Jason handed me the bottle in trade for the hot dog, which I was more than reluctant to give up. A two-euro hot dog and a forty-euro bottle of champagne? My life couldn’t get any better. For real.
Just as I was working up the nerve to let go of the hot dog, my bag started vibrating. Last time I ignored my phone things didn’t end well for me, so I transferred the dog into one hand, totally unaware a minor tornado was about to come across the bridge. Our lovely hot dog was picked up and gracefully floated over the railing and into the Seine.
“Balls!” Well, that wasn’t very lady-like. Jason was laughing.
“You make the word balls sound very cute. And I guess we’re just going to have to survive on grapes until tonight.”
I kind of wanted him to go back and get another hot dog but the skinny girl inside of me punched the fat girl in the gunt and told her to shut up. Pouting, I got my phone to see who the offending text was from.
Hey Babe, didn’t hear from you about our date. Me and the boys from the team are going to be at Bouji’s tonight if you want to join. Charlie xxx
I couldn’t believe I’d lost the best hot dog of my life for that. Sorry Charlie, you just went to the top of my shit list. I texted him back.
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We left the bench and walked down the Champs-Elysees, eventually arriving at a traffic circle that surrounded the Arc De Triomphe, which I was completely unaware of when I suggested we get closer. There wasn’t a pedestrian crossing per se, but there was enough champagne in my blood system to make me think crossing a twenty-lane traffic circle would be easy: just a right at the Porsche, left around the Vespa, and pretty much a straight dash from there.
But, that annoying little voice my mother had implanted in my head by the age of three asked if I’d like to have my gravestone read “Killed while drunkenly playing chicken in a Parisian traffic circle.” It didn’t have quite the same ring as “Died while saving orphans and planting trees in the rainforest” which is what everyone assumed my sister’s would read some day.
“So, I actually don’t feel like dying today. I think this is close enough,” I said while the tip of my boot was playing with the edge of the curb.
“Smile.” Jason had his iPhone out and took a picture of me, looking oh so fabulous, I hoped. He Instagramed it and the picture came out with a vintage wash, making the photo look like it was Paris in the ‘60s. Audrey Hepburn, eat your heart out.
“Come on, there’s one more thing we need to do before dinner.” Jason grabbed my hand and walked back up the Champs-Elysees to hail a taxi.
The sky took on a purple tinge from the sun beginning to retire in the west, and we were in the fast-track line to the top of the Eiffel Tower, which meant we were going to be in line for only an hour.
I looked up and saw into the guts of the amazing structure, which for so many years has been the ultimate symbol of romance. The network of steel, even at its base, dwarfs everything around it, which I guess is fitting for the city of love. Nothing here was made without passion, including my lost hot dog and this magnificent piece of iron. We inched closer to the entrance. And I use the word “inch” very literally.
An Algerian man came by with a black garbage bag full of every imaginable manifestation of the tower, including standard statues, pencil sharpeners, snow globes, and even a pink keychain. Annoyed, I turned away. This man was cheapening my experience and the champagne buzz was wearing off.
We passed the time making up stories about the people in the lines and walking around the park nearby. I saw a very old lady pushing a dachshund in a stroller. The shade was pulled down and the dog was strapped in. She was obviously concerned about losing him, but apparently indifferent to the dog’s misplaced dignity.
“She’s totally aware of how inappropriate it is to carry a dog in a stroller and how unbalanced she seems, but continues to do it because she enjoys the extra room she gets when nobody wants to sit next to her on the bus, assuming she’s batshit crazy,” I said.
“Good one.” Jason spotted a man several people in front of us dressed from head to toe as what I presumed to be an obscure Star Wars character. “He’s found the force, and thought this was the returns line. It wasn’t his size.” I gave Jason a courtesy laugh. I mean, he took me to Paris. I had to.
