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

your problems meeting men. And one of them suggested something called tag rugby? I looked it up and there’s a club in Finsbury Park, which is very handy for you, I’ll send you the details. Also, I’m going to come up to London for a demonstration against GM products on the fifteenth, so put that in your diary – we can have lunch afterwards. Oh, and have fun in Paris! OK, bye, love.’
    I love her to bits, but honestly, Mum drives me around the bend sometimes. I don’t want to play tag rugby. And I feel like I spent my entire childhood on marches. There were so many pictures of Nelson Mandela in our house, I used to think he was a relative.
    ‘Poppy?’
    ‘Sorry, what?’
    ‘I thought maybe we should go over the details of the publicity and marketing plans again,’ Charlie suggests, wedging his coffee cup into the bin. ‘Maybe divide it up, decide who says what.’
    ‘OK. Though we don’t want to sound too rehearsed. He has all the facts, now it comes down to whether or not he likes us.’
    ‘Chemistry?’ suggests Charlie.
    ‘I suppose so.’ I look up to find his blue eyes on me. Is he flirting with me? ‘Well, partly. I imagine he’ll want to hear that we love his book. You
have
read the book, haven’t you?’
    ‘Of course. We talked about it the other day, remember?’
    ‘And what did you think?’
    ‘I think it would sell,’ he says. ‘He’s pretty good.’
    ‘Is that it? For God’s sake, don’t overwhelm him with your enthusiasm, whatever you do.’
    Charlie pats my arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’
    I look down at his retreating hand, thinking: I wasn’t imagining it; he does fancy me. Well, in the same way that he probably fancies everyone.
    Across the aisle from us, a French couple are already getting their seduction on. Her skinny-denimed legs are slung in his lap, and he’s trailing his hands lingeringly through her wavy dark brown hair. I stare at them and try to remember how long it’s been since I sat in anyone’s lap – not counting my gay friend Anthony’s when we were in someone’s car coming back from a weekend in Brighton. Then I notice Charlie looking at me in amusement; he’s obviously caught me staring at them.
    ‘What? Nothing,’ I say in confusion, and bury my head in my e-reader. It’s a misconception that people of colour don’t blush: I’m mixed race and I’m a chronic blusher. I don’t see how I’m going to be able to seduce him if I’m this easily embarrassed.
    It’s always amazed me that in less time than it takes to get from London to Manchester, you can be in a completely foreign city. The Gare du Nord isn’t that different to the new, revamped St Pancras – aside from being smaller – but it feels different; even the platform announcements sound sophisticated and mysterious. It’s much warmer than London too; it’s properly July here, where it still felt like March in London.
    ‘Now what? Should we get a taxi?’ says Charlie, gazing at the pert skinny-jeaned rear of the French girl who’s walking away with her boyfriend, still glued together like a three-legged race. ‘Where’s the hotel again?’
    I immediately go off him once more as I realise I’m going to have to look after him for this whole trip. Why are men all so useless?
    ‘No, let’s get the Metro – much quicker and cheaper,’ I say, nodding towards the entrance to the station.
    ‘Lead on, Captain Poppy,’ he says, trailing along after me. ‘I’ve never been to Paris before.’
    ‘Are you serious? Not even on a school trip?’
    He shakes his head. I suppose stag weekends in Ibiza are probably more his style. We head down into the Metro where I find a free machine and start feeding euro coins – left over from the Frankfurt Book Fair last year – into the slot, getting us two
carnets
of ten adorably old-fashioned paper tickets.
    ‘Thanks, Mum,’ Charlie says, as I hand him his tickets. ‘That’s a thought. I don’t have any euros.’
    I recover