I Heart Paris (3 page)

‘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

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?’