I Heart Paris (6 page)

I looked around for any telltale patches of puke at the boarding gate to show he’d been there, but it was clean as a whistle. But then, JFK airport probably sorted that kind of thing out fairly quickly. The Americans were pretty up on cleanliness.

It was really quite cute. Even when I was climbing the walls about something, Alex was always so laidback, and to see him panicking about the flight was sort of reassuring. So he
was
human after all. Even when I’d tried to reassure him with my ‘more people die in hippo attacks than in plane crashes each year’ favourite factoid of all time (not that I actually knew it was definitely a fact), he had just kissed the top of my head and gone back to pretending he wasn’t flying anyway.

Eventually, the flight was called and I hauled myself and my wildly overpacked and battered MJ handbag over to the gate. I’d packed my beautiful blue number and decided to carry on my trusty old (well, I’d had it almost a year) satchel for fear of the new bag being scratched or stained or touched by human hands other than my own. And besides, I’d more or less convinced myself that the knackered satchel actually looked better for being worn in. Kind of. Shuttling down the windy tunnel on to the plane, a reassuringly boredlooking flight attendant took my tickets, checked my passport and then pointed down the right-hand side of the plane with a Joker-sized smile. I returned a tight grimace and shuffled down the aisle, trying not to wedge my bottom in the faces of all the club class passengers already boarded. One day they’d tell me to turn left, one day.

Predictably, I’d been blessed with a teeny, tiny economy seat in the middle of a row of four and all three surrounding seats were taken. According to an overly sincere Cici, it was Spencer Media travel policy to fly economy on all flights under twelve hours, but for some reason, I just didn’t believe her. And besides, there was economy and there was the nine hours of living hell I was about to endure. Wedging my handbag under the seat in front of me, I glanced to my left to take in the extraordinarily large man currently crossing himself with closed eyes, a very large Bible in his lap. To my right, love’s young dream sat giggling and holding hands. Catching my eye, a (not actually so young) blonde woman thrust her left hand under my nose.

‘We just got married!’ she shrieked, waving her hand around to give the ginormous solitaire sufficient opportunity to blind me. ‘In New York! Married! We’re from England. But we got married in New York. Not Vegas. Tacky, that is.’

‘Right,’ I stuttered, trying to pull my head away from the hard, shiny thing that could potentially blind me. ‘Congratulations?’

‘Oh you’re English too! Dave, she’s English,’ my seat buddy went on, oblivious. ‘It was just at City Hall, quiet, but very classy, you know? And we stayed at the Waldorf Astoria. We haven’t told anyone at home. I mean, they knew we were engaged, but they didn’t know we were getting married. Dave’s been married before you see, so we didn’t think we needed to make a big deal of it.’

‘I’ve been married before,’ Dave confirmed, leaning across to show me his massive, diamond encrusted wedding band. Mmm, tasteful. ‘She was a right old cow. Not like this one.’

‘Well, yeah, congratulations,’ I said again, fiddling with my seatbelt as a polite ‘leave me alone’ signal, while seats 47 F and G began a rather aggressive PDA session.

‘It was lovely,’ Dave’s wife said, pushing her amorous husband away. ‘I got them Loobootin shoes, didn’t I, Dave? Lovely.’

‘She did,’ Dave nodded. ‘Loobootins.’

I managed a wan smile and tried not to start crying. How long was this flight again? Jenny would have actually slapped her around the face by now, my tolerance levels were most impressive.

‘And now we’re going to Paris for the honeymoon. Nice that, isn’t it? He’s a romantic, my Dave. Always said I’d marry a romantic. You married, love?’

‘No,’ I smiled, shaking my head. ‘Not married.’

‘Engaged?’

‘Nope.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Actually, yes.’

‘Well there you are,’ she said, patting my knee. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’

I smiled brightly and speedily plugged my ears with my earbuds before she could start up again. Only to have the flight attendant tell me that I couldn’t keep them in for take-off. Cow. Happily, Dave’s wife wasn’t a terribly good flier and had to bury her face in Dave’s reassuring chest throughout take off and for a good fifteen minutes after, by which time, I’d got the earbuds in and was pretending to sleep. Not an easy task when the man to the other side of me was a) incredibly sweaty and b) reading out Bible passages under his breath, just loudly enough to convince me he might be a serial killer. Fantastic.

