Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) (4 page)

‘Is that a
bed
over there?’ Charlie mutters.

‘Yeah. You can sleep here for free, as long as you read a book a day, and do chores I think.’

‘Yuck. No thanks.’

Shrugging, I check my reflection in a tarnished mirror beside a bookshelf. I’m wearing a blue silk jumpsuit by Katherine Hamnett, which my mum wore in the eighties. I could see Charlie do a double take when I appeared in it this morning: like me, it’s obviously not his style. I am
so
glad nothing happened between us last night. Never in my life have I barked up such a wrong tree.

We edge into a side room, where two guys are playing chess. I watch them for a minute, smiling. Then I spot a dark head bent over a book. A tall frame curled into a chair.

‘Jonathan?’

He looks up, frowning, and then slowly the mists seem to clear.

‘Poppy,’ he says, closing the book and standing up. ‘Of course.’ He leans forward to kiss me on either cheek. Nice aftershave. ‘I hope you haven’t been searching for me for too long. It’s dangerous to let me loose in here.’ His dark-blue eyes, behind his black glasses, hold mine for a long minute.

‘No, we just got here,’ I say, taking in his height, broad shoulders under a T-shirt and linen jacket, a navy cotton scarf thrown loosely around his neck. He’s well-built like an American, but he definitely has a sort of French style going on. ‘This is my colleague, Charlie, our marketing guru.’

‘Good to meet you both,’ he says.

For some reason I’d expected Jonathan to be a bit aloof, but he’s charm personified, leading us out of the bookshop and talking about taking us somewhere nearby for coffee.

‘Was that your book?’ Charlie asks, as we’re about to head out the door. ‘Or did you need to pay for it?’

I glare at him, but Jonathan just looks down at the ancient Penguin Classic in his hand and frowns. ‘Oh, yes. Hey, Georgie,’ he says, to a leggy girl descending from a ladder. ‘Put this on my account, would you?’

‘Sure, Jonathan. No problem,’ she says, in a chirpy American voice. I love the fact that he has an account at his favourite bookshop.

‘Stealing from a bookshop,’ Jonathan says as we step out of the dark building into the sunshine. ‘That’s a crime that should land you in the lowest circle of hell.’ He has a beautiful voice: deep, sexy and a little hoarse, with a transatlantic accent like Robert Pattinson’s. His writer father is English and his mother is American, which of course explains it. Actually he looks a bit like R-Patz. Nothing wrong with that.

‘It was our fault. We distracted you,’ I offer.

‘No, it was the book. I’m always in a daze after reading Kafka, aren’t you?’ He gives me a charming sideways smile, and I laugh.

‘Me too,’ says Charlie. ‘Total daze.’

I give him another glare, but Jonathan doesn’t seem to have noticed. Instead he leads us past an ancient church and down a few narrow, winding little medieval streets, crammed with restaurants and T-shirt shops, and then around a corner.

‘That looks like a lovely place,’ I say, observing a blue-painted café on our left.

‘Well spotted,’ says Jonathan. ‘It’s La Fourmi Ailée. It’s where we’re going. One of the best tea shops in Paris.’

I notice that his French accent is excellent, and that he really emphasises it, rolling his ‘r’s – he doesn’t just swallow it up with the rest of his English words.

Inside the café is charming, with old yellow leather booths, a high ceiling with lots of bookshelves and what look like lines of poetry written up on the walls. There’s a fireplace and even a Buddha statue; it’s airy, peaceful and bohemian, the kind of place where you could spend a few hours sipping tea, reading or writing – though thankfully, there are no MacBook Airs in evidence.

‘This is such a wonderful place,’ I exclaim, as we sit down. ‘It’s so individual.’

‘It’s named after a quotation from Virginia Woolf,’ says Jonathan. ‘It’s a line – I think it’s in one of her letters – where she talks about wanting to write a light, feathery book with wings, after doing ant work. And “
la fourmi ailée
” means—’

My finger’s already on the buzzer. ‘The ant with wings?’

‘Very good,’ he says. ‘
Bonjour
,’ he adds to the waitress, who’s just joined us, and orders
un grand crème
.

‘
Pour moi aussi
,’ I add.

‘
Très bien
,’ says the waitress, who’s looking very chic and bohemian in denim cut-offs and a big floral shirt. I’m just thinking how nice it is that we’re not being dumb tourists when Charlie says, ‘Coffee, please.’

‘Sure,’ says the waitress, switching to perfect English. ‘Latte, cappuccino, Americano?’

‘I’ll have what they’re having,’ Charlie says, smiling at her in a flirty way.

