The Art of French Kissing (15 page)

“No.”

“How about ‘Islands in the Stream’? Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton?”

“No!” I exclaimed in frustration. How on earth did he know so many country songs?

Guillaume thought for a moment.

“How about ‘You’re the One That I Want’?’ ” he asked. “From
Grease
?”

“You’ve
got
to be kidding me,” I muttered.

“You know it?”

“Yes, I know it,” I said. I just didn’t want to sing it.

“Okay, I’ll start! This will be beautiful! You are just like Olivia Newton-John!”

I groaned. Guillaume shouted to the crowd. “For my finale tonight, I will be performing a hit song from the musical
Grease
with my lovely publicist, Emma!” He repeated the same sentence again in French.

The crowd below applauded, hooting and hollering like they were at a real concert.

“They love us already!” Guillaume said. “Doesn’t this feel good, Emma?”

“Yeah, it feels just fantastic.” I was still trying not to throw up.

Guillaume cleared his throat and began to sing.
“I got chills! They’re multiplying! And I’m loooosing control!”

“You can say that again,” I muttered. Guillaume made a face at me and sang the remainder of his verse.

“Your turn!” he urged.

I began singing Olivia Newton-John’s words unenthusiastically.

“Louder, Emma!” Guillaume grinned at me. “They can’t hear you!”

I took a deep breath and continued with the rest of the verse, feeling like a complete idiot.

Below, the crowd applauded wildly. Miraculously, we managed to make it through all the verses and several renditions of the chorus, ending with a drawn-out
“Ooh, ooh, ooh”
that we sang together as the crowd went wild. Dozens of flashbulbs went off, and I closed my eyes. I just wanted this night to be over.

“Emma?” Guillaume said after a moment, after the screams had finally receded a bit. “You know, I’m getting a bit of a headache.”

“Yes, Guillaume,” I said stiffly. “It’s probably because you’ve been hanging upside down for two hours.”

He appeared to think about this for a moment. Then he shrugged, which unfortunately made us both swing wildly from side to side. I
really
wanted to vomit.

“Maybe you’re right, Emma,” he said slowly after the swinging had slowed. “It’s probably time to come in then, right?”

“Yes, Guillaume,” I agreed. “I think it’s time to come in.”

“Really?” he asked. He seemed to consider this. “Okay then. Thanks!”

As the young officer had instructed, I asked Guillaume to grab my ankles. He acquiesced, and I shouted inside to let the officers know we were ready. Slowly, three officers pulled on the rope attached to my back so that Guillaume and I, locked in a strange head-to-toe position, were slowly dragged along the length of the rope, via the pulley I’d been connected to. Five agonizing minutes later, