Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) (8 page)

‘It’s not inedible, but it’s very gamey. I wouldn’t cook it myself. It would need a strong sauce. Whereas a calf’s liver just needs a dash of sherry, some butter and a very hot pan. And maybe some sage. And maybe some crispy little matchsticks of bacon.’ He puts his menu down. ‘I’m obviously hungrier than I thought.’ And after checking I’m ready to order, he waves frantically as if he’s hailing a cab: gauche but very effective, as the waiter comes straight over.

After we’ve ordered, I say curiously, ‘I didn’t know you were quite so into your food.’ What I mean is: I’ve seen him stuff it down himself at every opportunity but I didn’t know he could actually make it himself.

‘I love food. Can’t you tell?’ He pretends to pinch an inch. Two girls beside us see him doing so, and I notice they’re blatantly checking him out. I suppose his blond, blue-eyed looks are even more potent in Paris, because of the novelty value.

‘Don’t be silly, you’re not fat,’ I say.

‘I will be if I keep going to MEATliquor.’

‘Oh, God, I love MEATliquor! I just wish I didn’t have to deal with the queues. That’s the annoying thing; so many of the places with good food, you have to queue at. It drives me crazy. I mean, do they do it to create hype or what?’ I continue in this vein for a while before I realise he’s smiling. ‘What?’

‘Nothing, I just like it when you rant on about stuff. I eat at home mostly, anyway.’ He makes a tragic face. ‘Nobody to eat out with.’

‘So do you cook a lot?’

‘Almost every evening, for me and my brother. He’s in the police force, so he’s not always home of an evening. But I like to think he’s the only bobby on his beat who comes home to fried polenta and mushrooms with parmesan crisps . . . or a goat’s cheese soufflé with a fennel and almond salad . . . or a really good steak and chips.’

‘Do you make the chips?’ I ask, mentally adjusting to this new picture of cordon-bleu Charlie.

‘Of course. We even have a deep-fat fryer.’

‘I don’t think I could trust myself with a deep-fat fryer,’ I admit.

‘I know. When I first got it, everything we ate was crispy brown for weeks. What about you, do you like cooking?’

‘I love it. Sometimes I’m a bit lazy when it’s just me, but I love having people around. Especially for brunches. I do a big frittata with feta and spring onions, and make a batch of mimosas. You should come some time,’ I add, impulsively.

‘I would love to,’ he says, looking pleased. ‘This is excellent, by the way. Would you like to try some?’

I’m relieved that he doesn’t try to feed me, but puts a bit on my plate. ‘Wow. Yum. So where did you learn to cook?’

‘Well, my dad was a cook.’

‘Where?’

‘Wormwood Scrubs.’

‘What, the prison?’

‘Yep.’ He takes a sip of wine. ‘I used to cook at home with him. And then when I left school, I got work in a restaurant kitchen in Richmond. But I wasn’t cut out for kitchen life so I decided to escape it for something clean and dry. So I applied to college and did my English degree . . . and here I am.’

Good lord. So Charlie, who I always took to be a middle-class boy who was putting on a mockney accent, was basically raised in a prison. I shake my head.

‘I wish Jonathan had been listening to you yesterday, not me. He’d have found a lot more to put in his notebook.’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘you’re a lot prettier than me.’

I don’t know what to say to that, so I change the subject. ‘So what’s the story with you and Constance?’ I say coyly. ‘You seemed to take quite a shine to her.’

‘What – you mean romantically?’ He looks blank. ‘No. She’s a nice girl, and she
does
have a scooter, but . . . I suppose I like a woman with a bit more fire in her belly.’ He grins at me, and my stomach does a backflip. I’m a little nervous for some reason; I think we need another subject change.

‘So,’ I say, ‘don’t you think it’s unfair that Katie Chipshop’s books are going to sell billions of copies when my novel got turned down?’

‘Not really. I think if your novel was good enough it would have spoken to more people there. And Katie –’ he reaches out and pulls a bit of wax off the candle. ‘She may not have had much education but she’s had lots of interesting experiences. I think it’s good that she’s able to tell her story, and that people who wouldn’t read otherwise might be tempted to read because they know her.’

I hadn’t thought of it that way before and I have to admit he makes a good point. I like the way he’s thinking about it. And I like his blue eyes and the stubble on his chin. In fact, there’s no point in denying it any more: I like him. I like Charlie. And it’s not just because he’s so handsome; it’s because he’s so much brighter, and more interesting, than I’d realised.

