I Heart Paris (18 page)

The garden was so peaceful and ridiculously pretty. Tearing off a big chunk of croissant, my mind wandered off and I imagined myself solemnly entering the garden in the gorgeous
Funny Face
wedding dress carrying hot pink gerberas, my hair loosely curled and half pinned up, half falling around my shoulders. I had my dad at my side, Jenny and Louisa behind me. In something horribly unflattering. Like canary yellow Bo Peep dresses. My mum was sitting at the front of the congregation, complaining that we should be doing this in church and that I’d always been awkward. And at the front of the garden, under the archway, was Alex. And since it was my fantasy and not my mother’s, he was wearing a slim-fitting Dior Homme suit, a skinny black tie and his beat up black Converse. But he had brushed his hair to acknowledge the solemnity of the occasion. I walked slowly up between the two rows of seats, full of our nearest and dearest who had of course travelled to Paris for our wedding, and I smiled at him, and he smiled back and—woah! I blinked a couple of times and actually shook my head. Where did that come from? I’d been off weddings ever since Louisa’s debacle. It was way too early to start fantasizing about chasing Alex up the aisle. I’d only just decided I wanted to move in with him, there was no need to rush. As difficult as it was to accept, Beyoncé wasn’t always right, you didn’t have to put a ring on it.

My hands were empty before my stomach was ready to accept that the croissant was gone, so I forced myself to stand up and headed back to the gate, giving the group of late lunchers a quick smile as I passed. And got weird stares in return. Which reminded me to put my sunglasses back on.

After another hour of getting to grips with the Marais and adding several charming little cafés and bakeries to my notes, I declared my afternoon a success and attempted to find my way back to the hotel, only getting lost twice. Happily sailing past an Alain-less reception desk, I headed up to the room to plug in my laptop. The Apple logo glowed reassuringly and I kicked off my flip-flops, settling in for a lengthy blogging session.

The Adventures of Angela:
Sacré bleu!

It’s safe to say that my first twenty-four hours in Paris were not entirely what I had been hoping for. There hasn’t been a single tandem bike ride down the Left Bank in Breton shirts and black Capri pants. And would you believe it, not a single beret in sight? But I’ve decided to take a more positive attitude from here on and be very laissezfaire,
je ne regrette rien,
and so on.

And I have to be honest, aside from the fact that I have a killer black eye (I fell over my boyfriend’s shoes – no, really, I did. Our relationship has not taken a dramatic turn for the worse) I think I might love Paris. Compared to London and New York, everyone seems very chilled out. Every other building is a bar, and the ones that aren’t bars are cafés and restaurants pushing wine and beer on you. No wonder France has a reputation, hic. The city really is beautiful though, I saw Notre-Dame all lit up last night and I thought I might cry. And that wasn’t just because I had to walk back to the hotel with no idea where I was going in borrowed, but not broken-in four-inch heels. I felt as if it was floating on the river and it might sink at any moment or melt away or something. It was just too magical to be real. To clarify, I didn’t feel as if I was floating, I felt as if I was walking on hot coals and smashed glass. Ouch.

Don’t worry, I haven’t gone all romantic on you, the only thing that brought me back down with a bump of course, was me. On my face. Serves me right for getting up in the night to pee. Or, serves me right for drinking so much that I had to get up in the night to pee, I’m not sure which.

Anyway, I just wanted to check in and let you all know I’m OK. Sorry I’ve been AWOL, but there was a problem getting a cable for my laptop (bloody Macs) and my BlackBerry isn’t working (anyone ever had trouble getting Verizon service in France?), but I’m back now and still in desperate need of your top tips. It could end up in
Belle
magazine! Have to go now, I have approximately three hours before Brooklyn Boy gets back from his long hard day of interviews (poor lamb) and I have to take him out for a slap-up birthday dinner. And at least two of those hours will be spent trying to cover up my black eye, otherwise there will be no gazing lovingly over dinner. In fact, I would imagine he’ll struggle to keep anything down at all.

Ah,
c’est la vie…

I posted the blog and flipped the computer shut. There was no reply from Mary even though I knew she would be at her desk, and the other emails, including an urgent request from the bank of Paraguay, would wait until I’d had a very long, very hot bath.

