Bridesmaid Blitz (19 page)

Clover whistles. “When it comes to boys, Mills is one mixed-up cookie. This does not bode well for her future. But it will give us a heck of a lot of fab agony aunt material, Bean Machine.”

“Clover!”

She just grins.

I sleep through most of the flight, as does Clover, not surprisingly. When we arrive, a taxi ferries us from Charles de Gaulle Airport to the center of Paris via the motorway. The taxi driver keeps his window fully open, his tanned arm resting on the sill. It’s a bit windy in the back, but Clover and I don’t mind. (Mum’s dozing and Monique’s in the front.)

Paris is much sunnier than Dublin, but not as warm as I’d expected. The air smells different, crisper, and it catches at the back of the throat. Dad claims every city has its own special scent — New York smells of hot metal: sparkly, exciting. Dublin smells musty, like damp washing. (He’s not wrong there!)

For a while, there isn’t much to see. Just some huge advertising billboards and lots of other taxis buzzing in and out of the fast-moving traffic, like summer hornets. Then a hill appears to our left, a big white building gleaming at its summit.

“Voilà!”
Monique says, pointing at it. “The Sacré Cœur. We’re nearly in Montmartre. Not far now.”

Clover grabs my hand in excitement and we grin at each other like loons.

We arrive at Hôtel Unique: an impressive white-stone townhouse with smart black canvas shades over its large sash windows and miniature olive trees in pots at the front door. It’s beautiful, tucked away down a shady lane right in the thick of Montmartre’s winding cobblestone streets that are full of ultrastylish shops, dinky houses, and bijoux apartments. Perfect.

Gazing at the hotel, I clutch Clover’s arm and beam at her. She smiles back.

“I think Saffy did us proud, girls,” Monique says.

The friendly dark-haired concierge, who looks only a little bit older than Clover, greets us in the small lobby, then helps us lug our bags up the narrow staircase. (It’s pretty old, so it doesn’t have a lift.) On the way up, she tells us about the hotel.

“There are only five bedrooms in Hôtel Unique,” she says with an accent I can’t quite place, but it sounds familiar, “and each is decorated in the style of a different French artist — Monet, Degas, Renoir, Matisse, and Morisot —”

“Are you Irish?” Clover interrupts suddenly.

The concierge smiles. “Half. My mother’s from Donegal; Dad’s from Brittany. I know I have a funny accent. We Irish pop up everywhere, don’t we?” She shows us to our rooms and then says, “Enjoy your stay. Let me know if you need anything.”

Mum and Monique are sharing the Degas room. It has antique tutus hanging on the walls — very theatrical — it suits Monique perfectly. Clover and I are in the Matisse, which is complete with exotic slate-blue and orange walls and has its own mosaic hammam, or steam room.

We dump our bags and go back to Mum and Monique’s room to have a nosy around. Remembering the concierge’s description of the other rooms, I ask, “Mum, who’s Morisot?”

“Berthe Morisot was one of France’s most successful female impressionists,” she says.

“Like me,” Clover says. “Guess who this is.” She hitches up her shorts so the waistband is practically under her armpits. “Hate it. Awful, awful, awful. My dog’s better than you are, mate. You’ve got no talent whatsoever.”

“Simon Cowell,” I say with a grin. “The shorts gave it away.”

Mum rolls her eyes. “Not that kind of impressionist, Clover. A painter.”

We all roll around the place laughing.

After a rather boozy lunch in the hotel’s tree-dappled courtyard, Mum yawns and stretches her arms over her head.

“I’m whacked,” she says. “Think I’ll potter upstairs for a little
siesta.
”

Monique nods. “Good idea, Sylvie. Traveling is so exhausting. I’ll join you.”

“Party poopers,” Clover says.

“Maybe you should have a rest too, Amy,” Mum suggests.

