From Paris, With Love. Samantha TongeЧитать онлайн книгу.
My stomach twisted. I’d been not one week in Paris and already faced a beautiful, intelligent, artistic – and highly slappable! – love rival.
Slow, quick, slow quick, our bodies mirrored each other’s moves… Edward ran a finger down my back. My heart raced as his hips rhythmically thrust forwards and our mouths almost met…
Then the music stopped and the judge gave us ten out of ten. Despite what naughty you may have thought, I was simply daydreaming about Edward and me performing the salsa on one of my favourite TV dance shows.
Why? Because as we emerged from the St Michel Métro station, Edward told me that this part of Paris was also known as the Latin Quarter – cha cha cha! We’d got up early and thankfully the night’s heavy rain had stopped, leaving me with an irrational urge to walk through all the puddles. I’d suggested to Edward that we visited Notre Dame. Desperate as I was to go shopping, I put his interests first. It had nothing, at all, to do with wanting to prove myself interested in the intellectual stuff favoured by a certain new French female acquaintance.
Notre Dame wasn’t far from St Michel. We had until two o’clock and wow… Actually it was awesome. Prettily built, despite the creepy, kind of reptilian gargoyles staring from every angle…
‘This Catholic cathedral was built between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries, on this Île de la Cité, an island in the middle of the Seine river which runs through Paris,’ Edward had said, as if reading from an information leaflet. ‘The magnificent organ inside has over seven thousand pipes. There are ten bells and the wonderful statue of the Virgin and child. Plus…’
Oh dear. I tried, really I did, but kind of switched off and thought about that animated Disney film, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. History wasn’t my thing and beautiful as the Notre Dame was, I hadn’t wanted to spend ages inside admiring the stained glass windows and altar. Yet Edward was amazin’ and if we ever got chucked out of Chez Dubois he could easily earn us a living as a tour guide.
My stomach twisted. Since crossing the Channel, and for the first time since we’d got close, I was having serious doubts about the romantic combo of him, an aristocrat, and me, a former pizza waitress.
Having finally dragged Edward away from his beloved cathedral, we walked to St Michel. As the fresh air hit us, I pulled my coat tighter and hugged my leopard-print bag tight under my arm – apparently St Michel was a notorious spot for pickpockets. Alongside a group of tourists, I stared at the famous fountain. Edward took a photo on his phone and then jotted some notes into his ever-handy notebook.
Then he proceeded to tell me everything he’d researched about this area –which was close to the universities and considered pretty cool with younger crowds. Aw. His eyes shone with enthusiasm as he explained how the fountain represented Saint Michel wrestling with the devil. Nose pinching with cold, I admired the four marble pillars and winged dragons either side. Yeah, it was wicked, although I zoned out when Edward started listing its architects.
Perhaps next week it would be my turn to educate him with a trip to Boulevard Haussman, home to the MEGA department stores Printemps and Galeries Lafayette where Pierre’s girlfriend, Agnes, worked. Full of top fashion brands, gourmet food and awesome giftware… Then there was the well-known flea market at Porte de Clignancourt… See, I’d done my research too.
Not that Edward was a big shopper, but didn’t opposites attract? I mean, we weren’t from the same social class and that hadn’t held our love affair back. So why should the fact that I hated opera and he didn’t dig dance music, matter? I tried to ignore the little voice in my head saying that it was always a dangerous time for relationships, when the initial excitement started to become more routine; that now was the time we could be revealed as a real mismatch.
I suppressed a sigh as Edward approached the fountain and ran his hand over the stone, admiring an aspect of it that clearly went over my head.
‘Moni says this is one of her favourite spots in Paris,’ he muttered, eyes sparkling just that bit brighter.
Oh God. He was totally crushing on the French actress. Although crushes were okay, right? Many a night I’d dreamt of lush Robert Pattinson teaching me how to become a vegetarian vampire… But Monique was real. What if her appeal began to outweigh mine?
He took my hand.
‘Sorry, Gemma.’ He grinned. ‘I know this stuff can sound boring. I’m what you might call, a bit of an architecture geek.’
‘No it isn’t boring!’ I said brightly. ‘Now, tell me all about the marble again…’
‘I’d much rather stop talking for a while, if that’s all right with you,’ he murmured and leant forward for a kiss. Mmm. That was more like it. Hooray that months on from us meeting, Edward was finally happy to kiss in public.
Finally we drew apart and still holding hands, crossed Boulevard St Michel, in the direction of Rue de la Huchette which was apparently home to a variety of exotic foreign restaurants. My chest tightened, as the time to meet Monique and her friends approached. Chastising myself, I thought back to this morning and how Edward had fetched me breakfast in bed. My cheeks flushed as I recalled the reason my toast had gone cold. Edward’s kisses were always punctuated by soft mutterings of my gorgeousness. Not even well-read, talented Monique could turn his head, right?
Urgh! Enough with the insecurities! I shook myself. Gemma Goodwin was an amazin’ woman, who mixed easily with posh toffs, was helping an MI6 agent and could whip up a great meal, given a chopping knife and whisk.
Inwardly chanting this, I nodded as Edward pointed out the Caveau de la Huchette on the right – a renowned jazz club he’d heard of. I squeezed his hand. Perhaps we’d visit it alone one night. Jazz music always sounded kinda sexy and probably one of the few types of music that we both liked. See, we had things in common. Perhaps this trip would start to confirm that, instead of magnifying our differences. Tomorrow would be a big test as Cindy was taking us to Disneyland Paris.
‘Generous of Cindy to give us those Disney day passes she won, wasn’t it?’ I said. ‘She’s been there nine times since moving here twelve months ago. Plus, after leaving school, years ago, she got a job in the Florida theme park, selling hotdogs. How bonkers is that?’
‘Did I hear the horreeble word Disney?’ said a smooth French voice, followed by a loud tinkling laugh and the smell of smoke.
We turned around.
‘Moni!’ said Edward and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, leant forward to kiss her on either cheek. She stood with four friends.
Reluctantly, as if an invisible ghost was pushing her forwards, Monique bent down to kiss me on the cheeks – or rather, air-kiss, as if my pores seeped arsenic. And then the four others proceeded to greet us. Cindy had tried to explain the rules to me about French kissing (no, not that sort – the type you did in polite company). Yikes, it sounded complicated – some people always started with a particular side and others automatically kissed a friend of a friend.
Kiss, kiss. ‘’Allo. I’m Anton – a playwright,’ said a man with big eyebrows and a heavy French accent. He put a cigarette back in his mouth.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Gemma – um… a…’
‘Reealeety show star, non, so says Moni?’ said Anton.
The group wrinkled their noses in unison.
‘Satan’s invention, destroying my acting profession,’ muttered Thierry.
‘They take too much money which should be spent on quality drama productions…’ agreed Chantale. She smiled at me. ‘Bonjour, Gemma – I am a mime artist.’
‘Bla di bla di bla (French I didn’t understand),’ said Danielle, who bowed and mentioned a word that sounded like “musician”.