Читать книгу I Heart Paris - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 8

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.

My phone was still hot in my hand from my brief chat with Esme when I felt it vibrate into life again.

Did u get ur hair cut yet? It looked like shit last week xoxo

Of course it was Jenny. I checked my watch for the time difference between LA and New York, five p.m. here, two there. Knowing her, she’d probably just woken up. My best friend and first New York roommate, Jenny Lopez, had been out in LA for the last five months, and from the look of the constant stream of photographs she sent over, she was having a fairly good time. If you considered partying with pop stars, hanging out with celebutantes and twenty-four-seven shopping with someone else’s credit card for ‘work’ having a good time. Which I was fairly certain she did. And while it was much easier to get my work done without Hurricane Jenny in the apartment, I missed her horribly. Even with the continuous flow of text messages, emails, phone calls and, ever since she’d bought her new laptop a month ago, video calls, New York sometimes felt empty without her. And America’s Next Top Model marathons just weren’t the same without her screaming ‘Smize, bitch!’ at the top of her voice. It was good to know I could always trust her to be worried about the big issues at all times. Rolling over on to my stomach, I quickly tapped out a reply.

YES. Guess what? Going to Paris with Alex next week!

I checked to make sure my skirt was still covering my knickers while I waited for her reply. Maintaining your modesty was never easy when your skirt only just covers your pants in the first place.

GOOD. And Paris? 4real? Yay-we’re-movin-in-together trip?

I paused to tie up my newly chopped hair. The loss of my split ends was great, but it was just too hot to have my long bob flopping around the back of my neck.

Just a trip. Talk later x

Having managed to get myself into a relatively uncomfortable, relatively non-knicker flashing position that was, for the time being at least, out of the sun, I flipped through my phone book, looking for someone else to talk to so I didn’t have to move.

Hey Lou, you still up? A x

Before I could send another message, my phone started to buzz again and Louisa’s name flashed up on the screen.

‘Hey!’ I answered happily. ‘How are you? What are you up to?’

‘Hello you,’ Louisa replied over a crackly line. ‘I was just online. I’m trying to book a caterer for our wedding anniversary.’

Louisa had been my best friend for ever, but I hadn’t actually laid eyes on her since I’d accidentally ruined her wedding reception. It wasn’t like I’d meant to break her new husband’s hand, but I was a little bit upset having just found my fiancé shagging some tart in the back of our Range Rover. Of course I’d upped sticks and run away to New York the very next day. Who wouldn’t?

‘Oh my God, it’s been a year already?’ I couldn’t quite believe it. So much had happened. ‘It’s gone so quickly.’

‘It’s been a year,’ Louisa said. ‘Think you’re ready for a repeat performance?’

‘Maybe not just yet. You’re having a party?’

‘Er, yes. Tim thought,’ she sounded as though she was picking her words very carefully, ‘it might be nice to have a bit of a do what with last year’s…fireworks.’

‘Right,’ I pressed my lips together in a tight, thin line. ‘Well, you can tell him not to worry about me. I’ll actually be in Paris.’

‘You’re going to Paris?’ Lou squealed. ‘But that’s so close by! You have to come to the party.’

I held my phone away from my ear. ‘Oh, I’d love to,’ I was lying a lot today. ‘But Alex is playing at a festival and I’m reviewing it for Belle, so I just wouldn’t be able to get away.’

‘Really? Belle? Wow!’ Louisa made a small mewing noise that I chose to ignore. ‘But you can’t be so close by and not come and visit. What did your mum say?’

‘My mum hasn’t said anything because I haven’t told her yet,’ I said quickly. ‘And I’m not convinced I’m going to so please don’t say anything if you see her.’

‘Oh, Angela,’ I could feel a lecture coming, ‘I know your mum can be hard work, but she does miss you.’

‘Playing the mum card is the wrong way to guilt trip me into coming home. You of all people should know that,’ I warned. ‘Besides, since she and dad took that internet course I can’t bloody get rid of them. Did you know they have Skype?’