When we finally got to the front of the line, the tiny elevator was holding at least three people too many. It began to move and I saw the city between the beams passing through my vision. It was like a really old movie that had slowed enough so you could see, for a fraction of a second, each frame pass by.
As I walked out of the elevator to the top-level terrace, I felt my eyes water. I tried to brush it off as the wind and chill getting to me, but I knew it was the realization that I was at the top of the Eiffel Tower. In Paris! A city that I had only seen in movies and that I assumed was there exclusively for celebrities and Europeans. This was definitely not a place that a girl from Edmonton, Alberta would find herself on a Saturday evening.
It was twenty minutes until sunset and Jason left me to guard our spot for what I imagined would be one of the greatest sunsets I would ever see. When he came back with two glasses of champagne, drenched in the warm magic-hour light, I had an urge to run up and kiss him. By the time he handed me the glass I was already midway through the lean.
There was a quick flash behind Jason and I pulled away, startled, my eyes darting around looking for the photographer. Another flash and I spun around to find a small boy standing on his toes and raising his arm, attempting to get a photo of the city over the guardrail.
I smiled at Jason, embarrassed. “Sorry, I thought that was—”
“Don’t worry. Tonight it’s just us.” He leaned in to kiss me, and although it was soft and exactly what I had hoped for, the butterflies could barely manage a spin. As amazing as Paris was, those flashes had put me on edge.
The glow of the sun setting engulfed the city in a pink haze and even on the top of the tallest structure in Paris, I felt like I was in a private boudoir. Jason and I had another glass of champagne as the lights of Paris came on and the city became electric. As we went back down in the elevator, the sparking lights on the tower began to flash. This had to be the most perfect date in the history of life.
Jason hailed a taxi. The buzz of the champagne was making me giddy and I clung onto his arm as he opened the car door for me. He really did plan the alcohol distribution well on the trip; I’d been a little bit drunk the whole time.
We pulled up to Guy Savoy and were quickly ushered to our table. Chilled champagne found its way to my glass just as I sat down. There were no menus.
“I took the liberty of ordering the tasting menu. Figured it would take the guesswork out. It’s hard enough in English, almost impossible in French.”
Jason picked up his glass of champagne.
“Here’s to bad first impressions, and great second dates. Santé.”
All I could think about was how quickly I could finish my dinner and get ready for a bedroom do-over, this time no rodeo moves.
The waiter appeared with our first course. “Amuse bouche.” He proceeded to rattle off several words in French that sounded simply delicious. It was a spoonful-sized mix of something crispy brown next to a small dollop of whipped cream. I took a bite. It was amazing, and tasted a little like bacon. The plate was cleared almost immediately by what seemed to be an army of magic servers. I didn’t notice them at all, yet food, cutlery, and champagne kept appearing and being cleared away.
The second course arrived.
“Foie gras avec,” Blah blah blah. A plate was placed in front of me. There was a smear of sauce along the bottom, a large slab of the familiar pinky pate-like substance, and a small piece of toast.
“Sorry, forgot about the whole meat butter thing. You don’t have to eat that,” Jason said as he gestured for the offending plate to be removed. “Don’t worry, there’s lots more coming.”
God, I hoped so. The portions were tiny, and say
what you will about my Olive Garden dates, this place had neither unlimited salad, nor breadsticks.
“What time is our train back?” I asked after what I think was the third and final dessert.
“I was hoping you’d forget we had to go back.” When I didn’t respond immediately, his shiny façade dulled slightly. “If we go in the next few minutes we can make the last one.”
What was the best way to say I wanted to stay without seeming like a ho?
“But I am a forward-thinking man, and booked a room at the Georges V. What do you think? Train back … or see where the city takes us?”
“The second one.” I smiled as I realized I wanted to see where things with Jason took me. I drank the last drop of champagne in my glass, which was suddenly full again, as it had been all night.
