‘Well, no specific plans. Charlie suggested getting some dinner somewhere, but we haven’t pinned anything down …’ When he doesn’t say anything, I add lightly, ‘What about you?’
‘I’m heading out to dinner with some friends. It’s way out in the burbs – Saint-Germain-en-Laye. It takes forever to get there, on the RER.’
God, he sounds so sexy when he speaks French. I can just picture the evening: a small civilised gathering, all sitting outside on a candlelit terrace, talking about art and politics and books … but I think that was a subtle hint.
‘I suppose I’d better get back to my hotel. Check that Charlie hasn’t killed himself on Constance’s motorbike,’ I say as casually as I can, standing up and hunting for my clothes.
‘You know, Poppy, I’d invite you, but I haven’t seen these guys in a while …’
‘Of course not,’ I say quickly. ‘Anyway, I’ll be seeing you for lunch tomorrow.’ I finish pulling on my jumpsuit. ‘Now, where are my shoes?’
Jonathan goes back into the bedroom and re-emerges with them. ‘Let me walk you downstairs.’
‘It’s fine, honestly.’
‘Poppy,’ he says seriously, as we walk to the door. ‘Do we need to talk about this?’
‘No, of course not,’ I say again. ‘It just happened and it was great, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He nods and bends his head and kisses me again. I feel my insides melt, but as soon as I can, I force myself to pull away.
‘OK, I’d better go. Have a good evening. See you tomorrow.’
‘A demain,’ he says. He reaches out, kisses my hand, gives me a last, regretful look, then closes the door.
Back down the stairs I go, in a daze. But I’m not thinking about centuries of history now; I’m thinking about tonight, and lunch tomorrow and … oh shit, I just slept with the author.
I can’t figure out how to open the door, so of course Madame Whatsit has to come and help me, devouring me with curious eyes as she does. I hope her manic interest means she hasn’t often seen Jonathan with a woman before. As I step back over the threshold, I feel a bit like a cat that’s been put out for the night. Was he trying to get rid of me? But then I tell myself not to be paranoid. He’s just going out this evening. That’s allowed!
Back on the rue des Francs Bourgeois, the shadows are lengthening. The city seems to have a new energy, and people are coming alive for the evening. I gaze at all the couples going past me, intertwined. I’m sure lots of them started under dodgy circumstances: working together, already attached … But that’s dangerous thinking. I can’t allow myself to believe that Jonathan and I will be a couple. This could well have been just a one-off thing. In which case we’ll handle it like grown-ups.
As I walk along, I find myself humming a tune. I realise it’s Air’s ‘Sexy Boy’. Oops. My subconscious isn’t exactly subtle. I hope I can appear normal tomorrow, in front of Charlie and Constance. Suddenly all my paranoia is back and I’m wondering: what is Jonathan thinking now? What's it going to be like seeing him tomorrow for lunch? And what am I going to wear?
Walking past a shop window, I catch sight of my reflection and feel a moment of doubt. Is this jumpsuit as cute as I think, or do I actually look as if I’m in fancy dress? I’ve never been interested in expensive designer clothes; I’ve always wanted to have fun with what I wear. I’m used to looking at clothes in shops and thinking that I could make something nicer, or find the original that it’s ripped off. But the clothes here are something I could never make.
One dress in particular catches my eye – a simple sleeveless shift in a zingy orange colour. I walk into the shop and try it on. The size 40 fits me perfectly and the material is so lovely: a smooth silk–cotton mix.
‘I have the bigger size, if you would like it,’ the sales assistant says – in English, to add insult to injury. Surprised, I go back and check my reflection from different angles, but it seems to fit perfectly. What a cow. I tell her the 40 is just fine and take it to the till. It’s more than I’ve spent on a dress in a long time, but I tell myself it’s a professional investment. Also, it’s euros, which don’t count.
After walking home the long way round – via the Louvre (well, via a millefeuille pastry at Angelina’s next door), the Tuileries and the Pont des Arts – I arrive back at the hotel and run straight into Charlie in the lobby.
‘How’s it going? I see you’ve hit the shops,’ he says.