‘I had heard,’ Louisa said. ‘She’s always on about it to my mum in the supermarket. So Alex is playing a festival? I can’t believe you’re going out with a rock star. Is it amazing? Has he written any songs about you?’

‘He’s not a rock star,’ I gave my official line. ‘He’s just Alex.’

I felt myself flush from head to toe. It wasn’t entirely true. I absolutely loved that Alex was in a band. I loved that I got to watch him get all sweaty onstage, singing songs he’d written for me. I loved to see a room full of chin-stroking hipsters and doe-eyed girls with ironic tattoos in vintage dresses staring at him while he did something he loved, something he was amazing at. But really, day in and day out, it wasn’t about him being a rock god. It was about him buying tea bags for his apartment without me asking, even though he hated tea, the way he always Tivo’d Gossip Girl for me, even the repeats, and how, when he was writing a new song, he would sit cross-legged on the living-room floor with his acoustic guitar, fringe flopping into his eyes, tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, always with a Diet Dr Pepper. Everyday life really wasn’t rock and roll, but it was sort of wonderful.

‘Yeah, right,’ Louisa said, entirely disbelievingly. ‘You love it.’

‘Well, maybe.’ No point even trying to lie to Lou. ‘He’s actually asked me to move in with him.’

‘Wow, really? Already?’

‘It’s not that soon, I’ve known him for a year,’ I said, surprised to find someone who wasn’t jumping up and down with joy while simultaneously packing my bags for me.

‘But it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing, has it, honey?’ Louisa said diplomatically. ‘I just don’t want you to rush into anything. You’re not lonely out there, are you? You know you can always come back. Any time. Just say the word and I will have your room ready.’

‘Louisa, calm down, everything is fine.’ Bless her heart. ‘I’m fine and I’m not rushing. Honest. I haven’t even decided if I’m going to move in yet.’

‘I just worry about you, that’s all,’ Lou replied. ‘Anyway, if you can’t come to me, how about I come to you? Will you have an afternoon free for lunch or something? Are you there on the Saturday?’

‘That actually sounds brilliant,’ I said, suddenly excited at the idea of seeing Louisa, not in a wedding/wedding reception/wedding anniversary/anything to do with weddings situation. ‘I would love that.’

‘Fantastic!’ Louisa squealed again. ‘Let’s be really cheesy and meet under the Eiffel Tower or something.’

‘Yeah, OK.’ I smiled. That was just the sort of thing Jenny would want to do. God forbid the two of them should ever be in the same place at the same time. The universe might implode or something. ‘I actually cannot believe it’s been a year.’

‘I know,’ Louisa said. ‘I think the longest I’d gone without seeing you before you abandoned me was something like four days.’

‘Surely not more than three,’ I was surprised at how upset I was all of a sudden. I really hadn’t been that homesick since I got to New York. When had I had time? ‘I’ll text you when I get to Paris. Love you, Lou.’

‘You too honey. Can’t wait to see you and maybe you could bring this non-rock star of yours for my approval?’

I pursed my lips. ‘Yeah, if he’s not rehearsing or something, then yeah, definitely.’ Was it weird that I felt a bit queasy at the idea of mixing my two lives up like that? ‘Talk to you later.’

I hung up and smiled. It would be amazing to see Louisa. It would be amazing to go to Paris. It would be amazing to write for Belle. It would be amazing to take a trip with Alex. Really, this wasn’t turning out to be the worst Wednesday in the world ever.

After another hour of lounging in the park, the sun finally worked its way around to my safe little spot and forced me to drag myself home. Vanessa, my temporary roommate, was at work at The Union and so the apartment was eerily quiet and ridiculously hot. I bashed the air-conditioning unit sticking out of the living-room window and grabbed a Popsicle out of the freezer before sitting down at my laptop. What would the Adventures of Angela reveal today? I logged into TheLook.com, clicking through the links until I got to my blog.

