I Heart Paris

‘We just got married!’ she shrieked, waving her hand around to give the ginormous solitaire sufficient opportunity to blind me. ‘In New York! Married! We’re from England. But we got married in New York. Not Vegas. Tacky, that is.’

‘Right,’ I stuttered, trying to pull my head away from the hard, shiny thing that could potentially blind me. ‘Congratulations?’

‘Oh you’re English too! Dave, she’s English,’ my seat buddy went on, oblivious. ‘It was just at City Hall, quiet, but very classy, you know? And we stayed at the Waldorf Astoria. We haven’t told anyone at home. I mean, they knew we were engaged, but they didn’t know we were getting married. Dave’s been married before you see, so we didn’t think we needed to make a big deal of it.’

‘I’ve been married before,’ Dave confirmed, leaning across to show me his massive, diamond encrusted wedding band. Mmm, tasteful. ‘She was a right old cow. Not like this one.’

‘Well, yeah, congratulations,’ I said again, fiddling with my seatbelt as a polite ‘leave me alone’ signal, while seats 47 F and G began a rather aggressive PDA session.

‘It was lovely,’ Dave’s wife said, pushing her amorous husband away. ‘I got them Loobootin shoes, didn’t I, Dave? Lovely.’

‘She did,’ Dave nodded. ‘Loobootins.’

I managed a wan smile and tried not to start crying. How long was this flight again? Jenny would have actually slapped her around the face by now, my tolerance levels were most impressive.

‘And now we’re going to Paris for the honeymoon. Nice that, isn’t it? He’s a romantic, my Dave. Always said I’d marry a romantic. You married, love?’

‘No,’ I smiled, shaking my head. ‘Not married.’

‘Engaged?’

‘Nope.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Actually, yes.’

‘Well there you are,’ she said, patting my knee. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’

I smiled brightly and speedily plugged my ears with my earbuds before she could start up again. Only to have the flight attendant tell me that I couldn’t keep them in for take-off. Cow. Happily, Dave’s wife wasn’t a terribly good flier and had to bury her face in Dave’s reassuring chest throughout take off and for a good fifteen minutes after, by which time, I’d got the earbuds in and was pretending to sleep. Not an easy task when the man to the other side of me was a) incredibly sweaty and b) reading out Bible passages under his breath, just loudly enough to convince me he might be a serial killer. Fantastic.

I squinted to see the screen on my iPod, trying not to open my eyes enough to be busted and I scrolled down to the play lists. Alex had promised to upload something ‘other than Justin Timberlake and Gossip Girl’ to put me in the mood for Paris. I smiled and clicked on ‘Adventures of Angela: Paris Edition’ and tried not to look incredibly smug that I had a wonderful boyfriend who had made me a mixtape – the internationally accepted Token of True Love from a Boy. I settled back in my seat for some musique en français, but instead was jolted wide awake by the sound of Alex’s voice.

‘Hey Angela, so I put some songs together to help you get through the flight although, I guess it’s me that needs the help, right? Uh, anyway, I really wish we were flying out together, but I’ll see you when you get to the hotel and I promise it’s going to be a great trip. And yeah, this is a new song I’ve been working on…’

His quiet, smoky voice trailed off into a quick cough before his guitar took over. I closed my eyes quickly, not wanting to give The Second Missus Dave an opportunity to spoil this moment. Not that she could. I felt a hot flush in my cheeks while my stomach dropped and my heart pounded. It felt like falling off the kerb in my sleep, only in a good way. It felt the same as opening my eyes in the morning and seeing Alex’s face. The same as getting off the subway and spotting him waiting for me. The same as I felt whenever I thought about him being within a three-foot radius of me. Honestly, what was my problem? He was amazing. And he wasn’t my ex. My ex wouldn’t have even asked me to come to Paris with him in the first place, probably because he’d have wanted to bring his mistress, but still.

Of course I should move in with Alex.

I felt as if someone had just slapped me around the face with the Great Big Stick of Obvious Revelations. Of course I should live with him, I loved him. Excitement bubbled up inside me, we were going to live together! And I could tell him on his birthday. Which would really help if he didn’t like the watch I’d got him…

The rest of the flight passed relatively uneventfully, me struggling through fits and starts of sleep, the happy couple pawing each other throughout and only very occasionally grabbing my thigh accidentally (I hoped?), and my religious friend making it happily through a good couple of books of the Old Testament before the attendants came around with breakfast. Yawning widely and stretching as best I could, I shuffled from side to side and scraped my frizzy hair back from my face. Post long-haul was so not a good look for me. Across the aisle and past several people’s heads, I could see land below us. I scarfed the World’s Heaviest Danish Pastry as quickly as humanly possible, then slathered on a gob of Beauty Flash Balm and sat back, suddenly desperate to be on the ground.

