Читать книгу I Heart Paris - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 11

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.

No, not OK. Security had to do a controlled explosion on it – don’t know why. I am SO sorry, I’ll sort it out. I’ll replace everything.

Even on instant messaging, it was scary that Jenny was struck dumb. Silence was not a natural state for her, and it was not good. The screen dimmed again and started playing a slideshow of my photos, me and Jenny doing karaoke, me and Jenny having lunch on Rodeo Drive, me holding Jenny’s hair back while she threw up in the street. Even my laptop was trying to make me feel bad. And scared.

Before I could freak out any more, the screen flickered back into life with Jenny’s response.

You’re kidding, right?

No, I shook my head while I typed.

They blew it up. Everything got blown up.

There was another pause, but it was shorter than the last.

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THEY BLEW IT UP?

I started to type out my explanation, as rubbish and pointless as it was, but before I could, a little box appeared on the screen. My computer was running on reserve battery life. Shit. I instinctively looked around for my charger before remembering that a) I wasn’t at home and that b) my charger had of course, been in my suitcase. I didn’t even have time to explain before the screen died and the laptop turned itself off. I carefully placed it on the coffee table as though Jenny could hear me somehow, and slinked back towards the bed, only banging my knee once on the frame. As I climbed back under the silky cotton sheet, my BlackBerry started to vibrate loudly on the bedside table. I grabbed it quickly to avoid waking Alex, but didn’t answer. It was Jenny, of course. After what felt like for ever, the attempted call ended, but was followed by a text message.

ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE

Strangely enough, after that charming message, I didn’t really feel like answering my fucking phone so I turned the BlackBerry off and shut it in the drawer beside me. I’d talk to her in the morning. Or when I got brave enough. Or never. I rolled over and curled up against Alex, his arms instinctively wrapping around me while he slept. Maybe if I just moved in with him as soon as we got back, I wouldn’t even need to go back to the apartment. Distracting myself from the Jenny situation, I leaned back until I could feel the full length of Alex’s body against mine. We were going to move in together. With my eyes closed, my face broke out into a grin that would make the Cheshire cat look like a moody shit and waited patiently until I fell asleep.

‘What are you looking so happy about?’ Alex asked the next morning. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so pleased to be out of bed.’

I turned my back on him to try and straighten my face and pulled a longish grey T-shirt out of the chaos that was his suitcase. I would probably be arrested for indecent exposure, but this was Europe right? I should be able to mince around in a T-shirt posing as a dress with no problems. I turned to the mirror to confirm the sartorial situation. One look was enough to wipe the smile off my face. Crap. And without my full beauty kit (which was hardly sophisticated in the first place) I really did look like crap. Hotel shampoo and conditioner, handwash instead of cleanser and nothing, but a half-empty tube of Beauty Flash Balm to moisturize my entire body. Thank God I’d kept my mascara and pressed powder in my hand luggage, otherwise I’d have to be locked in my room like a shamefaced goblin.

‘Hey, happy girl. What gives?’

‘I’m just excited to see Paris,’ I lied. The words ‘I’m moving in with you’ had almost burst out of my mouth a thousand times since the alarm had gone off half an hour earlier, but I was determined to keep it to myself. ‘Anything specific I should save for me and you to do together?’

‘Uh, I don’t know.’ He stretched and rolled over, his body still tangled under the covers. ‘A lot of the regular stuff is kind of tacky. But, you know, do whatever you need to do for your article.’

‘I don’t see how anything about Paris could be tacky,’ I said, throwing a cushion at him. I hated leaving him in bed. That was one of the biggest penalties of dating a boy in a band, he was almost always on night shifts. ‘It’s all so beautiful.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ He threw the pillow back. ‘But you also think that Les Misérables is beautiful.’

‘Don’t try and use my love of musicals against me,’ I warned. ‘Or I’ll be asking why the episodes of America’s Next Top Model I recorded at yours all say they’ve been viewed already.’

‘So I’ll see you tonight?’ he asked, promptly changing the subject. ‘The show isn’t until ten so we should get a drink or dinner somewhere, maybe Le Dix?’

‘I’d love to have an opinion on that,’ I said, leaning over the bed and kissing him on the forehead. I pulled out the drawer beside the bed and took out my BlackBerry and wallet, slipping them into my bag. ‘But I have never been here before, remember? How do you know so much about Paris anyway? Did you do a year abroad or something?’

‘Kinda.’ Alex’s voice was already falling back to sleep. It was as though he wanted me to hate him. Or at least try to.

‘So, I’ll text you later?’ I called from the door, checking I had my room key once more.

‘Yuh-huh,’ he murmured, lifting his hand to wave me off.

Arse.

Wandering through the hotel garden, out to the reception, I started to get nervous about meeting Virginie. What if she was all super hot and super cool like the girls from the bar last night? She worked for French Belle, so there was no way she was going to be, well, normal. The moment I stepped into the hotel lobby, it was impossible not to spot her. Lounging against a Perspex Philippe Starck ghost chair, was a tiny excuse for a girl, second-skin black jeans, black ballet slippers, long loose light denim shirt open over a tight black vest, masses of wavy brown hair spilling all down her back and most notably, a bored-shitless expression on her pretty face. It was almost reassuring to see some international consistency throughout Belle’s hiring policy. Stunning? Check. Too cool for the rest of the world? Check.

‘Hi, Virginie?’ I asked, holding out a hand in a half wave, half ‘please-shake-my-hand-and-don’t-stare-at-me-like-I’m-mad’ gesture. For a second, she stared at me as if I were mad and then leaped up, poker straight, and grabbed my hand with both of hers.

‘Oh, Angela Clark? Of course, I have seen your picture, it is you!’ she gushed, the handshake disappearing into a flurry of air kisses and elaborate hugs. ‘I am Virginie Aucoin, and I am very happy to be helping you.’

I pulled back slightly, not quite sure what to say. The miserable-looking Belle girl had suddenly morphed into an over enthusiastic puppy, all bright eyes and unable to stand still. She bounced lightly from foot to foot, all the while grinning at me madly.

‘Um, well, hello,’ I said, not wanting to upset her. ‘Have you had breakfast? Do you want to get something?’

‘I have not. What do you like to eat?’ Virginie asked, turning very serious. ‘Breakfast is very important. We are busy today, yes?’

‘Yes?’ I said, letting her drag me out of the lobby. ‘And I would like coffee?’

She stopped short right outside the doors. ‘Just coffee? Oh Angela, you are already so American. But you must eat also. Follow me.’

All the way down the narrow stone street, Virginie talked. Happily for uncultured me, her English was fairly brilliant, mainly thanks to the year she’d spent working at US Belle as an intern, which was apparently where she had first come across my blog.

‘It was just beginning as I am leaving to return to Paris,’ she explained, turning another tight corner and emerging into a beautiful open space, lined with rows of impressive mansion houses. ‘This is Place des Vosges, very old, very beautiful. Many famous people are living here a long time ago. Do you know the writer Victor Hugo? And Cardinal Richelieu? I wish, one day, myself. It is my dream.’