The Art of French Kissing (14 page)

“Um, I’m the publicist. For Guillaume Riche.” I spoke slowly, firmly, keeping eye contact with the officer, who still looked confused.

“Comment?”
he asked again.
“Je ne parle pas anglais.”

Great. I’d found the only Parisian who didn’t speak even basic English. Just my luck.

“Um, okay,” I said, trying to seize on whatever French I’d picked up. “Um,
je
. . . um,
amie
of Guillaume.”

“Vous êtes une amie de ce fou?”
the police officer asked slowly. I gathered that he was confirming that I was Guillaume’s friend. I wished I knew how to say “publicist” in French, as I was certainly no friend of the wacky rock star.

“Oui
,
”
I confirmed confidently.

The police officer started to laugh. He shook his head and said something in rapid French that I didn’t understand. Then he said in clear English. “You no come. Too many girl.”

“No, no, I’m not actually a friend,” I started to protest. “I’m his publicist.” I couldn’t for the life of me think how to say the word, so I said the closest thing I could think of. “Um,
journaliste.
”

Clearly that was the wrong thing to say, because the moment the word was out of my mouth, the police officer began pushing me away and muttering in French.

“No, no wait!” I protested, realizing too late that I was being pushed back to where the press was kept waiting. But the officer ignored me.

“Well, hello again,” said a voice behind me as the officer guided me forcefully around the corner. I glanced up and saw Gabe, along with several other members of the press pool. Great. The officer had brought me back to the media horde, thinking I was one of them. “Do you need some help?” Gabe asked, arching an eyebrow at me and glancing between me and the policeman.

I sighed. “Yes,” I muttered.

He smiled at me—a triumphant smile, if I wasn’t mistaken—and turned to the officer. He said something in rapid, confident French, and the police officer responded in a low, grumbling voice. Gabe spoke again, and finally the officer shrugged, took my arm, and began guiding me away from the media horde.

“I told him you were Guillaume’s publicist and to bring you inside to find Poppy,” Gabe said as the officer pulled me away.

“Thank you,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Anytime!” Gabe gave me a cheerful little wave. “And hey, be careful in there.”

The officer guided me through the crowd and into the lobby of one of the buildings Guillaume was dangling between. He said something to one of the other officers inside, and in a moment yet another policeman appeared to escort me farther into the building. I found Poppy around the corner, waiting for me.

“What on earth is going on?” I asked.

Poppy sighed and glanced toward the ceiling. “Well, the good news is that he’s not violating any laws, so for once we don’t have to worry about him being arrested. Apparently in this city, you can hang upside down by your ankles thirteen stories above ground and no one minds.”

“Of course you can,” I muttered.

She nodded tersely. “The bad news is that he’s not being particularly responsive to the
pompiers
, and they can’t get him down without his help,” she said.

“Oh, no.”

“It gets worse,” Poppy said grimly. “He and some friends tied the ropes themselves. The police have secured the ends, but who knows how well he’s knotted on to the rope? Or how long it can hold his weight?”

“This is awful,” I said. I thought about it for a moment. “Have you tried to talk him down?”

Poppy nodded. “He won’t listen. He just keeps on singing.”

I hesitated. “Let me give it a shot,” I said.

“You think he’ll listen to you?”

“I think we sort of, um, bonded during that whole Eiffel Tower thing,” I said. “It’s worth a try.”

Poppy shrugged and led me to the elevator, which we took up to the thirteenth floor. When the doors opened, we stepped into a hall filled with police officers, firemen, and paramedics, all of whom appeared to be standing around, doing nothing but sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Had I not known that a man was dangling above the pavement outside the window, I would have mistaken this for a friendly hall party.

I shook my head, and Poppy led me past them and into a room at the end of the hall. Inside, several officers were gathered around the window, looking just as casual as the people in the hallway. It was as if they dealt with dangling rock stars every day. After a quick glance around the room, I could see the end of a thick length of rope tied to a bed pushed against the wall. I followed the rope to the window and looked outside. Suspended in midair, Guillaume was cheerfully belting out the lyrics to “City of Light.” I shook my head. This was insane.

