Copyright © 2015 Nicola Doherty
The right of Nicola Doherty to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published as an Ebook in 2015 by HEADLINE REVIEW
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Cover illustration by Adrian Valencia
eISBN 978 1 4722 1879 7
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise
Also by Nicola Doherty
About the Book
Acknowledgements
Poppy Does Paris
Lily Does La
Maggie does Meribel
Rachel Does Rome
The Girls Take Manhattan
Girls on Tour character map
The Out of Office Girl
If I Could Turn Back Time
About Nicola Doherty
Nicola Doherty grew up in Monkstown, Co. Dublin, and worked in book publishing before leaving to pursue a freelance and writing career. Her first novel The Out of Office Girl was shortlisted for the Romantic Novelists’ Association Awards in the Romantic Comedy category. Her second novel If I Could Turn Back Time was highly acclaimed. Nicola lives in Highbury, north London with her husband and no cats (yet).
To find out more about Nicola go to www.nicoladohertybooks.com. Follow her on Twitter https://twitter.com/nicoladoherty_ and visit her on Facebook at NicolaDohertyBooks.
Praise for the Girls on Tour series:
‘Nicola Doherty is one of my favourite chick lit authors for a reason and Lily Does LA only made me love her style of writing even more … The girls in this series are fun and full of life and energy which really lifts your spirits’ Reviewed the Book
‘A great story with new beginnings, new friends, new city and finding things that you actually weren’t looking for’ On My Bookshelf
‘It’s got everything a great chick lit novella is supposed to have, interesting and oh-so-not perfect heroine with big dreams, giggly moments as well as some serious ones … Can’t wait to see what Nicola has got in store for us next’ This Chick Reads
‘It had everything that I love in a great book – humour, wit, life-like characters, light-hearted romances, a fast pace, twists and a beautiful setting’ Dreaming with Open Eyes
‘With its likeable characters, gorgeous sights and amusing moments, I loved everything about Poppy Does Paris so much so that I didn’t want it to end!’ 23 Review Street
‘Nicola Doherty has managed to create a character who I wanted to be – flaws and foibles included’ Lisa Talks About
By Nicola Doherty and available from Headline Review:
The Out of Office Girl
If I Could Turn Back Time
Girls On Tour ebook series:
Poppy Does Paris
Lily Does LA
Maggie Does Meribel
Rachel Does Rome
The Girls Take Manhattan
Girls On Tour
About the Book
Four girls. One year.
Five fabulous destinations.
Poppy is bound for Paris, the City of Love. Could this be her chance to end her epic dry spell?
Lily is en route to her cousin’s wedding in LA, where she’s willing to break a few rules to land her dream role.
Maggie can’t wait for her romantic ski holiday in Meribel – until it goes seriously off-piste.
Rachel packs for a glamorous Roman holiday, but a blast from the past is about to sabotage la dolce vita.
The girls get together and fly to Manhattan. But someone’s been hiding a big secret in the Big Apple …
THANK YOU
A big thank you to Sherise Hobbs, Christina Demosthenous, Vicky Palmer, Frances Gough and Beau Merchant at Headline – a dream team indeed. Massive thanks also to Mari Evans. Thank you to Queen of Agents Rowan Lawton and to Liane-Louise Smith. And thank you to Adrian Valencia for a stunning cover.
Many, many thanks as well to all the readers who have got in touch to tell me they liked my books, and to all the amazing bloggers and reviewers who spread the word about books. As Jenny would say: you’re all amazeballs.
POPPY DOES PARIS
Hi. I’m Poppy.
I stare at the blinking cursor. Where to start?
I’m a fairly normal girl.
Hah! I delete that right away. Bland Central Station, also not true.
I’m confident and outgoing.
No, that’s even worse – makes me sound totally conceited. This is awful. Right. Start again.
Hi, I’m Poppy. On an average day you’re likely to find me with my nose deep in a book, cycling home from the farmers’ market in Hackney with my basket full of goodies, or at a vintage fashion fair. I love soul music, baking, Smarties, the sea, the 10th arrondissement in Paris and the Dirty Burger from MEATliquor—
Oh God. I sound like a revolting parody of middle-class hipsterdom: bike, farmers’ market, Dirty Burger and all. It’s all so cringe-worthy; I feel like I’m listing myself on eBay. Also, I forgot I’m going to need a pseudonym. Patricia? Penelope?
