The Art of French Kissing (9 page)

“Poppy—” I started.

“Didn’t you have fun last night?”

“Before or after Guillaume?” I muttered.

She made a face at me.
“Before
,
”
she said. “Obviously.”

“Seriously, Poppy,” I said after a moment. “I don’t think this is going to work. I’m about the most unglamorous person in Paris right now. Even if I wanted to date, I doubt I’d have much luck.”

“We’ll just see about that,” Poppy said with a smile. “Let me work my magic.”

Unglamorous or not, I somehow had a date twenty minutes later.

“Told you so!” Poppy singsonged triumphantly as my new Monsieur Right excused himself to go buy us a round of drinks. “I told you I could get you a date!”

“What did you say to him?” I demanded. Poppy had disappeared into the crowd and returned ten minutes later with Thibault (which sounded like
T-bone
when he said it), a thirtysomething architect who lived nearby. He spoke good English, had deep brown eyes rimmed with thick, dark lashes, and was the stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome Frenchman. In short, he seemed perfect. And he’d had the charm turned on full-force since arriving at our table and asking if I’d like to meet him at noon tomorrow at Notre Dame for a little tour of Paris.

“I just said that my very beautiful American friend was new in town and hadn’t met anyone yet,” Poppy said with a nonchalant shrug. “He wanted to meet you right away.”

I looked at her skeptically. “You’re kidding me.
That
gorgeous guy wanted to meet
me
?”

Poppy sighed. “I’m getting a little tired of you selling yourself short. You’re a doll, and any man would be lucky to have you.”

I shrugged and looked away. I didn’t believe her.

The next morning, after a quick breakfast of cappuccino and
pains au chocolat
at Café de l’Alma, a little café near our apartment, Poppy and I were standing outside the Galeries Lafayette, the biggest and most famous department store in Paris, when the doors opened at nine thirty. Despite my exhaustion and reluctance to be dragged around what I figured would be an oversize Macy’s, I couldn’t help but be dazzled when we walked in.

My jaw must have literally dropped, because Poppy started laughing. “I had the same expression on my face the first time I came here,” she said. “It’s nine floors of pure fashion heaven. If I ever win the lottery, I’m coming here straightaway.”

“Oh, my,” was all I could manage in reply.

From where we were standing, I could see only the ground floor, but it was breathtaking. There were colorful clothes, beautiful salespeople, and seemingly endless rows of accessories and cosmetics as far as the eye could see, all in dazzlingly bright colors and patterns. I felt like a kid in a candy store. A very big, very beautiful candy store.

But it was the ceiling that really blew me away. Rising above us, nine floors off the ground, was an enormous dome of stained glass and wrought iron, through which the morning light was pouring, illuminating the center arcade. It reminded me of something you might find in an exquisitely decorated old church, except that here we were worshipping at the altar of fashion. Each level of the enormous department store overlooked the ground floor in a beautiful tiered arrangement that made me feel like I was inside a wedding cake. It was like nothing I had ever seen.

“Okay, Wide Eyes,” Poppy said after a moment. “Stop gawking. Let’s get going.”

We had a mission today. Poppy had vowed to help me pick out an outfit for my tour of Paris with Thibault, and we had only two hours before I had to meet him.

“Spending the day with someone creates the perfect opportunity for romance,” Poppy informed me solemnly as we wove our way through endless accessories. “It’s what
Date for the Day
is all about. It’s one of my favorite dating advice books.”

I tried not to feel uneasy, thinking of the fact that I was about to go on my first date since Brett.

Poppy took me by the arm and led me past row upon row of jewelry counters, gorgeous handbags, silky hosiery, ornate watches, and facial care displays that promised to restore youthful skin to all buyers. I gaped the whole way. I felt sure this was what my heaven would look like. In fact, I even pinched myself once to make sure I hadn’t fallen back asleep on Poppy’s floor and dreamed it all.

“Ouch!” I exclaimed when the pinch did, in fact, hurt. Okay, so I was awake.

Poppy glanced at me. “No offense, but you should probably stop staring and start acting nonchalant. You’ll fit in a lot better. You look very American at the moment, you know.”

I snapped my mouth closed and tried to look casual. Poppy was right. All around me, bored-looking Frenchwomen, who looked far too put together for nine thirty on a Saturday morning, browsed among the endless accessories, looking like they weren’t impressed at all to be here. It had to be an act! How could they not feel like dancing gleefully through the aisles, touching scarves and bags and belts in all sorts of rich fabrics and beautiful shapes?

“Bonjour
,
”
Poppy said to the woman at the Clinique counter as we walked up. The woman’s makeup and hair were impeccable, and her black wrap dress looked perfect. I felt even frumpier than usual next to her. “My friend here needs to have her colors done. Do you speak English?”

The woman beamed at me.

