Lindsey Kelk 5-Book 'I Heart...' Collection (81 page)

‘Oh, I erm, I told Solène we would go to this party she’s having tonight,’ I said, pretending to be especially interested in Cici’s favourite massage café. Oh. Ew. ‘It’s at about eight or something. Somewhere near the river.’

‘The girl from the show?’ Virginie slapped the papers out of my hand and on to the table. ‘Angela?’

‘Yes, the girl from the show,’ I replied, studiously reviewing my coffee.

‘But she is in love with your boyfriend?’

‘No she isn’t.’

‘Yes, she is.’

Who needed Jenny when I had the travel version? Virginie packed just as much of a punch and would easily fit in a weekend bag.

‘Well, she’s not because she’s actually his ex-girlfriend,’ I said into my coffee cup. Why didn’t they have mugs here? Couldn’t we have found a Starbucks?

‘What?’

‘Solène and Alex used to go out with each other,’ I said, trying to be OK with it, although hearing it out loud, illustrated by Virginie’s incredulous expression made it really rather difficult to accept. ‘It was ages ago. They’re fine now. And I said I would go.’

‘Alex wants to go to this party?’ Virginie asked. ‘With his beautiful ex-girlfriend who dances in front of him like a whore?’

‘Wow!’ I put the coffee cup down. ‘Well, actually I haven’t told him yet.’

‘He will not go.’ She folded her arms and stared me down. ‘I do not believe he will go.’

‘Right,’ I said. What else was there to say? ‘Well, I’ll cross that pont when we come to it. We really have to work out where to start on all these places Cici has sent us. And I have to email my friend about … some stuff.’

I spread the pages out on the table and tried to make some sense of the addresses, but strangely enough, it was all a foreign language to me. Not quite Greek, but almost.

‘I am sorry, I do not know your Alex,’ Virginie said, reaching across the table and touching my hand lightly. ‘I will look at Cici’s emails and you can email your friend and call Alex? I can work out what is close by.’

‘That would be amazing.’ It felt a little as if I was cheating having Virginie do the work for me, but making up to Jenny wasn’t going to be easy. It was still too early to call her, so a well-crafted email would have to do for now.

‘And you are absolutely going to this party?’ she asked, scooping up all the pieces of paper and taking a black leather notebook from her bag.

‘I am,’ I replied, although entirely uncertain as to why.

‘D’accord.’ Virginie gave me one short, sharp nod. And sighed.

Writing the email to Jenny took far longer than I had hoped. I was used to her moods, but we’d never rowed while we were on different coasts, let alone different continents, and I really didn’t like it. Plus, this was entirely my fault whereas usually, I could more or less count on Hurricane Jenny taking at least fifty per cent of the blame. What was I supposed to do? Because of me, albeit inadvertently, about ten thousand dollars’ worth of borrowed clothes had been destroyed. And who would believe what had happened to them? Jenny was still new at this whole stylist thing, her reputation, as she often told me drunk in the middle of the afternoon, was everything. Apparently the getting drunk part was actually essential to the process and not detrimental. But losing lots and lots of beautiful, expensive things was not going to help her out in any way. It wasn’t as if she’d dressed someone who would at least have got the clothes on TV or something before she accidentally destroyed them, cough, Mischa Barton.

In the end, after writing four different versions of the same message, I opted for ‘I am so sorry, let me know when I can call you and we’ll try and work it out. I’ll replace them somehow. Love you x’

Although I had no idea what somehow might be. And once I’d watched the email icon flicker and send, I took a deep breath and called Alex.

‘Hey,’ he answered right away which was unusual, but a relief. Pull it off like a plaster, Angela, I told myself. ‘What’s up?’

‘Hey,’ I began, biting my little fingernail. ‘How did the radio thing go?’

If there was one thing I was good at, it was procrastination.

‘It was fine, we played, we talked.’ The line was crackly, but he sounded as if he was in a fairly good mood. Time to bite the bullet. ‘Whatever.’

‘So, I was just checking, we have no plans tonight, do we?’ I turned in my chair to avoid Virginie’s raised eyebrow. ‘Because we’ve been invited to a party and I sort of said we’d go.’

‘You got us invited to a party already?’ He laughed. ‘This didn’t happen last night by any chance?’

‘Maybe,’ I admitted, turning a little bit more. ‘You know I like to make friends when I’ve had a drink.’