‘Oh, you’re awake then, sleepyhead!’

Brilliant.

‘I thought we were going to have to leave you on the plane,’ Missus Dave said, giving me a jovial and yet oddly strong punch in the shoulder. ‘So, are you meeting this boyfriend of yours in Paris?’

‘Oh, um, yes,’ I said, trying to apply mascara without poking myself in the eye. Give me some slack, I’d only just learned how to do this on the ground let alone in midair descent.

‘Ahh, that’s nice,’ she said, fastening her seatbelt and settling back with Dave’s arm safely around her. ‘Who knows, maybe he’ll propose.’

It really was an instinctive reaction. I really didn’t mean to shoot my mascara-wand-wielding arm into the face of my Bible-toting seat buddy. And I really didn’t mean to make him throw a scorching cup of coffee down his trousers.

‘Holy Mary Mother of God!’

Oops. And I’d done so well not to offend or maim anyone for so long. I’d seen enough episodes of Friends to know that pawing at his crotch with napkins wouldn’t help, so instead I muttered my apologies, leaned back into my seat and closed my eyes. If that was the worst thing that happened and I’d got all the way to Paris, I would be very happy.

‘What do you mean my bag had to be “destroyed”?’

I stood in the baggage reclaim section of Charles de Gaulle airport, listening to an incredibly boredlooking official type person repeat himself for the fourth time.

‘Madame Clark, as I explained,’ he sighed, ‘your suitcase failed our safety screening and was destroyed. This should have been told to you at JFK. In fact, you should not have been able to travel.’

‘When you say destroyed,’ I rubbed my temples and blinked a few times waiting to wake up, ‘and you know, it’s Mademoiselle.’

‘Pardon, Mademoiselle. Destroyed. It is gone.’

I rifled around in my battered handbag, checking just what I had with me. Sunglasses, lip balm, two lipsticks, phone, camera, wallet, passport, laptop, US Weekly. Well, at least I wouldn’t be stuck for some educational reading material. Thank God.

‘But why?’ I heard my voice start to crack. Apparently, I was starting to grasp the reality of what had happened. ‘Why would it be, oh God, why would it be destroyed?’

‘There are many reasons, Madame, security is very high right now. Possibly you have something forbidden in your suitcase? Something dangerous?’

‘The most dangerous thing in there was a pair of shoes once involved in a case of GBH.’ I pursed my lips together, determined not to cry. There had to be a mistake. ‘Who can I talk to about this?’

‘I am afraid it is me.’ The officer sighed. Again. ‘Perhaps there was something, ah, battery operated?’

‘Battery operated?’

‘Possibly vibrating?’ he expanded discreetly.

‘Vibrating? A vibrator?’ I screeched. Wow, I could really be shrill when I wanted to. And given all the looks I was getting from every other passenger in the airport, vibrator was a word that translated globally. Brilliant.

‘But when you say destroyed?’

‘It has been securely detonated.’

‘Securely…’

‘Yes.’

‘Blown up?’

‘Oui.’

‘I…what?’ I suddenly felt very, very unsteady on my feet.

‘I am sorry Ms Clark. I am able to let you pass through the airport as there is no security alert on you, but your baggage has been destroyed. That is all I can tell you. Would you like me to escort you to a taxi?’

‘But really, how can it—’ I tried once more as the officer took my arm and lead me out of the airport and towards the large double doors.

By the time I got in to the city I’d just about made it through to the third stage of grief. I had ploughed through disbelief by the time the airport official had physically tossed me into the back of a taxi and I powered straight on to anger halfway down the motorway. Once I’d finished swearing vengeance on the firstborn children of every airport worker at JFK and Charles de Gaulle, I moved on to depression. My Louboutins. My beautiful blue Marc Jacobs satchel. All of my clothes. All of them. Oh God, all of the clothes Jenny had sent over. All blown to smithereens by a sweaty man in a short-sleeved shirt at the airport. Who probably had a moustache. They all had short-sleeved shirts and moustaches.