‘So what made you decide to move to Paris, Jonathan?’ I ask, when she’s gone. ‘Aside from the fact that it’s the most beautiful city in the world, of course.’

‘Aside from that? Well, the thing is, I write well here. And so many of the writers I love have lived here – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, George Orwell . . .’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, I’ve never felt completely at home either in England or the States. Paris seems the natural place for exiles.’

‘Your girlfriend is French, is that right?’ asks Charlie.

What? I
happen
to have scanned the acknowledgements of Jonathan’s new book for any sign of a girlfriend and there’s nothing. To my relief, Jonathan replies. ‘My ex-girlfriend was, yes. That is, she still is. We’re still friends.’ We all exchange the grown-up smiles of people who stay friends with exes.

‘So,’ says Jonathan. ‘Tell me what you’ve got in mind for my book.’

Charlie and I talk him briefly through our ideas, and I’m pretty pleased: we sound enthusiastic but we’re not sales-pitchy. I must admit, Charlie’s impressive, and he’s done his homework on all Jonathan’s previous activities, including his modelling stint.

‘Oh, it was hardly modelling,’ Jonathan says modestly. ‘One photo shoot for
GQ
.’

‘Would you be willing to do it again?’ asks Charlie.

‘Sure. Whatever it takes.’

‘I’m glad you don’t see promoting your book as a chore,’ I tell him.

‘Absolutely not,’ says Jonathan. ‘There’s no point in being the reclusive
auteur
. That was fine in Salinger’s day, but not now.’

‘Even Salinger would have to be on Twitter today,’ says Charlie. ‘And Pinterest.’

Jonathan laughs heartily. ‘That’s funny. Yes, I like Twitter. It’s a good way to network, there’s no doubt about it. Sometimes I just pour myself a Kir and pretend I’m at a cocktail party.’

Our coffee arrives, rich and dark, with a dense foam topping. I sip it, trying to savour this moment of having coffee in Paris with Jonathan Wilder.

‘Great coffee,’ Charlie says. ‘Is the food good too? What’s your favourite place to eat in Paris?’

‘Probably . . .’ Jonathan seems lost in thought, then smiles. ‘Well, not the place you’d expect. A tiny, crappy-looking Algerian joint in the twentieth arrondissement. No sign outside. Florescent lights, everyone chain-smoking. No menu. The food is out of this world.’

‘It sounds great,’ says Charlie. ‘Why don’t we go there tomorrow?’

Jonathan just laughs again, as if he’s made a great joke. ‘No, let’s just book somewhere more conventional, like, maybe – Le Meurice?’

‘Le Meurice,’ says Charlie. ‘Sounds good. We’ll book.’

‘Where are you both staying?’

‘Near Saint Sulpice,’ says Charlie.

Jonathan doesn’t understand, and frowns. ‘Where? Ah, Saint Sulpice,’ he repeats, giving it the full French. ‘Great choice.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Excuse me, please.’

Charlie and I stay quiet for a minute after he’s gone, then I let out a sigh of relief.

‘Well, that seems to be going well. He’s nice, isn’t he?’

‘I’m glad he likes our publishing plans,’ says Charlie.

‘You don’t think he’s nice?’

‘Sure. Bit pretentious, maybe . . .’

I roll my eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t be pretentious if you’re a genuine talent.’

‘“Sometimes I just pour myself a Kir and pretend I’m at a cocktail party,”’ says Charlie.

‘Shhh,’ I hiss.

‘Poppy? Charlie?’ says a voice beside us.

Standing before us is Clémence Poésy, or a dead ringer thereof. A petite vision in black, with tumbling waves of mink-blond hair, pouting pink mouth, a leather biker jacket sliding off her shoulders, and the most astonishing pair of legs ever poured into skinny jeans. No danger of deep-vein thrombosis in Paris: I’ve never seen such tight jeans anywhere.

‘I am Constance,’ she says, putting out a hand.

‘Of course! Hi!’ It’s Jonathan’s agent – I wasn’t sure if she’d be joining us today. And I didn’t expect her to be quite so glamorous.

‘Great to meet you, Constance,’ says Charlie, getting to his feet and shaking her hand. ‘I’m Charlie.’ He’s brightened up quite a bit.

‘I am so sorry I was so late. I couldn’t find anywhere to park my motorbike,’ she says. Her accent is adorable: ‘park’ comes out as ‘purrk’. I can’t believe how chic she looks considering she’s just stepped off a motorbike. Even her helmet is cute, swinging neatly beside her tiny Chanel bag. I can’t go anywhere on my bike without looking like a total nerd, with a helmet that makes me look like a giant insect (extra-large to accommodate all my hair).

