I Heart Paris

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After stocking up on water, Toblerone (well, three Toblerones) and a load of magazines that I knew I wouldn’t read, I stalked straight towards the train. There was no turning back now. I was actually headed for home. If it still was my home. If anywhere was.

  The train was mostly empty, just one group of young French girls, a few couples and the odd lone reader, so I ignored my seat reservation and threw myself at a table for four, two entire seats taken up by my arse and my bag, and my magazines covering the table. This was as unwelcoming as I was genetically capable of being. I just couldn’t bring myself to put my feet up on the seat in front. Across the aisle, a vomit-inducingly cute couple fell into their seats and snuggled up together, giggling, kissing and whispering in French. Romantic daytrip to London? Actually, it made sense. If you already lived in the one city the rest of the world visited when they wanted a dirty weekend away, where were you supposed to go? I pulled my iPod back out of my bag and tried to close my eyes. I just wanted to sleep until we got there. Maybe then I could convince myself the last year had all been a dream. A really expensive, impossibly involved dream.

  The rowdy rock I’d listened to on the way to the Gare du Nord wasn’t right for the Eurostar, I didn’t want to drown out the voices in my head any more, I wanted to lull them to sleep, but nothing seemed to be right. Instead, I left my iPod on shuffle and watched the countryside roll by, trying to zone out. Every time my eyes flickered shut, I got a mental image of the empty hotel bedroom, swiftly followed up by a vision of Alex’s faded black jeans on the floor of Solène’s beautiful apartment. If only I hadn’t gone to that bloody stupid party, it would be so much more difficult to visualize my boyfriend’s underwear hanging off the back of the sofa if I’d never seen the sofa. Now, it was all too easy to piece it all together in my all too vivid imagination.

  I’d been doing my best zombie impersonation for about thirty minutes when I first noticed that I wasn’t alone at my table. Two identical teenage girls, both with glossy shoulder-length black hair and Chanel 2.55 bags perched on their denim-clad knees were staring at me with a tempered excitement, as though they’d just seen a gorilla wake up from hibernation at the zoo.

  ‘It’s definitely her,’ one whispered to the other. ‘Look at her picture.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ the other replied, looking at the magazine her sister thrust into her hands and then looking back at me with a wrinkled-up pout. ‘She looks a bit, erm, not like her photo.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s properly hungover or something,’ the first girl rationalized. ‘But it’s definitely her.’

  I blinked at the girls once, twice, and tried to work out what was going on.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I croaked. They looked at each other in delight and grabbed on to each other’s hands.

  ‘Are you Angela Clark?’ the first girl asked.

  ‘Uh, yes?’ I rubbed my eyes and yawned, reaching out for the bottle of water on the table.

  ‘Oh, let me,’ the second girl snatched the bottle away from me, unscrewed the cap and passed it back.

  ‘Thank you?’ I said, taking it cautiously. I wondered if they fancied peeling some grapes for me too. Or at least running to the buffet car for a bacon sandwich. Then I wondered if they were planning on drugging and murdering me.

  ‘We’re massive fans,’ the second girl went on, still squeezing her sister’s hand and gurning at me.

  Even if I wasn’t in the middle of a total meltdown, it was far too early for this nonsense. ‘Of what?’

  The girls looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘Of you.’

  They flipped over the magazine they’d been looking at. It was the UK edition of The Look and a very flattering photo peered back at me from my ‘Adventures of Angela’ column.

  ‘Oh.’ I took a couple of huge glugs from my bottle of water. ‘That’s my column.’

  ‘And we read your blog.’ The first girl held up an iPhone displaying TheLook.com and yet another photo of me that looked much, much better than the real thing.

  ‘My name is Sasha and this is my sister Tania,’ Tania gave me an awkward wave. ‘We’re twins and we’re like, totally, totally your biggest fans.’

  ‘We’ve been to Paris, our mum took us so we could “immerse ourselves in the language”,’ Sasha interrupted her sister to point across the aisle and down the car. An older version of the two girls sat staring directly ahead, looking slightly shell-shocked. ‘We’re starting our A levels in a couple of weeks and we’re taking French.’

