Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) Read Free

a seriously guilty-pleasure way, like Taylor Lautner or one of the
Made in Chelsea
boys. And I’m pretty sure he finds me attractive too, judging from that Christmas party, and other little things he’s said. But I’m not interested in him as a boyfriend, and he’s definitely not interested in me as a girlfriend. Which means—
    ‘Alice, that’s a brilliant idea.’
    ‘What is?’
    ‘I’m going to try and have a fling with Charlie in Paris. In fact, we’re staying for two nights, so who knows. It might be a whole dirty weekend!’
    ‘What? Poppy, that’s crazy! You don’t even like him!’
    ‘But that’s the whole point. We don’t want to go out with each other, but there’s an attraction there. So we can have a fling, and neither of us will get hurt.’
    ‘Are you sure? I mean you work together – it could be awkward . . .’
    ‘No, it’ll be fine. Don’t you see? If I wanted a fairy-tale romance with him, that would be one thing, but I don’t, any more than he does. And also, I’m initiating it, which means I’m in control. He is right now packing his Chelsea boxer shorts and he has no idea what I’m thinking.’
    ‘But what if you end up liking him after all?’ Alice asks. ‘Or vice versa?’
    I think of the fact that Charlie uses more hair product than I do; the fact that he owns a Porsche key ring; the fact that he’s at least three years younger than me and completely commitment-phobic. ‘No, I think we’ll be OK.’
    Of course, by the time I’m queuing for the Eurostar late on Wednesday evening, I’m having second thoughts. What seemed like a great idea after a few glasses of white wine is different in the cold light of day.
    ‘Evening! I just walked right by you. Are you in disguise?’ Charlie asks me, as he joins me in the queue for check-in.
    I don’t know what he’s on about. I’m in black pedal pushers, a black polo neck and a vintage trench, plus enormous sunglasses. I’ve added a big necklace of vertical silver spikes, just so it doesn’t look as if I’m in fancy dress. ‘Well, no . . . I was hoping more for Aubrey Hepburn in
Funny Face
.’
    Charlie is wielding a huge cappuccino, coated in chocolate powder, and an even huger muffin, which he inhales almost whole before wiping his fingers on his double-breasted trench coat. I wish we weren’t in his ’n’ hers trench coats, it probably looks as if we’re doing promotions for something.
    ‘Remind me,’ he says. ‘Which one is Audrey Hepburn?’
    I raise one eyebrow. ‘The one from
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.’
    ‘Oh, right. Is that your suitcase?’
    ‘Yeah, why?’
    ‘It looks like something you’d take on the
Titanic
.’
    I roll my eyes at him. It’s a genuine vintage trunk case, heavier than modern ones, but it’s beautiful, unlike Charlie’s Red Bull sports bag.
    But then again, I think, as we shuffle through security, isn’t that a good thing? The more different we are, the more regret-free sex with him would be. As I watch him hoist his bag off his shoulder to put it in the plastic tray, his jumper rides up, revealing a very sexy midriff – not too flat. I find myself staring at that trail of hair that leads up from his tighty-whities. Aha. Briefs, not boxers. Which makes sense really. Once you get over a certain size, boxers just don’t provide enough support, do they?
    ‘Miss, come forward please,’ says a security woman, distracting me from my reverie.
    As we find our seats, I feel awkward. I’ve never spoken to Charlie for longer than three minutes and now we’re stuck side by side in a train for more than two hours. As I sit down beside him, I notice his aftershave, strong but not unpleasant; I bet it’s Dior Homme or something equally flashy. Then I see that I have a message from my mum. I stand in the aisle to listen to it, because I know that whatever it is, I won’t want Charlie to hear.
    ‘Hi, love, it’s only me. Listen. I was talking to my friends at the bead shop, about