When I started writing, almost a year ago, I’d found it so hard to put my thoughts well, not exactly down on paper, but it was tricky to write about what was going on in my life and then post it online for all the world to see. But now I found it so cathartic. Writing the blog really helped me clear my head and make sense of things. I’d learned what was safe to put up there and what wasn’t, how to share what was going on without spilling anyone’s secrets, and for the most part, I only got nice comments and emails, at least no one had ever chased me down the street with flaming torches and pitchforks. And apparently, my mother had got bored of reading it some time ago. Thank God. I started tapping away into the empty white box.

The Adventures of Angela: Ooh la la

Today has been one of those days when everything happened at once. My boyfriend asked me to go to Paris with him next week, I had a really important work meeting which has led to a really really exciting new project, I arranged to meet up with my best friend from London, oh, and I got my hair cut. It’s been a big day.

But aside from the massively dramatic event that was taking half an inch off the ends of my bob, how exciting is Paris? I know I’m a bit rubbish for not having gone before, especially when I lived in London for five years, but yay, I’m going now! And sigh, with my boy. And that’s the only way to do Paris isn’t it? It’ll be all romantic walks down the Left Bank, holding hands outside Notre-Dame, watching the sunset from the top of the Eiffel Tower. I am a little bit concerned about the wardrobe though – my experience of Paris is more or less limited to Funny Face, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and the last third of The Devil Wears Prada. So it’s either black turtlenecks and pedalpushers or haute couture. Hmm. And bugger.

So, while I try to resolve my sartorial crisis, please let me know if you have any Parisian advice – I want to know exactly where to sip my chocolat chaud and bag the best baguettes. And obviously, any shopping suggestions are more than welcome. My heart says Chanel, but my head and credit limit says flea market. Why don’t you send both and I’ll work it out once I get there…

Before I could really start thinking about actually getting to Paris, I had to get through my meeting at Belle. Maybe it would be a good idea to write out a proposal for this Insider’s Guide. Maybe it would be a good idea to find some Parisian insiders. Maybe it would be a good idea to spend three hours hunched over my laptop, scouring the internet. I checked in at all the usual places, Time Out Paris, Gridskipper, Citysearch, and started to pull together my synopsis. Several hours later, I had, well, something. For want of further inspiration, I swapped my crumpled sundress for a stripy Splendid vest and Hello Kitty knickers. It was just too hot to wear anything else. I took an icy can of Diet Coke from the fridge and draped myself across the sofa, rummaging around for the remote. Maybe just fifteen minutes of E! and then I’d do some more research. Or half an hour. And then an episode of America’s Next Top Model. Two hours later, looking back guiltily at the sleeping screen of my laptop, I tried to convince myself that there was in fact such a thing as too much preparation. And turned back to the TV. It really is amazing what I can talk myself into.

The next morning, it wasn’t quite as easy to believe that being over prepared was a mistake. Determined not to fall into my regular trap of waking up late and scrawling at my face with a kohl pencil, I woke up bright and early, washed my hair, did proper grown-up girl make-up and selected my most Belle appropriate ensemble, a simple vintage sky blue shift Jenny had guided me towards at a vintage store in Williamsburg. I figured that even the biggest fashion bitches would struggle to find fault with it. It couldn’t be the wrong designer because it wasn’t designer in the first place. Anyway I wasn’t worried about what these girls thought of my dress sense. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to pitch an article on the hottest trends coming from the catwalks of Milan, was I? Besides, I thought, slipping my synopsis into my bestest swankiest bright blue Marc Jacobs handbag (OK, so I was a little bit worried), I’d seen Ugly Betty, I’d seen and read The Devil Wears Prada, there was no way these girls would actually be like that. Yes, Mary had been fairly snippy about them, but then I’d never seen Mary out of jeans and Converse. She probably just didn’t like the fashiony types. It would be absolutely fine. And I had Bob’s backing. My good friend Bob. Bobbity bob bob. Oh shit, I’d gone mad.

With one last look in the mirror, I smoothed down my hair and wiped away the tiniest smudge of mascara. I could do this. I’d been writing for The Look for a year. I had my column in the UK magazine. I’d interviewed a movie star for God’s sake. All they wanted was a tourist guide to Paris. A city that hardly anyone who was going to read this magazine would ever visit. This was going to be brilliant. Easy even.

