No, not OK. Security had to do a controlled explosion on it – don’t know why. I am SO sorry, I’ll sort it out. I’ll replace everything.
Even on instant messaging, it was scary that Jenny was struck dumb. Silence was not a natural state for her, and it was not good. The screen dimmed again and started playing a slideshow of my photos, me and Jenny doing karaoke, me and Jenny having lunch on Rodeo Drive, me holding Jenny’s hair back while she threw up in the street. Even my laptop was trying to make me feel bad. And scared.
Before I could freak out any more, the screen flickered back into life with Jenny’s response.
You’re kidding, right?
No, I shook my head while I typed.
They blew it up. Everything got blown up.
There was another pause, but it was shorter than the last.
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THEY BLEW IT UP?
I started to type out my explanation, as rubbish and pointless as it was, but before I could, a little box appeared on the screen. My computer was running on reserve battery life. Shit. I instinctively looked around for my charger before remembering that a) I wasn’t at home and that b) my charger had of course, been in my suitcase. I didn’t even have time to explain before the screen died and the laptop turned itself off. I carefully placed it on the coffee table as though Jenny could hear me somehow, and slinked back towards the bed, only banging my knee once on the frame. As I climbed back under the silky cotton sheet, my BlackBerry started to vibrate loudly on the bedside table. I grabbed it quickly to avoid waking Alex, but didn’t answer. It was Jenny, of course. After what felt like for ever, the attempted call ended, but was followed by a text message.
ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE
Strangely enough, after that charming message, I didn’t really feel like answering my fucking phone so I turned the BlackBerry off and shut it in the drawer beside me. I’d talk to her in the morning. Or when I got brave enough. Or never. I rolled over and curled up against Alex, his arms instinctively wrapping around me while he slept. Maybe if I just moved in with him as soon as we got back, I wouldn’t even need to go back to the apartment. Distracting myself from the Jenny situation, I leaned back until I could feel the full length of Alex’s body against mine. We were going to move in together. With my eyes closed, my face broke out into a grin that would make the Cheshire cat look like a moody shit and waited patiently until I fell asleep.
‘What are you looking so happy about?’ Alex asked the next morning. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so pleased to be out of bed.’
I turned my back on him to try and straighten my face and pulled a longish grey T-shirt out of the chaos that was his suitcase. I would probably be arrested for indecent exposure, but this was Europe right? I should be able to mince around in a T-shirt posing as a dress with no problems. I turned to the mirror to confirm the sartorial situation. One look was enough to wipe the smile off my face. Crap. And without my full beauty kit (which was hardly sophisticated in the first place) I really did look like crap. Hotel shampoo and conditioner, handwash instead of cleanser and nothing, but a half-empty tube of Beauty Flash Balm to moisturize my entire body. Thank God I’d kept my mascara and pressed powder in my hand luggage, otherwise I’d have to be locked in my room like a shamefaced goblin.
‘Hey, happy girl. What gives?’
‘I’m just excited to see Paris,’ I lied. The words ‘I’m moving in with you’ had almost burst out of my mouth a thousand times since the alarm had gone off half an hour earlier, but I was determined to keep it to myself. ‘Anything specific I should save for me and you to do together?’
‘Uh, I don’t know.’ He stretched and rolled over, his body still tangled under the covers. ‘A lot of the regular stuff is kind of tacky. But, you know, do whatever you need to do for your article.’
‘I don’t see how anything about Paris could be tacky,’ I said, throwing a cushion at him. I hated leaving him in bed. That was one of the biggest penalties of dating a boy in a band, he was almost always on night shifts. ‘It’s all so beautiful.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ He threw the pillow back. ‘But you also think that Les Misérables is beautiful.’
‘Don’t try and use my love of musicals against me,’ I warned. ‘Or I’ll be asking why the episodes of America’s Next Top Model I recorded at yours all say they’ve been viewed already.’
‘So I’ll see you tonight?’ he asked, promptly changing the subject. ‘The show isn’t until ten so we should get a drink or dinner somewhere, maybe Le Dix?’
