‘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 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 for ever, 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 Audrey 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.
‘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 will 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.’
I love her to bits, but honestly, Mum drives me around the bend sometimes. I don’t want to play tag rugby. And I feel like I spent my entire childhood on marches. There were so many pictures of Nelson Mandela in our house, I used to think he was a relative.
‘Poppy?’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘I thought maybe we should go over the details of the publicity and marketing plans again,’ Charlie suggests, wedging his coffee cup into the bin. ‘Maybe divide them up, decide who says what.’
‘OK. Though we don’t want to sound too rehearsed. He has all the facts; now it comes down to whether or not he likes us.’
‘Chemistry?’ suggests Charlie.
‘I suppose so.’ I look up to find his blue eyes on me. Is he flirting with me? ‘Well, partly. I imagine he’ll want to hear that we love his book. You have read the book, haven’t you?’
�
��Of course. We talked about it the other day, remember?’
‘And what did you think?’
‘I think it would sell,’ he says. ‘He’s pretty good.’
‘Is that it? For God’s sake, don’t overwhelm him with your enthusiasm, whatever you do.’
Charlie pats my arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’
I look down at his retreating hand, thinking: I wasn’t imagining it; he does fancy me. Well, in the same way that he probably fancies everyone.
Across the aisle from us, a French couple are already getting their seduction on. Her skinny-denimed legs are slung in his lap, and he’s trailing his hands lingeringly through her wavy dark brown hair. I stare at them and try to remember how long it’s been since I sat in anyone’s lap – not counting my gay friend Anthony when we were in someone’s car coming back from a weekend in Brighton. Then I notice Charlie looking at me in amusement; he’s obviously caught me staring at them.
‘What? Nothing,’ I say in confusion, and bury my head in my e-reader. It’s a misconception that people of colour don’t blush: I’m mixed race and I’m a chronic blusher. I don’t see how I’m going to be able to seduce him if I’m this easily embarrassed.
It’s always amazed me that in less time than it takes to get from London to Manchester, you can be in a completely foreign city. The Gare du Nord isn’t that different to the new, revamped St Pancras – aside from being smaller – but it feels different; even the platform announcements sound sophisticated and mysterious. It’s much warmer than London too; it’s properly July here, where it still felt like March in London.
‘Now what? Should we get a taxi?’ says Charlie, gazing at the pert skinny-jeaned rear of the French girl, who’s walking away with her boyfriend, still glued together like a three-legged race. ‘Where’s the hotel again?’
I immediately go off him once more as I realise I’m going to have to look after him the whole time we’re here. Why are men all so useless?
‘No, let’s get the Métro – much quicker and cheaper,’ I say, nodding towards the entrance to the station.
‘Lead on, Captain Poppy,’ he says, trailing along after me. ‘I’ve never been to Paris before.’
‘Are you serious? Not even on a school trip?’
He shakes his head. I suppose stag weekends in Ibiza are probably more his style. We head down into the Métro, where I find a free machine and start feeding euro coins – left over from the Frankfurt Book Fair last year – into the slot, getting us two carnets of ten adorably old-fashioned paper tickets.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Charlie says, as I hand him his tickets. ‘That’s a thought. I don’t have any euros.’
I recover from the ‘Thanks, Mum’ just in time to say, trying to keep my voice friendly, ‘There’s a cashpoint upstairs, where we were before. I’ll wait for you here.’
Maybe this seduction thing isn’t such a good idea after all, I think, as I watch the crowds sweeping in and out of the station. People dashing home from a late evening at work, pile-ups of tourists; it’s just like London, except with subtitles. And except for that person who really is carrying a baguette.
Charlie rejoins me and we descend into the Métro, with its distinctive and not unpleasant smell, almost flowery, with base notes of hot metal. It takes me right back to my last trip to Paris, with my ex, Crippo. He spent three hours contemplating an installation in the Pompidou Centre, and then dragged me to a ‘party’ at his friend’s place, where they spent the entire evening smoking weed and watching an experimental silent film set in a coal mine. Good times.
‘Are you sure we’re going the right way?’ Charlie says, looking at the map of the line on the carriage wall. I nod. After spending a year here as a student, I like to think I know my way around and could maybe even be mistaken for a local. I’m probably deluding myself, but still, a girl can dream.
Twenty rattling minutes later, we arrive at Odéon. I sigh with pleasure as we come out of the Métro and see all the beautiful familiar sights: the glamorous, leggy students exchanging cheek kisses by the statue of Danton, the cinemas with huge queues outside, the broad boulevards of tall white buildings lined with cafés with names like Le Danton and L’Odéon. Everyone is very chic and intense-looking; as we pass people sitting at the little cane tables and chairs you can tell they’re talking about philosophy, life and the universe, not last night’s TV.
‘Here you go,’ says Charlie, handing my trunk back to me. I was so distracted, I didn’t even notice that he just carried it up the stairs for me along with his own.
‘Oh. Thank you.’ I look around, trying to get my bearings. We’re staying at the Relais Saint-Germain, on rue Saint-Sulpice. I know exactly where that is; I just need to orient myself.
‘I’ve got a map in my bag,’ says Charlie. ‘And we’re on … Boulevard Saint-German?’