‘What? Oh, yes.’ I sit down on one of the couches to rest my aching feet, and he sits opposite me. ‘We had lunch and then coffee … and then I walked home. I think it went well. We talked about the book and he liked my suggestions.’ I pick up a flyer for the Louvre and fan myself with it, hoping he’ll attribute my blush to the heat. ‘How about you, how did you get on with the lovely Constance?’
‘It was fantastic! I talked her through our publishing plans, and then we went for a ride along the quays – it’s a scooter she’s got, not a motorbike – as far as the Eiffel Tower and back. We stopped off at this amazing little café and had the best lunch … and then I went up to this park near here called the Luxembourg Gardens, that Constance told me about. Why did no one ever tell me about all this before?’
I don’t even know how to begin to answer that one.
‘Um, well, Paris is quite popular …’
‘All anyone ever talks about is the Louvre, though. But Constance says it’s too big, and she much prefers the Musée … d’Olay or something?’
‘The Musée d’Orsay. Yes, that is a great museum.’ My head’s beginning to hurt from a combination of sun, Kir and anxiety, and I decide I have to get away from Charlie, have a cold shower and lie down somewhere.
‘Anyway,’ Charlie says, ‘when are you meeting your friend?’
‘What? Oh. Not till later. I’m just going to have a little freshen-up first. What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to head out with Constance. I would have asked her if you could join us, but you said you were busy. I booked us a restaurant for tomorrow, by the way. Not the one Jonathan said – that was a bit pricey – but another one.’
‘Great. Lovely. Look forward to it,’ I say, and flee up the stairs before he can ask me any more questions. Let him go out with Constance; I’m staying in tonight and ordering room service, before I get into any more trouble.
‘Are you nervous?’ Charlie asks me the next day, as we go up in the lift towards Les Ombres restaurant. It’s on the roof of the ethnographic museum on the Quai Branly, which seems an odd place to find a great restaurant, but Constance recommended it and presumably knows what’s good.
‘Nervous about what?’ I say, edgily.
‘About whether they’re going to accept our offer? I get the impression they’re going to tell us over lunch.’
‘Oh. Of course not,’ I say. And it’s mostly true. I think it’s going to be OK. Jonathan loved my editorial suggestions. Constance loves our publishing plans. And Jonathan and I will figure all the other stuff out.
The terrace has a fabulous view of the rooftops of Paris, dominated by the Eiffel Tower. It’s so close that you can see people going up and down in the lifts. The other diners are mostly men and women who I presume work in the government buildings nearby – though in their designer suits, they look considerably more dashing than British civil servants.
‘You look great, by the way,’ says Charlie. It’s nice of him to throw a bone my way when he’s so clearly got a crush on Constance. He’s made an effort himself, wearing a self-consciously trendy shiny navy blue jacket with the sleeves rolled up over a grey T-shirt. Then Jonathan and Constance arrive. Constance looks lovely in a white high-necked blouse and skinny black trousers. I can’t take in what Jonathan’s wearing, other than it’s some kind of jacket and tie; I concentrate on making sure that I smile, stand up to receive his cheek kisses and generally act normal.
Occasionally when I’m in an important meeting or other formal situation, I get a mad urge to say something c
ompletely inappropriate. This is one of those times: I wonder what would happen if I told everyone, ‘Hey! Jonathan and I slept together yesterday.’ Luckily I’m prevented from doing so by our waiter, who wants to know about drinks.
‘Actually,’ says Jonathan, ‘why don’t we make it champagne?’ He shoots me a modest look. ‘We certainly feel like celebrating.’
For a surreal moment I wonder if he’s about to tell everyone we’re an item or something, but then I see that Constance is smiling too. She says, ‘We’d like to accept your offer to publish Jonathan’s book.’
Praise the Lord! As the waiter comes back with our champagne, I thank baby Jesus and all the angels that what happened yesterday obviously didn’t mess anything up. Or … A very icky thought strikes me. Could it actually have helped? Does Jonathan think he’s landed himself an editor with benefits? Surely not.
‘That’s great news. We’re thrilled. Well, Jonathan, here’s to your book,’ I say, holding up a glass.