‘I’d love to have an opinion on that,’ I said, leaning over the bed and kissing him on the forehead. I pulled out the drawer beside the bed and took out my BlackBerry and wallet, slipping them into my bag. ‘But I have never been here before, remember? How do you know so much about Paris anyway? Did you do a year abroad or something?’
‘Kinda.’ Alex’s voice was already falling back to sleep. It was as though he wanted me to hate him. Or at least try to.
‘So, I’ll text you later?’ I called from the door, checking I had my room key once more.
‘Yuh-huh,’ he murmured, lifting his hand to wave me off.
Arse.
Wandering through the hotel garden, out to the reception, I started to get nervous about meeting Virginie. What if she was all super hot and super cool like the girls from the bar last night? She worked for French Belle, so there was no way she was going to be, well, normal. The moment I stepped into the hotel lobby, it was impossible not to spot her. Lounging against a Perspex Philippe Starck ghost chair, was a tiny excuse for a girl, second-skin black jeans, black ballet slippers, long loose light denim shirt open over a tight black vest, masses of wavy brown hair spilling all down her back and most notably, a bored-shitless expression on her pretty face. It was almost reassuring to see some international consistency throughout Belle’s hiring policy. Stunning? Check. Too cool for the rest of the world? Check.
‘Hi, Virginie?’ I asked, holding out a hand in a half wave, half ‘please-shake-my-hand-and-don’t-stare-at-me-like-I’m-mad’ gesture. For a second, she stared at me as if I were mad and then leaped up, poker straight, and grabbed my hand with both of hers.
‘Oh, Angela Clark? Of course, I have seen your picture, it is you!’ she gushed, the handshake disappearing into a flurry of air kisses and elaborate hugs. ‘I am Virginie Aucoin, and I am very happy to be helping you.’
I pulled back slightly, not quite sure what to say. The miserable-looking Belle girl had suddenly morphed into an over enthusiastic puppy, all bright eyes and unable to stand still. She bounced lightly from foot to foot, all the while grinning at me madly.
‘Um, well, hello,’ I said, not wanting to upset her. ‘Have you had breakfast? Do you want to get something?’
‘I have not. What do you like to eat?’ Virginie asked, turning very serious. ‘Breakfast is very important. We are busy today, yes?’
‘Yes?’ I said, letting her drag me out of the lobby. ‘And I would like coffee?’
She stopped short right outside the doors. ‘Just coffee? Oh Angela, you are already so American. But you must eat also. Follow me.’
All the way down the narrow stone street, Virginie talked. Happily for uncultured me, her English was fairly brilliant, mainly thanks to the year she’d spent working at US Belle as an intern, which was apparently where she had first come across my blog.
‘It was just beginning as I am leaving to return to Paris,’ she explained, turning another tight corner and emerging into a beautiful open space, lined with rows of impressive mansion houses. ‘This is Place des Vosges, very old, very beautiful. Many famous people are living here a long time ago. Do you know the writer Victor Hugo? And Cardinal Richelieu? I wish, one day, myself. It is my dream.’
‘Victor Hugo that wrote Les Mis?’ I asked, casting an excited eye over one of the fountains and the pretty trees in the square. ‘No way.’
‘Les Misérables? You like to read his books?’ Virginie asked. ‘Vi
ctor Hugo?’
‘Let’s say yes,’ I replied, hoping we wouldn’t need to get into a serious discussion on French literature. I would be outed as a musical theatre lover in a heartbeat. ‘And it’s good to have dreams. If you want to live here one day, I’m sure you will. Most of the girls at Belle in America already seem to be in their Park Avenue palaces. Shall we get a coffee?’
‘But you,’ she said, pulling me along and pushing me down into a small chair outside a coffee shop beneath a pretty archway. For a tiny girl, she was very strong. I was becoming more and more certain that she was actually Scrappy Doo. ‘You live a dream already. I read your blog every day and it sounds so exciting. You leave London, go to New York, get a job, you are meeting amazing people, interviewing celebrities, you travel to LA, to Paris. I could not believe it when they ask if someone will help you here in Paris. I was so excited.’