‘What this isn’t going to be is easy,’ Donna Gregory barked at me, my synopsis crumpled up in her hand. ‘Belle readers have no interest in some tragically obvious tourist piece about visiting the Eiffel Tower and taking a boat down the Seine. Our readers want to know the most exclusive, most stylish, secret sides of Paris. Not where to get the best crêpes according to Gridskipper or Time Out’s top ten scenic parks.’

I flinched in my chair. As far as I could tell, during the ten minutes I’d been in the office, Donna hadn’t even looked at my synopsis and yet she was still managing, quite adequately, to pull it apart, word by word.

‘Why do you think you should be writing for Belle, Angela?’ she asked.

‘Well, I—’

‘I mean, seriously, what makes you think that you –’ she paused to hold her hand out towards me and then wave the hand up and down to make sure I understood her critique encompassed every last little thing about me. ‘– that you should be allowed to write for Belle?’

Silence. Allowed? Why should I be allowed?

‘I’m waiting for an answer,’ Donna said.

I was stumped.

Donna wasn’t very nice.

‘Well, I might not have written a specific travel piece before, but I write about a lot of different things in my blog and I interviewed James Jacobs for Icon earlier this year so I think that I could do this,’ I said. Very quickly. All of my confidence had vamoosed and all I wanted to do was get out of the office, bury my face in a pan of chocolate brownies and cry, like the porky talentless excuse for a human being Donna so clearly thought I was.

It was fair to say that Donna Gregory wasn’t the glamazon dragon lady you might expect to find sitting behind the features editor desk of a fashion monthly. She wasn’t that tall for a start, her glossy (OK, very glossy) brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was actually wearing jeans. Very skinny and presumably expensive jeans, but jeans nonetheless. But while she might not be wearing Prada, she was certainly proving herself to be the devil. From the second I’d walked through her door, she’d more or less done nothing, but insult me.

First, I wasn’t allowed coffee because I looked like I needed a good night’s sleep and the caffeine wouldn’t help, then I was refused water in case I needed to use the bathroom, which was for staff only. The implication being that I was not now and would never be staff. But she did suggest I try drinking at least two litres a day outside of her office because I really did look a lot older than thirty. When I mentioned that I was only twenty-seven she actually made a little gasping noise and held her hand to her mouth.

Bitch.

‘Hmm, I heard about the Icon piece,’ she said, flicking through some printed out emails. ‘You’re the girl that turned James Jacobs gay, yes?’

‘For fu—I mean, no, not exactly.’ I wasn’t quite sure why I was still sitting in the office. There was no way I was going to get this job. ‘I’m pretty sure he was gay before I walked in on him and his boyfriend going at it in a public toilet. But I suppose you never know. It’s possible that my extreme level of dehydration turned him.’

Donna paused for a split second and looked at me again.

‘That dress, I don’t recognize the designer. Where’s it from?’ she asked.

‘I got it from Beacon’s Closet, it’s vintage,’ I said with a modicum of pride. Vintage was cool, wasn’t it?

‘Right.’ She sighed and leaned back in her chair, stretching up to let her tiny cropped Alexander Wang T-shirt reveal a couple of inches of taut, gym-toned stomach. And I knew it was Alexander Wang because she had gone out of her way to tell me almost as soon as I walked in the door. ‘Of course it’s vintage. And your boyfriend’s in some band?’

‘Alex? Yes?’ I was confused. Which, to be fair to the witch, was pretty easily done. I didn’t want her taking any sort of pleasure in that achievement. ‘But I don’t really see what that has to do with a travel piece?’

‘It has everything to do with it, Angela,’ Donna said, leaning towards me across her desk. ‘I’m going to try and be as kind as I can when I explain this to you, but whatever, there’s no point trying to sugarcoat it. You’re really not the sort of person I would have write for Belle.’

‘Really?’

This was just getting embarrassing now. How badly did I want this again? Oh yeah, really badly.

