Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) (2 page)

‘OK, let’s begin,’ says Ellen. ‘Any new business? Poppy?’

I go over to the hot seat and as the room goes quiet I sit up straight and make sure I sound poised, enthusiastic and – above all – confident.

‘Last week I circulated to a few of you a very, very exciting debut novel. It’s a coming-of-age story set in London and Lagos . . .’ I recap my pitch for those who haven’t read the book, and wrap up with, ‘So what did people think?’

There’s an awkward pause while they all look at each other; it’s as if I’ve put a dead frog in the middle of the table. Melanie speaks first. ‘I thought the writing was beautiful, but . . . it felt like a difficult sell.’

Ellen nods. ‘Same here. I did like the voice, but I wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced either.’

I nod, trying to swallow my disappointment; if Ellen and Melanie don’t like it, it’s probably a lost cause.

‘Anyone else read it?’ Ellen asks.

‘I read it,’ says Charlie, to my surprise. I didn’t even send it to him.

‘And?’

‘I thought it was really well written,’ he says, making me even more surprised. ‘I could see it getting great reviews, good publicity, maybe even winning prizes . . .’

I’m leaning forward, amazed. I wouldn’t have thought the book was up his street at all. Have I completely misjudged him?

‘. . . and selling about ten copies.’

Everyone laughs; he pretends to look regretful but he obviously thinks he’s been funny – idiot.

‘Well, that sounds like a pass,’ I say, as lightly as I can. ‘Thanks for reading, everyone.’

‘Who’s next?’ Ellen asks.

‘Me,’ says Camilla, one of the non-fiction editors. ‘I have a lead on a book by Katie Chipping.’

Katie Chipshop, as she’s known, is a singer having her fifteen seconds of fame.

‘Fabulous! Yes please!’ says Melanie, and they start discussing it enthusiastically.

I do understand how important these books are to the business, but it’s depressing all the same. I look at Charlie, who’s now talking about Katie’s Twitter followers, and doing a partnership with a clothing brand, and think how unfair it is that we’re turning down a really talented writer for someone like Katie Chipping.

‘All other business,’ says Ellen. ‘Poppy, anything?’

‘Yes. I’m very excited to say that we have made an offer for a new novel by Jonathan Wilder.’

I’m pleased that the reaction is at least as positive as it was for Katie bloody Chipping. I continue, ‘His agent has been reviewing the offers, and they’ve asked a shortlist of editors to go and meet him, including me.’

‘Where does he live?’ asks one of the new publicists, whose name escapes me.

‘Paris,’ says Ellen. ‘And he grew up all over – Switzerland, Italy, the States. His father is of course Michael Wilder, very famous too as a writer. Poppy, do you want to add anything?’

‘Yes – well, most of you will know his first book. It was set in a private school in New York and made into a film; the critics called him the new Bret Easton Ellis. And now he’s back with his second book, which is about an American diplomat in Paris who wrecks his career with an affair.’

‘Sounds great,’ says the publicist. ‘When are we doing it?’

‘The deal’s not done yet. He has other offers, so Poppy has to meet him and charm him,’ Ellen says.

‘The beauty contest,’ says Melanie. ‘You’ll win that, Poppy.’

Which is very nice of her. But as we walk out of the meeting room I’m still disappointed about the book I wanted to buy. Charlie strolls by me for a minute, saying, ‘Fingers crossed for Jonathan Wilder. Melanie’s right; you’ll definitely win the beauty competition.’

‘Thanks,’ I say briefly. He can flirt all he likes but I’m still miffed at him for cracking jokes about my book.

As if he’s reading my mind, Charlie continues, ‘Sorry about that other book – I did think it was good, just a hard sell. I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

‘Oh . . . that’s all right. Thanks for reading it.’ Mollified, I give him a quick smile to show there are no hard feelings. He’s not a bad guy, Charlie; he just lacks imagination. He’s about to say something else when Melanie collars him, and I slip on ahead.

I would never admit it to anyone I work with but when he first joined a year ago, I actually fancied Charlie. He is very handsome: he has a sort of young Viking look, with piercing blue eyes and blond hair. But then I began to notice things like his obsession with football, the way he dresses as if he’s in a boy band, and his habit of tossing peanuts into his mouth as if he’s training a seal. We did a bit of flirting at our last Christmas party and I was very briefly tempted, but now I’m so glad I didn’t go there. I later found out he’d slept with at least three girls at work, which is just – icky. As practically the only single straight male in the entire company it must be like shooting fish.