Somewhere inside my brain, a part of me tried to tell me about all the clothes shops and shoe stores and lingerie I would be able to buy on my research trips, but every time I closed my eyes, I just saw my dandelion yellow 3.1 Phillip Lim sundress flying up into the air and scattering into a million pieces while several French security guards stood around wearing berets and guffawing. Armoured berets. And the Lanvin. Dear God, the Lanvin. My fevered imagination preferred to imagine the case had been blown up in France.

According to the last text I’d received from Alex, he had to be at some place called Café Charbon by seven and told me to meet him there. It was way too late to get to the hotel first and besides, what exactly was I planning on changing into? This wasn’t Project Catwalk, I wasn’t going to be able to cobble together a Parisian evening look from the pages of US Weekly and a Lancôme Juicy Tube.

I attempted to explain where I wanted to go to the driver, but was eventually reduced to showing him Alex’s text. He grunted and sped off down some tiny cobbled streets, lined with tiny tables and even tinier girls, all with extraordinarily long hair and pouty, miserable expressions. Vive la France.

Eventually the taxi pulled to a stop and the driver turned to stare at me. Even though I knew I couldn’t be a pretty sight, I stared back. Had he just lost everything he’d ever owned that was shiny, pretty and beautiful? No. No he had not. As rudely as I could manage, I pulled out a fistful of Euros and handed them to him in what I hoped was a vaguely ignorant fashion. Although it probably ruined the effect when I awkwardly thanked him and told him to keep the change.

Attempting to compose myself before I saw Alex, I paused in front of a beautiful glass-fronted café and breathed deeply and slowly. Dozens of people stood outside smoking and laughing and all of them were beautiful. To be fair, I would have been overdressed in Jenny’s Balmain sequined dress, but that didn’t help me feel any less crappy than I did in my travelling clothes. Actually, my only clothes now. All of the girls were wearing blue jeans so tight, I was pretty certain that no matter how badly all the dark-eyed, dark-haired boys that were eyeing them up wanted to give them one, it would be physically impossible. How on earth did they get them on and off without specialized equipment? Standing around nodding and gesticulating with their cigarettes, I noticed that they all had perfectly dishevelled bedhead hairdos, as opposed to frizzy, flat plane hairdon’ts, and instead of mascara-stained cheeks and dark circles hastily covered up with too much Touche Eclat, every single girl looked as though she scoffed at make-up and was in fact, just a fresh-faced beauty. Bitches. And they had to rub in the fact that I wasn’t allowed to drink red wine because I was incapable of drinking a single glass without spilling it all down myself. Or someone else in my immediate vicinity. Basically, there was no way I was going to be mistaken for being a French girl. Homeless French sixteen-year-old boy, maybe, but one of these sophisticated sex bombs? Not so much. Mew.

Eventually, I let out a huge sigh and pushed through the crowds and into the café. I spotted Alex almost immediately. Even in a sea of skinny, dark-haired boys stroking their chins and nodding, he was the first thing I saw. Unfortunately, the second thing I saw was an impossibly pretty blonde girl, sitting on his lap with her arms wrapped around his neck, laughing her arse off. And the third thing I saw was the inside of my eyelids because that’s about when I passed out.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Jesus, Angela. Are you OK?’

‘Yeah, go back to sleep,’ I muttered, pushing away the familiar voice. I was so tired, couldn’t he just let me lie in?

‘Ahh, shit. Get me some water?’ A hand brushed my hair off my forehead and, as I tried to roll over, I couldn’t help but think the bed was very uncomfortable all of a sudden. And cold. And floor-like.

‘Don’t worry, she kind of makes a habit of this,’ Alex said, helping me find my feet, then a chair and then a very large glass of water. ‘At least she didn’t throw up this time.’

‘I’m not drunk,’ I muttered into the glass, gulping down the water. ‘I’m jet-lagged. And stressed.’

‘Hi by the way.’ Alex gave me a half-smile and brushed a chunk of frizzy hair behind my ear. ‘Bienvenue à Paris.’

I looked around, but the mystery blonde I vaguely recalled setting up shop in my boyfriend’s lap had vanished. Had I imagined her?

‘Muh?’

‘Welcome to Paris.’ His smile turned into a frown and his green eyes peered closely into mine. ‘Angela, are you OK? Do you need a doctor?’

‘No.’ I breathed in deeply. Really, no blonde anywhere. ‘I’m fine, I just had the worst journey.’