‘Why did you diss the coffee at my pet sandwich bar?’ I ask him suddenly. ‘I was trying to support them, by bringing in their cakes.’

‘Oh. Sorry about that. I shouldn’t have kicked them in the nuts while they were down. But seriously, you have to admit their coffee is rank.’

‘Hmph.’ It is true their coffee isn’t great. It’s sort of thin and watery. ‘Well, maybe. But you have to admit their
pasteis de nata
are sublime.’

‘The cakes were delicious,’ he says solemnly. ‘Best I’ve ever had. I’ll write to
The Times
about them. Get Giles Coren to do a review.’

‘Don’t take the piss.’

Charlie leans forward. ‘Poppy,’ he says softly, ‘I really am sorry I dissed the café. The cakes really were delicious.’

I look down and see that his hand is lying very close to mine on the table. He moves it closer, until our fingers are touching. I look up to find him still looking right at me.

‘
Désirez-vous un dessert ou un café?
’ asks our waiter.

We both shake our heads. When the bill comes he insists on paying for it.

‘Make sure you keep the receipt, so you can expense it,’ I remind him.

‘No, I want to pay,’ Charlie says illogically.

I can’t think of anything to say to that either. We walk out of the restaurant and take a stroll down to the Seine. The sun is setting, sending pink streaks across the sky, but you can still see the
bateaux mouches
going by all lit up, the Eiffel Tower with its lights coming on too, and even the Musée Branly, site of our disastrous lunch. I’m racking my brains for something cool and normal to say, but before I can think of anything, our hands are brushing together and I’m holding his. Then he’s turning me towards him. And just like that, we’ve become one of those Parisian couples, kissing the life out of each other, oblivious to everyone around them but themselves.

We get back on the Metro and make our way to the hotel, stopping every so often to kiss again. He’s exactly the right height to walk beside me with his arm draped around me.

‘Suite 105,’ Charlie says, at the hotel desk.

‘And room 106,’ I add. I want him to know that I’m not going to sleep with him tonight. Not after what happened with Jonathan; I can’t – though I really, really want to.

However, there doesn’t seem to be much harm in going into the suite with him. He sits on the chaise longue, pulls me on to his lap, and we start kissing again. I’d forgotten how exciting kissing can be. He’s so gorgeous, and his lips are so firm and soft and he smells so nice: faint aftershave, and laundry detergent, and boy. Now his hand is inching up my leg . . . If I don’t leave now, I won’t be able to leave at all. I
should
leave.

But I can’t. I physically can’t tear myself away from him. And I don’t want to. Instead, we continue kissing, and then I help him pull my dress down, all the way. I take off his jacket and his T-shirt, and kiss his chest while he wriggles out of his jeans. He has lots of trouble with my bra strap, so I have to help him take it off, which makes us both laugh. And then we’re on the floor of his suite, and it’s far too late to stop. It’s not soft-focus and perfect, like it was with Jonathan: it’s passionate and raw, and I probably look sweaty and unglamorous but I don’t care; it feels so amazing that I lose all my inhibitions, and soon I lose control completely, right before he does.

‘I’m parched,’ he murmurs later, when we’re lying curled up together in his bed. ‘Do you want anything to drink from the minibar? Some water?’

‘Oh, we shouldn’t. The minibar’s so expensive. I shouldn’t have had anything from it.’

He smiles. ‘Given how badly we’ve behaved already this weekend, I think a mineral water from the minibar is the least of our problems.’

He goes and pours us both a glass of Badoit. I’m half admiring his naked body, and half ruminating on what he said: given how badly we’ve behaved already this weekend.

Of course, what he really means is: how badly
I’ve
behaved. Sleeping with two men in forty-eight hours.

‘Come here, gorgeous,’ he says, handing me the mineral water and pulling me into his arms for another kiss.

But I can’t relax. I keep thinking, What if he thinks I’m easy, because I slept with Jonathan and now him? I couldn’t blame him. What if he has the same idea I had, when I came on this trip, and he just wants a one-night stand?

‘When you say how badly we’ve behaved, you mean me, right?’ I ask, sitting up.

‘What? No! I was joking.’ He pulls me back down beside him.

‘Well, I could say the same thing. What about whatshername in publicity – and those other girls?’ I know I’m being insane, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

‘What about them? I’m single, they were single –’ He looks angry now. ‘Look, I can forget about Jonathan – why can’t you forget about them?’

