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

pretentious idiot.’
    ‘Of course you don’t,’ I say sincerely. ‘Honestly. What are we coming to if we can’t mention bloody Picasso without being thought pretentious?’ I’m really talking to Charlie but of course he’s not here to hear my words of wisdom. It’s wonderful to be in Paris again and I’m drinking it all in: the old buildings with their dove-grey shutters and lanterns, the flowing brown river, the green stalls on the quays with their collections of second-hand books and prints.
    ‘Ah, the
bouquinistes
,’ Jonathan says when I point them out. ‘It’s impossible to imagine the river without them, isn’t it?’
    To our left is the peaceful grey bulk of Notre-Dame, rising out of the clumps of greenery. Below us are quays where couples are sprawled and intertwined. No point in telling people in Paris to get a room, I muse. The whole city is their room.
    ‘Where do you want to go?’ he asks, as we approach a bridge. ‘Over to the Ile St-Louis and the Marais? Or do you want to head back towards the Latin Quarter and the Pantheon?’
    I laugh. ‘I feel spoiled for choice . . . let’s head towards the Marais. I love it there.’
    ‘Do you know Paris well?’ Jonathan asks, as we walk towards a bridge.
    ‘Yes – I spent a year studying here, and I used to come here a lot with my ex. Good lord, what are these?’
    The whole side of the bridge is covered with what I thought was a bronze wall of some kind, but in fact is little padlocks bolted to the bridge, with messages engraved on them. People are walking up and down taking pictures of them and examining the messages, most of which seem to be in English. ‘Snicky and Snuffy For Ever’. ‘To Maria, my angel: will you marry me? 17.08.12’. ‘18.08.12: She said yes!’
    ‘The
cadenas d’amour
,’ says Jonathan. ‘It started on the Pont des Arts but the
mairie
took them all away overnight. Now they’ve popped up here.’
    I shake my head. ‘Is there anywhere on earth more obsessed with love and romance?’ I say before I realise how weird that must sound.
    ‘I hope not,’ says Jonathan enigmatically. ‘Tell me about the year you were here as an
étudiante
.’
    We walk over the bridge, towards the Ile Saint Louis, and I tell Jonathan about my Erasmus year in Paris, when I stayed in a firetrap of a sixth-floor studio on the rue Soufflot, living off crêpes and Nutella and two-euro bottles of wine, and having the time of my life.
    ‘I shouldn’t really have been here – I was studying English in Manchester and a year in Paris wasn’t totally relevant, but I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity. It was such a great place to be a student. It didn’t matter that we had no money. In summer we used to have picnics on the Pont des Arts, and in winter we used to spend hours in cafés nursing one drink . . .’
    ‘Wonderful,’ says Jonathan. ‘Yes, Paris is almost better with no money. Especially for writers. It’s like Hemingway says, “Hunger is a good discipline.” Sometimes I envy him that . . . I worry that I’m not hungry enough.’ He looks despondent.
    ‘Oh, no! Don’t think that. You know, we haven’t talked enough about your book yet. I loved it.’
    ‘That’s great. What did you – I mean, did you have any notes, for the book?’
    I’m thrilled that he’s brought this up. As we stroll through the quaint old streets of the Ile Saint Louis, dodging groups of tourists queuing outside Berthillon for ice cream, I tell him everything I loved about his book, and make a few editorial suggestions, which he takes very well. When we arrive at the Place des Vosges, Jonathan stops walking, pulls off his glasses, and turns to me.
    ‘I am pathetically grateful to you for telling me all that,’ he says. ‘Those are outstanding suggestions, and I feel like you really got the book. Thank you for saying those nice things. You know how needy authors are, so I know you won’t judge me for it.’
    ‘No judging,’ I say,