Authors: Lindsey Kelk
I’d made it.
The journey back to Paris was painfully slow, but at least it gave me the opportunity to attempt to do something with my hair. By the time I tore out of the train doors at the Gare du Nord, I’d created something appropriately avant-garde with a skinny black Alice band and an awful lot of dry shampoo, aka the best invention since sliced bread. Actually dry shampoo must have surpassed sliced bread in the world’s must-have stakes by now, it was surely saving more women more time.
My taxi driver seemed to understand my urgency, even if he didn’t understand my directions. I repeated the name of the hotel three times in an appallingly bad French accent until I decided to write it out on the back of my Boots receipt, at which point the driver huffed, puffed and set off unhappily. The traffic was so much worse than it had been that morning. Paris had woken up and was enjoying a busy Sunday. Honestly, why couldn’t everyone be hanging out in cafés eating pastries when I needed to get through town, I huffed, high on anticipation and jelly sweets. This must be how Tania and Sasha felt all the time.
Miraculously, we arrived at Rue Amelot without me leaping out of the car and killing any of the wandering tourists that thought it appropriate to cross the street in front of my taxi when the lights had already changed to green and without the taxi driver killing me for shouting out of the window at the tourists that crossed in front of us. It was a fun journey. I threw money at the driver, possibly too much, possibly not enough, and leaped out of the car and into the hotel.
‘
Mademoiselle
Clark?’ Alain raised his head in surprise as I dashed through the reception. ‘You did not go to London?’
‘I did,’ I called, jabbing the lift button, ‘but there was a bit of a change of plan. I don’t suppose you know if my boyfriend, um,
Monsieur
Reid is still here?’
‘I believe
Monsieur
Reid left the hotel some time ago,’ Alain said, looking really quite confused. Perfectly understandable.
‘Oh shit!’ The lift doors pinged open, but there really was no time to go upstairs. If he was already on his way to the festival, I had to get there, now.
‘Is there anything I can help you with this afternoon?’ Alain asked. I could tell by the look on his face he regretted saying the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.
‘Thing is, Alain,’ I tried the same ‘please help me smile’ that had been so effective at the Eurostar desk, ‘I need to get to Arras. In fact, I needed to get to Arras some time ago, but I made a massive cock up and went to London instead.’
‘That is quite the problem.’ Alain nodded to show he was following, which impressed me no end.
‘Right? But the thing is, I don’t know how to get to Arras. There’s this festival and I need to be there right away. Can you help?’
‘The train goes from the Gare du Nord, I believe the next train is at four-twenty.’ He wrinkled his nose, not even knowing it, but channelling concierge extraordinaire, Jenny Lopez. ‘And it will take approximately one hour. And then you can walk to the main square.’
‘I just came from the bloody Gare du Nord!’ I clung to the concierge desk and stamped out of sheer frustration. ‘It’s too late. How much would it be for a taxi?’
‘Very expensive.’
‘Very?’
‘Very.’
‘Shit.’
I put my forehead on the counter and waited for inspiration to strike. And waited. And waited. And—
‘Possibly I could help,’ Alain’s said reluctantly. ‘I could drive you to Arras.’
‘Are you shitting me?’ My face was shining brighter than a Christmas tree. ‘I mean, really? Are you sure? Because that would be amazing.’ Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it was a huge imposition, but I was too desperate to decline politely. I hadn’t come all the way back to mess up now.
‘I live in Arras,’ he replied, signalling to another concierge further down the desk and saying something in rapid French. ‘I can drive you to the festival. I leave very soon.’
‘If you don’t mind, it sounds like a great plan.’ I waited for him to come around to my side of the concierge desk and gave him a little hug. Which, I realized as he stiffened, was apparently too much. ‘Sorry.’
‘This way.’ He coloured up and gestured out of the door.
Alain listened to my story with polite attention as I was driven through Paris for the third time that day. I was just at the part where I saw Alex and Solène together, my hands gesturing wildly and practically jumping up and down in my seat when I realized that there was an actual possibility that Alain was just helping me to get out of work for the afternoon. His firmly-set jaw and white knuckles, tightly wrapped around the steering wheel did seem to suggest that he wasn’t finding my companionship relaxing. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten two bags of Percy Pigs and a Toblerone on the train back from London. My sugar buzz was worse than any early-morning champagne rush.
