by Hannah Doyle
OHMYGOD we have an almost identical dating history. Why have I only just seen that? I nod along as Violet talks animatedly about why her next conquest has to be the perfect fit, while all the time freaking the heck out.
Deep breaths. I focus on the azure sea circling below as I try to collect my thoughts. Violet and I have the same type in men and, let’s be honest, neither of us have much luck in that department. The only difference is that Violet’s still hell-bent on finding a new man who is the ‘perfect fit’, while Mila’s made it pretty clear that I am no longer allowed to date a boy who ticks all of my boxes. Wow. Maybe she had a point last night, after all?
I have been here for under twenty-four hours but I can already tell you that Cannes during the film festival is categorically bonkers. An endless conveyor belt of ball gowns and suits march down red carpets, camera lights flashing. There are so many celebrities that there’s a queue to stand in front of the photography pen at every single event. The sound of champagne corks popping and deals being brokered fills the air of every restaurant and bags upon bags of haute couture are carried into hotel foyers by harried staff. Statuesque palm trees jiggle in the gentle breeze, as if in collusion with the hustle and bustle of the streets below.
It is positively teeming with people.
Which makes the fact that I just brushed against Jennifer Lawrence’s left boob marginally less excruciating? Maybe? Okay, no. No it does not. My face turned the colour of strawberry jam when I realised who I’d accidentally assaulted, all the while showering her with apologies and then, in the throes of panic, I did a little curtsey before backing off. I don’t think it will go down as my finest Cannes moment.
Violet, on the other hand, is like a pig in shiz. She has VIP access to a whole tonne of parties thanks to her superstar blogger status. Though, please don’t tell her I called her that? Violet much prefers the term influencer because her job is about ‘so much more’ than the blog, these days. She is Violet Huntington off violethuntington.com, the girl with twenty trillion unique users hanging off her every word, every single day of the week. She has more followers than a Harry Styles secret gig. If she says she likes a brand, then that brand will see their sales go through the roof. Hence the vodka sponsorship.
Right now, we’re heading into a club for one of the many parties Violet is scheduled to attend this evening. We’ve already been to a pre-party at her hotel and, after a quick change where I had to wrestle a skin-tight black dress over Violet’s naked bod, we’re back in the thick of it. Still sweaty from the outfit change (not mine – obviously I haven’t had time to change since I woke up in my hotel box room this morning), I pull up a corner of my grey t-shirt and swiftly dab at my shiny brow. I really am so glamourous in Cannes.
We wend our way into the sprawling, basement club bedecked with oversized disco balls, leather-clad booths and, wait, is that Leonardo DiCaprio surrounded by models? I nudge Violet but she’s turned her attention elsewhere.
‘Look!’ She gasps, grabbing me by the hand. ‘There’s the cast of Totally Toffs, my absolute favourite reality show. I simply must go and say hello.’ She tosses a surreptitious look down at her chest to make sure she has the right amount of boob on show (Bruce would approve) before adding, ‘Why don’t you linger here? I’ll wave if I need you.’ With that she strikes off in the direction of a table full of quite drunk, extremely posh-looking people who are necking Jägers like there’s no tomorrow.
I cast around, panic rising. I’m in the middle of a very loud club full of the most beautiful people on this planet, wearing a t-shirt and jeans and feeling a million miles from my comfort zone. I’ve been on the go all day, would kill for a bath right now and, also, I am crap at mingling. When Violet walks into a party she looks so at ease, even when she doesn’t know a single person there. Just look at her now! On second thoughts, don’t. I fight the urge to cover my eyes as I spot my boss lying on top of the Totally Toffs’ table like a butler in the buff while they take shots from her rubber-look bandage dress. Crikey. Clearly I don’t want to be in her exact position right now, but I am hopeless when it comes to meeting new people. I’d love to feel a bit more confident in myself.
In lieu of having any real-life humans to talk to, I grab my phone and message my best friend.
Cannes is CRAZY. At a party right now and I can see at least six proper Hollywood actors. I swear I just saw Gosling.
Holy shit! Go and get a photo!
Mila taps back instantly.
