I Heart Paris. Lindsey Kelk

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      Putting myself together for my lunch meeting would have been a lot easier if I hadn’t started running through a million different terrifying scenarios in my head on the way home, during my shower, through every wardrobe change and while applying the few scraps of make-up that might not melt off on my way downtown to Pastis. I hailed a yellow cab outside the apartment in my LA-purchased dandelion yellow Phillip Lim dress and gold strappy flats, and tried not to think about all the reasons Mr Spencer might want to see me. Maybe he just wanted to meet the girl that had interviewed and inadvertently outed James Jacobs. Lots of people did. Mostly women, young and old, who wanted to give me a really, really filthy look and then ask me incredibly inappropriate questions about his boyfriend.

      Or maybe he was a fan of my blog. My slightly random English-girl-living-in-New-York-rambling-on-about-her-everyday-life blog. Yes, that would definitely appeal to a sixty-something media magnate. Or perhaps he was a massive fan of the Shakira album review I’d just filed? Or perhaps he was a massive Shakira fan and didn’t like the album review? Surely not, I’d been super kind. No, there were just too many possibilities even to begin guessing.

      I hoped and prayed all the way downtown that Cici would have booked us a table inside the restaurant, very near an air-conditioning unit, and not one of the see-and-be-seen tiny tables outside looking out on to the cobbles of the Meatpacking District, but as the cab swerved across the street, I could see Mary’s steel-grey bob sitting opposite an equally authoritative head of icy white hair. Not only was I the last to arrive, I was going to be stuck sweating like a pig in the street. Fantastic. Attempting to get out of the cab in a ladylike fashion and failing, I stumbled forwards, snagging the front of my sandal in the cobblestones. I caught myself at the last minute, stood up, straightened my skirt and gave Mary a half wave. I couldn’t see behind her massive black sunglasses, but I was fairly certain the smile she gave me in return did not make it all the way up to her eyes.

      ‘Angela Clark, this is Robert Spencer,’ she said, rising out of her chair as I hobbled around the table.

      Mr Spencer held out his hand and gave me a very, very firm handshake. Ow.

      ‘Well, hello Angela,’ he said, gesturing for me to take a seat beside Mary. ‘I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a while. And please, call me Bob.’

      I gave Mary a quick sideways look, but she was too busy spitting her water back into her glass to respond.

      ‘Thank you, uh, Bob,’ I replied, setting my handbag between my feet, underneath the table. ‘It’s really lovely to meet you. A real privilege. An honour, really.’ Mary kicked me sharply under the table before I could carry on. It seemed fair.

      ‘Not at all,’ he said smoothly, nodding to the waiter at his elbow to pour three large glasses of white wine. ‘I always like to take time out to meet our rising stars here at Spencer Media.’

      He held up his glass. ‘To you, Angela.’

      ‘Thank you.’ I tried not to think about what could happen if I started drinking wine on a completely empty and panicky stomach and took a small sip.

      ‘So, Mr Spencer wanted to meet with you and talk about some new opportunities,’ Mary said, folding the menu with which she was clearly very familiar. ‘Things you might do outside the blog, outside The Look.’

      ‘He did?’ I asked, staring into the opaque glass of her sunnies. Was she serious?

      ‘Ladies,’ Mr Spencer folded up his own menu and placed it in front of him. ‘Shall we at least order before we talk business?’

      ‘Of course, Bob,’ Mary smiled tightly and sipped her wine. It was so strange. I’d never seen her outside her office and she did not look comfortable at all. In fact, nothing about this entire scenario was comfortable. I was starting to feel as if I were at dinner with my mum and dad while they were in the middle of a particularly nasty argument. And no one who’s ever argued with my mum would want that.

      ‘Have you eaten at Pastis before, Angela?’ Bob asked.

      I shook my head and chugged my wine. I had a feeling that it was just going to be better to avoid talking whenever possible.

      ‘Then I’d recommend the scallops to start and then maybe the pasta puttanesca?’ Bob folded up his menu.

      ‘You know pasta puttanesca means whore’s pasta?’ I dropped in casually.

      Mary coughed into her wine glass.

      ‘I mean, it’s what whores would make after they’d you know, worked.’ I looked from Mary to Bob and back to Mary again. Yep. Should have stuck with the no talking plan.

      ‘Perhaps the moules frites,’ Bob said quietly.