I squinted to see the screen on my iPod, trying not to open my eyes enough to be busted and I scrolled down to the play lists. Alex had promised to upload something ‘other than Justin Timberlake and Gossip Girl’ to put me in the mood for Paris. I smiled and clicked on ‘Adventures of Angela: Paris Edition’ and tried not to look incredibly smug that I had a wonderful boyfriend who had made me a mixtape – the internationally accepted Token of True Love from a Boy. I settled back in my seat for some
musique en français
, but instead was jolted wide awake by the sound of Alex’s voice.

‘Hey Angela, so I put some songs together to help you get through the flight although, I guess it’s me that needs the help, right? Uh, anyway, I really wish we were flying out together, but I’ll see you when you get to the hotel and I promise it’s going to be a great trip. And yeah, this is a new song I’ve been working on…’

His quiet, smoky voice trailed off into a quick cough before his guitar took over. I closed my eyes quickly, not wanting to give The Second Missus Dave an opportunity to spoil this moment. Not that she could. I felt a hot flush in my cheeks while my stomach dropped and my heart pounded. It felt like falling off the kerb in my sleep, only in a good way. It felt the same as opening my eyes in the morning and seeing Alex’s face. The same as getting off the subway and spotting him waiting for me. The same as I felt whenever I thought about him being within a three-foot radius of me. Honestly, what was my problem? He was amazing. And he wasn’t my ex. My ex wouldn’t have even asked me to come to Paris with him in the first place, probably because he’d have wanted to bring his mistress, but still.

Of course I should move in with Alex.

I felt as if someone had just slapped me around the face with the Great Big Stick of Obvious Revelations. Of course I should live with him, I loved him. Excitement bubbled up inside me, we were going to live together! And I could tell him on his birthday. Which would really help if he didn’t like the watch I’d got him…

The rest of the flight passed relatively uneventfully, me struggling through fits and starts of sleep, the happy couple pawing each other throughout and only very occasionally grabbing my thigh accidentally (I hoped?), and my religious friend making it happily through a good couple of books of the Old Testament before the attendants came around with breakfast. Yawning widely and stretching as best I could, I shuffled from side to side and scraped my frizzy hair back from my face. Post long-haul was so not a good look for me. Across the aisle and past several people’s heads, I could see land below us. I scarfed the World’s Heaviest Danish Pastry as quickly as humanly possible, then slathered on a gob of Beauty Flash Balm and sat back, suddenly desperate to be on the ground.

‘Oh, you’re awake then, sleepyhead!’

Brilliant.

‘I thought we were going to have to leave you on the plane,’ Missus Dave said, giving me a jovial and yet oddly strong punch in the shoulder. ‘So, are you meeting this boyfriend of yours in Paris?’

‘Oh, um, yes,’ I said, trying to apply mascara without poking myself in the eye. Give me some slack, I’d only just learned how to do this on the ground let alone in midair descent.

‘Ahh, that’s nice,’ she said, fastening her seatbelt and settling back with Dave’s arm safely around her. ‘Who knows, maybe he’ll propose.’

It really was an instinctive reaction. I really didn’t mean to shoot my mascara-wand-wielding arm into the face of my Bible-toting seat buddy. And I really didn’t mean to make him throw a scorching cup of coffee down his trousers.

‘Holy Mary Mother of God!’

Oops. And I’d done so well not to offend or maim anyone for so long. I’d seen enough episodes of
Friends
to know that pawing at his crotch with napkins wouldn’t help, so instead I muttered my apologies, leaned back into my seat and closed my eyes. If that was the worst thing that happened and I’d got all the way to Paris, I would be very happy.

‘What do you mean my bag had to be “destroyed”?’

I stood in the baggage reclaim section of Charles de Gaulle airport, listening to an incredibly boredlooking official type person repeat himself for the fourth time.

‘
Madame
Clark, as I explained,’ he sighed, ‘your suitcase failed our safety screening and was destroyed. This should have been told to you at JFK. In fact, you should not have been able to travel.’

‘When you say destroyed,’ I rubbed my temples and blinked a few times waiting to wake up, ‘and you know, it’s
Mademoiselle
.’

‘
Pardon, Mademoiselle.
Destroyed. It is gone.’

I rifled around in my battered handbag, checking just what I had with me. Sunglasses, lip balm, two lipsticks, phone, camera, wallet, passport, laptop,
US Weekly
. Well, at least I wouldn’t be stuck for some educational reading material. Thank God.

‘But why?’ I heard my voice start to crack. Apparently, I was starting to grasp the reality of what had happened. ‘Why would it be, oh God, why would it be destroyed?’

‘There are many reasons,
Madame
, security is very high right now. Possibly you have something forbidden in your suitcase? Something dangerous?’