Um, NO?! Mortifying.
Well what are you doing instead?
Standing in the corner, about to play Scrabble on my phone.
You’re at a party with Gosling and you’re playing Scrabble?!!! What’s Violet doing?
I brave another look. She’s at least upright now and practically starring in her own ‘special’ kind of film with one very happy looking reality TV star. I doubt it will feature at next year’s film festival.
Grinding on one of the guys from Totally Toffs. She’s on a mission to find a new boyfriend.
Does that mean you’ve got some down time? MAKE THE MOST OF IT! This is exactly what we were talking about the other night. Go and chat up a sort immediately.
Barf,
I reply.
How are things at home?
Fine, Ben’s come round for pizza.
Say hi from me?
He says: “Stop being a dweeb and get out there.”
Charming. I have major FOMO.
WTF? You’re at Cannes Film Festival with Ryan Gosling and you have FOMO because me and Ben are getting pizza? In my flat? In London? GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER JASMINE.
I size up my surroundings. This club is fancy, but we could be anywhere. I’d love some pictures of proper Cannes. Violet and I were walking along the bustling Croisette earlier and I bet the seafront looks amazing now that the sun has started to dip. One last glance at my boss tells me that she is preoccupied (read: doing things in public I barely do in private *blushing face emoji*) so I decide to head out while I still can. Just ten minutes should do it. Yeah, that’s the spirit! Turning towards the exit, I swing my camera over my shoulder with a renewed sense of purpose.
Only, I accidentally knock against someone as I do it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I turn just in time to see a dozen flutes of champagne clatter, almost in slow-mo, to the floor. The sound of smashing glass fills the air and a pool of fizz trickles towards my trainers.
‘Oh mon dieu!’ Snarls a very angry-looking French waiter, now standing with an empty tray in his hand and a smear of champagne froth across his dirty blond hair, There’s- Something-About-Mary-style.
I bend down and start picking up glass in a bid not to giggle at his ‘do,
‘DO NOT DO THAT! Are you completely stupid? It is bad enough that you have broken all of this glass and spilled a lot of expensive champagne. I do not want you to go cutting your stupid hands as well.’ He runs a hand through his hair as he shouts, making the situation a whole lot more smirksome.
‘But if you’d just let me help we could get this cleared up quickly and. . .’
‘NON! Step away, you buffoon.’
Buffoon? Like, I’m impressed with this dude’s grasp of the English language but seriously, did he need to call me a buffoon just now? I stand back up, watching him get increasingly angry over the spillage. His hands are flying everywhere as he mutters French expletives in my direction. His eyebrows are wiggling about as if they don’t belong to his face.
‘Listen, señor. . .’ I begin, wiggling my eyebrows right back. He rolls his eyes. I do not like this man.
‘Señor is Spanish, you stupid English. Did you learn nothing at school, other than how to knock people’s drinks down? I was trying to take this champagne over to a table of very special guests and now I’ll have to explain to them why their drinks are late, and get this mess cleaned up. Are you pleased to have given me so much more work?’
‘Hey!’ I protest. I’m not normally a confrontation type
of person, but this man’s anger is making me riled up. ‘I didn’t do it on purpose so there is no need to be so rude. I was just about to go and make the most of the five minutes I’ve had off ALL BLOODY DAY by taking some photos of things that aren’t my boss’s butt, for a change.’ More eyebrow wiggling. ‘And I am not stupid! I mean, sure, I’ve been making some bad decisions regarding my love life of late. Okay fine, since my late teens. And yes, some may say that the fact that I got drunk the night before flying to the Cannes Film Festival wasn’t my smartest move. And, you know, sometimes I do wonder whether I’m actually going anywhere in life. But that does not make me stupid so you can stick your stupid jizz hairstyle and your stupid French expletives up you DERRIÈRE. Now if you’ll excuse me–’ I finally pause for breath to find that quite a lot of people have stopped to stare at our head to head. Ordinarily I’d feel mortified by such an outburst but I’m pretty sure Leonardo is clapping.
Holding my chin up high, I gather myself together and shoot a look at the waiter.
