I Heart Paris

by Lindsey Kelk

  ‘If you lived here you wouldn’t have to,’ he replied without moving.

  ‘You make a fine point,’ I said, wriggling into my dress. Leaning over the bed, I gave him a quick kiss and a gentle slap around the head. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Yeah yeah,’ he smiled, still with his deep green eyes closed. ‘I know I’m nothing more than a booty call to you. You callous, British heartbreaker.’

  I paused in the doorway, slipping my feet into my Havaianas, and watched him shuffle back under the thin white sheet on his bed. I was being stupid. Imagine waking up to that messy black bedhead every morning. And imagine not having to leg it back to Manhattan to use a decent brand of shampoo, conditioner of any kind, and find something to wear. How did boys keep their hair so soft without conditioner? Was the whole industry a sham? I shook my head and tried to concentrate. Now was not the time to worry about the effectiveness of Pantene.

  ‘You planning on going soon or are you just gonna stand there and freak me out all day?’ Alex asked from under his covers, making me jump.

  ‘Going,’ I said, grabbing my handbag from the sofa. ‘Gone.’

  ‘I’ll come over tonight? We’ll talk Paris?’ he called.

  ‘Tonight,’ I agreed, closing the door behind me. Shower and Pastis first. Alex and Paris later.

  Putting myself together for my lunch meeting would have been a lot easier if I hadn’t started running through a million different terrifying scenarios in my head on the way home, during my shower, through every wardrobe change and while applying the few scraps of make-up that might not melt off on my way downtown to Pastis. I hailed a yellow cab outside the apartment in my LA-purchased dandelion yellow Phillip Lim dress and gold strappy flats, and tried not to think about all the reasons Mr Spencer might want to see me. Maybe he just wanted to meet the girl that had interviewed and inadvertently outed James Jacobs. Lots of people did. Mostly women, young and old, who wanted to give me a really, really filthy look and then ask me incredibly inappropriate questions about his boyfriend.

  Or maybe he was a fan of my blog. My slightly random English-girl-living-in-New-York-rambling-on-about-her-everyday-life blog. Yes, that would definitely appeal to a sixty-something media magnate. Or perhaps he was a massive fan of the Shakira album review I’d just filed? Or perhaps he was a massive Shakira fan and didn’t like the album review? Surely not, I’d been super kind. No, there were just too many possibilities even to begin guessing.

  I hoped and prayed all the way downtown that Cici would have booked us a table inside the restaurant, very near an air-conditioning unit, and not one of the see-and-be-seen tiny tables outside looking out on to the cobbles of the Meatpacking District, but as the cab swerved across the street, I could see Mary’s steel-grey bob sitting opposite an equally authoritative head of icy white hair. Not only was I the last to arrive, I was going to be stuck sweating like a pig in the street. Fantastic. Attempting to get out of the cab in a ladylike fashion and failing, I stumbled forwards, snagging the front of my sandal in the cobblestones. I caught myself at the last minute, stood up, straightened my skirt and gave Mary a half wave. I couldn’t see behind her massive black sunglasses, but I was fairly certain the smile she gave me in return did not make it all the way up to her eyes.

  ‘Angela Clark, this is Robert Spencer,’ she said, rising out of her chair as I hobbled around the table.

  Mr Spencer held out his hand and gave me a very, very firm handshake. Ow.

  ‘Well, hello Angela,’ he said, gesturing for me to take a seat beside Mary. ‘I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a while. And please, call me Bob.’

  I gave Mary a quick sideways look, but she was too busy spitting her water back into her glass to respond.

  ‘Thank you, uh, Bob,’ I replied, setting my handbag between my feet, underneath the table. ‘It’s really lovely to meet you. A real privilege. An honour, really.’ Mary kicked me sharply under the table before I could carry on. It seemed fair.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said smoothly, nodding to the waiter at his elbow to pour three large glasses of white wine. ‘I always like to take time out to meet our rising stars here at Spencer Media.’

  He held up his glass. ‘To you, Angela.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I tried not to think about what could happen if I started drinking wine on a completely empty and panicky stomach and took a small sip.

  ‘So, Mr Spencer wanted to meet with you and talk about some new opportunities,’ Mary said, folding the menu with which she was clearly very familiar. ‘Things you might do outside the blog, outside The Look.’

  ‘He did?’ I asked, staring into the opaque glass of her sunnies. Was she serious?

