I Heart Paris (8 page)

‘
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

‘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 and
wail 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.