Back at my desk, I write an email to the agent about the novel I have to turn down. I’d love to have another little cake to cheer myself up, but I make myself put them in the kitchen because soon I’m going to be meeting Jonathan Wilder, in Paris, and I want to be able to get back into my size-twelve jeans.

As a compensation for not having the cake, I treat myself to a quick look at the
GQ
shoot Jonathan did to publicise his first book. Dark hair, soulful eyes, high cheekbones, bit skinny. I click on a more recent picture; he’s had a few protein shakes since then and he looks even better. Cut me a slice of that, as my friend Anthony would say.

‘Poppy?’ It’s Ellen. ‘Can I talk to you for a second?’

‘Sure,’ I say, quickly closing the screen. ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s about your trip to Paris,’ she says. ‘I thought it would be good if Charlie went with you.’

‘Oh. Really?’ I know Charlie’s been involved in the marketing plans, but I didn’t think he was that central to the pitch. And an irrational part of me thinks: this is
my
project – why does he have to come?

Ellen continues, ‘I just think you could do with some backup, to talk about all our marketing plans.’

‘Of course! That would be great. Really helpful,’ I say, telling myself not to be so silly. It will be good to have Charlie’s perspective, and show Jonathan the whole team is on board. It’s just weird that I’m going to be spending two whole days in Paris with him. Aside from work, what on earth are we going to talk about?

‘Wow. A trip to Paris to meet Jonathan Wilder . . . how great is that?’ says Alice. ‘It’s like going to LA to meet James Franco.’

‘Or going to Italy to meet Luther Carson?’ I say, smiling. I can’t resist reminding Alice of the eventful work trip she went on when we worked together, before she left our company to work for a literary agency. ‘Jonathan’s not quite James Franco famous. Just as well or we couldn’t afford him.’

Alice and I are sitting outside Bar Celona in Soho, the start of many a fun night in the past back when we were penniless assistants together. This evening, though, we’re having a quick after-work drink before Alice goes home to her boyfriend and I go home to Don Draper on DVD.

I don’t mean to moan, but I can’t help adding, ‘It’s ironic really that I’m going to Paris. I’ll be knee-deep in mini-breaking couples, when I’m . . . well, let’s just say it’s been a while.’

‘I know,’ Alice says. After a minute she asks curiously, ‘How long exactly? I mean I know it’s been a while, but . . .’

I swill the wine around in my glass. ‘Coming up to a year,’ I admit.

‘Oh,’ she says, taken aback. ‘Well, that’s not so long . . .’ she adds unconvincingly.

It’s funny. Where once it would have been shocking to be a single girl sleeping around, now it’s the
not
sleeping with anyone that raises eyebrows.

‘Why don’t we just hit some bar together, see who you meet?’ she suggests. Which is sweet of her, because picking up men in bars really isn’t Alice’s scene. Or mine, for that matter.

‘It’s OK, honestly. Call me old fashioned, but I don’t like one-night stands. I like to get to know someone first. But generally, by the time I’ve been on a few dates with someone, either he’s gone off me or vice versa.’

Alice looks sympathetic.

‘Well, you’re sure to meet someone online,’ she says encouragingly. I’ve already told her about my foray into internet dating and she’s all for it.

‘Let’s hope so.’ I hold up crossed fingers. ‘I’d prefer to meet someone in real life, but I just don’t seem to meet people any more.’

‘What about the running club? Were there no men in that?’

‘There were, but they were too fast. I was in the slower group and it was all women.’

‘I think triathlon clubs are meant to be good, for that reason,’ says Alice. ‘The abilities are more mixed up together, and it’s more social. My cousin Lily’s friend Maggie met her boyfriend in a triathlon club.’

I look at Alice in dismay. ‘I’m not being funny, but . . . is that what it takes these days? Do we have to become triathletes to meet men?’

She laughs. ‘No, of course not. What happened with that guy, you know, the comedian you met at that gig?’

‘Oh, him. We were emailing, I made some joke, and he said I was being disrespectful to comedians and stopped writing back. And that’s that. I don’t know a single single man.’

‘You must know
one
,’ Alice says. It’s sort of equal parts touching and annoying, the way all coupled-up girls are convinced that there must be eligible men around somewhere we haven’t looked. Like, at the bottom of our sock drawer, or at the back of the cupboard behind the baked beans. ‘What about Charlie from work, for example? I know you don’t like him, but he is single . . .’