‘Really.’ Donna nodded, missing my sarcasm. ‘But Mr Spencer is very keen for us to use you for something. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that people who wear vintage don’t have a place at Belle, it’s just…it wouldn’t usually be writing for me. One girl in the art team once wore this amazing Diane von Furstenburg original. To a fancy dress party. That’s a beautiful bag though.’

‘Thank you, it was a gift.’ I lovingly stroked the soft blue leather on instinct, momentarily forgetting the torrent of insults that were coming my way.

‘Of course it was.’ Donna sounded almost relieved. As if the idea of my buying my own Marc Jacobs bag might cause the end of the world. ‘Basically, the only way I can see this working is if we position this as a two part piece. I’ll have someone else put together a high end Paris piece, a feature on the haute couture, the salons, the five-star hotels, and you, the quirky “vintage” girl with the boyfriend in a band, can provide the other side of things. The, oh, I don’t know, the cool, hipster side of Paris?’

‘Oh God, honestly, I’m not cool,’ I said altogether too quickly. ‘I don’t have any tattoos. I don’t even live in Brooklyn. I’m just very, very English.’

‘Oh. Well that could be a problem then.’ Donna leaned back in her chair. ‘Because either you give me Paris’s best flea markets, vintage stores, late-night cafés and dance clubs, or you don’t give me anything.’

Meep.

After sitting through another hour of Donna’s directions on exactly how she wanted the piece to come out – quirky, but not too quirky, edgy, but not too edgy, underground, but not grimy. Just very, very Belle – I was finally released from the office, none the wiser, but actually relatively chipper. I might not have received any compliments, but I had got the job. That was good, wasn’t it?

There was only one person I could talk to about this. And that person better not be screening her calls.

‘Pick up the phone, Jenny,’ I said quietly, dashing into the shade of the nearest skyscraper and following it along 42nd street.

‘Angie, baby, it’s seven-thirty a.m.,’ Jenny crackled all the way from LA. ‘Are you dying?’

‘No, listen, I just had this meeting at Belle—’ I started.

‘You’re not dying, I only got in two hours ago, I’ll call you back later,’ Jenny interrupted.

‘No! Jenny, listen, I have the most amazing news. Did you hear what I said? I’ve got a job writing for Belle magazine.’ I hoped that dropping the name of one of her style bibles might keep her on the phone for five minutes more. ‘Belle. Your favourite magazine. B-E-L-L-E.’

‘No offense, Angie,’ Jenny yawned into life, ‘but what are you going to write for Belle?’

‘None taken.’ I pouted. What about me was so fundamentally un-Belle-like? I had sorted myself out massively in the last year. Well, Jenny had sorted me out massively, but I could do my own eyeliner and everything now. I could do an entire evening out in proper heels if I had my roll-up ballet pumps in my bag. ‘They want me to write an insider’s guide to Paris. They’re going to get some other girl to write the swanky high-end stuff, she’s going to do, who did Donna say, uh, Balmain? Is that right? And you know, Chanel and whatever, and I’m supposed to write about the cool, underground stuff. But I could really use your help, I want this to be good. Do you know any stylists in Paris? Anyone who might know some cool second-hand shops or flea markets?’

‘Balmain? Oh…’ she breathed.

‘Jenny, listen to me,’ I said slowly. I should have known better than to start talking designer at her. ‘Do you know anyone who can help me in Paris?’

‘Oh honey, you know I think you’ve come a real long way,’ Jenny snapped back, ‘but you are so not ready to write a fashion piece, a fashion piece about Paris for Belle magazine.’

At least I had her attention.

‘Firstly, thanks for your confidence and secondly, it’s not a fashion piece, it’s a travel piece,’ I said. ‘I’ve just got to write about a few vintage stores, a couple of cafés and then cover Alex’s gig. It’s going to be fine. I thought you’d be excited for me?’

‘But it’s Belle, Angie. And I don’t want you to look stupid,’ Jenny insisted. ‘’Cause, you know honey, some people know you know me.’

‘Really, your belief in me is incredibly reassuring and I promise not to show you up in any way. Especially if you answer my bloody questions and tell me if you know any stylists in Paris.’

