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

H i. I’m Poppy
.
    I stare at the blinking cursor. Where to start?
    I’m a fairly normal girl.
    Hah! I delete that right away. Bland Central Station, also not true.
    I’m confident and outgoing.
    No, that’s even worse – makes me sound totally conceited. This is
awful
. Right. Start again.
    Hi, I’m Poppy. On an average day you’re likely to find me with my nose deep in a book, cycling home from the farmers’ market in Hackney with my basket full of goodies, or at a vintage fashion fair. I love soul music, baking, Smarties, the sea, the 10 th arrondissement in Paris and the Dirty Burger from MEATliquor
–
    Oh, God. I sound like a revolting parody of middle-class hipsterdom: bikes, farmers’ market, Dirty Burger and all. It’s all so cringe-worthy; I feel like I’m listing myself on eBay. Also, I forgot I’m going to need a pseudonym. Patricia? Penelope?
    I tap my fingers for a few minutes, and then decide to just type the truth and see how it looks.
    Hi, I’m Poppy. I work really long hours in an office full of women, and I haven’t had a proper boyfriend in almost two years. I tend to rant on about things I find important and not many other people do, I’m addicted to cake and I’m like a demon when I’m hungry. I’d like to meet someone creative, intelligent and sensitive. I seriously doubt that I’m going to find such a gem on the internet, but I’ve tried all the other—
    ‘I’ve finished with these proofs,’ says Sorrell, breezing into the office. ‘Did you want to see them before they go up to production?’
    ‘Oh, thanks, that was quick. Yes please – just leave them there,’ I say, quickly minimising my screen. I don’t want my assistant to see me compose my internet profile, though probably Sorrell could give me some excellent tips. Her generation was practically raised on Tinder.
    ‘Hey, I like your leather trousers,’ I add, as she turns to leave.
    ‘Thanks,’ says Sorrell, doing a little twirl. ‘Sample sale. Alasdair says they remind him of
The Avengers
!’
    Good lord. I was here a year before I even spoke to our managing director, let alone cracked jokes with him about my leatherwear.
    ‘Oh!’ I laugh. ‘Yeah. Very Emma Peel.’
    ‘Who?’ says Sorrell.
    ‘Emma Peel, you know. From
The Avengers
.’
    ‘Oh,’ says Sorrell. ‘Sorry. I don’t remember them first time around.’ And she’s gone, leaving me wanting to explain: I don’t remember them either! I was born in the eighties! Except I’m twenty-nine and Sorrell is probably twenty-three, at most.
    As I watch her leather rear depart, I have a guilty, resentful thought: once I was the zany, confident assistant with the memorable name and the quirky style, who made friends with all the senior people. But that was six years ago and I’m starting to feel like part of the furniture – and not a very shiny one either.
    Right: that’s enough of the pity party. I save my dating profile and start making myself presentable for today’s editorial meeting. I’m in one of my favourite dresses: a fifties-style party frock I made myself from some red Liberty print silk my mum found in a charity shop in Hastings. And my curls are looking frizz-free, thank God. I nearly cried when they discontinued the only leave-in conditioner that stopped me looking like one of the Supremes circa 1970, but I think I’ve found a replacement. I look in the mirror to check I don’t have pen marks on my face and I’m good to go.
    Until I stand up, and hear the unmistakable rip of a seam. A quick feel confirms that the entire side of the dress has gone. Wonderful. I’d love to be able to blame the delicate vintage fabric, but the sad fact is that I’ve put on half a stone in the last six months. Too many work lunches, and too much time sitting at my desk. I quickly do a repair job with safety pins, throw on a spare cardigan that doesn’t really go with the dress, and scuttle off to the meeting.
    It’s a long time since I’ve felt