I tap my fingers for a few minutes, and then decide to just type the truth and see how it looks.
Hi, I’m Poppy. I work really long hours in an office full of women, and I haven’t had a proper boyfriend in almost two years. I tend to rant on about things I find important and not many other people do. I’m addicted to cake and I’m like a demon when I’m hungry. I’d like to meet someone creative, intelligent and sensitive. I seriously doubt that I’m going to find such a gem on the internet, but I’ve tried all the other—
‘I’ve finished with these proofs,’ says Sorrell, breezing into the office. ‘Did you want to see them before they go up to production?’
‘Oh, thanks, that was quick. Yes please – just leave them there,’ I say, quickly minimising my screen. I don’t want my assistant to see me composing my internet profile, though probably Sorrell could give me some excellent tips.
‘Hey, I like your leather trousers,’ I add, as she turns to leave.
‘Thanks,’ says Sorrell, doing a little twirl. ‘Sample sale. Alasdair says they remind him of The Avengers!’
Good lord. I was here a year before I even spoke to our managing director, let alone cracked jokes with him about my leatherwear.
‘Oh!’ I laugh. ‘Yeah. Very Emma Peel.’
‘Who?’ says Sorrell.
‘Emma Peel, you know. From The Avengers.’
‘Oh,’ says Sorrell. ‘Sorry. I don’t remember them first time around.’ And she’s gone, leaving me wanting to explain: I don’t remember them either! I was born in the eighties, like you! Except I’m twenty-nine and Sorrell is probably twenty-three, at most.
As I watch her leather rear depart, I have a guilty, resentful thought: once I was the zany, confident assistant with the memorable name and the quirky style, who made friends with all the senior people. But that was six years ago and I’m star
ting to feel like part of the furniture – and not a very shiny part either.
Right: that’s enough of the pity party. I save my dating profile and start making myself presentable for today’s editorial meeting. I’m in one of my favourite dresses: a fifties-style party frock I made myself from some red Liberty-print silk my mum found in a charity shop in Hastings. And my curls are looking frizz-free, thank God. I nearly cried when they discontinued the only leave-in conditioner that stopped me looking like one of the Supremes circa 1970, but I think I’ve found a replacement. I look in the mirror to check I don’t have pen marks on my face and I’m good to go.
Until I stand up and hear the unmistakable rip of a seam. A quick feel confirms that the entire side of the dress has gone. Wonderful. I’d love to be able to blame the delicate vintage fabric, but the sad fact is that I’ve put on half a stone in the last six months. Too many work lunches, and too much time sitting at my desk. I quickly do a repair job with safety pins, throw on a spare cardigan that doesn’t really go with the dress, and scuttle off to the meeting.
It’s a long time since I’ve felt nervous when attending the editorial meeting, but today I do. There’s a book that I’m really passionate about and today I’m going to find out whether anyone else agrees with me.
‘Let’s make a start,’ says Ellen, our publishing director and my boss. ‘Ooh, what are those?’
‘They’re pastéis de nata – Portuguese custard tarts,’ I say, putting the box down in the middle of the table along with some paper napkins. ‘Help yourselves.’
‘Don’t let me have one,’ says Ellen. I know how she feels – I probably shouldn’t have brought them either, but it was for a good cause.
‘Oh yum. Thanks, Poppy,’ says Melanie, the sales director, who’s rake-thin. ‘Can I take two? Where did you get them?’
‘Bar San Marco. You know, the little snack bar down the road?’
My reason for bringing these in today was twofold. One, I think everyone will be more into my book if they’re high on sugar; and two, a bit of product placement. The San Marco is a little gem, but it’s struggling to compete against all the huge coffee shops, and the owner has told me he’s not sure how much longer he can keep paying the rent.
‘Is that the dingy little caff by the Tube?’ asks Charlie, one of the marketing guys. ‘I had a terrible coffee there once. Never been back.’ He takes a slug from his PretACostaBucks paper cup.
I just smile. Charlie is nice enough, but he’s a bit of a lad. If it’s not in Metro or sponsored by Nike, he doesn’t want to know.
‘OK, let’s begin,’ says Ellen. ‘Any new business? Poppy?’
I walk over to the hot seat, and 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 parade,’ 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 cheekbon
es, 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.’
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