The Art of French Kissing (4 page)

Poppy glanced at the bookcase and smiled proudly. “I know,” she said. “They’ve changed my life, Emma.”

I raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Changed your life?”

“It’s amazing,” she replied, her eyes sparkling. She reached out and grasped one of my hands as we sank back into the couch. “After Darren . . . well, let’s just say I went a little nuts.”

I nodded sympathetically. Darren had basically been Poppy’s Brett. They’d dated for three years, and when he’d broken up with her four years ago, she’d gone into seclusion for two months, refusing to talk to anyone. I hadn’t entirely understood what she was going through at the time, but now . . . well, let’s just say that going into seclusion for two months didn’t sound like such a terrible plan.

“This book got me through,” she said excitedly, leaping up from the couch and pulling a tattered pale green volume from the shelf. She handed it to me, and I glanced down at the cover. I blinked a few times, registering the words, and then stared at it incredulously.

“
Voodoo for Jilted Lovers
?” I read the title aloud, still gazing at the cover, which featured a photograph of a male doll with dozens of pins sticking out of the general area of his crotch.

“Yes!” Poppy beamed at me and clapped her hands together. “It was perfect. Every night before I went to bed, I would stick a new pin in my Darren doll. It made me feel so much better!”

“You had a Darren doll?”

“Oh, yes!” Poppy enthused. “I still have it, in fact!” She vanished into her room for a moment and reemerged with a little doll, no bigger than her hand, that was dressed in jeans and a green shirt and had a thick shock of yellow hair and a smattering of freckles. “Whenever I think of him, I simply insert a pin somewhere that’s bound to hurt.”

“You do?” I asked. While I looked at her skeptically, Poppy cheerfully pulled a pin from a mug on her desk and stuck it into the Darren doll’s belly.

“There!” she said. “See? Now wherever he is in the world, I’ll wager he’s having a sudden and inexplicable bout of indigestion!”

Poppy looked quite pleased with herself as she held up the Darren doll for me to see. “Anyhow,” she continued, “after that, I started thinking, perhaps some of these other books out there would help me, too! And, Emma, I am a whole new woman.”

“Oh. Well, that’s, um . . . interesting.”

“Emma, it’s wonderful,” Poppy bubbled on. She put the poor Darren doll down and reached for another book on her shelf. “Like in this book,
How to Date Like a Dude
, Dr. Randall Fishington explains how to chuck men before they chuck you. It’s amazing. And in
Secrets of Desirable Women
,” she continued, reaching for another book and handing it to me, “the authors explain how to make a man want you by acting like you have no interest in him at all. I thought it would be total rubbish, but, Emma, it completely works!”

“It does?” I asked.

“Emma, I’ve discovered the secret to successful dating.” Poppy paused dramatically. “The worse you treat these wankers, the more interested they’ll be. If you blow them off, they’ll wonder what makes you so special, and they’ll fall directly in love with you. And the best thing about dating like this, Emma, is that
you
always get to chuck the guys before
they
chuck you. You never get hurt!”

“Well, I guess that sounds good,” I said uncertainly.

“Listen, Emma,” Poppy said. She knelt in front of me and smiled. “I’m going to change your life this month. I’m going to teach you everything I’ve learned. You’re never going to think of Brett again.”

Chapter Three

A
fter I showered, changed, and had a second cup of coffee, Poppy and I went out to have dinner at one of her favorite restaurants.

I’d forgotten just how dazzling Paris could be. In the wake of a month that had stopped my life in its tracks and shattered much of what I believed in, I was, perhaps, in dire need of something magical. Maybe that’s why I found myself rooted to the spot for a whole minute after Poppy and I emerged from the underground Métro at the Saint-Michel stop.

“It’s so beautiful,” I breathed, staring up in wonder.

Beside me, Poppy put an arm around me and smiled. “It’s the most beautiful place in the world,” she agreed.

