by Lindsey Kelk
‘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.
‘Oui?’ She looked at me without quite the same reverence I’d sent her way. In that she looked at me as though I was slightly retarded. Which was probably fair.
I made some sort of laughing, oh-I’m-so-stupid snorting noise-cum-hand gesture and locked myself in the toilet cubicle. OK, so I couldn’t even attempt to make myself understood when trying to get in the lav, but that wasn’t going to be a problem, was it? Alex was practically fluent, and when I wasn’t with him, I’d have my French Belle assistant. Surely she would be ecstatic to spend all her time translating for me. And lead me around town all day long. Surely the super trendy, young, hot, French fashionista would love that. Oh crap.
When I came out of the toilet, the gorgeous girl had gone. Reluctantly, I checked myself out in the mirror, trying not to compare and contrast. My light brown bob looked better for its trim last week, but without hair straighteners, a half-decent conditioner or even serum, it was a fluffy, bird’s nest mess. Flat at the roots, puffy at the ends. My skin was dry and greyish from the flight, but for some reason, my nose and forehead were so shiny, I could see a reflection of my reflection in my forehead. How could my skin be dry and shiny at the same time? For want of a better idea, I pulled down the V-neck on my T-shirt until I could almost see the edge of my bra. Admittedly, it wasn’t my finest moment, but a girl had to fight with whatever weapons she had, and until I’d been to a pharmacy or something and picked up hair product, my 34Cs were all that I had.
But they weren’t going to be enough.
Wandering back through the busy bar, I fought the fug out of my brain and tried to spot our table, but I couldn’t seem to see it. Mainly because the tiny table populated by three very American boys that I was looking for, was now covered in four very French girls. Most notably, the beautiful girl from the toilets, who appeared to be compensating for the lack of chairs at the table by kneeling on the floor. At Alex’s feet. I paused by the maître d’s station and watched for a second. She took his hand in hers and cocked her head to one side, smiling. Alex was not smiling. Instead, he pulled his hand out of hers, took his phone out of his jeans pocket, stood up and walked out the door. And down the street. The girl laughed, said something hilarious to the others and hopped up, taking Alex’s seat. I looked down, breathing deeply. What was that all about? Was that the girl I had seen when I came in? And why was there a number listed by the phone for ‘Centre Anti-Poison’? Well, she’d be needing a number for an ambulance if she touched my boyfriend again. Not that she could, given that he’d completely disappeared out of sight.
I cautiously wandered back over to the table, standing awkwardly beside Graham and waiting for him to acknowledge me. Instead, he and Craig giggled with the other French girls, chattering away. Did everyone speak French except me? The blonde stared at me from Alex’s seat, then picked up his wine glass and drank deeply. Colour me stunned.
‘Marie,’ she said to the brunette girl to her left. Who I was relieved to see was at least wearing make-up. Even if she was still hatefully good-looking. ‘C’est la fille qui était dans les toilettes.’
Now, even with my shoddy ‘je voudrais un croque monsieur, s’il vous plaît’ GCSE French, I managed to pick up ‘fille’ which was girl and ‘toilettes’ which was toilet (she wasn’t getting anything past me). She was totally talking about me. The other three girls stopped talking, put down their drinks and turned to stare at me. I felt like I was back in year nine, knocking on the common room door and asking the sixth formers if they wouldn’t mind awfully turning their stereo down because we couldn’t hear our recorders in the music room.
‘Oh, shit, Angie, I so totally forgot you were here,’ Craig said, once he’d realized everyone had stopped talking. ‘This is Marie, Lise, Jacqueline and Solène.’
The blonde raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down. ‘Angela?’ she asked Craig. He nodded into his fresh beer.
‘Solène,’ she said smiling and holding out a hand, but still not standing up or getting the hell out of my boyfriend’s seat. ‘We are playing the festival. Please, this is your wine?’
I really, really wanted to hate her, but her smile actually seemed genuine and her heavily accented voice made me want to curl up with my head in her lap. I awkwardly accepted my own drink, still standing by Graham’s chair, trying to look casual, but actually bloody well waiting for him to get up and give it to me. He didn’t. Some bloody gentleman.
‘So, you’re in a band?’ I asked.
‘Oui,’ she replied. ‘Yes,
we are called Stereo. We play with Stills many times before.’ The rest of the girls carried on laughing, the brunette kicking Craig under the table. Well, it certainly looked as though they had played together before.
