Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) Read Online Free PDF Page A

tourists when Charlie says, ‘Coffee, please.’
    ‘Sure,’ says the waitress, switching to perfect English. ‘Latte, cappuccino, Americano?’
    ‘I’ll have what they’re having,’ Charlie says, smiling at her in a flirty way.
    ‘So what made you decide to move to Paris, Jonathan?’ I ask, when she’s gone. ‘Aside from the fact that it’s the most beautiful city in the world, of course.’
    ‘Aside from that? Well, the thing is, I write well here. And so many of the writers I love have lived here – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, George Orwell . . .’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, I’ve never felt completely at home either in England or the States. Paris seems the natural place for exiles.’
    ‘Your girlfriend is French, is that right?’ asks Charlie.
    What? I
happen
to have scanned the acknowledgements of Jonathan’s new book for any sign of a girlfriend and there’s nothing. To my relief, Jonathan replies. ‘My ex-girlfriend was, yes. That is, she still is. We’re still friends.’ We all exchange the grown-up smiles of people who stay friends with exes.
    ‘So,’ says Jonathan. ‘Tell me what you’ve got in mind for my book.’
    Charlie and I talk him briefly through our ideas, and I’m pretty pleased: we sound enthusiastic but we’re not sales-pitchy. I must admit, Charlie’s impressive, and he’s done his homework on all Jonathan’s previous activities, including his modelling stint.
    ‘Oh, it was hardly modelling,’ Jonathan says modestly. ‘One photo shoot for
GQ
.’
    ‘Would you be willing to do it again?’ asks Charlie.
    ‘Sure. Whatever it takes.’
    ‘I’m glad you don’t see promoting your book as a chore,’ I tell him.
    ‘Absolutely not,’ says Jonathan. ‘There’s no point in being the reclusive
auteur
. That was fine in Salinger’s day, but not now.’
    ‘Even Salinger would have to be on Twitter today,’ says Charlie. ‘And Pinterest.’
    Jonathan laughs heartily. ‘That’s funny. Yes, I like Twitter. It’s a good way to network, there’s no doubt about it. Sometimes I just pour myself a Kir and pretend I’m at a cocktail party.’
    Our coffee arrives, rich and dark, with a dense foam topping. I sip it, trying to savour this moment of having coffee in Paris with Jonathan Wilder.
    ‘Great coffee,’ Charlie says. ‘Is the food good too? What’s your favourite place to eat in Paris?’
    ‘Probably . . .’ Jonathan seems lost in thought, then smiles. ‘Well, not the place you’d expect. A tiny, crappy-looking Algerian joint in the twentieth arrondissement. No sign outside. Florescent lights, everyone chain-smoking. No menu. The food is out of this world.’
    ‘It sounds great,’ says Charlie. ‘Why don’t we go there tomorrow?’
    Jonathan just laughs again, as if he’s made a great joke. ‘No, let’s just book somewhere more conventional, like, maybe – Le Meurice?’
    ‘Le Meurice,’ says Charlie. ‘Sounds good. We’ll book.’
    ‘Where are you both staying?’
    ‘Near Saint Sulpice,’ says Charlie.
    Jonathan doesn’t understand, and frowns. ‘Where? Ah, Saint Sulpice,’ he repeats, giving it the full French. ‘Great choice.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Excuse me, please.’
    Charlie and I stay quiet for a minute after he’s gone, then I let out a sigh of relief.
    ‘Well, that seems to be going well. He’s nice, isn’t he?’
    ‘I’m glad he likes our publishing plans,’ says Charlie.
    ‘You don’t think he’s nice?’
    ‘Sure. Bit pretentious, maybe . . .’
    I roll my eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t be pretentious if you’re a genuine talent.’
    ‘“Sometimes I just pour myself a Kir and pretend I’m at a cocktail party,”’ says Charlie.
    ‘Shhh,’ I hiss.
    ‘Poppy? Charlie?’ says a voice beside us.
    Standing before us is Clémence Poésy, or a dead ringer thereof. A petite vision in black, with tumbling waves of mink-blond hair, pouting pink mouth, a leather biker jacket sliding off her shoulders,