‘Saint-Germain,’ I correct him. ‘It’s this way – come on.’
I’m pretty sure we’re going the right way, and I keep expecting to see the rue Saint-Sulpice on the right, but then we find the Jardins de Luxembourg where they’re not supposed to be, and have to turn back. My case is getting really heavy now.
‘Let’s stop for a minute. My phone’s not working … I’ll get out my map,’ says Charlie.
‘No, it’s fine. I know where we are now; it’s just down here, past this square and left. I’ve been here before.’
Ignoring me, he crouches down and there on the pavement he starts rooting in his sports bag, which seems to be mainly full of underwear. An elegant woman carrying a huge Yves Saint Laurent carrier bag steps over him and gives me a reproachful look. I can’t even meet her eye, I’m so mortified. Then we end up getting directions from an American couple armed with maps, bum-bags and sensible walking shoes. It turns out we were looking for the wrong hotel: we’re at the Relais Saint-Germain, which is right by Odéon, and I had the address for the Relais Saint-Sulpice. So much for me being like a local.
At least the hotel is lovely: lots of dark wood, exposed brickwork, tapestries and heavy velvet curtains. Charlie barrels up to the desk and starts talking in English to the pretty girl.
‘Ah yes,’ she replies, when he tells her our names. ‘I have two rooms – a single and a deluxe suite?’
‘Oh, but it was meant to be two singles,’ I say, dismayed. ‘Can we change?’
‘I’m sorry, madame, we are fully booked,’ she says apologetically. ‘Victor will show you the rooms, and you can choose.’
There being not much choice, we stump upstairs after Victor, who looks like a resting model, as he carries my massive trunk.
‘I’ll take the single,’ Charlie says.
‘You don’t have to do that – we can toss for it.’ It doesn’t seem fair for him to have the single just because he’s a boy.
The single is perfectly nice, with pink striped wallpaper, flat-screen TV and a nice view over the Carrefour de l’Odéon. The deluxe suite, on the other hand, is gorgeous, with dark wooden beams on the ceiling, a seating area and a gigantic bed with a red counterpane and a fur throw. Behind a curtained alcove, floor-length windows lead on to a balcony with pink geraniums and a view over the jumble of metal roofs towards the two towers of Saint-Sulpice.
I look at it longingly. Gender equality be damned; I want this room! ‘You can leave us the keys,’ I tell Victor, in my best French. ‘We’ll arrange it between us.’
I’m quite proud of that construction, but Victor isn’t fooled, and replies in English: ‘Of course. Have a pleasant stay.’
I fish out a twenty-cent coin, trying to decide which is heads and which is tails. ‘Let’s toss for it, OK?’
‘I tell you what,’ Charlie says. ‘Why don’t you just take it, and in return I get to choose where we go to eat tomorrow night.’
‘But we’re not going out tomorrow night. We’re meeting Jonathan in the morning, right? For coffee?’
‘Sure, but you’re going to want to eat at some point, aren’t you? I know I am.’
This would certainly aid my seduction plan. But I’m not sure about that plan any more, especially if it means spending an entire evening with him. I don’t want to be rude or hurt his feelings so I try and think up a quick excuse.
‘Oh, sorry … I have plans with a friend.’ This is a total lie, but he won’t find out, I hope. ‘My friend … Nicole. She lives in Paris. Didn’t I say?’
‘No, you didn’t,’ he says amiably. ‘Nicole, huh? What does she do here?’
‘She works for …’ I look out of the window for inspiration. ‘Renault. She works for Renault.’
Charlie shrugs, and says, ‘OK. Well, let’s flip for the room, if you insist.’
I wish I’d just accepted his offer of the bloody room, but it’s too late now.
‘Here goes. And it’s …’ I lift my hand. ‘Oh. Heads. You win.’ I watch as he flops happily on to his massive bed.
An hour later, having unpacked and gone for a stroll by myself, I open the window of my room and look out at the stream of people walking up and down the street. It’s a quarter to ten in the evening. I can’t quite erase the sight of Charlie lounging luxuriously in the four-poster bed.
Hmm. Am I actually going to try this seduction thing? Tonight?
While I think about it, I get out of the polo neck and trousers, which are way too hot for this evening, and have a quick shower. I ran out yesterday lunchtime and had a Brazilian and full leg wax – I lied and told Sorrell I had a work lunch, in case anyone asked. And I bought some brand-new underwear: a cute, frothy little black and pink bra from Coco de Mer and matching frilly knickers that cost as much as a full outfit. It seems a pity to waste them.
OK, I’m going to do it. I’ll pop next door and see what happens. The key to the whole thing, obviously, is alcohol, so I’ll ask Charlie if I can have a drink from his minibar. And if it all goes wrong, I can just blame it on my hay fever medicine – tell him it makes me go crazy.
I pull on a seventies denim baby-doll minidress and some low wooden mules. I spray a bit of Vivienne Westwood Boudoir on my pulse points and between my legs for good measure. I’m just on my way to the door when I remember to grab my handbag and put in a condom. In a spirit of optimism, I take two. My pulse is hammering in my throat; I can’t believe I am actually doing this!
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