That’s why he’s going to be a bigger star than David Beckham.”
“You’re comparing him to a soccer player?”
Poppy feigned horror. “A soccer player? First of all, it’s called
football.
Second, my dear, David Beckham is so much
more
than a football star. Just as Guillaume Riche is so much more than simply a singer. He will be a household name. Little girls everywhere will have his poster on the wall.”
“Or post offices will have his wanted poster,” I grumbled.
“Oh, he’s harmless,” Poppy said dismissively. She laughed, but I could detect a hint of nervousness behind her smile. “He just keeps us on our toes.”
“Yeah, about that,” I said slowly. “What about what Gabriel Francoeur said? About Buddha Bar?”
“He was just trying to get under our skin,” Poppy said quickly.
I hesitated. “Are you sure? I mean, he seemed pretty confident.”
“That’s Gabriel for you,” Poppy said. “He’s just messing with our heads. He doesn’t have any inside source. That’s nonsense.”
“He
did
seem to know an awful lot about things in the past that never made the papers,” I said carefully.
Poppy shrugged. “So he’s a good reporter. Fine. But we cover all our bases so that even when he’s right, his editors won’t risk going with the story because we make him sound wrong. I know it drives him crazy. This is probably just his attempt to get even.”
“Probably,” I agreed after a moment. But I wasn’t entirely convinced.
“You’re moping,” Poppy accused me an hour later as she returned from the bar, where she’d been flirting with a tall blond guy. She was holding two beers, one of which she handed to me.
“I’m just tired,” I said.
“No,” Poppy said. “You’re moping. About Brett. Who is a complete tosser.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Poppy was so matter-of-fact.
“He’s not a tosser,” I protested weakly. “We just weren’t right for each other.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If he didn’t want to be with you, he’s a wanker. Plain and simple. You’re fabulous. And anyone who can’t see that is completely useless.”
“Well”—I mustered a smile—“I’ll drink to that.”
“That’s the spirit!” Poppy exclaimed. “Cheers!” We both took a long sip, then Poppy spoke again. “Look, I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “If I can get you a date within the next thirty minutes, you have to give this thing a try. You have to start dating again. Not to fall for some smooth-talking French guy, but because it’s fun and they know how to say all the right things, and believe me, they know how to kiss. And right now you need that.”
“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
“You’re comparing him to a soccer player?”
Poppy feigned horror. “A soccer player? First of all, it’s called
football.
Second, my dear, David Beckham is so much
more
than a football star. Just as Guillaume Riche is so much more than simply a singer. He will be a household name. Little girls everywhere will have his poster on the wall.”
“Or post offices will have his wanted poster,” I grumbled.
“Oh, he’s harmless,” Poppy said dismissively. She laughed, but I could detect a hint of nervousness behind her smile. “He just keeps us on our toes.”
“Yeah, about that,” I said slowly. “What about what Gabriel Francoeur said? About Buddha Bar?”
“He was just trying to get under our skin,” Poppy said quickly.
I hesitated. “Are you sure? I mean, he seemed pretty confident.”
“That’s Gabriel for you,” Poppy said. “He’s just messing with our heads. He doesn’t have any inside source. That’s nonsense.”
“He
did
seem to know an awful lot about things in the past that never made the papers,” I said carefully.
Poppy shrugged. “So he’s a good reporter. Fine. But we cover all our bases so that even when he’s right, his editors won’t risk going with the story because we make him sound wrong. I know it drives him crazy. This is probably just his attempt to get even.”
“Probably,” I agreed after a moment. But I wasn’t entirely convinced.
“You’re moping,” Poppy accused me an hour later as she returned from the bar, where she’d been flirting with a tall blond guy. She was holding two beers, one of which she handed to me.
“I’m just tired,” I said.
“No,” Poppy said. “You’re moping. About Brett. Who is a complete tosser.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Poppy was so matter-of-fact.
“He’s not a tosser,” I protested weakly. “We just weren’t right for each other.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If he didn’t want to be with you, he’s a wanker. Plain and simple. You’re fabulous. And anyone who can’t see that is completely useless.”
“Well”—I mustered a smile—“I’ll drink to that.”
“That’s the spirit!” Poppy exclaimed. “Cheers!” We both took a long sip, then Poppy spoke again. “Look, I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “If I can get you a date within the next thirty minutes, you have to give this thing a try. You have to start dating again. Not to fall for some smooth-talking French guy, but because it’s fun and they know how to say all the right things, and believe me, they know how to kiss. And right now you need that.”
“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
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