‘You like to do a lot of things I don’t approve of when you’re drunk. And some stuff that I do approve of.’ Alex lowered his voice just enough to give me goose bumps. ‘Sure, just let me know where I need to be.’

‘Um, well, the thing is, it’s Solène’s party,’ I said quietly. ‘At her apartment.’

The line suddenly went awfully quiet.

‘Alex?’

‘We’re not going to a party at Solène’s place.’

He didn’t sound that angry, just absolutely decided.

‘It’s just I said that we would, and she said that she really wanted to catch up with you, and for us to meet her boyfriend, and we would really only have to stay for a while, but I really think that, since I said we would, that we should go. Just for a little bit. Otherwise she’ll think—’

‘What?’ Alex cut me off. Which was probably a good thing to be fair. ‘What will she think?’

‘That we’re rude?’

‘I’m pretty certain I don’t care what she thinks about you,’ he replied. ‘And I’m completely fucking sure I don’t care what she thinks about me. I’m not going, you’re not going.’

‘You can’t tell me what to do.’ It was weird to hear Alex swearing at me, and I really didn’t like it. And I was trying to be as quiet as possible, pretty sure that Virginie was going to be ready and waiting with whatever the French version of ‘I told you so’ was. ‘I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal of this. We only have to stick our heads in and say hello. And you might feel better about everything if you actually saw her. It’s not good to be angry about something that happened so long ago.’

‘Well thank you, Oprah,’ Alex replied flatly. ‘I figured you’d quit the self-help shit when Jenny left. And I don’t want to tell you what to do, but I’m not going to this party. If you want to go to dinner with me, call me back later.’

I stuck out my bottom lip and stuffed my phone back into my bag.

‘He does not want to go to the party?’

Looking up, I stared out across the river for a moment. Eiffel Tower, River Seine, lots of pretty people on bikes, yep, definitely in Paris. And yet still getting attitude from my girlfriend.

‘He does not want to go to the party,’ I confirmed. ‘I get it, she’s his ex. I wouldn’t want to go to my ex’s party. I shouldn’t go.’

But the sick thing was, I wanted to. I wanted to see Solène’s apartment, I wanted to see her boyfriend, and for some inexplicable reason, I wanted her to like me. And if not like me, at least see me looking awesome and know that I was good enough for Alex. As good as she had ever been. Hmm, I had to stop complaining that I didn’t understand boys. I didn’t even understand me.

‘I was thinking,’ Virginie tapped me cautiously on the shoulder, ‘you have to go to the party.’

‘What?’ I did a full one-eighty in my chair. ‘Now you think I should go?’

‘I did not say you should not go,’ she shrugged. ‘I said Alex would not want to go. It is very difficult for a boy to see his ex-girlfriend. Very, very difficult with his new girlfriend there also. But you should go. And you should look fabulous.’

‘Easier said than done,’ I mumbled. ‘How do you look fabulous without hair straighteners?’

Virginie outlined her plan as we crossed on to Avenue Montaigne. I tried to listen, there was talk of buying some amazing dress, her lending me some killer shoes and some sort of hairstyling extravaganza that would possibly negate the need for straighteners. I would have been more cynical, but luckily for my French Fairy Godmother, I was somewhat distracted. We were, in theory headed to the Roosevelt Métro station to get on with our research, but Virginie had failed to mention that Avenue Montaigne was home to almost all of Paris’s designer stores, couture houses and general wonderment. I pressed my nose up against the window of Paul & Joe, lusting after a gorgeous grey silk dress and trying not to shed a tiny tear for the Paul & Joe Sister dress I had lost in Suitcase Gate.

‘That dress would be perfect for tonight,’ Virginie whispered into my ear. I nodded, she was right. It was short, silvery-grey with a white Siamese cat hand-painted on to the front. Slightly odd, but very cool. At least as cool as Solène. ‘You should try it on.’

‘I can’t afford it,’ I said, shaking off the vision of myself, all black eyeliner, messy hair and black opaque tights. In that dress. It was too hot for black tights anyway. Not that it wouldn’t look awesome without tights. ‘And it has a giant cat on it.’

‘It would take a very stylish girl to wear it,’ Virginie agreed. ‘Perhaps someone like Solène?’

‘I know what you’re doing,’ I said, pushing the door open. ‘And luckily for you, I am very, very easily led.’