  ‘Ladies,’ Mr Spencer folded up his own menu and placed it in front of him. ‘Shall we at least order before we talk business?’

  ‘Of course, Bob,’ Mary smiled tightly and sipped her wine. It was so strange. I’d never seen her outside her office and she did not look comfortable at all. In fact, nothing about this entire scenario was comfortable. I was starting to feel as if I were at dinner with my mum and dad while they were in the middle of a particularly nasty argument. And no one who’s ever argued with my mum would want that.

  ‘Have you eaten at Pastis before, Angela?’ Bob asked.

  I shook my head and chugged my wine. I had a feeling that it was just going to be better to avoid talking whenever possible.

  ‘Then I’d recommend the scallops to start and then maybe the pasta puttanesca?’ Bob folded up his menu.

  ‘You know pasta puttanesca means whore’s pasta?’ I dropped in casually.

  Mary coughed into her wine glass.

  ‘I mean, it’s what whores would make after they’d you know, worked.’ I looked from Mary to Bob and back to Mary again. Yep. Should have stuck with the no talking plan.

  ‘Perhaps the moules frites,’ Bob said quietly.

  Before I could agree, someone’s mobile started to chirp. Bob pushed out his chair and took a tiny phone out of his jacket pocket. ‘So sorry ladies, that’s me. Excuse me for a moment?’

  ‘Of course, Bob,’ Mary said again, this time through gritted teeth as he left the table.

  ‘How is he even wearing a jacket?’ I asked, turning in my seat to watch him walk out into the street. My head span as I turned back around. ‘It is so bloody hot.’

  ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t drink quite so fast, Angela,’ Mary said, pouring me a glass of water. ‘This isn’t a social lunch.’

  ‘Arses. I was really, really hoping that it was,’ I reluctantly swapped my, wow, more than half empty wine glass for a tumbler of water. ‘So what is it?’

  ‘It’s a pain in my ass, is what it is.’ Mary drained her wine glass and returned my raised eyebrow with a look of her own. ‘I can hold my liquor, don’t you worry. This, Angela, is a “Big Deal For You”. Apparently one of Bob’s granddaughters is your “biggest fan” and she seems to think you should be doing more, I don’t know, “legitimate journalism” for some of Spencer’s other magazines like Icon or Belle.’

  ‘Legitimate journalism?’ I didn’t enjoy the number of times she had made air quotes during her last sentence. ‘Belle? They want me to write on a fashion magazine?’

  ‘Apparently so. I don’t know what though, so don’t ask me.’ She poured herself more wine. ‘I’m only here because I heard about this through Cici and called Bob to find out what the hell was going on.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, how did Cici hear?’ Now I was really confused.

  ‘Cici Spencer. She’s one of Bob’s granddaughters.’

  I was sober in a heartbeat. ‘Of course she is.’

  ‘You don’t think I employ her for her charm, do you?’ Mary gave me an understanding grimace. ‘Bob and I are old friends.’

  It took everything I had not to raise an eyebrow. Old friends. That old chestnut.

  ‘But Cici hates me,’ I said, swapping my water for wine. Definitely time for wine. If I was going to stay in
control of my facial expressions as well as my mouth though, I had to stay off the booze. ‘Why would she tell her grandfather to give me more work?’

  ‘Cici doesn’t hate you,’ Mary said, topping up my water again. ‘Cici is jealous of you. She knows she’s only my assistant because of who her grandfather is. She’s been trying to get on the writing staff since she finished college, but even Bob knows she can’t write for shit.’

  ‘Oh. Wow. That’s awful.’

  ‘Don’t start feeling sorry for her Angela, she’s a bitch. And she’d get rid of you without a second thought if she thought she could take your job.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, packing away any blossoming Cici-sympathy. ‘But then why would she recommend me for more projects?’

  ‘I keep waiting for her to lose interest and embrace her trust fund like her sister, but that girl just will not give up,’ Mary nodded towards Bob as he strode back towards the table. ‘I’d be impressed at her tenacity if she were working for anyone else, but me. And don’t be a fool. She didn’t, it was her cousin.’

  Bob took his seat opposite me as our starters arrived. The food looked delicious, but I really wasn’t very hungry any more.

  ‘Apologies ladies, I’ve asked my secretary to stop my calls for the next couple of hours, so I’m all yours,’ he said with another beaming smile.