‘Right.’ I nodded, not really knowing what else to say.
‘You are not in a band,’ Solène said. I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a question or not. ‘You are a writer?’
‘Yes,’ I said, relieved that she seemed to know who I was. ‘A journalist.’
‘You write about the band?’ she smiled again. ‘About the festival?’
Oh. She thought I was a music journalist. Was that good?
‘Angela is here with Alex,’ Graham said. ‘She’s here with us.’
‘So you are not a writer?’ Solène looked confused. ‘You work for the band?’
‘No, I am a writer, I’m writing for Belle magazine in America,’ I explained, trying not to patronize her. I didn’t want her to think I was an idiot. ‘I am a writer, I’m just not writing about the festival.’
‘I am sorry, I do not understand,’ she frowned slightly, her tiny little, button nose wrinkling up, ‘you write about Alex for a fashion magazine?’
‘No.’ I tried to think of a simpler way to explain myself, feeling completely inadequate. Why didn’t I speak French? Why had I done history A level? No one cared about my knowledge of the Industrial Revolution right now. Or ever actually. And never in my life had I wanted another girl’s approval so badly. Solène was beautiful and in a band and so, so cool. I was willing to bet she could play guitar and everything. She was like a blonde Carla Bruni except without the dodgy, short presidential husband. Jenny would hate her.
Before I could start again, we were all interrupted by a knock on the window. It was Alex. He looked at me and then at the table before gesturing for me to come outside.
‘Sorry, won’t be a minute,’ I said, putting down my wine, picking up my bag and practically stumbling out of the café as fast as my jet-lagged legs would carry me.
‘Hey, sorry, I had to take a call,’ he said, taking my hand and leading me away from the café.
‘Right,’ I said, spinning around to look at the scene unfolding in the window. Craig was practically salivating over Marie while Graham was playing Lise and Jacqueline something from his iPod while they nodded intensely to the beat. Solène turned around in her chair, in Alex’s chair and waved to me. I waved back before Alex pulled me around the corner. ‘We’re leaving?’
He nodded and kept walking.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked, stopping in the middle of the street, holding him to a standstill. ‘What happened on the phone?’
‘Sorry, just band stuff. The record label want us to play tomorrow night and I’m just so tired.’ He draped both his arms over my shoulders and gave me a half smile. ‘I was hoping we’d be able to do something tomorrow night. There’s like, a million places I want to take you.’
‘It’ll be fine, we’ve got ages.’ I pushed up on to my tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips. I pulled back suddenly and stared at Alex. ‘Did you smoke?’
‘Does it count if I took a drag off someone else’s?’ he asked sheepishly. ‘Sorry, I was just kind of stressed. On the phone.’
I tried not to make a face. It was incredibly unsettling for me to feel physically sick from kissing him.
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I said, feeling a little bit weird. Was it strange that I didn’t know he used to smoke?
‘I don’t,’ he said, fiddling around in his pocket for chewing gum. ‘So there’s nothing to know.’
‘Good, because it’s rank,’ I said, taking his hand and squeezing it hard. ‘And you’re brushing your teeth before bed.’
‘Whatever turns you on,’ he said, squeezing mine back even harder.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Alex, I’m not trying to be a bitch.’ I yawned as we sailed into the Hotel Marais, Alex waving to the guy on the desk as we passed through reception. ‘I just don’t think you understand. I am ecstatic to be here. I am over the moon to be spending a week in Paris with you. But I have nothing. I’m in another country and I have nothing. No knickers, no phone charger, no carefully selected, one of a kind vintage ensembles. Nothing.’
‘You mean those crazy eighties dresses you picked up in the thrift store?’ Alex asked as I waited for him to unlock the bedroom door.
‘One of a kind vintage ensembles,’ I repeated. ‘Honestly, it’s like you’ve never read a single issue of Belle.’
‘Is that going to be a problem? Because I haven’t,’ Alex said, kicking his own battered suitcase into the wardrobe. ‘And until about three days ago, neither had you.’
‘You’re not helping,’ I sulked, using every last ounce of energy to throw myself dramatically across what I took to be a normal bed, only for it to separate in the middle on impact, slide apart and unceremoniously dump me hard on the floor in a bundle of sheets.
‘Angela?’
