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

from the ‘Thanks, Mum’ just in time to say, trying to keep my voice friendly, ‘There’s a cashpoint upstairs, where we were before. I’ll wait for you here.’
    Maybe this seduction thing isn’t such a good idea after all, I think, as I watch the crowds sweeping in and out of the station. People dashing home from a late evening at work, pile-ups of tourists; it’s just like London, except with subtitles. And except for that person who really is carrying a baguette.
    Charlie rejoins me and we descend into the Metro, with its distinctive and not unpleasant smell, almost flowery, with base notes of hot metal. It takes me right back to my last trip to Paris, with my ex, Crippo. He spent three hours contemplating an installation in the Pompidou Centre, and then dragged me to a ‘party’ at his friend’s place, where they spent the entire evening smoking weed and watching an experimental silent film set in a coal mine. Good times.
    ‘Are you sure we’re going the right way?’ Charlie says, looking at the map of the line on the carriage wall. I nod. After spending a year here as a student, I like to think I know my way around and could maybe even be mistaken for a local. I’m probably deluding myself, but still, a girl can dream.
    Twenty rattling minutes later, we arrive at Odéon. I sigh with pleasure as we come out of the Metro and see all the beautiful familiar sights: the glamorous, leggy students exchanging cheek kisses by the statue of Danton, the cinemas with huge queues outside, the broad boulevards of tall white buildings lined with cafés with names like Le Danton and L’Odéon. Everyone is very chic and intense-looking; as we pass people sitting at the little cane tables and chairs you can tell they’re talking about philosophy, life and the universe, not last night’s TV.
    ‘Here you go,’ says Charlie, handing my trunk back to me. I was so distracted, I didn’t even notice that he’s just carried it up the stairs for me along with his own.
    ‘Oh. Thank you.’ I look around, trying to get my bearings. We’re staying at the Relais Saint Germain, on rue Saint-Sulpice. I know exactly where that is; I just need to orient myself.
    ‘I’ve got a map in my bag,’ says Charlie. ‘And we’re on . . . Boulevard Saint-German?’
    ‘Saint-Germain,’ I correct him. ‘It’s this way – come on.’
    I’m pretty sure we’re going the right way, and I keep expecting to see the rue Saint-Sulpice on the right, but then we find the Jardins de Luxembourg where they’re not supposed to be, and have to turn back. My case is getting really heavy now.
    ‘Let’s stop for a minute. My phone’s not working . . . I’ll get out my map,’ says Charlie.
    ‘No, it’s fine. I know where we are now; it’s just down here, past this square and left. I’ve been here before.’
    Ignoring me, he crouches down and there on the pavement he starts rooting in his sports bag, which seems to be mainly full of underwear. An elegant woman carrying a huge Yves Saint Laurent carrier bag steps over him and gives me a reproachful look. I can’t even meet her eye, I’m so mortified. Then we end up getting directions from an American couple armed with maps, bum-bags and sensible walking shoes. It turns out we were looking for the wrong hotel: we’re at the Relais Saint Germain, which is right by Odeon, and I had the address for the Relais Saint Sulpice. So much for me being like a local.
    At least the hotel is lovely: lots of dark wood, exposed brickwork, tapestries, and heavy velvet curtains. Charlie barrels up to the desk and starts talking in English to the pretty girl.
    ‘Ah yes,’ she replies, when he tells her our names. ‘I have two rooms – a single and a deluxe suite?’
    ‘Oh, but it was meant to be two singles,’ I say, dismayed. ‘Can we change?’
    ‘I’m sorry,
madame
, we are fully booked,’ she says apologetically. ‘Victor will show you the rooms, and you can choose.’
    There being not