happy in my entire life.’
‘Sounds fair enough,’ I replied, taking a long drink. Did the bit of dodgy chopped up orange count as one of my five a day? I chose to believe, yes. Yes it did.
‘And you’re not going to completely obsess over everything I’ve said?’
‘No.’ Of course I bloody was.
‘I don’t believe you, but OK.’ He waited for me to set my drink back down and then took both of my hands in his. ‘Because I was serious about this being a good trip. You don’t think I would have brought you here if the place was all about some other girl for me, do you?’
I shook my head and didn’t say anything, but I was shouting the words ‘you better bloody not have’ over and over in my head. And as happy as I was that he was there with me, there was still a tiny part of me that was fuming over the idea of him sitting at that very table with some other girl, whispering sweet French nothings and feeding her bits of cheese on bread. Well, maybe not the last bit, that wasn’t very sexy anyway.
‘Angela, I wanted you to come because I love Paris and I love you,’ he leaned across the table and kissed me gently. ‘And if it helps, I never came here with my ex.’
Brilliant. My boyfriend the mind-reader. The cheesy mind-reader.
‘Well, I’m fairly keen on you too, so that should work out quite nicely,’ I said, kissing him back, not entirely sure whether or not ‘mind-reader’ was a desirable quality in a boyfriend. Unless it was related to birthday presents and buying the right sized bra, I was definitely leaning towards ‘not’.
Happily for my jet lag, Alex’s gig was at a bar right opposite our hotel so it was just a short taxi ride back to The Marais and then straight on to the show. Virginie was waiting for us outside bar Pop-In, perky as ever in a T-shirt that just about covered her arse (way shorter than the one I’d been sporting – no wonder she didn’t mention it) and a washed-out denim jacket. I tried not to be insanely jealous of how cute she looked, her thick brown hair scraped back in a ponytail that was on the verge of exploding all over her face, and her bright eyes that danced as I introduced her to Alex. And I knew air kissing was the done thing in France, but really, did it have to extend to my boyfriend? I was fairly against any sort of kissing in relation to Alex. After taking us through to the bar and ordering our drinks, Alex vanished into some tiny back room to get ready for the gig, leaving Virginie and I to try and talk over the loud rock music that throbbed out of the speakers.
‘Alex, he is the Brooklyn boy in your blog?’ Virginie asked.
‘He is.’ I nodded, sipping a truly terrible glass of wine. Wasn’t all wine supposed to be amazing in France? This was like paint stripper. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘No,’ she said, looking around. ‘I did, but he is cheating on me when I am in New York and so we break up. Alex, he is very attractive.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied, not entirely comfortable with the compliment and massively awkward about her revelation. What were you supposed to say to that? The bar was tiny and dark, much smaller than the places I was used to seeing Alex play in New York, and the bright lights that lit the stage made his black hair shine, his green eyes even more vivid and his pale skin glow.
‘Sorry to hear about your ex. Mine cheated on me too, not that it helps to know that,’ I raised my voice slightly over the sound check.
‘Really?’ Virginie spun around so quickly, half her ponytail made a break for freedom. ‘I cannot believe that someone would cheat on you. You are so pretty and funny and nice. And you have a lovely handbag also.’
‘Well, I didn’t have the handbag.’ I clutched my beloved Marc Jacobs tightly to me. ‘But to be honest, I don’t think that would have stopped my ex from shagging his tennis partner.’
‘He is an idiot,’ she declared. ‘Any man is very lucky to have you. I hope Alex,
‘Sounds fair enough,’ I replied, taking a long drink. Did the bit of dodgy chopped up orange count as one of my five a day? I chose to believe, yes. Yes it did.
‘And you’re not going to completely obsess over everything I’ve said?’
‘No.’ Of course I bloody was.
‘I don’t believe you, but OK.’ He waited for me to set my drink back down and then took both of my hands in his. ‘Because I was serious about this being a good trip. You don’t think I would have brought you here if the place was all about some other girl for me, do you?’
I shook my head and didn’t say anything, but I was shouting the words ‘you better bloody not have’ over and over in my head. And as happy as I was that he was there with me, there was still a tiny part of me that was fuming over the idea of him sitting at that very table with some other girl, whispering sweet French nothings and feeding her bits of cheese on bread. Well, maybe not the last bit, that wasn’t very sexy anyway.
‘Angela, I wanted you to come because I love Paris and I love you,’ he leaned across the table and kissed me gently. ‘And if it helps, I never came here with my ex.’
Brilliant. My boyfriend the mind-reader. The cheesy mind-reader.
‘Well, I’m fairly keen on you too, so that should work out quite nicely,’ I said, kissing him back, not entirely sure whether or not ‘mind-reader’ was a desirable quality in a boyfriend. Unless it was related to birthday presents and buying the right sized bra, I was definitely leaning towards ‘not’.
Happily for my jet lag, Alex’s gig was at a bar right opposite our hotel so it was just a short taxi ride back to The Marais and then straight on to the show. Virginie was waiting for us outside bar Pop-In, perky as ever in a T-shirt that just about covered her arse (way shorter than the one I’d been sporting – no wonder she didn’t mention it) and a washed-out denim jacket. I tried not to be insanely jealous of how cute she looked, her thick brown hair scraped back in a ponytail that was on the verge of exploding all over her face, and her bright eyes that danced as I introduced her to Alex. And I knew air kissing was the done thing in France, but really, did it have to extend to my boyfriend? I was fairly against any sort of kissing in relation to Alex. After taking us through to the bar and ordering our drinks, Alex vanished into some tiny back room to get ready for the gig, leaving Virginie and I to try and talk over the loud rock music that throbbed out of the speakers.
‘Alex, he is the Brooklyn boy in your blog?’ Virginie asked.
‘He is.’ I nodded, sipping a truly terrible glass of wine. Wasn’t all wine supposed to be amazing in France? This was like paint stripper. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘No,’ she said, looking around. ‘I did, but he is cheating on me when I am in New York and so we break up. Alex, he is very attractive.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied, not entirely comfortable with the compliment and massively awkward about her revelation. What were you supposed to say to that? The bar was tiny and dark, much smaller than the places I was used to seeing Alex play in New York, and the bright lights that lit the stage made his black hair shine, his green eyes even more vivid and his pale skin glow.
‘Sorry to hear about your ex. Mine cheated on me too, not that it helps to know that,’ I raised my voice slightly over the sound check.
‘Really?’ Virginie spun around so quickly, half her ponytail made a break for freedom. ‘I cannot believe that someone would cheat on you. You are so pretty and funny and nice. And you have a lovely handbag also.’
‘Well, I didn’t have the handbag.’ I clutched my beloved Marc Jacobs tightly to me. ‘But to be honest, I don’t think that would have stopped my ex from shagging his tennis partner.’
‘He is an idiot,’ she declared. ‘Any man is very lucky to have you. I hope Alex,
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