  ‘What a relief,’ Mary replied, spearing a scallop.

  I looked nervously from one to the other, Bob’s benevolent grin clashing with Mary’s openly pissed off expression, and reached for the wine. Sod it.

  ‘Let me,’ Mary said, snatching the bottle from my hand and splashing a mouthful of wine in the bottom of my glass.

  This wasn’t going to be awkward at all.

  ‘I don’t know if you’re aware, Angela, but you have a great fan in one of my granddaughters,’ Bob finally got around to business over coffee. After Mary had refused dessert on behalf of both of us. Bugger.

  I blew on my cappuccino and smiled nervously. It was still far too hot for coffee, but this really didn’t feel like a Diet Coke kind of situation. ‘Really? I didn’t know that,’ I lied, hopefully convincingly.

  ‘Oh yes. And Mary speaks very, very highly of your writing.’

  ‘She does?’ No need to fake surprise this time. ‘You do?’

  ‘I do,’ Mary replied, grudgingly. ‘Your blog is very good.’

  ‘And the piece you did for Icon, I read that one, Angela. Very good. You have a fun style, very personable.’ Bob set down his coffee cup. ‘I understand from Mary that you’re only with us on a part-time basis at the moment. On a freelance arrangement?’

  ‘Well, I don’t work in the office,’ I explained, trying to read Mary’s face,, which she was hiding behind her poker straight bob. ‘But my work permit is tied to my writing the blog for The Look, so…’

  ‘We own her ass, Bob, so just get to where you’re going,’ Mary interrupted. ‘You’re taking her off me, is that right?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he shook his head and covered one of her hands with his. ‘You know I’d never tread on your toes. Although I do think it would be in Angela’s interests to spread her wings a little. Get a broader experience of Spencer Media. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in, Angela?’

  I bit my lip and nodded. I was worried that if I actually made a noise, Mary might throw her espresso in my face. And there might not be a lot of coffee in that cup, but it looked really hot.

  ‘Fantastic, maybe you could come in and meet the Belle team next week,’ Bob suggested. ‘Maybe think of a couple of ideas to bring to the meeting. I know Emilia is very keen to meet you.’

  Mary and I choked on our coffees in tandem. Emilia Kitt, editor of Belle magazine, Spencer Media’s fashion monthly, was notoriously not keen on meeting anyone. As in anyone. I had been in for a meeting with Mary a few weeks ago and saw Angelina Jolie waiting in the lobby. And she was still waiting when I left. For Emilia.

  ‘This is probably a really stupid thing to say, but I’m actually going to be in Paris next week,’ I said, not sure whether or not I was making a huge mistake. ‘From Monday. For a week.’

  ‘You are? Since when?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I only found out yesterday.’ I turned to give her my best ‘help me out’ face. Bob’s expression really hadn’t changed all through lunch so I had no idea what he was thinking. ‘It’s my boyfriend’s thirtieth birthday.’

  No one looked particularly impressed.

  ‘He’s in a band and they’ve been asked to play a festival in Paris.’

  Still not impressed. And now Bob was looking at me as if I were a groupie.

  ‘And I thought it would be really good for the blog. Didn’t the visitor numbers go up when I was in LA?’

  ‘Yes, but you were plastered all over the gossip pages when you were in LA,’ Mary reminded me, unnecessarily. ‘Are you planning on making an international spectacle of yourself in Paris?’

  ‘Wasn’t planning on it the first time, so who can say?’ I defended myself pathetically.

  ‘I think this all sounds great,’ Bob said, finally breaking the stony silence that had built up between me and Mary. ‘Emilia is planning a European issue in a couple of months. Perhaps you could put together an insider’s guide to Paris for Belle? Off the beaten track, show us all the underground hotspots?’

  ‘I could do that,’ I agreed slowly.

  ‘Then you’ll come in and meet the Belle team tomorrow.’ Bob suddenly got up from the table. ‘I’ll have Emilia’s assistant call you later today, Angela.’

  Mary stood up just as suddenly and, not knowing what else to do, I followed suit and accepted Bob’s overly dramatic air kisses.

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Angela, and Mary, always a pleasure.’ He smiled and walked over towards a long black town car that had just pulled up beside the restaurant. Mary sank back down into her chair and emptied her wine glass.

