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.’
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