I sit bolt upright again. ‘I
knew
this would end up being about Jonathan. You can’t get over the fact that I slept with him yesterday, and you think I’m a complete slut. Don’t you?’

‘Poppy, of course I don’t think that.’ But he doesn’t sound completely convinced.

‘Yes you do. I’m out of here and this never happened. OK?’ I pull on my dress quickly, pick up my underwear, and jam my feet into my mules, forgetting that the stupid things take ages to put on. I decide to shuffle with them out of the door, but the shuffle goes wrong, and all at once the floor is flying towards me and I’m lying on the carpet with Charlie standing over me looking worried, and something very wrong with my ankle.

‘It’s just a bad sprain,’ I tell Ellen for the millionth time. ‘I’m honestly fine, but it’s easier for me to work from home for the next few days, if that’s OK.’

‘Of course it’s OK! I feel awful that you got injured in the line of duty.’

‘No, believe me, this was totally my fault,’ I say, staring down at my ankle.

The trip home from Paris was pretty unpleasant. Charlie and I weren’t really speaking to each other, though he did help me with my stupidly heavy bag and with the crutches supplied by the hotel doctor. But at least I get to avoid the office for a few days.

‘I’m sorry about Jonathan Wilder,’ I add to Ellen. ‘Did the agent say, um, anything else when she rang you?’

‘No – she just said he felt you weren’t suited.’

Whew. I send a little prayer of thanks in the direction of Constance in Paris, who has proved herself a real sister under the skin. It seems my secret is safe – until the mocha-skinned, hot-tempered heroine of his next book makes an appearance. I’ve also decided to take a leaf out of Constance’s book and take compliments in my stride – if I ever get one again, that is.

‘Which reminds me, Poppy. That first novel you raised last week, the one set in Lagos?’

‘Yes?’

‘The film rights have sold! Can you believe it? I heard from the scouts. It’s the same production company that made . . . well, it’s all in an email anyway, which I’ll forward to you. I think you should bid for it.’

‘Seriously? You don’t think it’s too late?’

‘Well, it might be – but it’s worth a try.’

‘Wow. Thank you, Ellen.’

We discuss the amount I can offer and then I put a call through to the agent, who says they’re reviewing offers right now and she’ll get back to me. It’s funny: last week, they were probably biting their nails, and now they’re fighting off interest.

It’s like me. Before I went to Paris, I’d had zero interest from, or in, men for the best part of a year. It was as if I’d developed a sort of force field that prevented anyone from approaching me. And then in the space of three days I was with two different men. It’s a pity that one of them was someone I really liked, and I screwed it up.

I still feel sad about Charlie and I’m kicking myself. Why did I have to pick a fight with him over Jonathan and the girls at work? Now I’ll never know if things would have worked out with him or not. I know that on the face of it, it doesn’t look promising. We are very different; not to mention I’m twenty-nine and he’s twenty-six, which is like sixteen in boy years. But I feel as if there was something there – or there could have been.

Suddenly I make a decision. I’m going to swallow my pride and email him, and tell him I regret the way things worked out. I agonise over it for twenty minutes before sending a short email saying I’m sorry I acted like a nutter, and asking him if he’d like to go for a drink when I’m back at work. He might just ignore it, of course, but at least I’ll know one way or the other.

‘When I accused Charlie of not being able to get over the fact that I slept with Jonathan, I think it was really that
I
wasn’t able to get over the fact that I slept with Jonathan,’ I explain to Alice when she calls me the following evening. ‘Two guys in two days: I felt like such a slapper.’

‘Don’t feel like that. I think you did the right thing emailing him,’ she says. ‘Have you heard back at all?’

‘Not yet. I’ll keep you posted.’ I’m trying to sound cheerful, but I know that an email silence of twenty-four hours doesn’t bode well. ‘Anyway. How about you? What’s your news?’

‘Well,’ Alice says. ‘You know that American literary scout I had an interview with?’

‘Yes! Did you hear anything?’

‘Yep. I got the job. So we’re going to move in September. You’ll have to visit us in LA!’

‘That’s brilliant!’ I say. ‘Fantastic news, darling! Congratulations!’

I am thrilled for Alice, but when we hang up, I feel deeply doomful. She’s my best friend and I am going to miss her horribly. And also, I can’t help noticing how her life is evolving, while mine is like a CD stuck on repeat. She’s jetting off to LA with her boyfriend, who I’m sure she’ll end up marrying, and I have trouble getting through a pint of milk by myself before it goes off.