‘To the book.’ Jonathan holds my eye as he toasts. Then he pauses, glass mid-air, and thinks for a while before adding, ‘And to our partnership.’
The conversation turns to writers we might send the book to for an endorsement. Jonathan has lots of celebrity and literary friends, but Constance also seems to be on first-name terms with all sorts of big fish.
‘Wow, Constance, you have great contacts,’ I say.
‘Yes, I do know lots of people,’ she says calmly.
This reminds me of her reaction to my inane compliment yesterday, about her being brave to ride her motorbike. I’m not used to people – especially women – accepting compliments with such ease instead of contradicting them or apologising. Maybe it’s a French thing.
‘How about Denis Last?’ Charlie is saying. ‘He could be a good person to endorse the book.’
‘Denis Last?’ Jonathan recoils. ‘He’s very popular, of course, but …’ He makes the word ‘popular’ sounds like a skin condition. Which seems a bit odd. Jonathan writes really well, but he is on the popular end of the literary spectrum, after all.
‘I love his books,’ says Constance. I find myself warming to her more, especially when she tells me how much she admired my ‘costume’ of yesterday.
‘We have some great shops for antique clothes here,’ she says. ‘There’s Kilo Shop in the Marais, which sells things by the kilo, and Odetta.’
‘Is there still that place in Clichy – I used to go there all the time – what’s it called again?’
‘Ah, Guerrisol!’
Jonathan and Charlie are talking about something, but it’s a bit stilted, and I get the impression Charlie’s waiting to jump in as soon as the clothes talk stops.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Do you all have nice summer holiday plans?’
‘I will go to my parents’ place in Provence for three weeks in August,’ says Constance.
‘Three weeks!’ Charlie and I say in unison.
‘Yes, normally it would be four weeks, but we have to work so much lately, we are becoming like Americans.’
‘Nice,’ says Charlie. ‘I’ve got a golfing holiday in Portugal with some mates in September. I can’t wait.’
‘I love Portugal. I went to Lisbon last year for the Disquiet International festival,’ says Jonathan. ‘I ended up staying up all night drinking vinho verde with Ian.’
‘Ian?’ says Charlie.
‘Oh, sorry – McEwan.’
Everyone murmurs politely. I’ll admit, I’ve begun to notice a certain amount of name-dropping in Jonathan’s anecdotes. He’s also one of those people who reads out the entire name of the dish when ordering food: he’s having the filet de boeuf, pommes Pont Neuf, jus lié au foie gras. But nobody’s perfect.
‘How was last night, Jonathan?’ Constance asks. ‘How is Calyxte?’
‘Fine,’ says Jonathan briefly. Very briefly, in fact.
‘Who’s Calyxte?’ Charlie enquires.
Jonathan replies, ‘A friend,’ at the same time as Constance says, ‘Jonathan’s girlfriend. Her parents live near me, in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, which is just outside Paris.’
‘Your girlfriend,’ I repeat, staring at him blankly while thinking: his girlfriend? Her parents?
‘It’s complicated,’ he says, looking harassed. ‘We were together for a while, then we broke up, then we became friends …’
‘Jonathan, you don’t have to complicate your life with these categories,’ says Constance, laughing. ‘In French we have one expression: l’homme, ou la femme, de ma vie. The man of my life, the woman of my life. Very simple. Calyxte is la femme de ta vie.’
‘Have you met Calyxte?’ I ask Constance, concentrating on sounding calm.
‘Oh yes, she’s very charming and beautiful. She is the editor of a literary magazine.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I say icily.
Jonathan is pretending to be absorbed in reading a wine label. ‘I think I’ve been to this vineyard,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s near Johnny’s place.’
‘Johnny?’ Charlie asks.
‘Sorry, Depp.’
I get to my feet. ‘Will you excuse me a minute?’
As I walk towards the loo, I think: stupid, stupid, stupid. I am so stupid. I’ve been played, and now I’m in the most effed-up position ever. I slept with an author, who has a girlfriend. Who hosted him for dinner, with her parents, last night, while I was in my tiny hotel room watching badly dubbed Friends!
