I Heart Paris. Lindsey Kelk
I said, relieved that she seemed to know who I was. ‘A journalist.’
‘You write about the band?’ she smiled again. ‘About the festival?’
Oh. She thought I was a music journalist. Was that good?
‘Angela is here with Alex,’ Graham said. ‘She’s here with us.’
‘So you are not a writer?’ Solène looked confused. ‘You work for the band?’
‘No, I am a writer, I’m writing for Belle magazine in America,’ I explained, trying not to patronize her. I didn’t want her to think I was an idiot. ‘I am a writer, I’m just not writing about the festival.’
‘I am sorry, I do not understand,’ she frowned slightly, her tiny little, button nose wrinkling up, ‘you write about Alex for a fashion magazine?’
‘No.’ I tried to think of a simpler way to explain myself, feeling completely inadequate. Why didn’t I speak French? Why had I done history A level? No one cared about my knowledge of the Industrial Revolution right now. Or ever actually. And never in my life had I wanted another girl’s approval so badly. Solène was beautiful and in a band and so, so cool. I was willing to bet she could play guitar and everything. She was like a blonde Carla Bruni except without the dodgy, short presidential husband. Jenny would hate her.
Before I could start again, we were all interrupted by a knock on the window. It was Alex. He looked at me and then at the table before gesturing for me to come outside.
‘Sorry, won’t be a minute,’ I said, putting down my wine, picking up my bag and practically stumbling out of the café as fast as my jet-lagged legs would carry me.
‘Hey, sorry, I had to take a call,’ he said, taking my hand and leading me away from the café.
‘Right,’ I said, spinning around to look at the scene unfolding in the window. Craig was practically salivating over Marie while Graham was playing Lise and Jacqueline something from his iPod while they nodded intensely to the beat. Solène turned around in her chair, in Alex’s chair and waved to me. I waved back before Alex pulled me around the corner. ‘We’re leaving?’
He nodded and kept walking.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked, stopping in the middle of the street, holding him to a standstill. ‘What happened on the phone?’
‘Sorry, just band stuff. The record label want us to play tomorrow night and I’m just so tired.’ He draped both his arms over my shoulders and gave me a half smile. ‘I was hoping we’d be able to do something tomorrow night. There’s like, a million places I want to take you.’
‘It’ll be fine, we’ve got ages.’ I pushed up on to my tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips. I pulled back suddenly and stared at Alex. ‘Did you smoke?’
‘Does it count if I took a drag off someone else’s?’ he asked sheepishly. ‘Sorry, I was just kind of stressed. On the phone.’
I tried not to make a face. It was incredibly unsettling for me to feel physically sick from kissing him.
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I said, feeling a little bit weird. Was it strange that I didn’t know he used to smoke?
‘I don’t,’ he said, fiddling around in his pocket for chewing gum. ‘So there’s nothing to know.’
‘Good, because it’s rank,’ I said, taking his hand and squeezing it hard. ‘And you’re brushing your teeth before bed.’
‘Whatever turns you on,’ he said, squeezing mine back even harder.
‘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