“
Oui
, I do speak English, a little,” she said. “I would love to do your makeup. Have a seat.”

I smiled, feeling suddenly shy as I sat down in the makeup chair.

“I’ll leave you here for a bit,” Poppy said. “Good luck! I love this counter. They always do such a great job.”

Thirty minutes later, when she returned to retrieve me, I was a whole new person.

The makeup artist, whose name was Ana, chattered pleasantly in broken English while plucking foundations, blushes, shadows, and lipsticks from the enormous counter beside us as if it was second nature. She wouldn’t let me look in the mirror until she was done.

“Voilà!”
she said finally. Poppy grinned at me. “What do you think?”

Ana handed me a mirror. I hardly recognized the woman reflected in it.

Gone were the constant dark circles beneath my eyes and the reddish shade of my chin, something I’d never been able to correct on my own. My skin looked silky smooth and completely even, yet natural at the same time. My cheeks had a healthy, dewy flush to them, and my lips were a perfect shade of pale pink.

“Emma, you’re lovely!” Poppy exclaimed.

“I can’t believe it,” I replied. I looked at Ana in astonishment. “How did you do that?”

She laughed. “Nothing complicated. I used a little more foundation, a different color
rouge
, and better moisturizer. You’re really quite pretty.”

I bought all the makeup on the spot (despite the fact that I hadn’t received my first paycheck—but really, how could I not?) and, with a final thank-you, followed Poppy upstairs to the women’s clothing department.

An hour later, after paying for a sheer pink blouse and a cream-colored tulip skirt that fit just as perfectly, I went back to the dressing room to change into my new clothes and then let Poppy help me pick out a pair of shoes to match. We settled on a silky pair of ballet flats in the same color as the new shirt, as I figured I’d need something easy to walk in if I was going to be accompanying my new Frenchman around Paris all day.

Poppy walked me to Notre Dame by eleven forty-five, and as we parted ways, she gave me a peck on the cheek.

“Your date is going to be fabulous,” she reassured me. “You look beautiful. Thibault will fall for you in an instant. Trust me, you’re going to love your new city. And Paris is going to love you right back.”

Chapter Eight

P
oppy had actually succeeded in getting me excited about my date.

I hadn’t expected to feel that way. After all, the Brett wound was still wide open. Being dismissed nonchalantly by the man I’d been with for three years, the man I’d planned to
marry
in September, wasn’t exactly confidence inspiring.

And while I still felt vaguely like I was betraying Brett in some way (although I knew that was utterly illogical), there was also a part of me that was looking forward to spending the day with someone new. After all, as Poppy had said, it wasn’t like I was going to spend my life with this guy. It was just a few hours. And maybe there
was
something to be said for being with someone who made me feel attractive and interesting. I hadn’t felt that way around Brett in quite a while.

Despite myself, I had to admit that there was something to Poppy’s theory. Or at least to the magic of this city. I couldn’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed by the romance of it all as I sat in a little park in front of Notre Dame, gazing up at the seven-hundred-year-old Gothic church with its stately towers and soaring stained-glass windows.

As I waited, I let my imagination wander. Perhaps Thibault would arrive with red roses. Don’t Frenchmen always go around giving red roses to their dates in movies? I felt sure he’d give me a peck on each cheek and perhaps gallantly take my small hand in his strong one as he led me into the church, where he had promised we would begin our Parisian tour by climbing the steps to one of Notre Dame’s towers. Perhaps afterward we’d take a little boat ride on the Seine, followed by a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower, then dinner in some yummy French restaurant.

I felt a little shiver of anticipation. And then, just as quickly, I felt a little pang of guilt. I knew it was ridiculous, but waiting for a romantic date in this romantic city so soon after my breakup made me feel a little like I was cheating on Brett.

“Stop thinking about him. He
left
you
,
”
I said aloud, prompting an odd look from the woman on the other end of the bench. She stared at me for a moment. Then she closed the book she was reading, stood up, and hurried away.

Okay, so perhaps I should avoid talking to myself in public. Duly noted.

I
hated
that I missed Brett. Poppy would have killed me for saying so, but I would have given anything in that moment to be waiting for Brett to turn the corner of the cathedral to sweep me off my feet, declare how wrong he had been, and take me on a whirlwind tour of the City of Love.

But no, I shouldn’t think like that. Brett was in the past. Thibault was in the future.

My French knight in shining armor would be here at any moment.

Except Thibault never showed up.

I waited until twelve fifteen before I called Poppy from the cell phone she’d given me yesterday (presumably to be reachable twenty-four hours a day, so that I could come running whenever Guillaume got himself into a scrape).

“You’re kidding,” she said flatly when I announced that my date was a no-show.

“Nope.”

She hesitated for a moment. “Maybe he’s just late. Give him another fifteen minutes.”

So I did. I sat back down on the bench and tried to distract myself by trying to guess the nationality of the tourists who streamed by my perch.