I checked the rope and made sure it looked like it was securely tied. While Poppy conferred with one of the police officers, I leaned out the window, trying not to think about how dangerous this was for the man we were responsible for.

“Guillaume!” I called. I couldn’t resist looking down, and when I did, I felt sick to my stomach. Thirteen floors was a long way. Definitely far enough to worry about a splattered rock star on the pavement. In a city where most of the residential buildings topped out below ten floors, how had Guillaume managed to find two buildings beside each other whose height made this stunt so potentially deadly?

Guillaume turned his head slowly toward me. It seemed to take him a moment to focus, but when he realized who I was, a broad grin spread across his face. “Emma!” he exclaimed, as if I had simply surprised him in the recording studio as opposed to suspended in midair. “Hi! You’re here! Welcome! Join the fun!”

Below us, a murmur ran through the crowd as it became obvious that Guillaume had stopped singing and was now conversing with someone inside. For a moment I wondered what Gabe was thinking on the ground below, but just as quickly I banished the thought from my mind. Who
cared
what he was thinking? Why had that been the thought that popped into my panicked brain?

Guillaume kept grinning. I stared for a moment and sighed. “Guillaume,” I began wearily. “What on earth are you doing?”

He looked puzzled for a moment—or at least he appeared to (it was rather hard to tell considering that he was hanging upside down by his ankles). “Well,” he began. “I was drinking with a few of the guys from the band. This is Jean-Marc’s apartment, you know. He’s my drummer. So his girlfriend, her name’s Rosine, well, Rosine says wouldn’t it be fun if we string a rope between her apartment and his and see if we can get across? That’s Rosine’s apartment over there.”

He paused and pointed to the window across the street where the rope disappeared into another apartment building. “So we did that, and then no one else wanted to go first, so I said I would,” Guillaume continued cheerfully. “So they tied this cord to my foot just in case I fell or something. I guess it’s good that they did, because, Emma, this rope is slippery. I started across, but about halfway I just couldn’t hold on anymore. I let go, and, well, here I am. Hanging upside down. By my ankles.

“By the way, where did Jean-Marc go?” Guillaume asked, looking suddenly around in confusion. “Where are the other guys?”

I shook my head at him in disbelief. “They’re gone, Guillaume,” I said wearily. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to calm myself down. “Look, we have to get you down from there before you get hurt.”

He shrugged absently. “I don’t know. I kind of like it here. I can see the Eiffel Tower, you know!”

That was the cue, in Guillaume’s mind at least, to begin singing again.

“Night has fallen on this City of Light!”
He belted out the opening line of his single enthusiastically, his baritone still sounding surprisingly perfect, considering that his throat had to be swelling up thanks to all the blood rushing to his head.

The crowd below, which had grown even larger as word had apparently gotten out that there was a bona fide rock star hanging between buildings, started clapping, cheering, and whistling. Guillaume grinned and started singing even more loudly.

“I think of you and tears fill my eyes
,
”
he continued. The crowd below cheered wildly.

“I dream of you when you’re not here with me. You’re all I’ve ever wanted and you set my soul free!”

Down below, unbelievably, people started singing along the third time he reached the chorus. By the time he was done, he had a whole group of amateur backup singers below.

“They love me, Emma!” he shouted to me when he was done. Below us, the whistles, cheers, and catcalls continued.

“Guillaume—” I began wearily. But I didn’t know what else to say. This guy was clearly a lunatic. And somehow, my PR education hadn’t included lessons on how to talk singers with a screw loose down from ropes dangling between buildings in foreign cities. I’d have to get in touch with my college’s dean about that; there’d clearly been a gap in the curriculum. “Guillaume,” I tried again, keeping my voice firm. “You need to come in now.”

Guillaume studied me for a moment. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you come out and get me?”

“What?”

“Come out here with me, Emma!”

“Are you crazy?”

“Probably!” Guillaume seemed to be gathering steam. “But it will be fun! We will sing a duet!”

“There is no way I am going out there with you!” I shot back.

“Then I am not coming in!” Guillaume said. He stuck out his bottom lip stubbornly and crossed his arms over his chest. “And if something happens to me, it will be your fault.”

