Finding It Read Online Free PDF

course.”
    While Poppy takes care of business, I whip out my iPhone and compose a text to Big Boss Woman.
     
    Text to Louanne Collins-London:
    Thank you for springing me from the pokey. It was a mortifying misunderstanding. Am already working on another story that should be equally as enthralling. Super excited. Will call with details as soon as possible.
     
    All right, I’ll admit it; I lied to my editor when I said I had connections to the royal family, and I just lied to her again when I said I am working on an enthralling story. I have no idea what I am going to write about. Something tells me Louanne Collins-London wouldn’t appreciate a thousand-word piece on my extremely tenuous connection to Prince Andrew’s naughty ex. And I don’t think she would accept a rags-to-riches story about a plucky young hairdresser with a dream, who started off in a grungy chop-shop, but ended up styling the tresses of a disgraced Duchess.
    GoGirl! readers are young, stylish, professional women who want to read smart, sassy, sexy pieces about life beyond their borders. Louanne Collins-London tells me they want to vicariously visit posh resorts, exclusive clubs, and offbeat shops. They want me to take them on adventures kayaking the Amazon, joining an archaeological excavation in Cairo, or hiking the Highlands. They want to meet larger-than-life characters—like spoiled debutantes, entitled movie stars, and jet-setting celebrities—but through my slightly distorted lens. They don’t want to read about my mother’s cousin’s hairdresser.
     
    Text to Jean-Luc de Caumont:
    I am going to be a little late.
     
    Text from Jean-Luc:
    I read your tweets and was about to launch Operation Rescue Vivia.
     
    Tweet to Jean-Luc:
    Ha ha! No rescue needed, my French cowboy. The hostiles have released me.
     
    Text from Jean-Luc:
    Does that mean I should unpack my six-shooter?
     
    Text to Jean-Luc de Caumont:
    Keep your weapon holstered, partner—at least for a little bit longer ;)
     
    Text from Jean-Luc de Caumont:
    Would you like me to come to London?
     
    Text to Jean-Luc:
    No! I’m just going to grab something to eat and then I will be on the next train, plane, or ferry out of this miserable moldering country. I’ll send you my arrival info as soon as I have it.
     
    Text from Jean-Luc:
    See you soon, mon cœur.
     
    We’ve barely taken our seats in one of the banquettes when Poppy says, “Do you really have a court injunction prohibiting you from approaching the royal family?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you spend time in prison? Truly?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re quite serious, aren’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “When?”
    “This morning. In fact, I had only just been released from Belgravia Station when you found me on the street flagging a cab.”
    Poppy presses her hand to her throat again and takes an audible swallow.
    I give her the low-down on my bogus rap, and by the time I am finished telling her my story, she is dabbing tears of laughter from her eyes.
    The sommelier arrives with a bottle of Château Doisy-Daëne, removes the cork, pours the golden liquid into two glasses, and then silently retreats into the shadows.
    “A toast,” Poppy says, lifting her glass. “To Prince Harry!”
    “Huzzah!” I laugh. “To Prince Harry!”
    Poppy and I spend several minutes getting acquainted, and you know what? She’s really cool. She’s not the uptight etiquette Nazi I feared she would be. She didn’t even flinch when I sipped my wine without swirling, sniffing, or checking for legs—a ritual that remains mystifying despite Jean-Luc’s many attempts to educate me of the wonders of wine.
    “I was probably setting my price tag too low—as my BFF Fanny likes to say—but I didn’t understand why someone as polished and poised as you would want to hang with me until…”
    Filter Vivia! Filter! Damn my unfortunate habit of articulating my every thought .
    “Until you discovered I am a sad, neurotic mess with premature crow’s