Paris Crush (12 page)

Inside, I stop in front of a mirror. The Paris air has tamed my curls. And my skin is glowing. My freckles actually look like they belong to me. Usually, it’s like aliens have colonized my
face. I look fresh and natural, like the women I’ve seen on the streets. Suddenly I feel at home. I don’t need mascara. Or lipstick. I wash my hands, run my fingers through my hair to
neaten it a little and then straighten my crisp white shirt, ready to face Rupert’s jokes.

I hear him as soon as I near the table.

‘What do you call a Frenchman wearing sandals?’

Cindy sighs. ‘I don’t know, Rupert.’

‘Philippe Phillop.’ Rupert spots me and leaps to his feet, but I’m determined to sit down before he has a chance to play my gentleman-in-waiting. I slide in between my seat and
the table and sit down.

The world opens up beneath me.

Rupert was quicker than me. With a crash, I sit straight on the floor. Hoots of laughter rip round the table and I look up through my mass of curls. Rupert’s standing above me, holding my
chair. He must have whipped it away as I started to sit.

‘I’m so sorry! I was just moving it for you to sit down.’

He drops the chair. It crushes my hand. Wincing, I snatch my fingers to safety, but Rupert’s dragging me to my feet by my elbow. I crack my shoulder against the table on the way up, making
the glasses rock. Everyone grabs their water before there’s a flood.

‘Sorry.’ Rupert’s using his favourite word.

I shake him off, grab my chair and sit down. The moment of quiet confidence I’d felt in front of the mirror has gone. Instead, rage and humiliation are making my freckles flare.

Rupert sits down, looking abashed. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have much luck with chairs.’

‘We don’t have much luck, full stop,’ I hiss, between gritted teeth.

Barbara leans towards me across the table. ‘Are you OK, Gem?’

David is owl-eyed behind his glasses. ‘You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?’

For a moment the lovebirds are united in sympathy for me, and my heart lifts. They are made for each other.

Cindy giggles behind her hand. ‘Oh, Gemma, you
do
make us laugh.’

I lift my chin. ‘I’m glad to hear it. If you want me to trip over on the way home or fall into the Seine, just ask. I’m sure Rupert will help.’

He looks at me sheepishly. ‘Sorry, Gem. I was just trying to help.’

It’s hard to feel cross when he looks so contrite. ‘It was just an accident,’ I concede. As I pat his hand, I spot a waiter heading towards us with a loaded tray. He whirls
round the table, distributing food like a ballerina. My duck salad slides under my nose. Sam breathes in the steam rising from his cheese and ham toastie.

David stares at his plate. ‘Lamb chops?’

The little legs on his plate don’t look much like lamb. More like tiny tap dancers with their arms and heads missing.

‘It’s frogs’ legs, mate,’ Sam tells him.

Cindy practically crawls up the back of her chair in horror. Rupert peers warily across the table. Barbara tips her head. ‘Oh, David, you poor thing. Would you like half my
toastie?’

David straightens. ‘No thank you, Barbara. I think this will be a good experience.’ I’m impressed by his courage. Like a soldier going into battle, he fixes his face into a
determined grimace and begins to saw at one of the legs with his knife and fork.

We watch, fascinated. I’m trying not to picture little legless frogs in tiny wheelchairs, staring sadly into an empty pond.

David’s knife finally cuts through a kneecap. The little froggy stump flies off his plate in a burst of gravy, before arcing over the silverware and landing, with perfect precision, in the
middle of Barbara’s beautifully framed cleavage.

She squeals and stiffens in shock as the stump disappears deep into her jacket. David turns ninja, reacting with such speed that he blurs in my vision. Without stopping to think, he thrusts his
hand in pursuit of his escaped frog-stump. His expression is perfect as his thoughts catch up with his actions. He’s leaning across the table, his hand down Barbara’s jacket. His face
freezes.

Meanwhile, Barbara’s
un
freezing. With a scream, she pulls away and clutches her chest. David’s hand pops out. He’s holding the frog-stump.

Sam starts to clap. ‘That was a great save, Dave,’ he grins.