‘Merde,’ he says. I definitely know what that means. ‘You are sexy when you are cross. I forgive you for knocking into me.’
How very dare he! I don’t need his bloody forgiveness! But more importantly. . . I’m sexy when I’m cross?! This is new information. I round my shoulders back and prepare to stalk off, sexily, when the Frenchman adds, ‘What is jizz?’
Nope. Nuh uh. Not about to explain that English word in front of a crowd of celebrities, thank you very much. Could someone, maybe, kill me now? The Frenchman sighs dramatically, clearly getting bored of waiting for a response.
‘Never mind, I’ll ask my boss. She speaks fluent English.’ I’m about to protest that he definitely shouldn’t ask his boss about the definition of jizz when he adds, ‘You will come on a date with me, okay.’
‘I. . . I’m sorry, what?’
‘A date. I know you English are useless at romance but you must have heard of a date. Tomorrow night.’
‘You don’t seem to be asking me a question?’ I splutter, blind-sided.
‘And you seem to be asking questions when they are not required,’ he replies, brushing back his hair and looking sort of irritated that I haven’t immediately agreed to his plans.
‘I don’t get it. One minute you’re calling me stupid a hundred times and the next you’re asking me out?’
‘That’s right. Come by tomorrow at seven.’ Without waiting for me to explain that I’m busy tomorrow night, he spins on his heels while I puff out my cheeks in confusion, champagne now seeping through to my socks.
What actually just happened here?
Day two in Cannes and I am hangry. All I had time for was a long-life yoghurt under the glare of an electric fly-trap in my ‘hotel’ this morning before racing over to Vi’s. Thankfully she is in the best mood, which makes such a difference to our working day. She’s currently enjoying lunch al fresco with her BBF (blogger best friend) Emmy while I take some cute snaps of them catching up. Emmy is an absolute sweetheart, so much so that I can never quite understand why she’s friends with Violet. Still, they’re super tight and I love it when she comes along to our shoots. She’s just a dream to photograph, professional, always on time, happy to take direction and with the skin of a luminous unicorn. I think I secretly want to be Emmy. Anyway, here they are clinking glasses of chilled rosé, a plate of seafood on ice in front of them, while Violet gushes over last night’s, um, endeavours.
‘You will never guess who I hooked up with.’
‘Ooh, was it Leo? I heard he was at your party,’ replies Emmy, flicking back her much-Googled hair, today the colour of mint green.
‘No, it was Chip. You know, from Totally Toffs?’
‘NO. WAY.’ Emmy grabs Violet’s hand in excitement.
‘Way,’ replies Violet, two pretty spots of pink lighting up her cheeks. How she doesn’t look like death after necking all those shots last night, I will never know. Some people are just born lucky.
‘I need details,’ Emmy says, pawing at the table cloth. ‘Like, is Bella still stalking him? Did he really get slapped by Allegra at that ball? And, ohmygod, are the gossip mags true, is he actually the lovechild of a Swedish prince?’
Violet looks a bit affronted. She takes a prawn, rips its head off and munches menacingly.
‘Of course I need YOUR gossip first,’ Emmy backtracks. ‘What happened last night?’
Appeased, Violet recounts the scenes of debauchery while my stomach rumbles get louder by the minute.
‘Jasmine, can you stop that please? Emmy can barely hear my news!’
‘No, don’t worry!’ Emmy chimes in. ‘Are you hungry? Have you eaten?’ She beckons for me to stop snapping and pull up a chair, handing me a plate.
‘Thanks,’ I say, gratefully slathering a mini loaf of bread in butter. ‘We’ve been so busy I haven’t had the chance.’
‘That reminds me, you’re free at supper tonight now,’ Violet tells me. ‘Chip wants to take me for dinner so I’ve cancelled that meal we were going to.’
‘Is that a good idea? You’re meant to be meeting up with other brand collaborators for the vodka people, remember?’
‘It’s just networking,’ breezes Violet. ‘The pursuit of love is much more important and besides, Chip is crazy famous. Imagine if we become an item? It would be so much more beneficial to me than some vodka sponsorship.’