  ‘And we read on the blog that you were going so we got Mum to take us too,’ Tania explained. ‘We’re definitely your biggest fans.’

  ‘Definitely?’ I asked.

  ‘Definitely. Like, we both have that Marc Jacobs bag that you used to talk about all the time.’

  ‘This one?’ I asked.

  The girls looked at each other again, this time with a little sadness.

  ‘Uh, yeah,’ Sasha started slowly, ‘but ours are like, not completely wrecked.’

  ‘But we’re definitely your biggest fans. You’re our idol.’

  Hmm, not the first time I’d heard that this week, and look how well that had ended. The girls smiled at me expectantly, but I really didn’t know what to say. I never really thought too much about the column. The UK edition of The Look had launched at the beginning of the year so I hadn’t actually seen an issue in the newsagents, or come across anyone reading it. I only knew for a fact that I was published at all when I got my copy of the magazine almost three weeks after it came out, received a tiny cheque, or when my mum emailed to see just what was going on in ‘that there New York’ because she’d heard from Carol at the library that according to ‘that magazine’ I was drinking an awful lot. Which to be fair, I was.

  ‘So, your blog didn’t say you were coming back to London.’ Sasha flicked her finger down the screen of the iPhone. ‘Isn’t it your boyfriend’s big concert today? In Paris?’

  ‘Yes?’ I tried to remember mentioning that on the blog, but I couldn’t. I didn’t give specific details, ever. I’d learned the hard way that the internet wasn’t always my friend. Brilliant, I had my very own mini-stalkers.

  ‘Well, won’t you miss it?’ Tania asked. ‘You can’t miss your boyfriend’s big show.’

  ‘It’s Alex Reid from that indie band, isn’t it?’ Sasha picked up the baton, not giving me a chance to answer. ‘I know you never use his name in the blog, but when there were all those rumours about you and James Jacobs, I mean, it was everywhere. Do you still see James Jacobs? Is he definitely gay? He’s like, the hottest man in the whole entire world. Tania is totally in love with him.’

  ‘Totally in love with him,’ Tania confirmed. ‘So, it is Alex, isn’t it? He’s hot too. We googled him.’

  ‘Can we do one question at a time?’ I asked, looking for any sort of pain reliever in my handbag, Advil, ibuprofen, revolver. I didn’t have a headache before these girls had started talking, but there was a blossoming pain in my left temple and I was fairly certain the two things were related. Now I knew why their mother looked the way that she did.

  ‘Why are you going to London?’ Sasha asked before Tania could even open her mouth.

  ‘It’s my best friend’s wedding anniversary,’ I said carefully. Not a lie. Score.

  ‘Your best friend whose wedding you were at when you found your ex shagging that girl in the back of the car? Was that a year ago?’ Tania expanded, entirely unnecessarily. I made a mental note to stop putting absolutely any sort of personal information in my blog. And possibly change my name. And get drastic facial reconstructive surgery.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, rubbing my temple.

  ‘Do you have a headache? You should drink some water.’

  ‘And take some tablets.’

  ‘But you can’t go to sleep.’

  My water bottle and a box of Nurofen were pushed towards me from across the table. I took them graciously, trying subtly to check
my watch. Jesus, there was another hour and a half of this yet.

  ‘So how come you’re going to London instead of going to your boyfriend’s gig?’ Tania waited for me to swallow the tablets before starting the questions up again, which, given what I’d come to know about her in the last fifteen minutes, must have been really hard for her. ‘We wanted to get tickets, but it was sold out. We bought their albums because he’s your boyfriend.’

  ‘Tania didn’t like them,’ Sasha added.

  ‘Shut up.’ Her sister gave her a quick punch on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m, uh, I don’t know,’ I stumbled over my words. Two sixteen-year-olds with an apparently unlimited handbag fund and a mother that took them to Paris at the drop of a hat were not going to be able to help me with this one. ‘I’m just going to see my friend.’

  ‘So, how do we get our own blog?’ Sasha asked, flicking her perfectly smooth hair away from her perfectly smooth face. ‘Because we want to be just like you, with the blog and the boyfriend in New York and everything.’