Poor Barbara is flapping and red-faced while Cindy tries to calm her. Rupert leaps to his feet and starts dabbing at Barbara’s gravy-stained jacket with his napkin. She fights him off,
squawking like a wet hen.

David sits down, lays the frog-stump on the side of his plate and calmly wipes his hand. ‘No harm done.’

Barbara stops in her tracks and glares at him. Her pink jacket is polka-dotted with frog-juice. Her hair has escaped its chignon and is flapping round her face. ‘
No harm
done?
’

‘What’s all the fuss?’ David crosses his arms sulkily. ‘It was just an accident.’

Rupert sits back down. ‘The waiter must think we’re insane.’ He pauses. ‘And we didn’t even have to jump in the river.’ He reaches out and grabs my hand.
‘River. In-Seine. Get it?’

‘Got it,’ I answer, unimpressed. Then I notice Sam. His delight at David’s flying frog leg has gone. He’s watching Rupert laugh heartily at his own joke, his expression
stony. Clearly, Sam is not impressed with Rupert’s wit.

As I untangle my hand from Rupert’s, Cindy leans closer to Sam. ‘Be a honey and refill Barbara’s water.’ I wait for her Sugar Plum Fairy act to uncrease his brow. But he
just frowns harder and sploshes water ungraciously into Barbara’s glass.

I glance round the table. David’s sulking, Sam’s scowling. Cindy’s helping Barbara towards the Ladies, so she can clean up and calm down. Rupert’s the only one
smiling.

This is turning out to be the lunch from Hell.

Wistfully, I wonder how Treacle and Savannah are getting on.

I look up and marvel at the great glass roof pyramiding above us as we file into the Louvre. Not even Willy Wonka could have dreamed up something that amazing. A wide blue
April sky shows beyond the thousands of triangular panes of glass. Tourists swarm round us, floating up escalators, queuing at ticket counters, bumbling around like lost sheep.

‘Green Park High!’ Madame Papillon’s voice wails over the murmuring of the crowds.

‘This way.’ Rupert grabs my hand and starts dragging me through the crowds. I glance over my shoulder and glimpse Cindy steering Barbara behind us. David and Sam dodge between
sightseers to keep up.

I get a glimpse of Madame Papillon, flapping students towards her like a ruffled chicken. Then I see a flash of chestnut hair and a streak of black.

‘Treacle!’ I break free of Rupert and push my way through to Treacle and Savannah. We hug like long-lost sisters.

‘How was lunch?’ Treacle asks.

‘Don’t ask.’ I know they’d love to hear about the frog leg incident, but they won’t understand what a setback it is in my David and Barbara love plan. ‘How
was yours?’

‘Wonderful!’ Savannah beams. ‘Marcus found this cute little noodle bar that serves the best Thai-French fusion food in Paris.’

‘Cool!’ I wonder if I’d made a mistake choosing Cindy’s group instead of staying with Treacle and Savannah. I certainly hadn’t smoothed the path of true love. I
might as well have been scoffing noodles with my friends.

Madame Papillon holds up a string of tickets. ‘Are we all here?’ She’s desperately head-counting as Green Park students flock round her.

Jeff peers over Treacle’s shoulder. ‘Hi, Gemma. How was lunch?’

‘We’re not supposed to ask,’ Treacle fills him in.

Savannah looks me up and down. ‘Gem’s playing mystery woman.’

‘I’ll tell you everything later,’ I promise.

‘Do you want to hang with us while we do the Louvre?’ Jeff asks. ‘I want to see the picture of Saint Sebastian. The one with all the arrows sticking in him.’

Treacle elbows him in the ribs. ‘You’re revolting.’

He puts his arms round her and squeezes. ‘But you love me anyway.’

Treacle squirms away, laughing. ‘You belong on a football pitch, not in an art gallery, you barbarian.’

Madame Papillon interrupts. ‘I want you to stay in your lunch groups.’ She looks at her watch. ‘And meet back here at five o’clock on the dot.’

My heart sinks, then plummets further as Rupert looms beside me. ‘Excellent,’ he says with a smile.

Savannah raises her eyebrows sympathetically. ‘Do you want to swap places with Marcus?’