“Absolutely out of the question.” Clover grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Things to do and people to see. I’ll take good care of her, Sylvie.
À bientôt.
”

Before Mum has a chance to protest, Clover drags me up the side steps that lead to the front of the hotel, down the stepping-stone path, and out the black iron gate.

We stand in the lane, look at each other, and then start laughing.

“Ready to put your plan into action, French Bean?” Clover wiggles her eyebrows.

I nod.
“Oui, mademoiselle.”

“Oh,
très bien,
Beanie.
Très bien
.”

She hooks my arm and runs me down the cobblestoned slope, fast. At the bottom we collapse in a giggling heap. Clover holds my head in the crook of her arm and runs her knuckles over my scalp. “Noggin, noggin, noggin,” she says, rubbing hard.

“Ow, Clover!” I pull away and massage my skull. “Have you gone mad? That hurt.”

She beams at me. “I’m just so psyched to be here, Beanie! And I already heart Paris so much.” She crosses her arms tightly, then turns her back to me and moves her hands up and down her own shoulders and back, so it looks like someone is hugging her.

I laugh. “You’re such a big kid. Seth does that too.”

She jumps around and sits on her hands. “Ah, Sethy-baby. So what about tonight? If all goes well, do you think you’ll be spending this evening with lover boy?”

“I hope so. But until I talk to him, I can’t say for sure. Got your satnav?”

She pats her bag. “Yep. Just as well Brains believes in such ultraromantic presents. Let me see: a Memory Stick, a new hands-free kit, this satnav yoke . . .” She counts them off on her fingers and laughs. “I do wish he’d buck the trend and give me perfume or underwear sometimes.”

“Seth writes me poetry,” I say without thinking.
Siúcra
, he’ll kill me.

“Cute. Any good?”

“Yes,” I say loyally. “But Brains did fix your laptop that time it crashed. It must be pretty handy having a computer guru on tap.”

“Guess so. Now, ready to implement the spyware?”

“Abso-doodle-utely. I can’t wait to see Seth’s face. How long have we got until Mum sends out a search party?”

“Ages. Did you see the beds? Comfy as Little Bear’s. She’ll be Goldilocks until dinnertime. Right, let’s put Operation Seth into action.”

She takes out her satnav, flicks it on, and stares down at the screen. Attached to the side like a Memory Stick is a box about the size of a matchbox. A red light is flickering and flashing intermittently, and it’s making a beeping noise.

“I still can’t believe people really invent things like this.”

“I know, and isn’t this a fab way of running a consumer test for the mag?” Her eyes sparkle. “Couldn’t be more perfect.”

“So how does it work again?” I ask.

“You plant the special pen in your boyfriend’s — in this case, Seth’s — bag and attach the tracking device to any satnav system. Genius.”

I feel a bit uneasy. “I hope Seth doesn’t mind us tracking him. It’s kind of like spying, isn’t it?”

“Duh! That’s why it’s called the Spy on Your Boyfriend Kit. Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, you can’t back out now, Beanie. I promised Saffy a feature.”

“A feature? On what?”

“Tracking your errant boyfriend, of course. This spy kit’s expensive. Saffy only let me borrow it on the condition that I do a three-hundred-word review and work it into a piece. Saffy’s very keen on this whole spy kit shebang — I think the company must be putting an ad into the mag or something.”

“Seth’s not errant,” I protest.

She shrugs. “He will be in my piece.”

“He’d better be completely unrecognizable, Clover. I’m warning you.”

“Settle your tights, Beanie. I’m not stupid. And it’s not like he reads the
Goss
, is it?”

She has a point.

“OK,” she says, staring at the screen. “It’s picking up his signal — he’s on Boulevard du Palais.”

“Is that near?”

Clover makes a face. “Not exactly. We’ll grab a taxi.”

Luckily, it doesn’t take too long to hail one, and we’re soon bouncing along in the backseat, our eyes glued to the screen, following the little red dot along the street map. The device is making a beeping noise at regular intervals, like a chirping chick.
Beep, beep, beep.