We left the restaurant and wandered drunkenly through the streets, stopping every few blocks to take pictures in front of random statues. It took us just over an hour before we found ourselves in front of the hotel. An hour without champagne made me realize what I was doing was probably a very big mistake. Last time I was in this situation with Jason, I ended up in the hospital. I had a hard enough time lying to a hot doctor in English, I definitely wouldn’t be able to do it in French.
The hotel room was huge with what seemed like two king-sized beds pushed together and a chaise lounge in the corner. The floor-to-ceiling windows led to a terrace with a view of the Eiffel Tower. We moved out to the terrace with a bottle of San Pellegrino, sitting in silence and watching the tower sparkle. I was lost in the flashing lights and didn’t notice Jason move towards me for a kiss. He still tasted of champagne, and smelled of expensive cologne. This had to be the most exciting and unbelievable date in history. Maybe Jason was a keeper.
“Come on, you can still see the lights from inside.” He led me into the room. Our clothes came off and I reminded myself that the bedroom was no place for acrobatics. I ran my hands down his chest. It was perfect, a bit of hair and solid muscle. He picked me up and we landed on the bed. This time I took it slow and it was wonderful, or at least what I could remember of it.
***
It took me a few minutes to realize I was in a bed that had sheets far nicer than my own. My head was heavy with last night’s champagne and there was a warm, naked body next to me, breathing slowly. Jason stirred and I pretended to sleep as his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. The sun pressed through the curtains, and we weren’t able to feign sleep anymore. I was in Paris, with a naked American in a luxury suite of a five-star hotel. This couldn’t be real life.
“Good morning, beautiful,” said Jason, his voice groggy.
It was real life! I nervously tried to wipe the mascara I was sure had settled under my eyes. I didn’t know how to wake up in a fancy Parisian hotel room with a hot boy. Especially not with a hot boy I think I kind of really liked.
“Good morning to you too, sir.” I saluted him. Probably shouldn’t have.
“So, what did you think?”
“It was great to spend an evening with you that didn’t result in a trip to the emergency room,” I said lightly.
Jason sat up in bed, a very serious expression spread across his face. “Paige, kicking you out when you needed help like that was the worst thing I have ever done. Really. I am so sorry.”
Awesome way to kill the mood, Paige.
I cuddled into his chest and listened to him breathe while he picked up the phone. It felt so comfortable, like this was how we were supposed to spend the rest of our lives.
“Yes, anytime.” He hung up.
“Hey, James Bond, what’s going on?”
He gave me a sly smile. “It wouldn’t be the perfect date without breakfast in bed.” He stood up and I tried not to peek but he had an incredible body. He came back with two robes and tossed me one. “Only I get to see that hot bod.”
The doorbell of the room rang several minutes later and Jason left to answer. I did my best to brush my teeth with my finger and fix my hair. I had a quick look in the mirror above the headboard and wiped the rest of the mascara collecting under my eyes.
Jason came back with a trolley and lifted the tray lids. There were scrambled eggs, croissants, cold cuts, and three different kinds of cheese. He handed me a cappuccino.
“I didn’t know what you’d like so I ordered almost everything.”
“You certainly had high expectations, pre-ordering breakfast.”
“I’m an optimist.” He smiled and took a big bite out of a fresh croissant.
We had breakfast and watched cartoons, the only thing we could find on TV that was in English. Once we were finished I realized how inconvenient and ill-conceived our spontaneous night in Paris was. I didn’t have a toothbrush, or a change of clothes. I didn’t even have a hairbrush, and the fun we’d had last night made me look like a homeless person.
Jason went back to the trolley. “I asked them for some provisions and they had this. He handed me a small pouch filled with a mini toothbrush, toothpaste some makeup remover pads, and a small brush. Jason might be a little too smooth, but I was not turning this down.
I went into the bathroom and did the best I could. With the makeup I had in my Mulberry and the hair tie I found in the bottom of it, I pulled my hair into a messy bun and added eyeliner. It was the only sensible thing to do in this situation.