Night had fallen, and we were standing in the shadows of the Notre Dame Cathedral, surely one of the most stunning spots in the city. In the darkness, the church glowed with an ethereal light, both soaring Gothic towers lit from somewhere beneath so that they appeared to shine from within. Between them, a huge circular stained-glass window shone with muted blues and pinks. The illuminated building seemed to go on forever, with a spire rising from its middle and curved, leglike supports rounding out the back end. The light from the church spilled onto the surface of the river and across the water to the sidewalk on which we stood, bathing everything in a pale glow that made all of this feel a little like a dream.

“Wow,” I said softly.

“That’s an understatement,” Poppy bubbled. “Wait until you see where we’re eating.”

She led me a block down the quai to a café on the Left Bank, just across from Notre Dame. Its yellow-and-green neon letters spelled out
CAFé LE PETIT PONT
, and its umbrella-covered terrace overlooked Notre Dame across a narrow sliver of river.

“It’s one of my favorite restaurants in Paris,” Poppy said as we waited at the entrance to be seated. “I never grow tired of this view.”

Indeed, I kept pinching myself throughout dinner, convinced that I couldn’t possibly be sitting nonchalantly in a Parisian café, sipping Beaujolais, eating the most delicious coq au vin I’d ever tasted, and looking out on the fabled Notre Dame Cathedral. Only a month ago, I’d been eating at a patio table with Brett, thinking that I had everything in life I could possibly want. It suddenly felt like the world I had lived in before was very small.

After toasting to my new life in Paris with the last of our bottle of wine, we ordered espresso and apple crumble and giggled our way down memory lane, reminiscing about our summer in London eight years earlier and filling in the gaps of our lives since then. We’d stayed in touch, but there had been lapses here and there—particularly on my side, I was ashamed to admit.

“I guess once I started dating Brett, I let a lot of things sort of fall to the wayside,” I mumbled, avoiding Poppy’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s in the past,” she said. She reached across the table and gave my hands a squeeze. “And so is Brett. Good riddance.”

I tried to smile, but it was harder than it should have been to get the corners of my mouth to cooperate. I took a deep breath.

“So tell me about Guillaume.” I changed the subject, hoping that Poppy would be less hesitant than she’d been at home. After all, it had been a long time since I’d worked with a bona fide celebrity. By the time the Boy Bandz boys made it big, I already knew them for the pimply-faced, spoiled, hormonal kids they were, which sort of reduced their charm factor for me. I was looking forward to working with someone whom
People
had named one of the sexiest men alive and whom 67 percent of
Glamour
poll takers had said reminded them most of a real-life Prince Charming.

“Yes, right, okay,” Poppy said, nodding and looking away. “We’re all very excited about him; he sings in both English and French, and his music makes him the perfect crossover artist. He’s sort of Coldplay meets Jack Johnson, with a side of John Mayer and the influence of the Beatles, all with that delicious French accent.”

“Poppy, that’s great!” I exclaimed. It was just the kind of project I’d dreamed of during all those years of pushing flavorless teen groups. “He sounds wonderful.”

“Well, that’s the way we’re marketing him,” she said, finally smiling and meeting my eye. “He’s supposed to be KMG’s next big thing, the deliciously sexy up-and-coming French star. The higher-ups here have decided that they’ll be pushing him hard to the British and American markets. Everyone already knows his name because of the whole Dionne DeVrie thing—and of course the Jennifer Aniston rumor has helped enormously—so it’s perfect. Together, you and I will be handling his English-language launch, with a big kickoff event in London in just under four weeks. I’ve been working my bum off for the last two months on this.”

“Wow!” I said. “This all sounds so exciting.”

“It will be,” she said with a nod. “It’s a big deal, really. We’re flying lots of press in from the States. Basically, KMG’s big rollout plan this year is to make Guillaume Riche the next big worldwide superstar, starting with the UK and America. It’s up to me and you to make that happen.”

“It is?” I asked. I blinked at her a few times. The responsibility sounded huge.