‘Bad turbulence?’ An American voice across the table asked. Turning too quickly and getting a shooting pain through my temple for my efforts, I saw Graham and Craig, Alex’s bandmates, waving from across the table.

‘Great entrance.’ Graham gave me a reassuring smile and pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘You could have just called if you couldn’t see us.’

‘I liked it,’ Craig added. ‘But uh, no offence Angie, but you might have changed? This is Paris, you know, not Brooklyn.’

‘Thanks Craig.’

He wasn’t nearly as polite as Graham, but then he wasn’t nearly as gay either. I had almost, for one second, forgotten the fact that I’d been wearing the same clothes for almost twenty hours. And that I hadn’t looked in a mirror for more or less the same amount of time. Although that one was through choice, not because all my belongings had been ‘securely detonated’.

‘You look great.’ Alex gave Craig a filthy look on my behalf. ‘But uh, you didn’t have time to change? Not that you need to change. Cus you look great.’

Holding my head in my hands, I relayed the whole sorry story, pausing to let Craig laugh his arse off at appropriate points and finally ask if that meant I didn’t have any underwear.

Graham shook his head. ‘Angela, that’s awful. But at least you’ll get to replace your wardrobe in Paris, right? What a place to shop yourself blind.’

‘Except my credit card is completely maxed from LA still.’ I tried to smile.

‘We’ll sort something out, I’m so sorry you had to deal with all this shit.’ Alex put his arm around my shoulders and pulled my head down on to his shoulder. He smelled so good. Another reminder that I probably did not. ‘Just relax now. You’re here. In Paris. It’s going to be awesome.’

‘Yeah.’ I closed my eyes and sighed. ‘I guess. Although I do need to get some clothes. I have literally no clothes. But I honestly don’t know when I’m going to have the time. I’m supposed to meet this assistant from French Belle tomorrow and I’ve lost all my notes and stuff.’

All of my notes, my camera, my laptop charger. All the research I’d carefully and painstakingly knocked off from other magazines and guidebooks, gone. Everything in my suitcase, gone. I could feel my second wind of grief coming on and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Tears prickled in my eyes as Alex stroked my arm and listened to Craig read out the menu. What was I going to do in Paris for almost a week without any of my clothes? Without my shoes? Without my hair straighteners? My stomach fell through the chair and hit the floor. And oh my God, Jenny’s clothes. How was I going to tell Jenny I’d lost everything she’d lent me? I didn’t want to get her into trouble, but there was no way I could pop into Balmain and buy a three-thousand-dollar sequined mini dress to replace the one I absolutely, one hundred per cent knew I shouldn’t have brought with me in the first place.

‘You’re totally gonna want to get some nice shit for the festival, Angie,’ Craig said. ‘You should see some of the girls in the other bands, man alive they are hot.’

‘Really?’ I asked, looking to Graham for confirmation.

He half shrugged, half nodded. ‘I guess, but hey, what do I know?’

Brilliant. Something else to worry about.

‘Don’t sweat it, Ange. You’re probably as hot,’ Craig offered. He stopped eating for a second and squinted at me. ‘In your regular clothes. And I guess you’ll want to pick up some make-up or something.’

‘Who died and made you Tyra?’ Graham asked quickly. ‘Ignore him. You look great.’

‘Yeah you do. Beautiful, in fact.’ My lovely boyfriend kissed the top of my head and stood up. ‘Just running to the bathroom. You want to stay and eat or just go back to the hotel?’

‘Hotel.’ I nodded. ‘I just want to sleep for a month.’

Alex nodded and bobbed off through the crowded bar. Even from the back he was gorgeous. Possibly I was biased and/or a bit mad, but really, he was hot from every angle. Being able to spot his slightly slouchy posture in a darkened room from twenty feet was one of my keenest talents.

‘Sorry for being so rubbish.’ I offered Craig and Graham a pained expression and glugged another mouthful of water. ‘Not to go Yoko your evening, but I really do need to go to bed.’

‘We totally get it, go get some beauty rest.’ Graham waved away my concerns. And I elected to ignore his beauty rest comment. ‘I’m sure Alex doesn’t want to hang out with us anyway. Craig was a pain in both our asses on the plane.’

‘Yeah, he won’t want to hang out with his best friends when his best girl is here.’ Craig sipped his beer and smiled. I wanted to be embarrassed, but instead I actually giggled. For shame, Angela. ‘And y’know, he’s totally pussy whipped again.’

