Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) by Nicola Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

noticed how obsessed French cinema is with adultery? Every single French film I’ve seen is about an affair, it’s unbelievable.’ I could easily continue ranting but I stop myself just in time.
    ‘Yes, perhaps,’ says Jonathan. ‘I think it’s because they’re more tolerant of shades of grey – they’re not moralistic like American films.’
    As we chat, I think: maybe this could actually work. I could publish him and have a relationship with him. There’s no law against it, is there? Plenty of couples work together . . . And then I thank God that he’s presumably not psychic, and has no idea what I’m thinking.
    ‘So,’ he says, after a while. ‘What are you doing this evening?’
    ‘This evening?’ I wish I knew what he had in mind before answering. If I tell him I’m free and he doesn’t ask me out, I’ll feel bad. Ditto if I make up some story and then he says he has tickets to the opera.
    ‘Well, no specific plans. Charlie suggested getting some dinner somewhere, but we haven’t pinned anything down . . .’ When he doesn’t say anything, I add lightly, ‘What about you?’
    ‘I’m heading out to dinner with some friends. It’s way out in the burbs – Saint Germain en Laye. It takes forever to get there, on the RER.’
    God, he sounds so sexy when he speaks French. I can just picture the evening: a civilised, small gathering, all sitting outside on a candlelit terrace, talking about art and politics and books . . . but I think that was a subtle hint.
    ‘I suppose I’d better get back to my hotel. Check that Charlie hasn’t killed himself on Constance’s motorbike,’ I say as casually as I can, standing up and hunting for my clothes.
    ‘You know, Poppy, I’d invite you, but I haven’t seen these guys in a while . . .’
    ‘Of course not,’ I say quickly. ‘Anyway, I’ll be seeing you for lunch tomorrow.’ I finish pulling on my jumpsuit. ‘Now, where are my shoes?’
    Jonathan goes back into the bedroom and re-emerges with them. ‘Let me walk you downstairs.’
    ‘It’s fine, honestly.’
    ‘Poppy,’ he says seriously, as we walk to the door. ‘Do we need to talk about this?’
    ‘No, of course not,’ I say again. ‘It just happened and it was great, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
    He nods and bends his head and kisses me again. I feel my insides melt, but as soon as I can, I force myself to pull away.
    ‘OK, I’d better go. Have a good evening. See you tomorrow.’
    ‘
A demain
,’ he says. He reaches out, kisses my hand, gives me a last, regretful look, then closes the door.
    Back down the stairs I go, in a daze. But I’m not thinking about centuries of history now: I’m thinking about tonight, and lunch tomorrow and . . . oh shit, I just slept with the author.
    I can’t figure out how to open the door, so of course Madame Whatsit has to come and help me, devouring me with curious eyes as she does. I hope her manic interest means she hasn’t often seen Jonathan with a woman before. As I step back over the threshold, I feel a bit like a cat that’s been put out for the night. Was he trying to get rid of me? But then I tell myself not to be paranoid. He’s just going out this evening. That’s allowed!
    Back on the rue des Francs Bourgeois, the shadows are lengthening. The city seems to have a new energy and people are coming alive for the evening. I gaze at all the couples going past me, intertwined. I’m sure lots of them started under dodgy circumstances: working together, already attached . . . But that’s dangerous thinking. I can’t allow myself to believe that Jonathan and I will be a couple. This could well have been just a one-off thing. In which case we’ll handle it like grown-ups.
    As I walk along I find myself humming a tune. I realise it’s Air’s ‘Sexy Boy’. Oops. My subconscious isn’t exactly subtle. I hope I can appear normal tomorrow, in front of Charlie and Constance. Suddenly all my paranoia is back and I’m