I popped my head up in between the beds like a very confused meerkat. ‘Can I go home now?’
‘It’s going to be fine.’ Alex tried not to laugh and pulled me out from between the beds before pushing them back together. ‘You have had a bad day. I know you’ve been unlucky.’
‘Falling down the bed was unlucky,’ I conceded, collapsing back into the pillows. ‘Getting my suitcase blown up was ridiculous.’
‘Yeah, but ridiculous things happen to you, don’t they?’ Alex said, flopping beside me on the bed. Which of course did not part for him. ‘Maybe this is one of those blessings in disguise things.’
‘It’s a bloody good disguise,’ I said, rolling towards the edge of the bed.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Alex asked, grabbing my arm and pulling me back on to the bed. ‘Get back in bed this minute, Clark.’
‘I have to take a shower,’ I whined. His hand was warm and strong around my wrist and, without an awful lot of resistance, I let him roll on top of me and cup my face in his hands.
‘You don’t need to shower.’
‘But I’m gross.’
‘You’re not gross.’
One warm, soft kiss that made my stomach flip and I was sort of over the idea of a shower.
‘Did you like your song?’ Alex asked, his voice rough and tickly in my ear.
‘I loved my song,’ I whispered back. It had been a very stressful day after all and wasn’t sex good for jet lag? Hmm, I’d probably heard that the same place as the hippo story, but it sounded as if it could be true.
Apparently it was not true. I’d dozed for a while, coiled up in Alex’s arms and thought I’d sleep for days, but by four-thirty a.m., after I’d checked the clock by the bed for the fiftieth time after just a couple of hours sleep, I accepted I was wide awake and in fact, completely jet-lagged. Alex had been snoring steadily for hours and as much fun as waking him up might be, it really didn’t seem fair. Instead I slid out of the bed as quietly as possible and snuggled into the armchair by the window with my laptop.
The room was nice. Small compared to rooms at The Union and The Hollywood, but clean and pretty. I was so used to the stark white decor of chain hotels, the floral throw on the bed and patterned cushions on the couch seemed sweet and homely. A bit like something my mum might have if she had any sort of taste at all. Which, God bless her, she did not. She could cook a hell of a roast dinner, but she couldn’t pick a coordinating cushion to save her life. With that thought in mind, I logged on to TheLook.com and started typing.
The Adventures of Angela: Can’t Speak French
Hmm. I’m not very familiar with French superstitions and customs, but I would imagine that I’m right in thinking that airport security blowing up your suitcase isn’t very good luck. Unless it’s one of those mad things like when a bird shits on you and it’s supposed to bring you good luck. It isn’t? No, I didn’t think so.
In that case I’d like to take a moment to mourn the passing of my beautiful things – the Louboutins, the
Marc Jacobs satchel, sob, the GHDs. All gone. Seriously. Blown up. But anyway, I’ve decided not to dwell on it (having done nothing, but weep and wail for the last twenty-four hours) and to move on. I’m in Paris, it’s beautiful and I have lots to do to keep me busy. Did I mention I’m writing for Belle magazine? I did? Oh. And did I mention that my boyfriend is playing at, no, headlining a festival here? Yes again? Oh dear, I’m shameless, aren’t I? That wasn’t actually a question, but thanks.
So here I am in Paris, any suggestions on where I should go/what I should do? It feels a little bit like everyone else in the world knows Paris like the back of their hand, so any suggestions are welcome. Also, any advice on how to achieve the effect of hair straighteners without actually using hair straighteners will result in you going straight to the top of my Christmas card list.
Having posted the blog, I opened up my email and stared at the blank page. I knew this had to be done and I really should have done it before now. I just didn’t know how. I typed Jenny’s email address into the To box and stared some more. Before I could start, a little box flashed up in the right-hand corner of the screen. Bloody G Chat.
Hey! How’s Paris? What did you wear today? Did you take pictures? I’m so jealous. J xoxo
Bugger. For a second, my hand hovered over the keyboard, about to log off. But this had to be done. And done over instant messaging.
Hi Jenny. I’m OK, Paris is lovely, but there was a bit of a problem with my case.
It was delayed?
She typed back quickly. I’d forgotten that Jenny was a master of all forms of communication.
Not lost? A, is it OK?
I sat with my fingers resting on the warm keyboard for so long that the screen dimmed slightly. There was no getting around it, I had to tell her.
