any suggestions are welcome. Also, any advice on how to achieve the effect of hair straighteners without actually using hair straighteners will result in you going straight to the top of my Christmas card list.
Having posted the blog, I opened up my email and stared at the blank page. I knew this had to be done and I really should have done it before now. I just didn’t know how. I typed Jenny’s email address into the To box and stared some more. Before I could start, a little box flashed up in the right-hand corner of the screen. Bloody G Chat.
Hey! How’s Paris? What did you wear today? Did you take pictures? I’m so jealous. J xoxo
Bugger. For a second, my hand hovered over the keyboard, about to log off. But this had to be done. And done over instant messaging.
Hi Jenny. I’m OK, Paris is lovely, but there was a bit of a problem with my case.
It was delayed?
She typed back quickly. I’d forgotten that Jenny was a master of all forms of communication.
Not lost? A, is it OK?
I sat with my fingers resting on the warm keyboard for so long that the screen dimmed slightly. There was no getting around it, I had to tell her.
No, not OK. Security had to do a controlled explosion on it – don’t know why. I am SO sorry, I’ll sort it out. I’ll replace everything.
Even on instant messaging, it was scary that Jenny was struck dumb. Silence was not a natural state for her, and it was not good. The screen dimmed again and started playing a slideshow of my photos, me and Jenny doing karaoke, me and Jenny having lunch on Rodeo Drive, me holding Jenny’s hair back while she threw up in the street. Even my laptop was trying to make me feel bad. And scared.
Before I could freak out any more, the screen flickered back into life with Jenny’s response.
You’re kidding, right?
No, I shook my head while I typed.
They blew it up. Everything got blown up.
There was another pause, but it was shorter than the last.
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THEY BLEW IT UP?
I started to type out my explanation, as rubbish and pointless as it was, but before I could, a little box appeared on the screen. My computer was running on reserve battery life. Shit. I instinctively looked around for my charger before remembering that a) I wasn’t at home and that b) my charger had of course, been in my suitcase. I didn’t even have time to explain before the screen died and the laptop turned itself off. I carefully placed it on the coffee table as though Jenny could hear me somehow, and slinked back towards the bed, only banging my knee once on the frame. As I climbed back under the silky cotton sheet, my BlackBerry started to vibrate loudly on the bedside table. I grabbed it quickly to avoid waking Alex, but didn’t answer. It was Jenny, of course. After what felt like for ever, the attempted call ended, but was followed by a text message.
ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE
Strangely enough, after that charming message, I didn’t really feel like answering my fucking phone so I turned the BlackBerry off and shut it in the drawer beside me. I’d talk to her in the morning. Or when I got brave enough. Or never. I rolled over and curled up against Alex, his arms instinctively wrapping around me while he slept. Maybe if I just moved in with him as soon as we got back, I wouldn’t even need to go back to the apartment. Distracting myself from the Jenny situation, I leaned back until I could feel the full length of Alex’s body against mine. We were going to move in together. With my eyes closed, my face broke out into a grin that would make the Cheshire cat look like a moody shit and waited patiently until I fell asleep.
‘What are you looking so happy about?’ Alex asked the next morning. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so pleased to be out of bed.’
I turned my back on him to try and straighten my face and pulled a longish grey T-shirt out of the chaos that was his suitcase. I would probably be arrested for indecent exposure, but this was Europe right? I should be able to mince around in a T-shirt posing as a dress with no problems. I turned to the mirror to confirm the sartorial situation. One look was enough to wipe the smile off my face. Crap. And without my full beauty kit (which was hardly sophisticated in the first place) I really did look like crap. Hotel shampoo and conditioner, handwash instead of cleanser and nothing, but a half-empty tube of Beauty Flash Balm to moisturize my entire body. Thank God I’d kept my mascara and pressed powder in my hand luggage, otherwise I’d have to be locked in my room like a shamefaced goblin.
‘Hey, happy girl. What gives?’
