Girls on Tour

by Nicola Doherty

  ‘The waiters? Not particularly. This is Paris, don’t forget. I bet half the women in this city have slung red wine in someone’s face at some point. Or vin rouge, as Jonathan would say.’ He starts to laugh.

  ‘I really can’t see what’s funny here,’ I say coldly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Poppy, it’s just … His face was so priceless. I know he’s a good writer, but he’s a bit of a twat, don’t you think? With his French phrases and Johnny Depp’s vineyard and getting drunk with Ian McEwan.’

  I finish my cigarette. I’m tempted to flick the butt into the river, but, ever my mother’s daughter, I stub it out and find a bin for it. I’m beginning to feel as if Charlie has a point.

  ‘What kind of things did he jot down in his notebook?’ Charlie says. ‘If that’s not a rude question.’

  I groan. ‘Just stuff I told him about my mum and dad. And random things I said. And something about mocha-coloured skin, in case I was in any doubt.’

  ‘Seriously? Isn’t that a Ricky Martin lyric?’

  I start to laugh.

  ‘That’s better,’ Charlie says. ‘Look. We’re not going to salvage the whole book thing, are we? Unless you want to go back to Jonathan and tell him you have Tourette’s, or you had a flashback to when you were in Vietnam, or something. Do you?’

  I shake my head violently, feeling panicked at the thought of having to see Jonathan ever again.

  ‘And our train isn’t until tomorrow morning. So we might as well enjoy ourselves. I still haven’t been up the Eiffel Tower, you know.’

  ‘Charlie, I can’t swan around pretending I’m on holiday. I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to tell Ellen. And what is Constance going to do, and Jonathan? If the whole thing gets out, I could be fired.’

  ‘You won’t be,’ says Charlie. ‘I promise. Don’t forget, he doesn’t come out very well from it either. Now, how about you show me some of the sights of Paris?’

  Six hours later, I’m sitting at a table in a bar near the Eiffel Tower, flipping through my Instagram pictures of our day out. There’s one of me flattening my nose against the window of Ladurée; me afterwards with a box full of macarons. There’s Charlie having a huge pistachio ice cream on a bateau mouche river trip down the Seine, which he insisted on us taking although I told him it was a rip-off, strictly for tourists.

  ‘But we are tourists,’ he pointed out.

  To my surprise, the bateau mouche was great, dodgy loudspeaker commentary aside. And there’s the two of us at the top of the Eiffel Tower, my hair blown vertical by the wind. Charlie claimed to be scared of heights and said he needed a drink afterwards, so we’re now having very overpriced gin and tonics off the Champ de Mars. The trauma of lunch has receded, and I’m actually having a great time. Charlie doesn’t quote Virginia Woolf, and he’s not going to expand my horizons or anything, but he is fun.

  ‘I’m sorry we didn’t have time to go into the Musée d’Orsay,’ I say archly as he rejoins me, wondering if he’ll remember that this was a tip from his beloved Constance.

  ‘The what? Oh, the art museum. To be honest, I don’t see the point of hanging around in art museums when you’re in a foreign city. I mean, they have lots of art in London, right?’

  I smile, thinking: he is sweet, but he’s still a bit of a philistine.

  ‘Much more important,’ he says, ‘is where you want to eat tonight. I’ve heard good things about a place across the river.’

  ‘Sure.’ I’m about to ask where he got his tip from before remembering: of course, it must be from Constance. I wonder what the deal is with them. When they went out together yesterday – was that a date? I might ask him over dinner. Not that I’m curious, of course.

  After a short Métro ride, we get out at the Pont d’Iéna, and start walking down one of the massive avenues that run parallel to the Seine.

  ‘Are you sure we got out at the right stop?’ I ask doubtfully. I should have known better than to trust him with something as important as dinner. I’m now starving, and if we have to trek for hours before we eat, I’m going to be very bad company. I’m like the Incredible Hulk; you wouldn’t like me when I’m hungry.

  ‘Here we are,’ he says, sounding pleased with himself. We’re outside a vast stone modernist building right by the river.

  ‘Wait. Is this the Palais de Tokyo? It is!’ I remember this place: it’s a gigantic space dedicated to experimental art. Outside, it looks like a 1930s stone palace; inside, it’s all unfinished, like an aircraft hangar or Battersea Power Station.

  ‘Apparently it has a very good restaurant. Art museums always do.’

  He’s absolutely right. The dining room is a huge, buzzing space, with Manga cartoons decorating the windows and futuristic-looking giant red lanterns hanging from the high ceilings. The menu looks very exciting – we’ve barely sat down before I’m eyeing up a caramel chicken dish. Screw the diet; I’m in Paris.

  ‘It seems a bit of a waste not to look at the art,’ I say guiltily, as we take our seats. ‘I saw a sign for some kind of pop-up exhibition about Chanel Number 5 …’

  ‘I wouldn’t understand it. I haven’t seen Number 1, 2, 3 or 4.’

  I laugh. I’m relieved to see, in the mirror opposite, that the orange dress is still going strong after a day trekking up and down towers. I wish I’d thought to bring my make-up bag to do a touch-up – but it doesn’t matter, I remind myself. It’s just Charlie.

  ‘I might have a cocktail,’ he says, as the waiter comes over. ‘What about you? One of your Kirs?’

  ‘Definitely not.’ I shudder. I order a glass of white wine, and for once the waiter doesn’t reply in English. This is now officially my happy place. When our drinks arrive, Charlie lifts his glass to me.

  ‘To Paris,’ he says. ‘And to you. And to me. And to publishing. And to world peace. And to Manga—’

  ‘OK. Very funny.’ But I’m laughing. He does sound a bit like Jonathan. ‘What are you going to have?’

  ‘Hm. Difficult, but probably the cauliflower soufflé, and the seared liver.’ He frowns. ‘They’ve put cow’s liver in the English menu, but they must mean calf’s, no?’

  ‘I’m sure they do. Beef liver is practically inedible, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not inedible, but it’s very gamey. I wouldn’t cook it myself. It would need a strong sauce. Whereas 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 leaning sideways from his seat, 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 souffl�
� 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. 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 round. Especially for brunches. I do a big frittata with feta and spring onions, and make a batch of mimosas. You should come sometime,’ 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. 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 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’m truly 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 glance 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, Charlie insists on paying 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. 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 Métro 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 ove
r 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 Jonathan’s 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?’