“He’s just crossed the river at Pont au Change,” Clover says. “Now he’s turned onto Rue de Rivoli. We’re going the wrong way!” She gabbles a few words in French to the taxi driver, who grunts, nods once, indicates, and throws the cab into a U-ey, the tires screeching on the asphalt.

“Merci, monsieur,”
she says, giving him a winning smile.

He grunts again. (Her school French is coming in pretty useful.)

“It’s like being in a cop movie,” she whispers. We’re both trying not to giggle.

Minutes later, as we cross the Pont au Change, the beeps start to get louder and closer together. And then suddenly there’s just one almost continuous
BEEEEEEP
.

“Stop!
Arett-ey
-something!” Clover squeals.

The taxi driver spits out a word in French that sounds pretty rude and then does an emergency stop. We’re flung forward and my chest thumps against the seat belt.

“You OK, Beanie?” Clover looks at me a little sheepishly.

I nod, but before I can answer, the taxi driver has spun around and is ranting and throwing his hands around in the air.

“What’s he saying?” I ask Clover.

She concentrates. “‘Are you crazy?’” she translates. “‘Are you trying to kill us all?’”

She says something back to him in French and shows him the satnav and the red dot.

“Ah, oui?”
he says, his face softening.
“Méchant garçon.”
His bushy eyebrows shoot up and he gives a fruity chuckle.

I don’t know that much French, but I think
méchant
means “naughty,” and I know
garçon
means “boy.” Poor Seth. I won’t have him disparaged by random French taxi drivers.

“Clover, what did you say to him?” I demand. “Seth hasn’t done anything wrong. I just want to surprise him, that’s all.”

Clover says something else to the taxi driver and he just laughs. I give up and push open the cab door huffily, leaving Clover to pay the fare.

We’ve pulled up beside an open square in front of a modern building covered with giant striking LEGO-colored plastic tubes.

“How perfect!” I say, staring at the building. “He’s definitely in there.”

Clover stands beside me, her nose wrinkling. “What? Inside that load of old scaffolding? But wait . . . it does look familiar.”

“That, Miss Art Philistine, is the Pompidou Centre. One of the best modern-art galleries in the world.” I feel a rush of excitement, from the tips of my toes to my hair follicles; it’s so intense it gives me goose bumps. I couldn’t have picked a better place to rendezvous if I’d tried. Seth and I have both shared the same dream all our lives: to visit the MoMA in New York and the Pompidou in Paris.

“You OK to take it from here, Bean Machine?” Clover asks gently.

I nod. “Think so.”

“I’ve turned down the sound, so as soon as the red light goes solid, he’ll be right in front of you,” she says, handing over the spy kit. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour.
Bon courage
, Beanie,” she adds, kissing her fingers and blowing them at me.

I have to keep saying, “Holy Moly, I’m in the Pompidou Centre,” over and over and over under my breath as I walk in the doors. I can’t help it. Inside, I head straight for the loos at the back of the enormous lobby. All the anticipation is getting to me. After weeing — twice — I wash my hands and stare in the mirror over the sink.

A new zit flashes proudly from my chin. Typical! I resist the urge to poke or squeeze it. I’m not alone, and although I’ve seen people do far weirder things in public loos — like pluck hairy moles (honestly!) — I’m not that much of an odd-let. Instead, I whip out my Rimmel cover stick and try to repair the damage.

When I’m done, I take a deep breath, wipe my damp hands on my jeans (those hand-dryer things never work properly), brush my hair back, pop on Clover’s New York Yankees cap, and slide my sunglasses over my eyes — my disguise is complete! I walk back out into the lobby, and while I queue for my ticket, I can feel my heartbeat quicken and my palms breaking out in a sticky sweat. By the time I walk through the turnstiles, my stomach is roller-coaster lurching and I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t eaten that second croque-monsieur at lunch. (But for such a simple sambo — basically just fancy cheese on toast — it was delicious.)