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

bangle, bracelet – rich vocabulary
    Skin the colour of Coffee mocha café au lait
    Clashes with her mother – father complex?
    ‘Why are all French films about adultery?’
     
    ‘Are you all right, Poppy?’ says Constance, sitting down again.
    ‘Hey – is that mine?’ says Jonathan.
    ‘Yes, it is,’ I say, handing it over to him. ‘And so’s this.’ I pick up my half-full wine glass, and empty it over his head. I take one satisfying look at his stupid gaping face, drenched in red wine, and then grab my clutch and walk out, ignoring all the scandalised looks from everyone in the restaurant.
    Outside, I stab the buttons of the lift and get myself to the ground floor, where I emerge into the groovy landscaped gardens of the museum, which has a living wall and which I would find really interesting at any other time. I hurry across the road and find myself on a bridge, I’m not sure which one. It really doesn’t matter right now.
    ‘
Excusez-moi, vous n’auriez pas une cigarette
?’ I ask a man passing by.
    ‘Yes, of course,’ he replies in English, handing me one.
    ‘Thank you, but if you don’t mind, I am TRYING to practise my FRENCH!’ I scream at him irrationally.
    ‘Poppy!’ Charlie rushes up behind me, out of breath. The guy leaves, looking scared. I don’t blame him; I am completely losing the plot.
    ‘What the hell was all that about? Hang on a sec.’
    He taps the shoulder of a passing intertwined couple – another one! – and gets a light from them.
    ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ he says.
    ‘I don’t . . . this is sort of an emergency.’
    Raising his eyebrows, Charlie steers me off the bridge and down onto the quays, where we find a seat on a bench.
    ‘Did something happen yesterday, with you and J-Wild?’ says Charlie.
    I take a drag of my cigarette and try and get my voice under control. ‘Yes.’
    ‘What – oh.’ There’s a pause, while I can see the penny dropping. ‘Oh.’
    ‘I know,’ I mutter. ‘Please don’t tell me how awful it was. I’ve never done anything like that before in my life.’
    ‘No wonder you flipped when Constance mentioned his girlfriend,’ he says.
    ‘It wasn’t just that, it was the notebook. He’d been taking notes on me – writing down things I said, things about my life. It was so horrible.’
    ‘Well . . . but he’s a writer; that’s what they do.’
    ‘Yes, except this has happened to me before,’ I say. ‘My ex-boyfriend devoted an entire art installation to our relationship. It was called “Bitch Done Me Wrong”.’
    ‘Oh,’ says Charlie.
    I stare at the murky waters of the Seine, thinking: what is it about me that makes men want to use me for material? Am I just some kind of ‘exotic’ character to them? And is that whole lunch going to appear in a novel, complete with the drink in the face?
    ‘Oh, God, I’m so embarrassed,’ I mutter, as the whole horror of the thing begins to sink in. ‘I can’t believe I threw a drink in his face.’
    ‘I was quite surprised myself,’ Charlie says.
    I moan again and sink my face into my hands. Then I think of something else. ‘Did you pay the bill?’ I ask.
    ‘No, I did not. Jonathan can pick up a bill for once in his life.’
    ‘Oh, no, Charlie – poor Constance will end up paying. And did the waiters look shocked?’
    ‘The waiters? Not particularly. This is Paris, don’t forget. I bet half the women in this city have slung a red wine in someone’s face at some point. Or a
vin rouge,
as Jonathan would say.’ He starts to laugh.
    ‘I really can’t see what’s funny here,’ I say coldly.
    ‘I’m sorry, Poppy, it’s just . . . his face was so priceless. I know he’s a good writer, but he was a bit of a twat, don’t you think? With his French phrases and Johnny Depp’s vineyard and getting drunk with Ian McEwan.’
    I finish my cigarette. I’m tempted to flick the butt into the river but, ever my mother’s daughter, I stub it out and find a bin for