“Don’t worry, yeah?” Poppy added hastily. “Everything’s already in place. Everyone loves him already because he’s a TV star over here, of course, and because of his reputation as one of Europe’s hottest bachelors. In fact, we organized a poll of fifty British women and fifty American women just last week, and when asked to name the sexiest Frenchman they could think of, ninety-two percent of them said Guillaume Riche!”

“And the other eight percent?” I asked.

“A few said Olivier Martinez, a few named Gérard Depardieu, and one woman, who seemed a bit off her rocker anyhow, kept declaring her love for Napoléon,” Poppy said, grinning at me.

I laughed.

“Plus,” she continued, “the press think Guillaume’s a saint. Along with that whole Ethiopian adoption rumor, we’ve had him doing lots of charity work in the last five months, and the newspapers and TV shows have started to pick up on it. In the last month alone, he’s been featured three times in
Okay
magazine and made
Hello
’s list of Europe’s most eligible bachelors—after he and Dionne broke up, of course. The whole Saint Guillaume thing has really caught on.”

“So how come he’s not releasing an album in French?” I asked.

Poppy shrugged. “Over here, the French love English-language music, so they’ll embrace the fact that he sings in English. This way, we can launch him to the UK and America at the same time we’re launching his French music career. It’s like killing two birds—well, a lot of birds, really—with one stone. It’s the Americans and the Brits that drive the world’s taste in music. Plus, he grew up speaking English, so he’ll be ace in interviews. His father spent some time living in the States before Guillaume was born, I gather.”

“Well,” I said, “he sounds perfect. I don’t even know how to thank you for giving me this job.”

“No matter,” she said, glancing away. “I really need the help for the next four weeks, believe me.”

We lingered over the apple crumble while a jazz trio began to play inside. The smells, the sounds, the feel of everything here was so different from what I was used to. I could almost forget that somewhere, thousands of miles away, Brett even existed.

I fell right asleep that night, thanks to my jet lag. When Poppy gently shook me awake the next morning at eight thirty, I felt disoriented, and it took me a moment to remember where I was.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said softly, smiling down at me as I blinked at her with bleary eyes. “It’s Monday morning! Time to get up for work.”

I groaned. “It’s too early!” I moaned. After all, with the time difference, my body was telling me it was two thirty in the morning.

“Sorry,” Poppy apologized. “But you’re on the French clock now. Rise and shine!”

I dragged myself out of bed, muttering words that Poppy wisely ignored. By the time I had showered, put on a suit and some makeup, and appeared in the tiny kitchen forty minutes later, she had a flaky apple tart and a mug of cappuccino waiting for me.

“Eat up,” she said, nodding at the pastry. “I popped by the patisserie on the corner while you were in the shower. You’re going to have a full day, and you’ll need the energy.”

“Thanks,” I said, my eyes widening as I sunk my teeth into the flaky tart. “This is incredible.”

“Yes, well, be careful with them or you’ll gain ten pounds in a month,” Poppy said. She smiled sheepishly and patted her stomach. “Yes, I confess, I speak from personal experience.”

I laughed.

“Er, Emma?” Poppy asked tentatively. “Would you be insulted if I offered a suggestion on your outfit?”

“Um, no?” I responded hesitantly. I glanced down at my outfit—a charcoal skirt suit with a crisp pink blouse—and wondered what was wrong with it.

Poppy nodded, gazing at my clothes. “Your suit?” She shook her head. “Much too New York–boardroom. This is a city that dresses up—but the women here do it much more subtly, and in a much more feminine way.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling suddenly foolish. This outfit had made me feel powerful and successful in Orlando. Did I not look feminine? I thought the slender cut accentuated my hips. “But what am I supposed to wear, then?”

“Give me a moment,” Poppy said with a smile.

In ten minutes, she had re-outfitted me in a pair of slender black pants I hadn’t had a chance to unpack yet as well as a pale pink blouse with a lacy collar from her own closet. She also loaned me a slim black tortoiseshell headband, which I used to pull back my somewhat unruly blond hair.