‘The most dangerous thing in there was a pair of shoes once involved in a case of GBH.’ I pursed my lips together, determined not to cry. There had to be a mistake. ‘Who can I talk to about this?’

‘I am afraid it is me.’ The officer sighed. Again. ‘Perhaps there was something, ah, battery operated?’

‘Battery operated?’

‘Possibly vibrating?’ he expanded discreetly.

‘Vibrating? A vibrator?’ I screeched. Wow, I could really be shrill when I wanted to. And given all the looks I was getting from every other passenger in the airport, vibrator was a word that translated globally. Brilliant.

‘But when you say destroyed?’

‘It has been securely detonated.’

‘Securely…’

‘Yes.’

‘Blown up?’

‘
Oui
.’

‘I…what?’ I suddenly felt very, very unsteady on my feet.

‘I am sorry Ms Clark. I am able to let you pass through the airport as there is no security alert on you, but your baggage has been destroyed. That is all I can tell you. Would you like me to escort you to a taxi?’

‘But really, how can it—’ I tried once more as the officer took my arm and lead me out of the airport and towards the large double doors.

By the time I got in to the city I’d just about made it through to the third stage of grief. I had ploughed through disbelief by the time the airport official had physically tossed me into the back of a taxi and I powered straight on to anger halfway down the motorway. Once I’d finished swearing vengeance on the firstborn children of every airport worker at JFK and Charles de Gaulle, I moved on to depression. My Louboutins. My beautiful blue Marc Jacobs satchel. All of my clothes. All of them. Oh God, all of the clothes Jenny had sent over. All blown to smithereens by a sweaty man in a short-sleeved shirt at the airport. Who probably had a moustache. They all had short-sleeved shirts and moustaches.

Somewhere inside my brain, a part of me tried to tell me about all the clothes shops and shoe stores and lingerie I would be able to buy on my research trips, but every time I closed my eyes, I just saw my dandelion yellow 3.1 Phillip Lim sundress flying up into the air and scattering into a million pieces while several French security guards stood around wearing berets and guffawing. Armoured berets. And the Lanvin. Dear God, the Lanvin. My fevered imagination preferred to imagine the case had been blown up in France.

According to the last text I’d received from Alex, he had to be at some place called Café Charbon by seven and told me to meet him there. It was way too late to get to the hotel first and besides, what exactly was I planning on changing into? This wasn’t Project Catwalk, I wasn’t going to be able to cobble together a Parisian evening look from the pages of
US Weekly
and a Lancôme Juicy Tube.

I attempted to explain where I wanted to go to the driver, but was eventually reduced to showing him Alex’s text. He grunted and sped off down some tiny cobbled streets, lined with tiny tables and even tinier girls, all with extraordinarily long hair and pouty, miserable expressions.
Vive la France
.

Eventually the taxi pulled to a stop and the driver turned to stare at me. Even though I knew I couldn’t be a pretty sight, I stared back. Had he just lost everything he’d ever owned that was shiny, pretty and beautiful? No. No he had not. As rudely as I could manage, I pulled out a fistful of Euros and handed them to him in what I hoped was a vaguely ignorant fashion. Although it probably ruined the effect when I awkwardly thanked him and told him to keep the change.

Attempting to compose myself before I saw Alex, I paused in front of a beautiful glass-fronted café and breathed deeply and slowly. Dozens of people stood outside smoking and laughing and all of them were beautiful. To be fair, I would have been overdressed in Jenny’s Balmain sequined dress, but that didn’t help me feel any less crappy than I did in my travelling clothes. Actually, my only clothes now. All of the girls were wearing blue jeans so tight, I was pretty certain that no matter how badly all the dark-eyed, dark-haired boys that were eyeing them up wanted to give them one, it would be physically impossible. How on earth did they get them on and off without specialized equipment? Standing around nodding and gesticulating with their cigarettes, I noticed that they all had perfectly dishevelled bedhead hairdos, as opposed to frizzy, flat plane hairdon’ts, and instead of mascara-stained cheeks and dark circles hastily covered up with too much Touche Eclat, every single girl looked as though she scoffed at make-up and was in fact, just a fresh-faced beauty. Bitches. And they had to rub in the fact that I wasn’t allowed to drink red wine because I was incapable of drinking a single glass without spilling it all down myself. Or someone else in my immediate vicinity. Basically, there was no way I was going to be mistaken for being a French girl. Homeless French sixteen-year-old boy, maybe, but one of these sophisticated sex bombs? Not so much. Mew.