Now I have to work with him and talk to him about his book and hold his hand when he gets a bad review, and I just can’t do it. I splash cold water on my wrists, wondering if there’s any way out. Maybe I can hand him over to Ellen. But I’d have to explain why, and … Aargh. I feel like such a stupid idiot. After all my plans to have a fling with Charlie, I had mindless, meaningless sex with completely the wrong man.
I’m so humiliated I’d happily stay in here all day, but I have to go back out and face the music. I’ll have to grin and bear it, and as soon as we get out of here I’ll figure something out. The elegant surroundings actually help; as I walk towards our table, I decide to channel Glenn Close in Dangerous Liaisons. Specifically, the bit where she practises smiling as she sticks a fork into her hand under the table.
However, only Charlie is left at the table.
‘They’ve gone over there for a smoke,’ he says. ‘Did you just drop something, Poppy?’
He hands me a small black Moleskine notebook. It looks like mine, but I think Jonathan has one like it. I open it up to check, thinking I’ll know as soon as I see the handwriting. I find myself reading this:
‘Isn’t Paris the City of Light?’
Cuff, bangle, bracelet – rich vocabulary
Skin the colour of coffee mocha café au lait
Clashes with her mother – father complex?
‘Why are all French films about adultery?’
‘Are you all right, Poppy?’ says Constance, sitting down again.
‘Hey – is that mine?’ says Jonathan.
‘Yes, it is,’ I say, handing it over to him. ‘And so’s this.’ I pick up my half-full wine glass, and empty it over his head. I take one satisfying look at his stupid gaping face, drenched in red wine, and then grab my clutch and walk out, ignoring the scandalised looks from everyone in the restaurant.
Outside, I stab the buttons of the lift and get myself to the ground floor. I emerge into the groovy landscaped gardens of the museum, which has a living wall that I would find really interesting at any other time. I hurry across the road and find myself on a bridge, I’m not sure which one. I’m very tempted to throw myself off it.
‘Excusez-moi, vous n’auriez pas une cigarette?’ I ask a man passing by.
‘Yes, of course,’ he replies in English, handing me one.
‘Thank you, but if you don’t mind, I am TRYING to practise my FRENCH!’ I scream at him irrationally.
‘Poppy!’ Charlie rushes up behind me, out of breath. The guy leaves, looking scared. I don’t blame him; I am com
pletely losing the plot.
‘What the hell was all that about? Hang on a sec.’
He taps the shoulder of a passing intertwined couple – another one! – and gets a light from them.
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ he says.
‘I don’t … This is sort of an emergency.’
Raising his eyebrows, Charlie steers me off the bridge and down on to the quays, where we find a seat on a bench.
‘Did something happen yesterday with you and J-Wild?’ says Charlie.
I take a drag of my cigarette and try and get my voice under control. ‘Yes.’
‘What … Oh.’ There’s a pause, and I can see the penny dropping. ‘Oh.’
‘I know,’ I mutter. ‘Please don’t tell me how awful it is. I’ve never done anything like that before in my life.’
‘No wonder you flipped when Constance mentioned his girlfriend,’ he says.
‘It wasn’t just that, it was the notebook. He’d been taking notes on me – writing down things I said, things about my life. It was so horrible.’
‘Well … but he’s a writer; that’s what they do.’
‘Yes, except this has happened to me before,’ I say. ‘My ex-boyfriend devoted an entire art installation to our relationship. It was called Bitch Done Me Wrong.’
‘Oh,’ says Charlie.
I stare at the murky waters of the Seine, thinking: what is it about me that makes men want to use me for material? Am I just some kind of ‘exotic’ character to them? And is that whole lunch going to appear in a novel, complete with the drink in the face?
‘Oh God, I’m so embarrassed,’ I mutter, as the horror of the thing begins to sink in. ‘I can’t believe I threw a drink in his face.’
‘I was quite surprised myself,’ Charlie says.
I moan again and sink my face into my hands. Then I think of something else. ‘Did you pay the bill?’ I ask.
‘No, I did not. Jonathan can pick up a bill for once in his life.’
‘Oh no, Charlie – poor Constance will end up paying. And did the waiters look shocked?’
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