Happily, at least until the shopper’s remorse hit, there was just enough room for the dress on my credit card. Or at least, the credit card company people were prepared to allow me to go over my limit to the same value as the dress. I liked to think I had a telepathic link to Barclays and that they understood my pain. I was pretty much able to convince myself of anything when a dress was at stake. But now, with this dress, I would definitely be able to face Solène on even terms. It was gorgeous and it fitted me perfectly. Besides, Virginie was right, I absolutely should go to the party, I wasn’t having her, his ex, thinking that I was rude. Or even worse, running scared. Even if she was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever had the displeasure to lay eyes on. And in a super cool band. And all sexy and French. It was OK, I had the cat dress. What could go wrong? Apart from Alex still being all pissed off.

I sent him a flirty (OK, dirty) text message about potential plans for the evening from the changing room at Paul & Joe, explaining that I would pop into the party, just to say hello and that he absolutely did not have to show. And then it was possible that I suggested we meet back at the hotel, go out for dinner somewhere lovely and then follow that up with a repeat performance of the night before. Obviously that would be back in the hotel. We might be in the world capital of romance, but I was fairly certain they still had decency laws here.

After Paul & Joe, it just got worse. Prada, Max Mara, Dior, Valentino and oh good lord, Chanel. For someone who wasn’t into high fashion, Virginie certainly had an eye for it. I managed to keep my credit card in my wallet, but I just couldn’t stop myself from pawing the windows or sticking my head inside. Aside from the delights of air conditioning, I couldn’t help but feel a very pleasant tingly sensation for all the beautiful things. Chanel 2.55 bags, couture Dior gowns, Prada purses. It all just made the world seem a more lovely place. Until I looked at my watch and realized it was almost three.

‘Shit, Virginie, you have to get me away from here.’ I mentally slapped myself around the face. ‘We have to do some research today or I’m buggered.’

‘But you are having such a good time,’ she said, squeezing my arm. ‘And there are many more stores. This is not even the main area for shopping, we have to visit Colette and—’

‘J’accuse!’ I snatched back my arm and pointed at the sweet, innocent-looking brunette. ‘You are an enabler. Honestly, I’m having the best time, but we have to do some work. This is exactly the opposite of what Belle wanted. I’m sorry I got so distracted, but we should get a move on.’

‘I am sorry, you are right.’ She pulled out her notebook and flipped over to the notes she had been making while I’d been trying to figure out what to say to Jenny. Time not well spent given the crappy email I’d come up with. ‘OK, Cici says we should try a store called Mim. It is not too far, near Les Halles.’

‘Brilliant,’ I took her arm again, all forgiven. ‘There’s a restaurant in New York called Les Halles. It’s very swanky.’

‘Once, Les Halles was the main market place for all of Paris,’ Virginie explained. ‘But not now. I am surprised we are going there, but she has listed many places that are good nearby. And Cici says this is her favourite store in all of the city, her secret fashion weapon.’

‘And I have to give her credit, she does know how to put an outfit together,’ I admitted, almost breaking into a run when I spotted the Métro sign. ‘So let’s see this secret weapon.’

‘That fucking bitch!’ I stood and stared. ‘Pardon my French.’

‘I do not think that is French.’

I couldn’t quite believe it. ‘She’s screwed me over, hasn’t she?’

Cici’s secret weapon wasn’t an awesome super secret vintage store. It was a crappy, mass market teeny clothes store. It made Primark look like haute couture. Actually that was an incredible insult. I would wear Primark to my own wedding before I wore any of this stuff. Actually, I had worn Primark to someone else’s wedding before, but that was beside the point. Cici had completely screwed us.

‘I do not like to use curse words, but yes, I think you are right,’ Virginie agreed, feverishly flicking through Cici’s other suggestions. ‘This is the place, I have checked.’

‘Are all the places she’s suggested like this? Completely shat?’ I asked, really not wanting to know the answer. I felt sick as a dog and it had nothing to do with mojitos, sangria or cigarettes.

‘I don’t know what shat means, but I think maybe they are not the best places,’ Virginie said, taking out the original pieces of paper. ‘I do not know any of them. Some of the cafés, the hotels, they look real. They are in places I recognize, but the stores, I am sorry. I do not know.’

I looked around for somewhere to sit and sank on to a concrete wall. Les Halles was not the prettiest place in all of Paris. Although I could apparently get any image I wanted screen-printed on to a T-shirt for forty Euros. But why would anyone want the naked picture of Kate Moss they had on the T-shirt displayed in the window? Fashion capital of the world my arse.