‘And well, I just really need to talk to my boyfriend, so thanks for this,’ I said, cutting the story short and folding myself back into the passenger seat. I checked his expression out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he would be desperate to know what happened next. Letting out a small sigh of relief, Alain stared at the road ahead, relaxed his vice-like grip on the steering wheel and reached across the gear stick to turn on the radio. Loud.
I just about managed to sit on my hands and keep my mouth shut for the rest of the journey, much to Alain’s visible relief. For every mile we drove in silence, I could see his shoulders slowing inching down from their previous position, tightly tensed up around his ears. After twenty long minutes of bad French radio (I would never have had Alain pegged as a country fan), we pulled up at the front gate of the festival.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said, fumbling for the door handle. ‘You’re a life-saver. Really. I just can’t thank you enough.’
‘Of course.’ He loosened his concierge’s tie, confirming that letting me out of the car meant that his working day was really over. ‘We will see you back at the hotel very soon?’
‘Hopefully not too soon,’ I said, clambering out of the car. ‘I mean, hopefully not later within the next hour or anything.’
‘Yes, hopefully not too soon,’ he repeated, his intention pretty unmistakable. Still, he had brought me to the festival, and he hadn’t kicked me out on the motorway when I accidentally spilled half a can of Pepsi all over his upholstery, so I needed to be thankful, not pissy.
Closing the door carefully, I waved him off, reapplied lipgloss and walked up to the gate. Unlike every other festival I’d ever had the misfortune to attend, there wasn’t a muddy field in sight. The huge stage was set at one end of, well, the main square. I wasn’t sure quite what I had been expecting, but this was beautiful. I decided it was a good thing that my guest pass was still waiting for me at the entrance and peered around the ticket gates into the festival. Man alive it was busy. How was I supposed to find Alex among all these people?
‘You’re such a genius, Angela,’ I muttered, pushing through the crowds. ‘Get delivered to the middle of nowhere in a country where you can’t speak the language, without a bloody phone, and then expect to be able to find your boyfriend in the middle of ten thousand people.’
What made this especially difficult was the fact that at least sixty per cent of the ten thousand people were dressed just like my boyfriend. Every single one of Paris’s hipsters had descended on Arras and it looked to me like they’d shipped in some reinforcements, just in case. As much as the very idea of it pained me, I had to head to the main stage and see if I couldn’t get into the artists’ area. It was super unlikely that Alex would be in there, he was always out watching bands somewhere, but the chances of Craig declining backstage hospitality? Cold drinks and hot groupies? There was no way he was anywhere else.
‘I think I’m on the Stills list, it’s Angela Clark?’ I said, approaching the two very large men guarding the backstage gate and holding my lanyard out for inspection. It wasn’t quite a Jedi mind trick, but it should have worked. Instead, they looked at me, looked at each other and then carried on ignoring me.
‘No, really, I’m on there,’ I said, hoping it was true. ‘I’m looking for Alex Reid?’
‘You and me both,’ said a familiar voice behind me.
I whirled around to find Graham carrying his guitar case, and threw myself into him for a hug. ‘What’s going on Angie, where is he?’
‘What do you mean, where is he?’ I asked, really not wanting to let go as he shook me off. It was so good to see Graham. It felt like for ever since I’d said goodbye to him the night before. ‘I came here to find him.’
‘But I thought you were back in London.’ He waved his access all areas pass at the great big men and they parted slowly, allowing us through. ‘You didn’t go?’
‘Why would you think I was in London?’ I asked, spotting Craig leaning against the bar, talking to a cute blonde. Of course.
‘Because I have some insane voicemail from Alex saying that you’d bailed on him and gone to London so he was going after you.’ Graham dug around in his pocket for his iPhone, pressed a few buttons and passed it to me. ‘Care to listen?’
I pressed the hot phone to my left ear, sticking my finger in the other so that I could hear the message over the roaring crowd that were greeting the band just about to take the stage.
‘Hey man, uh, I gotta go to London and find Angela, I fucked up and I have to make things right.’
I swallowed hard. He had gone to London? He’d followed me?