‘Yes, he is single. And probably will be forever, if he can help it. Definitely not relationship material.’

‘But you used to think he was cute. And he flirts with you,’ she reminds me.

‘He flirts with everyone,’ I reply automatically. But she’s right; he does.

‘I’m not saying he’s the one for you,’ she continues. ‘But it shows you, there might be people around who you’ve overlooked.’

An idea is forming in my brain. Charlie. I have to admit, I do think he’s attractive – in a seriously guilty-pleasure way, like Taylor Lautner or one of the
Made in Chelsea
boys. And I’m pretty sure he finds me attractive too, judging from that Christmas party, and other little things he’s said. But I’m not interested in him as a boyfriend, and he’s definitely not interested in me as a girlfriend. Which means—

‘Alice, that’s a brilliant idea.’

‘What is?’

‘I’m going to try and have a fling with Charlie in Paris. In fact, we’re staying for two nights, so who knows. It might be a whole dirty weekend!’

‘What? Poppy, that’s crazy! You don’t even like him!’

‘But that’s the whole point. We don’t want to go out with each other, but there’s an attraction there. So we can have a fling, and neither of us will get hurt.’

‘Are you sure? I mean you work together – it could be awkward . . .’

‘No, it’ll be fine. Don’t you see? If I wanted a fairy-tale romance with him, that would be one thing, but I don’t, any more than he does. And also, I’m initiating it, which means I’m in control. He is right now packing his Chelsea boxer shorts and he has no idea what I’m thinking.’

‘But what if you end up liking him after all?’ Alice asks. ‘Or vice versa?’

I think of the fact that Charlie uses more hair product than I do; the fact that he owns a Porsche key ring; the fact that he’s at least three years younger than me and completely commitment-phobic. ‘No, I think we’ll be OK.’

Of course, by the time I’m queuing for the Eurostar late on Wednesday evening, I’m having second thoughts. What seemed like a great idea after a few glasses of white wine is different in the cold light of day.

‘Evening! I just walked right by you. Are you in disguise?’ Charlie asks me, as he joins me in the queue for check-in.

I don’t know what he’s on about. I’m in black pedal pushers, a black polo neck and a vintage trench, plus enormous sunglasses. I’ve added a big necklace of vertical silver spikes, just so it doesn’t look as if I’m in fancy dress. ‘Well, no . . . I was hoping more for Aubrey Hepburn in
Funny Face
.’

Charlie is wielding a huge cappuccino, coated in chocolate powder, and an even huger muffin, which he inhales almost whole before wiping his fingers on his double-breasted trench coat. I wish we weren’t in his ’n’ hers trench coats, it probably looks as if we’re doing promotions for something.

‘Remind me,’ he says. ‘Which one is Audrey Hepburn?’

I raise one eyebrow. ‘The one from
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.’

‘Oh, right. Is that your suitcase?’

‘Yeah, why?’

‘It looks like something you’d take on the
Titanic
.’

I roll my eyes at him. It’s a genuine vintage trunk case, heavier than modern ones, but it’s beautiful, unlike Charlie’s Red Bull sports bag.

But then again, I think, as we shuffle through security, isn’t that a good thing? The more different we are, the more regret-free sex with him would be. As I watch him hoist his bag off his shoulder to put it in the plastic tray, his jumper rides up, revealing a very sexy midriff – not too flat. I find myself staring at that trail of hair that leads up from his tighty-whities. Aha. Briefs, not boxers. Which makes sense really. Once you get over a certain size, boxers just don’t provide enough support, do they?

‘Miss, come forward please,’ says a security woman, distracting me from my reverie.

As we find our seats, I feel awkward. I’ve never spoken to Charlie for longer than three minutes and now we’re stuck side by side in a train for more than two hours. As I sit down beside him, I notice his aftershave, strong but not unpleasant; I bet it’s Dior Homme or something equally flashy. Then I see that I have a message from my mum. I stand in the aisle to listen to it, because I know that whatever it is, I won’t want Charlie to hear.

‘Hi, love, it’s only me. Listen. I was talking to my friends at the bead shop, about your problems meeting men. And one of them suggested something called tag rugby? I looked it up and there’s a club in Finsbury Park, which is very handy for you, I’ll send you the details. Also, I’m going to come up to London for a demonstration against GM products on the fifteenth, so put that in your diary – we can have lunch afterwards. Oh, and have fun in Paris! OK, bye, love.’