‘Motorbike?’ says Charlie. ‘Fantastic. What kind?’ Forget brightening up; he’s looking at Constance as if she’s something to eat.

‘You must be really brave to ride it around Paris,’ I say.

I’m sort of assuming Constance will say something like, ‘Oh no, I’m a real chicken’ or ‘I’m very careful’. Instead, she startles me by putting her head on one side, appearing to consider and then smiling and saying, ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘Constance
. Te voilà enfin
,’ says a voice behind us.

Jonathan and Constance exchange cheek kisses.

‘Salut
,
Jonathan!
Excuse-moi, impossible de trouver un endroit pour garer mon scooter . . .’

We watch as they catch up with much shrugging and gesticulating. I feel like an extra in a very glamorous French film. Then Jonathan slaps his forehead.

‘So rude of us,’ he says. ‘I sometimes forget that I’m speaking French, not English. You’ve all met?’

‘Yes – we were just wondering how much of our spiel Constance needs to hear again,’ Charlie says. He looks as if he’d be happy to tell her any amount of spiel.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ says Jonathan. ‘Constance, why don’t you let Charlie catch you up on their very exciting publishing plans . . . and Poppy and I can take a stroll?’

Charlie and I exchange glances. I can tell that we’re both thinking: what is the catch?

‘That sounds an excellent plan,’ says Charlie. ‘I can talk you through the whole thing, flipcharts and all. And later, you’ll have to show me that motorbike.’

‘
Sans problème
,’ says Constance. ‘We can even go for a ride if you want, why not?’

‘Great! I’d say you know Paris like the back of your hand.’

‘I know it very well,’ says Constance without a trace of false modesty.

Jonathan and I walk out of the café and I try to hide my smile as I put my sunglasses on. I’ve got Jonathan all to myself: what a result! Charlie has clearly got the hots for his agent, but she looks as if she can handle him. I can’t believe I wanted to seduce Charlie last night; Jonathan is so much more attractive. Of course, this is a professional meeting and Jonathan is totally off-limits. But it reminds me that I have standards. Intelligent conversations; someone who’s interested in culture and not afraid to be a bit different – that’s much more me.

‘There’s just something about the light here, isn’t there?’ I say. ‘It’s that creamy colour of the buildings . . . the river . . . wasn’t Paris called the City of Light?’

‘That’s exactly right,’ says Jonathan. ‘About a hundred years ago. Can you imagine? Picasso, Matisse, Hemingway, Chanel, all working away together in a few square miles, all inventing the twentieth century.’ He shakes his head as we start to drift towards the river. ‘It’s humbling, really. I feel very audacious even trying to write anything here.’

I make a non-committal murmur and Jonathan laughs. ‘I must sound like a pretentious idiot.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ I say sincerely. ‘Honestly. What are we coming to if we can’t mention bloody Picasso without being thought pretentious?’ I’m really talking to Charlie but of course he’s not here to hear my words of wisdom. It’s wonderful to be in Paris again and I’m drinking it all in: the old buildings with their dove-grey shutters and lanterns, the flowing brown river, the green stalls on the quays with their collections of second-hand books and prints.

‘Ah, the
bouquinistes
,’ Jonathan says when I point them out. ‘It’s impossible to imagine the river without them, isn’t it?’

To our left is the peaceful grey bulk of Notre-Dame, rising out of the clumps of greenery. Below us are quays where couples are sprawled and intertwined. No point in telling people in Paris to get a room, I muse. The whole city is their room.

‘Where do you want to go?’ he asks, as we approach a bridge. ‘Over to the Ile St-Louis and the Marais? Or do you want to head back towards the Latin Quarter and the Pantheon?’

I laugh. ‘I feel spoiled for choice . . . let’s head towards the Marais. I love it there.’

‘Do you know Paris well?’ Jonathan asks, as we walk towards a bridge.

‘Yes – I spent a year studying here, and I used to come here a lot with my ex. Good lord, what are these?’

The whole side of the bridge is covered with what I thought was a bronze wall of some kind, but in fact is little padlocks bolted to the bridge, with messages engraved on them. People are walking up and down taking pictures of them and examining the messages, most of which seem to be in English. ‘Snicky and Snuffy For Ever’. ‘To Maria, my angel: will you marry me? 17.08.12’. ‘18.08.12: She said yes!’

‘The
cadenas d’amour
,’ says Jonathan. ‘It started on the Pont des Arts but the
mairie
took them all away overnight. Now they’ve popped up here.’

I shake my head. ‘Is there anywhere on earth more obsessed with love and romance?’ I say before I realise how weird that must sound.