‘Is Belle going to style you? Have they given you a list of places to go?’ She carried on ignoring me. ‘Are there going to be photos of you in the feature?’

‘No they’re not styling me, no they haven’t given me a list of places to go – that’s my job – and no of course they’re not going to let me be in the bloody photos.’

‘I guess that’s a good thing at least.’ Jenny sighed, audibly relieved. Cow. ‘OK, I have an idea. I’m gonna pull some pieces together for you, OK? When are you leaving?’

This was the first part of the phone call I did not hate. Jenny being a million miles away in LA was completely shitty. Jenny being a stylist with access to lots and lots of beautiful free clothes was not shitty in the slightest. ‘Monday, but really, don’t go to too much trouble, you don’t have to do this.’ Yes she bloody well did.

‘Honey, I got you covered. Skinny jeans, slept-in eyeliner, beret, I’m all over it. I’ll just take it up a notch. You’ll be like, a Belle-hipster. A Bipster.’ Her laugh turned into a yawn. ‘Seriously, I’m freaking dying here. Email me the details, what you’re doing when you get there and I’ll send some stuff over. And I’m sure I must know someone in Paris. I’m on it.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Angie, it’s like, totally what I do. Now let me go back to sleep.’

‘Like, totally go back to sleep.’ I laughed. ‘You’ve gone totally LA on me, Lopez.’

‘Like, rilly. Screw you, Clark.’ She yawned again. ‘Go buy Belle, let the intimidation build a little more. Love you.’

‘Love you too.’

Or at least, I’d thought that I loved Jenny until the three giant DHL packages arrived the next morning. It turned out, I really hadn’t known what love was. Love was one box labelled ‘evening’, one box labelled ‘day’ and one box labelled ‘I don’t know when the fuck you’ll wear these, but they’re awesome’. I hacked into them desperately, using my keys to slit the package tape and carefully pull out one beautiful outfit after another. In each box was a manila envelope with handwritten (well, scribbled) notes along with gorgeous sketches of how each ensemble was supposed to go together. The Joe Jeans with the Tory Burch flats and Elizabeth and James blazer. The DVF royal blue silk romper with the YSL wedges. The beaded Balenciaga flapper dress with the Giuseppe Zanotti platforms. The Miu Miu purse with everything. After an hour and a half of playing dress up, I perched on the edge of the sofa in a pale blue silk Lanvin number, flustered, redfaced and grinning maniacally. At the very bottom of the ‘Fuck Knows’ box, under the Kenneth Jay Lane pendants and bangles, was a note from Jenny.

I know you said not to go to too much trouble, but you’re going to Paris. For Belle. And people know you know me so there’s no way I’m letting you head over to the fashion capital of the world, head-to-toe in American Apparel – don’t tell me you weren’t wearing it when you opened the box, even if you’re in the Narciso Rodriguez jumpsuit by now—

I paused to look at all the outfits on the sofa, there was a jumpsuit? Had I missed it?

—because it’s awesome. You’re going to be amazing at this, Angie, I’m so proud of you. Just take the clothes, wear them, rock them, take photos and BRING THEM BACK, preferably in one piece and without ketchup all over them.

Love you, JLo xxx

It was only eight in LA, four hours before I was legally permitted to call Jenny without it going on her ‘you’re dead to me’ list. Three strikes and you were out and I already had one from the time she caught me ironing the collar of a Thomas Pink shirt I had borrowed from her with my hair straighteners. Apparently, she had never done it. I did not believe her. What I did believe was that the collection of clothes, currently acting as a very expensive throw on my sofa, was a) amazing b) worth more than my apartment and c) going to make me the best dressed bargain hunter in all of Paris.

I tapped out a text to let her know that the package had arrived and that I would love and cherish the clothes as though they were my firstborn child. Which I would be more than happy to trade to keep this stuff for ever. Clutching a pair of pale blue Stella McCartney widelegged trousers to my heart, I stared at the assembled selection of swag. Truly, it was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever had the honour to behold. How was Paris supposed to compare?