From Paris, With Love. Samantha Tonge

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СКАЧАТЬ 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”.

      ‘I’m also a cook,’ I said and lifted up my chin. Edward winked.

      ‘Reality shows are extremely popular in England,’ he said, ‘and if it wasn’t for Gemma, my ancestral home would have been sold off, by now. Thanks to her helping my family win Million Dollar Mansion, Applebridge Hall’s secure financial future is guaranteed.’

      Chest glowing, I linked arms with him, as we all ambled into pedestrianised Rue de la Huchette, filing past restaurants. It was like turning a radio-dial and catching fragments of different music – like Greek-sounding guitars (I know that from the movie Mamma Mia!) and Chinese string music (the same as in our local Peking Duck restaurant, near Applebridge). Staff outside did their best to lure unsuspecting tourists through the doors, yet didn’t approach us, thanks to the glares of Monique and her posse.

      ‘Merde, eet ees so tacky ‘ere,’ spat Anton. ‘If eet wasn’t for our favourite restaurant down ‘ere on the left, and ze cool jazz bars, I would ‘appily avoid zees street forever.’

      Their favourite restaurant turned out to be a basic French one. A good choice, I thought, as an hour later I tucked into a yummy chicken casserole. The windows steamed and wine flowed amongst Edward and Monique’s friends – whereas I had an orange juice and she a sparkling mineral water.

      With her shiny bobbed hair, Chantale looked sleek in black trousers, a loose grey top and plum silk scarf around her neck. Danielle wore a floral dress with a scarlet belt. Even though my appearance was a titch more sophisticated after last year’s training, I still felt conspicuous in my dangly Eiffel Tower earrings, tight jeans and shimmer lipstick. I smiled inside at the chestnut leather jacket Edward wore. It was a rite of passage, every bloke buying that item for his wardrobe – except most splashed out in their teens, not their early thirties. Having been brought up in stuffy clothes, under my supervision Edward was playing catch-up.

      ‘So, Gemma…’ said Monique, in her impressive English accent cutting through my thoughts on Edward’s dress sense. I jumped – the group’s conversation had been switching between French and English, so I’d given up trying to follow every word. Although I was pleased for Edward – it was clear just how much he adored trying to speak a foreign language. I was less pleased that Monique’s hand had remained on Edward’s arm for most of the meal. I put down my knife and fork.

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