  ‘Well, you need to finish school first.’ I tried to put on my mature grown-up’s hat, but it had never fitted especially well. It was difficult to give advice to two super cool teenagers when you felt like an awkward thirteen-year-old yourself. ‘And then go to uni and study journalism or English, I suppose. I studied English.’

  ‘Can’t we just start a blog and then get, like Vogue or The Look to publish it or something?’ Tania cocked her head to one side. ‘We already know loads about fashion and stuff. And my boyfriend is in a band.’

  ‘They’re shit though.’ Sasha did not mince her words.

  ‘Yeah, they are,’ Tania admitted.

  ‘And he’s not that hot.’

  ‘Not as hot as Alex.’

  ‘And he’s a bit of a knob.’

  ‘But he is in a band.’

  ‘Yeah—’

  ‘Just because he’s in a band doesn’t mean you should go out with him,’ I interrupted. ‘Believe me, boys in bands are more trouble than they’re worth.’

  ‘Have you broken up with Alex?’ Tania slammed her hands down on the table. ‘Is that why you’re going home?’

  ‘And why you look like shit?’ Sasha added, sympathetically.

  Honestly, I couldn’t remember a time I’d ever wanted to cry more in my entire life.

  ‘We’re sort of on a break,’ I said slowly and quietly, not allowing my voice to crack.

  ‘Ooooooh,’ the girls said in tandem. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘His ex,’ I replied without thinking. ‘Maybe. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe nothing. I think we just want different things right now.’

  Like, I wanted him and he wanted Solène. That was pretty different.

  ‘He shagged his ex?’ Sasha squealed, attracting the attention of the entire carriage with the exception of her mother.

  ‘Is she pretty?’ Tania cocked her head to the other side.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if she’s pretty,’ Sasha was indignant, ‘it’s totally out of order. You should turn around, get back on the next train and kick her arse. And then his arse. And then hers again, just to make sure. Like, properly kick her in.’

  ‘I think she should go home.’ Sasha said. ‘Sort yourself out, eat loads of ice cream for like, a day, and then get really skinny and be all like “ha, well, I hate you anyway”. And never see him again. Or like, shag his mate or something.’

  ‘Yeah, you could shag his mate,’ Tania agreed. ‘Do you want to borrow some make-up?’

  ‘I’m OK thanks,’ I declined politely, ignoring their ‘oh no you’re not’ looks as well as their advice. Even if they were the two best options I’d been able to come up with myself, shagging his friend aside. I really didn’t think I was Graham’s type, what with the lack of a penis and everything.

  ‘What did your roommate tell you to do?’ Sasha asked, offering me a bag of Haribo. It seemed a weird thing to keep in a Chanel handbag, but there you go. This was what happened when you gave teenagers designer goods. Well, teenagers and me. There were about a million stray Sour Patch Kids refugees living in the lining of my publicly shamed Marc Jacobs. ‘Her name is Jenny, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s not my roommate any more.’ I felt a huge pang in my stomach at the mention of her name. Worse than I had talking about Alex. Wow. ‘She lives in LA.’

  ‘She’s awesome,’ Tania chimed in, stuffing her face with sweets. ‘When we get to New York, I’m totally going to be Jenny and Sasha’s going to be you.’

  For the first time since I’d left the hotel, a genuine smile crept on to my face. ‘You’re going to work as a hotel concierge while Sasha gets routinely shafted by shit men?’

  ‘Well, you know, we’re not going to be exactly like you.’ Tania shrugged.

  I laughed. It sounded weird. And reassuring.

  ‘She used to want to be Carrie,’ Sasha rolled her eyes, ‘and Rachel. And Serena. I always had to be like, Charlotte and Monica and Blair.’

  ‘Blair is the best one,’ I reassured Sasha. This was getting more surreal by the moment. ‘I’d be Blair.’

  ‘Told you!’ Sasha turned triumphantly to her sister.

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’ Tania looked a tiny bit pissed off. She was definitely a Jenny. ‘Anyway, what did your roommate say?’

  ‘We haven’t really spoken much this week.’ This was a discussion I really couldn’t have without bursting into tears so I skirted around the issue as much as possible. ‘My phone wasn’t working and she’s in LA, there’s about nine hours’ time difference or something.’

  ‘Well, it’s only eight now, that’s what, eleven in LA?’ Tania held out her iPhone. ‘Call her now.’

  I took the phone and looked at it. ‘Oh no, it’ll cost a fortune, don’t be silly.’

  The girls both burst out laughing. ‘It’s fine,’ Tania spluttered. ‘Just call her. And can we talk to her?’

  I breathed in. Of course I knew her number off by heart. Of course she would be up at eleven on a Saturday night. Of course she wouldn’t want to talk to me. But I really, really wanted to hear her voice.

  Taking the phone, I tapped in Jenny’s number, messing up the international dialling code twice before I heard a distant ringing. The girls sat across from me, staring intently.

  ‘Would it be OK if I talked to her on my own for a minute?’ I asked, standing up and not waiting for a reply.

  ‘But you’ll come back so we can talk to her?’ Tania shouted down the carriage, ignoring all the muttering, tutting and sighing around her. ‘I need to ask her opinion on boots. It’s almost boot season.’

  Not knowing exactly where else to go, I slid open the door to the toilet and waited for her to answer. Or not answer. Or answer.

  ‘Jenny Lopez,’

  I almost didn’t recognize her professional voice. It was really far away from the ‘Yo, bee-yatch’ or ‘Angie, what the fuck?’ that I was used to.

  ‘Jenny, it’s Angela,’ I paused giving her the chance to hang up or at least bitch me out again. But there was nothing.

  ‘Jenny? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied flatly.

  ‘OK, look, I’m so sorry,’ I was quick, trying to get everything in at once, ‘I know I messed up with the clothes, but I’m sure they’ll be insured through Belle or I’ll find a way to replace them, I’m just so, so sorry and I hate that we’re not talking. It’s been horrible these last few days, really, I’m just so sorry—’

  ‘Wait, you’re apologizing to me?’ Jenny interrupted.

  According to the Angela that stared back at me in the mirror, I was confused. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Shit, Angie,’ Jenny sighed. ‘I’m the one that owes you an apology. A big one. A pretty fucking huge apology. I’ve been trying to call you all weekend, but I couldn’t get through to your cell or your BlackBerry and that bitch at your office wouldn’t tell me where you were staying.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Mirror Angela was confused and surprised. And really di
d need some make-up. ‘But the clothes I ruined…’

  ‘Oh shut up. I’m so sorry, Angie,’ Jenny talked over me. ‘I’m not pissed about the clothes. It was like, annoying, but it wasn’t your fault. Besides, no one cares, no one ever asks for stuff back. Most of what I sent you was at least a couple of seasons old anyway. I was totally out of line, but then I was pissed that I couldn’t get a hold of you and I wanted to talk to you about some stuff and I couldn’t and, well, yeah, I overreacted.’

  ‘My phone hasn’t been working, it’s, well, there’s been this whole big thing.’ I waved my hand in the air, remembering that she couldn’t actually see me. Which was a good thing given the state of me. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘You first, seriously, wasn’t there something with Alex?’ Jenny asked, her voice warm and reassuring. It felt so good to be speaking to her like this again. It felt just like when Louisa and I had hugged under the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘There is, but we’ll get to me,’ I said firmly. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve got to move out of Daphne’s place,’ Jenny said in a quieter voice. ‘She’s totally hooking again.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ I asked, my voice as high as Jenny’s was low. ‘In your home?’

  ‘In her home,’ Jenny rationalized. ‘She’s been losing styling clients, everyone is scaling back you know, and I guess if you’ve done it before, it’s easy money.’

  ‘But, oh God, Jenny, you have to get out,’ I groaned. ‘Come home.’

  ‘I can’t, things are going so well for me. I think that’s another reason she’s doing it. I’m getting so much work and no one is hiring her. It sucks. I feel shitty.’

  ‘It’s not an excuse and you can’t feel guilty,’ I said. I was desperate to get Jenny out of that house, I’d never been a fan of her current roommate. ‘Can you go and stay at The Hollywood for a while?’