Fifteen minutes came and went. Still no Thibault. I’d been stood up.

So much for my confidence-inspiring leap back into the dating pool.

I pulled out my phone to call Poppy back. Then I stopped. What was she going to say that would make me feel better? I didn’t want to go back to her tiny apartment and mope about my bad luck with guys. I’d done quite enough of that on my own, thank you. And wasn’t it Poppy who had gotten me into this mess in the first place? I felt pathetic.

I sighed and stood up from the bench. I didn’t need a guy to see Paris with, did I? I’d take myself to lunch and go on my own tour of the city.

Trying not to think about the fact that I’d just been dumped
before
the first date (a new record for me), I walked west on the Île de la Cité, then I crossed to the Right Bank over the Pont Neuf, feeling my heart leap a bit as I looked off to the left and saw the tip of the Eiffel Tower soaring above the gleaming water. I should have known better than to spoil my time here by letting Poppy talk me into trying out some dating game.

I found a little café across the street from the water on the Right Bank, just to the left of the bridge. As I ducked inside the dimly lit café, which had burgundy walls and neatly spaced little round tables of dark wood, the waiter at the door said something to me in French, but of course I didn’t understand.

I shook my head.
“Je ne parle pas français
,
”
I mumbled, feeling like an idiot.

He smirked a bit at me. “Ah,
une americaine
,” he said, as if it were a bad word. “Sit anywhere.”

“Merci.”
I nodded and walked to a table for two by the window, overlooking the sidewalk outside, which was filled with Parisians and tourists hurrying to and fro. Off to the left, I knew, was the Hôtel de Ville, Paris’s ornate city hall. Off to the right was the enormous Louvre. Perhaps I’d join the crowds and see it after lunch today.

I glanced around and noticed several clusters of people close to the bar. One group, obviously American, judging from their baseball caps, sneakers, and loudly familiar accents, were chugging beer.

The waiter came and plunked down a menu in front of me without a word. I glanced at it and realized immediately it was all in French.

“Um, excuse me!” I said. The waiter stopped in his tracks and turned. “Do you have a menu in English?”

He smirked at me some more. “No. Only French.”

“Oh.” I was temporarily deflated. I reached into my bag, where I kept
Just Enough French
, a little French travel dictionary I’d picked up at the airport before I left the States. I flipped to the “In a Restaurant” section and began to try to decipher the menu. I hadn’t thought I’d need it today, I thought glumly. I’d thought I’d have a handsome Frenchman with me to serve as a translator. But no such luck.

“You would like a large Coca-Cola?” the waiter asked a moment later, reappearing at my elbow.

I looked up in confusion. “No. I’ll have a café au lait and a glass of water, please.”

“What? No Coca-Cola?” He smirked some more. “I cannot believe it.”

“No,” I repeated, puzzled.

“All Americans want Coca-Cola,” he said. He laughed. “A large Coca-Cola for all Americans!”

Then he pranced away, leaving me staring after him.

“Just ignore him,” said a voice from behind me. I turned and saw a sandy-haired guy with thin-rimmed glasses sitting a few tables away, by himself, with a tattered paperback open in front of him. He looked like he was about my age, and he spoke with a thick French accent. “There is a certain stereotype of some Americans. It’s silly, really.”

I attempted a smile. “Do we all really order large Coca-Colas?”

“Most of you do, yes.” He grinned. “You are new in the city?”

I nodded. “I just got here a week ago.”

“You are dining alone?” he asked. He closed his book and peered closely at me.

I hesitated then nodded. “Yes. I was supposed to meet someone, but . . . Well, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“May I join you?” he asked. It should have sounded presumptuous, but somehow it didn’t. He didn’t make a move to stand up, as if waiting for my approval before his next step.

I hesitated. After all, I didn’t know this guy. And hadn’t I just made a self-aware promise to be independent and experience Paris alone for the day?

“I’ll help you translate the menu,” the guy prompted with a smile.

I hesitated. I
did
need help. “Well . . . okay.”

He picked up his book and his mug of coffee and made his way over to my table.

“I’m Sébastien,” he said. He smiled and sat down in the chair beside mine.

Over a deliciously heavy lunch of
magret de canard à l’orange
, incredibly tender duck breast in a Grand Marnier sauce, and a bottle of red Burgundy, Sébastien and I chatted, and as the wine warmed me up, I found myself beginning to enjoy talking with him.

He said that he was thirty-one and a computer programmer who lived in a tiny apartment in the Latin Quarter, the neighborhood directly across the river, which was rife with students and nightlife. Every Saturday, he said, he took a stroll around Paris and chose a different restaurant to try. Today, he had chosen this one, Café Margot. He was three-quarters of the way through a Gérard de Nerval novel and had been looking forward to finishing it over lunch.

“Then why did you let me interrupt you?” I asked.