  ‘Cheap bastard didn’t even pick up the bill.’ Mary shook her head and pulled a huge wallet out of her even bigger bag. ‘Well, I hope you’re happy, Angela Clark.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be?’ I asked, trying to work out what had just happened. And whether or not Mary was sleeping with Bob. Because she most definitely had been at some point.

  ‘Writing for Belle magazine is not going to be the same as writing a blog for me.’ She called over a waiter and passed him a black American Express card. ‘You’re going to need to know exactly what you’re doing.’

  ‘But I can do this, the travel guide to Paris,’ I said. ‘It’ll be fine. Won’t it?’

  ‘You know I like you, Angela,’ Mary said, putting her elaborate signature on to the credit card slip. ‘But if you fuck this one up, there’s no way I can help you. The girls on Belle are not the girls on The Look or Icon.’

  ‘But they want me to do this, don’t they?’ This did not sound promising. ‘I mean, it was their idea?’

  ‘It was Bob’s idea,’ Mary corrected me. ‘Worse, it was Bob’s granddaughter’s idea. Just, before you go in to the office, know that the girls on Belle make Cici look like a labradoodle. Each and every one of them has destroyed the career of someone else, or slept with at least three different married men to be there.’

  ‘They sound nice.’

  ‘Then I’m underselling what a pack of bitches they are.’ Mary tucked her wallet back into her bag. ‘They’re not going to love that you’re waltzing through the door with a Paris assignment without ever having so much as broken a nail at Fashion Week. Not that any of them have actually ever broken a nail in their lives. Unless it was to scratch someone else’s eyes out.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell,’ I said, breathing in deeply. ‘Any way I can get out of this?’

  ‘Not now Bob’s involved,’ Mary said, standing up again. ‘Look, I don’t want to be too cynical, this could be great for you. Just keep your eyes open, OK? And you might want to get a haircut before your meeting.’

  Well, I thought, pinching the ends of my bob
, checking the split ends and sighing, at least Paris will be fun.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Three hours later, after a hastily arranged trim and several buckets of iced tea, I’d found the last shred of shade in Central Park and was halfway through my Rough Guide to Paris, with the Lonely Planet and Wallpaper guides well thumbed beside me. I scribbled down address after address in my notebook, but somehow my mind kept flitting back to an image of me and Alex skipping along the banks of the Seine, him in a black polo neck, holding a cigarette, and me in a very fetching stripy sweater dress and beret. Sometimes I was clutching a baguette. Sometimes I relocated us to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It was all very Tom and Katie. Except less creepy.

  An irritating beeping snapped me out of my fantasy. I looked around, but for some reason, everyone was staring at me. It took me a couple of moments to realize that it was my phone ringing and a couple more redfaced seconds to find it in the bottom of my bag.

  ‘Hello?’ I answered, eventually.

  ‘Is that Angela Clark? This is Esme from Belle magazine. You have an appointment with Donna Gregory tomorrow at nine. Please be in the Belle reception at eight forty-five a.m.’

  ‘Uh, OK?’ Esme from Belle magazine was all business. ‘Will Emilia be in the meeting?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Esme from Belle magazine sounded confused.

  ‘Emilia. Bob, Mr Spencer, said she was keen to meet me,’ I explained, feeling a little bit like an idiot.

  ‘Oh. No.’ Esme from Belle magazine confirmed I was in fact, an idiot. ‘Do you need directions to the offices?’

  ‘No, I actually work on The Look so—’

  ‘Oh, cute. Then we’ll see you at eight forty-five,’ Esme from Belle magazine confirmed. And hung up.

  I lay back on the grass and stared up at the sunshine. This was going to take some thinking about. Writing my blog was great, but writing for Belle? It could just be incredible…Everyone read Belle, it was global, it was massive. And surely Mary was just throwing a hissy fit because she was pissed off that Bob had gone over her head. It made sense, she didn’t like having her writers poached for bigger publications. She was the online editor at TheLook.com. With Belle, we were talking the printed pages of the world’s biggest fashion monthly. There was way too much at stake here for me to worry about offending Mary’s ego, that wasn’t going to get me anywhere fast. She had offered me the moon on a stick when I’d pulled off the James Jacobs interview and so far I’d seen an awful lot of the stick and not very much else. Where was my monthly column in The Look? Still ‘under discussion.’ This was an opportunity that I would not cock up.