‘Well, you make it sound a lot more interesting than it really is,’ I said, feeling like an enormous fraud. ‘Most of the time I’m just sitting around in my pants staring at my laptop. Really.’
‘But you are my hero,’ she added shyly, looking up at me from underneath a ridiculous amount of hair. I had to find out what products she used. ‘I would love to have your life.’
I really didn’t know what to say. I was generally so busy trying to get on with things that I never took a step back to look at my life from the outside. Besides, I was pretty certain that most people only do that when things are going badly, not when things are going well. I’d long ago learned that the best way to deal with being happy was to get your head down and get on with it for fear of everything going spectacularly tits up.
‘I’m sure your life is amazing, Virginie. Living in Paris, working at Belle.’ I thought of Cici, stuck as Mary’s assistant on The Look website and felt the briefest moment of sympathy. ‘I know loads of people that would love to be doing what you’re doing.’
‘Yes, I know this,’ she said, waving over a waiter and ordering for both of us. ‘But, and I do not want you to think I am not happy about my opportunities, I am, but I am not really wanting to write for Belle magazine. I applied for the internship so that I could see New York and was so lucky to get a job there that I had to take it. But the girls there are not my friends. I do not really feel this way about the fashion they love.’
‘Really?’ I was so relieved. Was it possible that, against all the odds, she was normal? Aside from the whole hero worship thing, which I was fairly sure I’d be able to get used to. ‘Well, that’s OK, I‘m hardly an haute couture obsesso and they’ve asked me to write for them. And you’re getting great experience there, I’m sure.’
‘This is true,’ she agreed, taking a baguette from the bread basket that was placed between us, buttering it and then dunking it into her coffee, leaving a skin of butter and bread floating on top. ‘And it has helped me to meet you. I am so happy that we are going to be friends.’
‘We’re not going to be friends if you do that again,’ I gagged. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘It is?’ Virginie immediately dropped the bread on to her plate. ‘I am so sorry. I will not do it again.’
‘Oh God, no, sorry, carry on,’ I apologized immediately. ‘I’m just not used to seeing people do…that.’
She smiled at me sheepishly and picked up her bread, nibbling cautiously, but not dunking it into her coffee. I smiled brightly, picked up my cup and looked away. Jesus, this was far too much power to have over a person.
Once the bread and croissants had all gone, we knuckled down to important business. The pains au chocolat. And the article.
‘So you know what the piece is about,’ I asked. She nodded in response, a notepad and pen in her eager hands. ‘Right, well, we have two days to uncover the secret Paris, all the coolest shopping hotspots, bars, restaurants, that kind of thing. Are you up to it?’
‘I am,’ she cheered, jumping out of her seat. ‘Let’s go!’
‘All right, calm down and sit for a minute.’ I realized I had my hands up in the air, made quick little fists and pulled them back down to the table. ‘That’s not entirely all, I did have some notes and things, but there was a problem with my suitcase so now I don’t have them. Or my camera. Or any other clothes. Or a Mac power lead. Or anything..’
I wasn’t telling that story again.
‘OK.’ Virginie nodded seriously. ‘I have some ideas of places to go, I am sure we will find you clothes in these places, notepads are easy to buy and I have a camera, I was hoping we would have a picture together. With the Mac power lead I cannot help, I do not know of a place in Paris for this.’
‘Right.’ I almost smiled. It was such a relief to have a friendly and helpful face by my side. ‘I should call the office and check in. Maybe they can help out too.’
I pulled out my BlackBerry and scanned the contacts until I came to Donna. Oh, she was going to love this. Just before I pressed the call, button, I stalled. What was I supposed to say? She had already made it clear she wasn’t my biggest fan. I scrolled down to Esme and paused again. Same situation. So who did I call? And at six-thirty in the morning? As much as it went against every instinct in my body, there really was only one person I could think of. Cici.
Instead of calling, even Cici’s new camaraderie would have its limits, and six-thirty a.m. was probably one of them, I opened up the email box, skipping over the four emails I’d had from Jenny already (one problem at a time) and tapped out a short message. I outlined my main problems, avoiding the controlled explosion situation and opting for a ‘lost luggage’ explanation. Email sent, I slipped my BlackBerry back into my now extraordinarily precious, one and only Marc Jacobs satchel and smiled at Virginie. She returned it immediately, a thousand watts brighter.
