Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) by Nicola Doherty Page A

impression Charlie’s waiting to jump in as soon as the clothes talk stops.
    ‘So,’ says Charlie. ‘Do you all have nice summer holiday plans?’
    ‘I will go to my parents’ place in Provence for three weeks in August,’ says Constance.
    ‘Three weeks!’ Charlie and I say in unison.
    ‘Yes, normally it would be four weeks, but we have to work so much lately, we are becoming like Americans.’
    ‘Nice,’ says Charlie. ‘I’ve got a golfing holiday in Portugal with some mates in September, I can’t wait.’
    ‘I love Portugal. I went to Lisbon last year for the Disquiet International festival,’ says Jonathan. ‘I ended up staying up all night drinking
vinho verde
with Ian.’
    ‘Ian?’ says Charlie.
    ‘Oh, sorry – McEwan.’
    Everyone murmurs politely. I’ll admit, I’ve begun to notice a certain amount of name-dropping in Jonathan’s anecdotes. He’s also one of those people who reads out the entire name of the dish when ordering food: he’s having the
filet de boeuf, pommes Pont Neuf, jus lié au foie gras
. But nobody’s perfect.
    ‘How was last night, Jonathan?’ Constance asks. ‘How is Calyxte?’
    ‘Fine,’ says Jonathan briefly. Very briefly, in fact.
    ‘Who’s Calyxte?’ Charlie enquires.
    Jonathan replies, ‘A friend,’ at the same time as Constance says, ‘Jonathan’s girlfriend. Her parents live near me, in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, which is just outside Paris.’
    ‘Your girlfriend,’ I repeat, staring at him blankly while thinking: His
girlfriend
?
Her parents?
    ‘It’s complicated,’ he says, looking harassed. ‘We were together for a while, then we broke up, then we became friends . . .’
    ‘Jonathan, you don’t have to complicate your life with these categories,’ says Constance, laughing. ‘In French we have one expression:
l’homme, ou la femme, de ma vie.
The man of my life, the woman of my life. Very simple. Calyxte is
la femme de ta vie
.’
    ‘Have you met Calyxte?’ I ask Constance, concentrating on sounding calm.
    ‘Oh, yes, she’s very charming and beautiful. She is the editor of a literary magazine.’
    ‘Sounds perfect,’ I say icily.
    Jonathan is pretending to be absorbed in reading a wine label. ‘I think I’ve been to this vineyard,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s near Johnny’s place.’
    ‘Johnny?’ Charlie asks.
    ‘Sorry, Depp.’
    I get to my feet. ‘Will you excuse me a minute?’
    As I walk towards the loo, I think: Stupid, stupid, stupid. I am so stupid. I’ve been played, and now I’m in the most effed-up position ever. I slept with an author, who has a girlfriend. Who hosted him for dinner, with her parents, last night, while I was in my tiny hotel room watching badly dubbed
Friends
!
    Now I have to work with him and talk to him about his book and hold his hand when he gets a bad review, and I just can’t do it. I splash cold water on my wrists, wondering if there’s any way out. Maybe I can hand him over to Ellen. But I’d have to explain why, and . . . aargh. I feel like such a stupid idiot. After all my plans to have a fling with Charlie, I had mindless, meaningless sex with
completely the wrong man
.
    I’m so humiliated I’d happily stay in here all day, but I have to go back out and face the music. I’ll have to grin and bear it, and as soon as we get out of here I’ll figure something out. The elegant surroundings actually help; as I walk towards our table, I decide to channel Glenn Close in
Dangerous Liaisons
. Specifically, the bit where she practises smiling as she sticks a fork into her hand under the table.
    However, only Charlie is left at the table.
    ‘They’ve gone over there for a smoke,’ he says. ‘Did you just drop something, Poppy?’
    He hands me a small black Moleskine notebook. It looks like mine, but I think Jonathan has one like it. I open it up to check, thinking I’ll know as soon as I see the handwriting. I find myself reading this:
     ‘Isn’t Paris the City of Light?’
    Cuff,