‘I’ll try and be back for the show, but uh, well. I guess I might not be. I’ll try and get back. Sorry man.’
I handed the phone back to Graham, all of the colour draining from my face, rendering all of the Clarins girl’s hard work more or less pointless.
‘Did you call him back?’ I asked, frantic. Alex had gone to London? Why had Alex gone to London? How did Alex know I’d gone to London?
‘Of course,’ Graham said, pushing his glasses up his nose and giving me a not particularly friendly look. ‘I couldn’t get through to him. I’m guessing the reception isn’t that good under the ocean.’
‘No, it’s not,’ I confirmed, trying to ignore the fact that he wasn’t looking any happier with me as the conversation went on. ‘But it has to come out the other side sooner or later. Can we try again?’
‘You try.’ He pushed the phone back into my hands. ‘I have to go sound check my equipment. In case the rest of my band shows up and we actually get to go on.’
‘Gotcha.’ I gave his back a quick salute as Graham strode off, physically dragging Craig away from the blonde and the bar. I really didn’t like it when he was mad at me. It took me a couple of seconds to work out how to redial the last number on the iPhone and waited for it to ring through. Which, thank God, it did.
‘Hey, Graham, man,’ Alex answered and launched straight into his apology. I choked up before I could stop him. ‘I’m really sorry, I know I’ve fucked you and Craig over, but I have to talk to Angela, I’ve let this situation get way out of hand and I just need to get her to come back or to just listen to me or something. I’ll be back before we’re on. When are we on?’
‘I don’t know,’ I stuttered down the phone. ‘But I do know I’m not in London.’
‘Angela?’
‘Yes?’
There was an awfully long silence on the other end of the phone.
‘Alex?’
‘Angela, are you in Paris?’
‘Arras, actually.’
‘You’re not in London?’
‘No.’
‘Were you in London?’
‘Erm, just for a bit.’
Another long pause.
‘I’m gonna run out of battery,’ Alex said finally. ‘Can you please just sit your ass down and not move until I get back?’
I nodded emphatically.
‘Are you nodding at the phone?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’
And he hung up.
I stared at the phone and wondered what I was supposed to do next. I thought about texting him, apologizing for sending him on a wild goose chase to London except I had no idea how to text from an iPhone and I really didn’t want to have to ask Graham. And besides, if Alex’s phone was out of battery, he wouldn’t get it anyway. Damn it. Feeling like a complete spare part, I wandered back to the bar area and asked for a coffee. Dropping into a chair at an empty table, I pulled out my iPod and laptop. All I really wanted to do was sleep until Alex got here and then wake up just in time to see him take the stage, sweep me up in his arms in front of all of Paris’s assembled musos and declare his love for me. But given the events of the last twenty-four hours, that seemed about as likely as me getting onstage and filling in for him if he didn’t make it back in time for the band’s set.
My laptop was still on the same page as when I’d closed it in the Gare du Nord hours ago. I read and reread what I’d written in the morning. It was all still true, I had been completely effed over by a girl this week although no one had really messed anything up quite as magnificently as I had messed up myself. I apple-xed the text until I was left with an empty page and then started again.
The Adventures of Angela: Know Your Enemy
Confession time. This is the second time I’ve written this blog post in the last twelve hours and I am slightly worried that it might be my last. To cut a really long story short (this is only a blog, after all) I came to Paris this week with visions of bicycle rides by the Seine, skipping through the Louvre hand-in-hand with my Brooklyn boy and generally devouring everything edible that came my way, but instead I got something really quite different.
Rather than
La Vie en Rose
, I got
La Vie en Rubbish
. Between transatlantic rows with my best friend, a total psycho trying to steal my boyfriend, another one trying to steal my job and a great big bout of homesickness, I really haven’t had a lot of time to steal kisses on the Pont Neuf or inhale macaroons at Ladurée. It’s been a bit of a busy week. And now I’m sitting here trying to work out just what the bloody hell went on. I can’t help, but feel that if I had just had more confidence in my own decisions and in myself, I really could have avoided at least some of my problems and it’s possible that I wouldn’t be sitting backstage at the Main Square festival in Arras, looking like something Worzel Gummidge threw up. At least my black eye has more or less gone now – I’ll explain that later.