“You looked like you needed some help with the waiter.” He grinned. “Once he said
Coca-Cola
, I knew there was a problem. Plus, I love to practice my English.”

He winked at me, and I could feel myself blushing.

“So,” he said after a moment, “you have had a tour of Paris,
non
?”

I shook my head. “No,” I admitted sheepishly. “I was going to do that today.”

I neglected to mention that I hadn’t thought to bring a guidebook along, as I’d assumed I’d be meeting a Frenchman for a romantic tour of the city. So much for that idea.

Sébastien looked at me for a long moment. “I know the perfect place to show you. If you will allow me?”

I studied his face for a moment. He was, after all, a total stranger. But he had translated the menu for me and seemed pleasant enough. And hadn’t I promised Poppy that I’d give this dating thing a try? Not that Sébastien’s proposal necessarily constituted a date.

Besides, I’d been ready to spend a day with Thibault, whom I really didn’t know at all either, right? At least Sébastien was right here and wasn’t likely to stand me up.

“Okay,” I agreed. “Where do you want to go?”

“To the most magical
quartier
in Paris,” He leaned forward and smiled at me. “Montmartre. It is the neighborhood of
les artistes
and the bohemians. It is Paris as it is meant to be. Plus, from the steps of SacréCoeur, you can see all the city.
C’est très impressionnant.
It is magic.”

My only experience with Montmartre so far had been at the Hôtel Jeremie on Thursday night with an insane rock star. That hadn’t exactly been so magical.

“Please? May I show you my Paris today?” Sébastien’s eyes sparkled as he looked at me imploringly. I hesitated a moment. What did I have to lose?

“Yes,” I said slowly. “That sounds wonderful.”

And it was.

After lunch—which Sébastien insisted on paying for, despite my protests—we took a long walk up the Rue du Louvre, passing the famous museum, which I couldn’t take my eyes off. It was absolutely massive; it seemed to go on forever.

“It’s the largest art museum in the world,” said Sébastien, who was evidently taking his job as tour guide seriously. He led me up through the second and the ninth arrondissements, pointing out sights along the way, and at the foot of a big hill he pointed upward.

“That’s SacréCoeur,” he said. “Do you know it?”

I looked up at the glistening white Byzantine-looking dome and shook my head. I’d heard of it, of course, and seen it in photographs. I knew it was one of Paris’s most famous landmarks. But I was ashamed to admit I didn’t know a thing about it.

“It was begun in the late 1800s after the war with Prussia and was
consacré
after
la Premiere Guerre Mondiale
, the First World War,” Sébastien said as we walked. “It is built of stone from Château-Landon. The most amazing thing about the church is that the stone constantly releases
le calcium
—I believe it is the same in your language—which means that it stays forever white.”

The afternoon was amazing. Sébastien took my hand as we rode a funicular up the hill to the top of Montmartre, and I didn’t pull away. His palms were soft and his fingers just a little rough as they threaded through mine. We saw the inside of the church, ate sugared crêpes on the church steps as we gazed out over the hazy city, visited the Musée de Montmartre and the Salvador Dalí museum, and even had a street artist sketch a portrait of us in the Place du Tertre, a square that Sébastien called the tourist center of the
quartier.

When darkness fell, Sébastien took me to dinner at a tiny place called Le Refuge des Fondues that was like nothing I’d ever seen. The narrow dining room had space for only two very long tables, so everyone in the packed restaurant ate together. After waiting for a spot for twenty minutes, Sébastien and I were shown to the back of the room, where a gruff French waiter had to help me climb on top of the table to cross to the other side. I had to basically straddle the table, hovering over other laughing diners, to the bench on the other side. The second we sat down, we were handed small glasses of kir royale, and the moment we finished those, we were offered red wine—in baby bottles!

“Baby bottles?” I’d asked Sébastien incredulously, inspecting the bottle that had been handed to me. It even had a nipple!

“This place is a favorite of Americans!” he shouted back over the din.

We talked and laughed over a little feast of olives, cheese cubes, spicy potatoes, and
saucisson
sausage, several wine refills, and the most enormous fondue meal I’d ever had. The huge yellow pot of silky white cheese between us never ran dry, and our waiter seemed to be constantly refilling our bread basket. Just when I thought I couldn’t eat any more, the waiter brought over dessert—lemon sorbet frozen into hollowed-out lemon halves—and two small glasses of Alsatian sweet white wine, which Sébastien had ordered for us.

“What a perfect day!” I exclaimed as we left the restaurant and walked out onto the winding, cobbled Rue des Trois Frères to make our way toward a main street to find a taxi stand.

“I’m glad you had a nice time,” Sébastien replied. He reached up and touched my cheek gently. My world was spinning a bit, maybe from his touch, maybe from the wine. Either way, when he leaned down to kiss me, it felt amazing.