‘Again?’ I asked.

‘Like with that French bitch he used to date.’ Craig nodded over his beer, ignoring Graham’s warning cough. Which ironically, I picked up immediately.

‘French bitch?’ This was new information. Why didn’t I know about a French bitch? ‘Alex never mentioned dating a French bit—I mean, girl?’

‘Yeah?’ Craig carried on ignoring Graham. ‘Yeah, she was—’

‘For ever ago. It was for ever ago,’ he interrupted. ‘He’s so over it. Totally.’

‘He dated her in New York?’ I asked, flicking my gaze between the two suspicious-looking boys.

‘Yeah, well—’ Craig started.

‘Yes. And it was a long time ago,’ Graham said sternly. ‘Which is why he never mentioned it. I’m sure.’

There were a million more questions swimming around my mind, but before I could form a coherent sentence, Alex reappeared with two large glasses of red wine.

‘I know you want to leave, but Sam on the bar just gave me these and I couldn’t say no – you want?’ Alex asked, sliding into the chair at the side of me. ‘I thought maybe a drink might do you some good.’

On one hand, this clearly was a bad idea. I was exhausted, I’d already passed out once and I needed a clear head in the morning. On the other, I could really, really, really do with a drink. But back to the other hand, it really was a bad idea.

‘Sam on the bar?’ I asked, nodding and holding out my hand for the glass. I could maybe just take a sip.

‘Old friend,’ he explained, pushing the glass towards me. ‘Just this one drink and we’ll make a move.’

I nodded and leaned against Alex, taking in the mirrored walls, high ceilings and racks and racks of bottles behind the bar. It reminded me of Balthazar in New York, except instead of posing as a French bistro, it actually was one. Every single table was full, and it immediately made sense to me that the guys had picked the café. There wasn’t one ugly person in the place and I was pretty certain that none of them were bank managers or geography teachers either. Nothing so ordinary here. So this was where Paris’s pretty people came to hang out. Note to self. And Belle magazine.

The boys talked band while I held my wine quietly, concentrating on not spilling it down my T-shirt. The odds were pretty good that I was going to have to wear it again. Oh, it had been a long time since I’d washed something out in a hotel sink – where was my mother when I needed her? Although her area of expertise was really knickers in a Mallorcan bidet rather than American Apparel V-neck in a Parisian boutique hotel. Much of a muchness though, surely? Maybe it was in my blood.

I clutched my wine, but just couldn’t bring myself to drink it, so I people watched instead. I couldn’t help but stare as four girls rose from a table at the back and started dancing around a raised DJ booth. They were laughing happily, pushing each other on to the dance floor, and just like everyone else in the café, they were all skinny jeans, long messy hair tossed over one shoulder and at least a fortnight’s worth of eyeliner smudged all over their faces. But my God they were gorgeous. I’d never had so much as a same sex leaning in all my life and even I wanted to go over there and lick their beautiful faces.

The tallest of the four, a slender blonde with masses of Debbie Harry-a-like white-blonde hair hanging in her bright blue eyes, looked over at our table and then disappeared behind a door in the back wall. Was that her? The girl I thought I saw with Alex when I walked in? I looked back at the boys around the table. They were discussing their set for Sunday’s festival and without meaning to, more or less ignoring me altogether, aside from an occasional arm stroke from Alex or lewd grin from Craig. Once Alex was into ‘work stuff’, he was impossible to distract. I could have stripped off and performed an entire Pussycat Dolls routine and he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. It might have slipped into his subconscious enough to throw an ironic cover into the set, but that would have been about it.

Not having eaten anything in, bloody hell, I had no idea, the wine was making its way through my system fairly quickly. I slipped away from the table and followed the blonde girl through the door at the back of the room, hopefully to the toilets. Not that I wanted to give her the wrong idea, I wasn’t nearly that drunk. Although maybe some girl-on-girl action would get Alex’s attention back. Wow, sometimes I wondered if I’d been spending far too much time with Jenny. The blonde girl was washing her hands as I pushed through the door.

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, bashing into her. Face to face, she was absolutely stunning. Her heart-shaped face looked to be bare of make-up aside from the lashings of eyeliner, and her platinum hair wasn’t even dyed. I wasn’t jealous at all. ‘I was just looking for the loo.’

‘Pardon?’ she replied.

Right. I was in France. Completely forgot.

‘Uh, la toilette?’ I asked, pointing at what was very obviously the toilet.