‘Hey!’ Marcus objects.

‘No, it’s OK.’ I’m meant to be bringing lovers together not breaking them up. ‘I’ll stick with my group.’

Madame Papillon’s waving a streamer of tickets at me. ‘Gemma, take those for your group.’

Cindy’s suddenly at my side, taking charge. ‘I’ll look after those.’ She snatches the tickets off me. ‘We don’t want them getting lost.’ She sweeps into
the crowd, Barbara, David and Rupert beetling after her.

Sam nudges me from behind. ‘We’d better keep up.’

As he steers me away, I glance back at Treacle and Savannah. They’re waving. I wave back until they disappear into the crowds.

‘The Denon Wing, right?’ Cindy’s leading us into the old building, moving like a sniffer dog after an escaped convict. I’m out of breath by the time she skids to a halt
under a massive stone arch. A wide corridor opens behind it, the curved roof paned with glass. Paintings line the high walls.

‘Let’s start here.’ Cindy glances at a guidebook.

Rupert and Barbara, Sam and David gather round her like eager kids. I gaze into the distance, dreamy-eyed at the beauty of the building. Elegant columns and carved arches soar to a vaulted
ceiling, rich with paintings of angels and saints.

I’m already writing my piece for the webzine in my head.

I follow Cindy and the others, stopping as I pass a breathtakingly beautiful statue of two lovers kissing.

‘They look chilly.’ Rupert spoils the perfect moment by pointing out that they’re butt naked.

I speed up, trying to outwalk him, but he’s at my heels talking. His comment was clearly just a taster of the lecture to come. He includes Sam, Cindy, Barbara and David in his next
artistic appraisal, suddenly taking on the role of tour guide.

‘We have here
Liberty Leading the People
by Delacroix,’ he begins. A topless woman is leading a crowd of revolutionaries. ‘The French Revolution began when a pudding
shop burned down.’

Cindy narrows her eyes. ‘Wasn’t that the Great Fire of London?’

Rupert’s unfazed. ‘Clearly, there were a lot of fires that year owing to the great amount of pudding shops.’ He moves on to another painting further down the hall. ‘This,
of course . . .’ He stops to peer at the label beneath the painting. ‘. . . Is David’s
Coronation of Napoleon
. You’ll see a sculpture of David further down the hall,
made by Michelangelo, shortly after David had finished this painting.’

I search his face, trying to work out if he’s serious.

‘Let’s move on to the
Mona Lisa
.’ He ushers us down the hall and into a room where crowds cluster round a surprisingly small painting at the end.

‘This, of course,’ Rupert begins, ‘is the postcard version painted by Leonardo da Vinci to hand out to tourists. The real-life painting is kept in storage for
safety.’

Sam steps forward. ‘This is the real one,’ he tells Rupert.

‘Can’t be.’ Rupert stares at it. ‘Only big paintings are famous.’

I stretch up on tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse. As if by magic, the crowd parts. Mona Lisa is staring back at me, her gaze fixing on me as though I am the only person in the room and she is
staring only at me. Calmness floods from her, the light in her face, and on her hands, luminous and breathtaking.

I realize I’ve stopped breathing.

‘Pretty cool, huh?’ Sam whispers in my ear.

I drag my gaze from the portrait and look into his too-blue eyes. ‘Uh-huh.’ I’m still half-hypnotized by Mona.

Then Rupert speaks. ‘It’s well known that the mysterious woman shown in Leonardo’s painting was actually a man. He lived close to Leo’s studio and was called Montel
Limon. He only agreed to sit as Leo’s model after Montel lost a bet over how many paintbrushes Leo could fit in his ear.’

I’ve stopped caring whether Rupert’s trying to be funny or whether he’s just an idiot. All I want is some peace from his endless burbling.

I break away from the group and head for another room, fighting my way through the crowds until they start to thin. At last, I find my way to a wide, airy room, almost empty. Relieved, I wander
across the marble floor, relishing the echoing
clip-clop
of my shoes. In front of me is a painting of the night sky. Stars dot the inky blackness, swirling into a mass at the centre, and I
stop and stare, losing myself in the picture.