‘I’m just excited to see Paris,’ I lied. The words ‘I’m moving in with you’ had almost burst out of my mouth a thousand times since the alarm had gone off half an hour earlier, but I was determined to keep it to myself. ‘Anything specific I should save for me and you to do together?’
‘Uh, I don’t know.’ He stretched and rolled over, his body still tangled under the covers. ‘A lot of the regular stuff is kind of tacky. But, you know, do whatever you need to do for your article.’
‘I don’t see how anything about Paris could be tacky,’ I said, throwing a cushion at him. I hated leaving him in bed. That was one of the biggest penalties of dating a boy in a band, he was almost always on night shifts. ‘It’s all so beautiful.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ He threw the pillow back. ‘But you also think that Les Misérables is beautiful.’
‘Don’t try and use my love of musicals against me,’ I warned. ‘Or I’ll be asking why the episodes of America’s Next Top Model I recorded at yours all say they’ve been viewed already.’
‘So I’ll see you tonight?’ he asked, promptly changing the subject. ‘The show isn’t until ten so we should get a drink or dinner somewhere, maybe Le Dix?’
‘I’d love to have an opinion on that,’ I said, leaning over the bed and kissing him on the forehead. I pulled out the drawer beside the bed and took out my BlackBerry and wallet, slipping them into my bag. ‘But I have never been here before, remember? How do you know so much about Paris anyway? Did you do a year abroad or something?’
‘Kinda.’ Alex’s voice was already falling back to sleep. It was as though he wanted me to hate him. Or at least try to.
‘So, I’ll text you later?’ I called from the door, checking I had my room key once more.
‘Yuh-huh,’ he murmured, lifting his hand to wave me off.
Arse.
Wandering through the hotel garden, out to the reception, I started to get nervous about meeting Virginie. What if she was all super hot and super cool like the girls from the bar last night? She worked for French Belle, so there was no way she was going to be, well, normal. The moment I stepped into the hotel lobby, it was impossible not to spot her. Lounging against a Perspex Philippe Starck ghost chair, was a tiny excuse for a girl, second-skin black jeans, black ballet slippers, long loose light denim shirt open over a tight black vest, masses of wavy brown hair spilling all down her back and most notably, a bored-shitless expression on her pretty face. It was almost reassuring to see some international consistency throughout Belle’s hiring policy. Stunning? Check. Too cool for the rest of the world? Check.
‘Hi, Virginie?’ I asked, holding out a hand in a half wave, half ‘please-shake-my-hand-and-don’t-stare-at-me-like-I’m-mad’ gesture. For a second, she stared at me as if I were mad and then leaped up, poker straight, and grabbed my hand with both of hers.
‘Oh, Angela Clark? Of course, I have seen your picture, it is you!’ she gushed, the handshake disappearing into a flurry of air kisses and elaborate hugs. ‘I am Virginie Aucoin, and I am very happy to be helping you.’
I pulled back slightly, not quite sure what to say. The miserable-looking Belle girl had suddenly morphed into an over enthusiastic puppy, all bright eyes and unable to stand still. She bounced lightly from foot to foot, all the while grinning at me madly.
‘Um, well, hello,’ I said, not wanting to upset her. ‘Have you had breakfast? Do you want to get something?’
‘I have not. What do you like to eat?’ Virginie asked, turning very serious. ‘Breakfast is very important. We are busy today, yes?’
‘Yes?’ I said, letting her drag me out of the lobby. ‘And I would like coffee?’
She stopped short right outside the doors. ‘Just coffee? Oh Angela, you are already so American. But you must eat also. Follow me.’
All the way down the narrow stone street, Virginie talked. Happily for uncultured me, her English was fairly brilliant, mainly thanks to the year she’d spent working at US Belle as an intern, which was apparently where she had first come across my blog.
‘It was just beginning as I am leaving to return to Paris,’ she explained, turning another tight corner and emerging into a beautiful open space, lined with rows of impressive mansion houses. ‘This is Place des Vosges, very old, very beautiful. Many famous people are living here a long time ago. Do you know the writer Victor Hugo? And Cardinal Richelieu? I wish, one day, myself. It is my dream.’
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