‘We are ready?’ she asked, literally bouncing in her chair.
‘We are ready,’ I confirmed. And hopefully I will find the strength not to drown you in the Seine, I added silently as she took my arm and dragged me off down the street.
‘D’accord, I am thinking of a store I know, not so far away, where they are making bags out of old leather jackets,’ Virginie said, leading me further into the elegant, narrow streets. ‘This would be very good for your article, oui?’
‘Perfect.’ I nodded, too busy staring all around me to really concentrate. Paris really was beautiful. I just wished I had my camera. The sun shone down on to the cobbled streets, warming my bare limbs and helping me feel less conspicuous in my makeshift dress. It was almost as warm as New York, but not nearly as humid. All of the shop fronts had big glass windows with muted wood surrounds, and the apartments above them were almost all decorated with dollhouse-style window boxes, spilling over with colourful flowers. While I stood around staring, I felt my BlackBerry vibrate against my hip. I stumbled along behind Virginie, trying to catch up while I read the message.
Hi Angela,
Shitty news about your suitcase! You must be totally traumatized. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Don’t panic, everything will be fine. I’ve spoken with my grandpa and he says you should just replace the camera and laptop stuff with the credit card I sent you, same with your clothes. Since you’re on a work trip, you’re insured and Spencer Media are liable for your losses. I would say just don’t go crazy – even Belle has a budget, I guess. LOL.
As for your notes, there’s not a lot we can do about that, but I can send over a list of some of my favourite places to shop in Paris. I’m at the gym now and I have some errands to run for Mary first thing so I won’t be able to get them to you until later, just enjoy Paris! I’ll sort stuff, don’t worry.
Cici xoxo
The first time I read the email, I almost fell over. The second, I just couldn’t believe it. By the time Virginie had read it out loud to me to check I wasn’t going mad, it had just about sunk in. LOL? Cici had ‘lol’d’ me? This was both unnatural and wrong.
‘She seems very helpful.’ Virginie held out my BlackBerry. I took it from her lightly as though
it were cursed. Which for all I knew, it was. ‘This is not how I remember her.’
‘You knew Cici?’ I asked.
‘I did,’ Virginie replied. ‘She very much wants to work at Belle. I sometimes had projects with her, assistant things.’
I eyed her carefully. It was strange, she didn’t have the look of someone who’d been tortured by a sadist. ‘So you’re friends?’
She let out a loud cackle and then clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry, that was rude,’ she said quickly. ‘But no, Cici Spencer and I are not friends. She does not like the interns and assistants that work on Belle. I think maybe she thinks if she, uh, convinces us to leave, she will get the job?’
‘Right,’ I said. Phew. Bullet dodged.
‘You are friends?’ Virginie asked cautiously. ‘With Cici?’
Without thinking, I gave her a matching cackle. ‘No, not at all. Whatever that email might look like.’ I took Virginie’s arm in mine and smiled. ‘I would not trust Cici Spencer as far as I could throw her. And that is actually probably quite far. Let’s go and have a look at this bag shop of yours.’
The morning passed quickly and I felt as if we’d walked for miles. Which we actually had when Virginie showed me our route on a tiny street map I’d bought. As well as the addresses of lots of cool shops, I’d managed to pick up a couple of bits and pieces for my capsule Paris wardrobe. As much as it completely weirded me to use the company credit card to buy things for myself, I really didn’t have much choice. I’d just paid my rent, Vanessa hadn’t given me her share yet and it was a week until payday. And I was really badly dressed. At least now I had jeans that fitted (a Parisian staple), a couple of T-shirts (God bless the international plague of American Apparel), a couple of cute vintage dresses (definitely research) and some shoes that weren’t the ancient and slightly skanky Primark flats I’d travelled in (just generally essential ). There was a chance that I didn’t need the two necklaces and several bangles I’d picked up, but I was writing for Belle now, it wouldn’t be right if I was wandering around Paris badly accessorized.