Before I’d moved to New York, it took me about three minutes to decide what to wear on a date with my boyfriend. Usually, whatever was on the top of the ironing pile that didn’t actually need ironing. After almost a year living with Jenny, I couldn’t decide between a pair of black jeans, a pair of black leggings and three identical V-neck T-shirts in black, white and grey. After trying on all three, I opted for the white, teaming it with my skinny jeans, Virginie’s baby blue Louboutins, and a long, delicate silver chain with a beautiful aquamarine stone pendant I’d picked up during my last spin around the shops in the Marais. I wasn’t convinced it would pass as an insurance-covered replacement for an essential item in most work places, but this was
Belle
after all. How was a girl supposed to go out to dinner in Paris on a Friday night with her boyfriend on his thirtieth birthday unacces-sorized? The extra make-up I’d picked up from MAC (
vive la
American world domination!) on the way back to the hotel however, was definitely an essential, whichever way you looked at it. By eight, you could barely see my bruised cheek and black eye. If I set the dimmer fairly low. And parted my hair to one side. And didn’t look up. Finally satisfied that I was passable, I sat in the chair by the window, editing the beginnings of my article for
Belle
and waiting for Alex to sail through the door.

Thirty minutes later, I was still waiting. I closed my laptop and flicked through the TV channels, trying to be reassured by the fact that the chair still smelled like Alex and not unnerved by the fact that it smelled like him because he’d slept in it for half of last night. Ten more minutes of French
Wheel of Fortune
(starring Victoria Silvstedt!), I worked out that I could call Alex’s mobile from the French hotel landline. Cross-legged on the bed, my mobile in one hand, the handset of the hotel phone in the other, I attempted to work out how to put through an international call. When the door clicked open five minutes later, I had got as far as bashing the receiver into the mattress, while repeatedly calling it a piece of shit.

‘Ahh, Kodak moment,’ Alex said from the doorway.

‘Where were you?’ I half shouted. ‘It’s nearly bloody nine.’

‘Didn’t we say nine for dinner?’ he asked sheepishly, brushing down the back of his hair.

‘You said eight,’ I replied, emphasis and finger-pointing on the ‘you’.

‘Shit, Angela, I’m sorry.’ He winced. ‘I guess I got caught up with everything. You ready to go now?’

‘Yes,’ I said, feeling bad right away. He’d had to work on his birthday after all, I ought to give him a little bit of leeway. And if he really did think we were meeting at nine, he was fifteen minutes early. I stood up and gave him a twirl. ‘Do I look ready enough?’

‘You look awesome,’ he said, crossing the room and wrapping his hands around my face. He kissed me gently and peered at my injuries. ‘How’s the face?’

‘Painful.’ I pressed my lips together to redistribute what gloss there was left on them. ‘Does it look awful?’

‘I can’t even see it.’ He brushed my carefully arranged hair out of my face. ‘Really, you look beautiful. And really, I’m sorry I’m late.’

‘Don’t worry.’ I kissed him again. ‘It’s your birthday, you can do whatever you like.’

‘Thanks. I’d done a great job of forgetting about that.’ He ran a finger from the fine, short hair at the nape of my neck all the way down my spine and back up again. ‘I can do whatever I like, huh? Sure you don’t want to celebrate in here?’

Looking up at his high cheekbones, his dark eyes, I paused for a moment.

‘They have room service,’ Alex promised, his finger on the base of my spine making figure of eights all the way back up again.

‘I think I’m offended that all it takes to get in my knickers is the promise of room service,’ I said with closed eyes, my back melting.

‘They have
steak frites
.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘
Saignant
.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just cooked on the outside, bloody as all hell on the inside.’

‘Oh.’

‘And I’ll let you sing happy birthday to me.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to help matters, do you?’ As difficult as it was, I wriggled out of his arms, trying to solidify my spine. ‘We’re going out for dinner whether you like it or not, it’s your thirtieth birthday.’

Alex stuck his hands in his pockets and gave me a defeated half-smile. ‘And you’d think I’d get to do whatever I wanted to do on my own birthday, wouldn’t you?’

‘And you will later,’ I replied, blushing at my own brazenness. ‘But you promised to show me Paris.’

‘So if I show you mine?’ Alex never blushed.