‘I really don’t think you should cancel,’ I begin, but Violet holds up her hand decisively.
‘I’d have asked you to come along but Chip wants us to get to know each other. . . in private! I feel so hashtag blessed right now. I don’t even know where he’s taking me! He just said he’d pick me up at seven from the hotel bar. Emmy, I’m too excited. It’s going to be exactly like that scene in Pretty Woman only I’m not a high-class escort, obvs. Ooh, that reminds me, I need to refresh my bikini line. Jasmine, can you get that sorted please?’
There she is. My boss. Classy to a fault.
I’m in a bit of a conundrum. I’m now free to go out on a date with a shouty, blond waiter tonight. He is very rude and ticks hardly any of my boxes, although when he’s not shouting he is quite cute and I do like a French accent. Cue conundrum number one. . . I’m meant to be going out with guys who aren’t my type on paper. Mila says so and apparently Mila is in charge of my love life. But, do I actually want to? As for conundrum number two, well, Violet and I had a glass of champagne at the beauty salon earlier and now we have matching heart-shaped bikini waxes. YES THAT’S RIGHT. What was I thinking? The bubbles went straight to my head after a day of eating nothing but yoghurt and tiny bread and, despite not being a hearts and flowers type of woman, I was powerless to resist when Violet decided that nothing says romance more than pubic hair teased into a love heart shape. I found myself nodding along, weirdly into it. And then came the two-for-one offer and the fact that Violet was happy to pay and bob’s your uncle, my lady parts now look like a really, really inappropriate Valentine’s card. Plus, you know, I haven’t found the time to go for a wax in, oh, years, so I’m not one hundred per cent comfortable crossing my legs. Don’t even get me started on the 30 degree Mediterranean heat and the fact that I packed only jeans for this trip.
What I need right now is an ice pack, a towelling robe and a box set but what I have is work to do. We’re currently in Violet’s hotel room (mine, oddly, doesn’t have any windows whereas hers is big enough to house a four-poster bed) while she gets ready for her date. She Google-stalked her new prey and, after coming across a Q&A about his ideal woman, is now layering on red lipstick because she knows it’s his favourite. It makes me think back to my last fateful date with James, and how I’d swerved lipstick just to please him.
Stupid James.
But as I watch Violet make herself look even more beautiful than usual, I decide that there’s no point staying in and feeling sorry for myself. Stupid James can stick it. I’m starting out afresh! Last night’s chance encounter could be the beginning of a new seven-d
ate adventure. (Or it could be awful and remind me why I definitely should stick to my guns.) Whatever, me and my heart-shaped wax are going out!
CHAPTER THREE
Date One: Too Much Thierry
I’m on the back of a moped fearing for my life, even though Thierry handed me a helmet when we met and is driving at a relatively sensible speed. But, guys, where are we going and why the heck did I agree to this? What if he’s still furious about champagne-gate and murders me on this quiet French road in the middle of France? I squeeze my arms tighter around his waist and try to focus on the fact that this is a very sexy way to travel, before my mind drags me back to scary places. . . like heart-shaped regrowth.
We pull up in a small town perched on top of a hill, where fairy lights decorate the tress. All you can hear are grasshoppers and the gentle, low hum of conversation while, far below us, the Mediterranean sea glistens in the twilight.
‘Wow,’ I say, stepping off in what I hope is a super cool, I totally ride on mopeds all the time, kind of way. Thierry reaches out to stop me from wobbling. Ah well. ‘This place is stunning. It’s so much more peaceful than Cannes and yet just as beautiful, if not more so?’ I feel my fingers twitch for my camera as Thierry leads us into the main square, a fountain bubbling in the middle.
‘I grew up here and this is my family’s restaurant,’ he says, grabbing me by the hand and taking me through to a courtyard out back, where a dozen or so tables are set with white table cloths, candles twinkling on each one. The feel of his fingers wrapped around mine sets the hairs on the back of my neck on end in a HELL YEAH kind of way and I feel myself relax. I wasn’t murdered on the way over here and Thierry’s restaurant may just be the prettiest place I have ever been on a date.