Jason and I, in our ruffled clothes, waved one last goodbye to the Eiffel Tower and headed back to the train station, feeling a little rough around the edges. Apparently champagne wasn’t the best choice for binge drinking.
The train ride home was quiet and Jason picked up some English magazines at the station for me. When we arrived back at St. Pancras, the harsh winter lighting of London took the rosy glow from my face. I just wanted to go home and sleep, and I hoped Jason didn’t have another fun day planned, as much as I would have liked to be with him.
We were at the point when we either stopped at his place, or drove farther to mine.
“So … ” Evidently Jason was leaving this decision to me.
“Jason, that was the best date of my life. I had such a good time. Thank you. But I think this girl needs her beauty sleep. Would you mind if I went home?”
“Not at all, I didn’t sleep much either. But can I see you again this week?”
“I think you’ve earned yourself a third date.”
The cab stopped in front of my place and I got out. He poked his head out of the window like a puppy and I leaned in for a kiss. I walked up the steps to my front door and glanced back as I fumbled for the keys. He was still grinning through the window as I pushed open the door and blew a kiss as I walked inside.
London was hands down the best decision I had ever made.
Monday morning at work was spent explaining every detail of the date to Carlos and Louis. And I mean every detail. It was practically lunch before I actually got down to work, and that’s when Emma came by my desk.
“Have fun in Paris?”
“Oh—um, yes, I had a great time.” Wait. “How did you know I went?”
“You and your love bite were on the OK site Sunday evening.” She walked away from the desk while I sat there with my mouth gaping open.
The story had a picture of Jason and me sitting on the bench overlooking the Seine, drinking champagne from the bottle. The hot dog was still in my hand and the image brought a little tug of loss to my stomach. Then, right next to it was a photo of Jason and I leaving the hotel, my sunglasses on and my hair up, with the burn mark from the curling iron in full view. There were some fairly rough morning afters while I was in University, but an international walk of shame, turns out, was far worse.
They had quite the imagination on this site, describing in detail all of the things that happened, most of them totally untrue, but a few small details were correct, like what I ate at the restaurant, which made me feel uneasy. I wanted to tell Jason about the story but didn’t want to scare him away. My self-esteem couldn’t withstand another c
atastrophe like the one on Valentine’s Day.
Lucinda and I arranged to meet at her place after work. She had a bottle of wine chilled and opened by the time I arrived. She poured the glasses and began making a salad. Lucinda was one of those girls who just threw something together and it tasted better than most restaurants. When I cooked it was usually breakfast food. For some reason, I prefer a great bacon and egg sandwich to any gourmet meal.
We had just finished the bottle of wine and dessert when Lucinda brought out the bottle of vodka.
“We’re going out,” she said plainly, like she was saying she’s wearing a skirt tomorrow, or bathroom’s the second door to the left.
“Where?” I took the vodka soda she poured for me.
“Raffles. It’s just down the street so if it’s terrible we can get home easily, no big deal.”
It was hard to turn down Lucinda, like somehow I was failing at life if I wasn’t able to keep up with her. I started to shake my head no, but Lucinda nodded her head yes, and the next thing I knew I was in a taxi.
There was a fairly long line at Raffles when we arrived at ten (on a Monday—did I mention I was only starting my night at ten o’clock on a Monday?), but Lucinda walked right by everyone and didn’t slow down as she got to the red velvet rope at the front door. The doorman saw us coming, nodded, and the rope was moved so we didn’t have to break stride.
Raffles was packed and Lucinda headed straight for a table, waving as she recognized her friends. She introduced me to the group, which basically consisted of someone from every country in the EU. She picked up the bottle of Grey Goose and poured each of us a vodka soda. It was going to be one of those nights.
I spoke to a very nice Swedish guy for a while. He was well over six feet tall with white-blond hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin. Attractive, but I’m a fan of manlier men, and it would probably take him six months to grow anything that resembled a five o’clock shadow.
The Accidental Socialite Page 9