‘Take me out for dinner and we’ll talk.’ I picked up my bag and headed for the door with a great big smile on my face.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘So how was everything today?’ I asked, ripping into the bread basket. Bread first, booze later. I’d learned my lesson. ‘Did all the meetings go OK?’

Alex nodded, sipping a glass of red wine. I’d suggested champagne, but he had insisted he had nothing to celebrate. Boys are so touchy.

‘You saw all the record label people?’ I thought I may as well carry on asking questions, even though I knew he wasn’t going to answer. The second we’d walked out of the hotel, it was as if someone had thrown a switch on him. I could barely get two words on a subject. And it wasn’t as though he was the world’s most chatty individual, but he was definitely being weird.

‘Yeah, all done,’ he said, reaching for a piece of bread and then thoughtfully tearing off the crust. ‘Tell me about your day.’

‘Got up, got a power lead for my Mac, came home, blogged and waited for you,’ I briefed him. ‘Come on, spill. What interviews did you have today? Did you tell all of France how much you love me?’

‘Ah, come on Angela!’ Alex pulled a face. ‘I’ve been talking all day. Can we just go an hour without questions?’

‘OK,’ I said, trying to keep up with his mood swings. ‘Um, what are we going to do after dinner?’

‘That’s still a question.’

‘Oh yeah.’ I bit my lip, thinking for a moment. ‘I found this really beautiful little garden in the Marais this afternoon.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Alex nodded at the waiter as he placed two plates full of
steak frites
in front of us. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘It was lovely.’ I tried not to be distracted by the giant piece of meat on the plate in front of me. Good God, I loved food. ‘There was this really gorgeous courtyard, surrounded by these really elegant archways, and through them there was a garden with really low manicured hedges that were in like, swirly patterns. It was so peaceful and pretty. So different to New York.’

‘Was it the Musée Carnavalet?’ he asked in between mouthfuls.

‘Yes! I loved it.’ I nodded enthusiastically. ‘We should go if we get the chance. I keep forgetting that you know where stuff is.’

‘Yeah, I don’t know.’ He looked down at his plate. ‘I mean, you have lunch with Louisa tomorrow, right? And it’s the festival on Sunday and, well, then Monday we’re going home.’

‘It’s such a shame,’ I said, letting my knife slip into the steak as if it were butter. Oh, this was going to be good. ‘I really wish we’d been able to do more stuff.’

‘All I know is that I can’t wait to get home.’ Alex poured us both more wine. ‘This wasn’t as good an idea as I’d thought it would be.’

‘Oh.’ At that moment, I may as well have been eating a tin of Stagg stewing steak. ‘You’re not having fun?’

‘Hey, I didn’t mean I’m not glad you’re here,’ he started to backtrack. ‘I just hadn’t thought we’d be doing so much work.’

‘Yeah, it’s awful being popular, isn’t it?’ I wanted to raise an eyebrow, but ow ow ow.

‘It sucks,’ he relented with a small smile before his face fell again. ‘And, you know, well, I should have figured that Paris wasn’t strictly speaking, my happy place. I’m just not feeling myself.’

It didn’t take a genius to guess what he was talking about, but I had made a promise with myself that the name ‘Solène’ would not be passing my lips this evening.

‘I’m really glad you’re here right now,’ he added, putting down his knife and fork. ‘I’m sorry we haven’t spent more time together.’

‘We’re together now,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘But you are going to have to talk for a bit so I can eat this amazing steak.’

‘How about we both eat and then we can talk?’ Alex bargained, his foot rubbing up the inside of my leg. ‘Just listen to everyone else for a while.’

‘That’s all right for you to say,’ I said through a mouthful of bloody meat. I held my hand over my mouth, but really, we were a long way past that. Thank God. ‘You can understand what everyone else is actually saying.’

‘And it kills you that you can’t,’ he said with the first genuine smile I’d seen in over an hour.

‘I’m a writer, I’m inquisitive,’ I protested.

‘You’re nosy,’ he bounced back.

‘And I thought we weren’t talking while we were eating?’

Alex speared a piece of steak with his fork and grinned.

‘So, does it feel different?’ I asked later as we walked through the streets eating ice creams. It was still warm and Alex paused to lick an escaping trickle from the back of my hand.