“Voilà
!
”
she said, standing back to admire her work. “Now we just need to tone down your eyeshadow and make your lips and cheeks a little rosier, and you’ll have transformed into a Parisian woman before our very eyes!”

Poppy’s finishing touch was a slender scarf, which she tied expertly around my neck beneath the collar of the shirt. I had to admit that when I looked in the mirror, even
I
was surprised at the image looking back at me.

“I
do
look kind of French,” I said in surprise.

“You look lovely.” Poppy beamed at her handiwork. “Shall we go?”

Poppy’s office was located in an old building that looked as though it could have been a series of upscale apartments a century ago. It was directly in back of the Musée d’Orsay, an impressionist museum she promised I’d like more than the enormous Louvre once we had a chance to go. Even from the outside, the museum was impressive. Poppy, reveling in her role as impromptu tour guide, explained that it had been a train station until right around World War II. I could indeed imagine Parisians a century ago bustling in and out of the long, ornate building that stretched for several blocks along the Seine. Two giant glass clocks glowed the hour, casting pale pools of light onto the sidewalk below.

“Here we are,” Poppy said as we entered the old office building behind the museum. We walked down a narrow hallway and stopped at a broad, gold-leafed door halfway down. She inserted a key in the lock, jiggled it a few times, and pushed. I followed her into the office as she flicked on the lights.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as the room lit up. I guess I’d assumed that if Poppy owned a PR firm that handled someone as big as Guillaume Riche, she’d have a bigger office. Instead the room we’d just entered had barely enough space to contain the two big desks that faced each other. One, clearly Poppy’s, was overflowing with paperwork, photographs, and a few self-help books.

The other desk was a bit smaller and had a hard-backed stationary chair instead of a plush rolling one. There was an eight-by-ten black-and-white Eiffel Tower photograph pinned to a corkboard beside it, and a computer monitor sat on the desk, but other than that, it was empty.

“We can go shopping this weekend to decorate it,” Poppy said as I took in the bare space. She nudged me and added, “We’ll be out shopping for your new clothes anyhow.”

I smiled and rolled my eyes at her. Evidently, Poppy had already decided that the wardrobe I’d brought with me was entirely useless.

“I had a business partner for a while, you know,” she said softly after a moment, glancing at the bare desk and then looking away. “But she’s gone.”

“What happened?” I asked. It was hard to imagine that anyone would walk away once they’d landed the Guillaume Riche account.

“I’ll tell you later,” Poppy said quickly. “But it doesn’t matter. For now, it’s just me and you, Emma. Did I mention I’m really going to need your help?”

The first three days of work went smoothly. Véronique, our liaison at KMG, was out of town on business until Thursday, so I wouldn’t get to meet her until the following week. Nor would I get to meet Guillaume—although I spent several hours drooling over his chiseled features and muscular physique in the hundreds of photos in Poppy’s database. According to Poppy, he was holed up in a hotel room somewhere in Paris, writing his next album.

“You’ll meet him before the junket,” Poppy assured me. “KMG doesn’t like us to bother him while he’s creating.”

That week, I had to read over some KMG company literature, sign a bunch of employment papers (I was being paid through KMG’s small American branch to avoid the French employment laws), and help Poppy write a press release about the upcoming release of Guillaume’s first album,
Riche
, which we were describing (somewhat cornily) as a “lyrical ode to Paris and the power of love.”

Poppy also caught me up on the plans for Guillaume’s London launch, for which she and I would be solely responsible. It sounded amazing. One-hundred-plus members of the media would be flown into London from the United States, Great Britain, Ireland, Australia, and South Africa—as would a few high-profile English-speaking music reporters floating around continental Europe. At London’s five-star Royal Kensington Hotel, Poppy and I would host a two-and-a-half-day media junket—complete with a welcome reception, a surprise live performance, and five-minute interviews for every reporter—to officially launch Guillaume Riche and his debut album to the English-speaking world.