I stared at him. “You can’t be serious!”

“I am completely serious, Emma,” Guillaume said. “I am not coming down until you come out and sing with me.”

I slowly turned around to see a roomful of people staring at me. I locked eyes with Poppy.

“What are you going to do?” she asked softly.

“I don’t particularly want to die from falling out a thirteenth-story window while singing a duet with a lunatic,” I said.

“We can guarantee your safety,” one of the police officers piped up. Poppy and I turned to look at him. He was young with flushed cheeks and bright blue eyes. “I mean, the rope itself is secure, and it’s thick enough to hold your weight. If you let us hook you on, you will not fall.”

I stared at him. “You really think I should do this?”

The young officer shrugged uncomfortably. “It is not for me to say,
mademoiselle.
I am only saying that we can keep you safe if you choose to go out there.”

I turned back to Poppy. She looked at me for a long moment. “It’s up to you,” she said finally.

I glanced out the window.

“Are you coming?” Guillaume yelled. “The view is amazing, Emma! You must come see!”

I thought about it for a moment, then turned back to the young officer.

“You promise you can keep me safe?” I asked.

He nodded solemly.
“Oui
,
”
he said. “I can almost guarantee it.”

I pretended I didn’t hear the word
almost.

I walked back over to the windowsill. “Hang on, Guillaume,” I yelled halfheartedly. “I’m coming!”

Fifteen minutes later, after borrowing a spare pair of police pants from the back of a police car so that no one would see up my dress as I dangled above the street, I was trying not to panic. Secured with several ropes and attached to the main rope with a pulley contraption, I inched my way out the window, praying that I wouldn’t die.

“Your face looks a little green, Emma!” Guillaume said as I started down the rope toward him.

“I’m afraid of heights,” I said stiffly as I inched closer and closer. The young officer had given me a pair of gloves and showed me how to walk my hands down the rope to get closer to Guillaume. He had promised that even if I lost my grip, I’d be fine; I was attached to both the rope and the window, so allegedly I wouldn’t fall. I might, on the other hand, slide down the rope and smash into the side of the building. I tried not to think about it.

“Afraid of heights?” Guillaume asked. “That’s impossible! Look around! It’s so beautiful here!”

I glanced up for a second and realized that he was right. I could see all the way to the Eiffel Tower. But I could
also
see the Eiffel Tower from my living room, which is where I would have greatly preferred to be at the moment.

Below us, the crowd was murmuring and pointing. I wondered momentarily what Gabe was thinking. He was probably having a field day. This would make one great UPP story.

“Okay, Guillaume,” I said as I made my way to his side. “Let’s just get this over with quickly.”

“You’re no fun!” he said. I looked down at him and shook my head. Not only was I dangling beside a rock star on a rope strung over the streets of Paris, but I was head-to-toe with him, as he had secured himself to the rope by his ankles.

“Your feet smell,” I retorted.

“That’s not very nice.” Guillaume sounded wounded.

“Neither is making me risk my life for you. Now, are we going to sing or what?”

“Fine, fine.” He sighed. “What would you like to sing?”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, Guillaume! Can you just choose something so we can get down from here?”

I was starting to get more and more nervous. The rope was swaying, and I felt sick to my stomach. I glanced toward the window. Poppy and the young officer were leaning out.

“Are you okay?” Poppy shouted. The officer slipped a comforting arm around her shoulder, and Poppy glanced up to bat her eyes at him. Great. Even in the midst of my death-defying tragedy, she was flirting.

“I’m fine!” I shouted back.

“How about ‘Cheek to Cheek’?” Guillaume asked. I turned my attention back to him. He smiled up at me and patted his cheek, which appeared very red thanks to all the blood rushing to his head. “Fred Astaire debuted it in 1935, long before Sinatra got his hands on it!”

“No more Fred Astaire!” I groaned.

“Good point,” Guillaume said thoughtfully. “I don’t even have my top hat with me. I couldn’t do it justice.” He thought for a moment. “Do you know ‘Jackson’? By Johnny Cash and June Carter?”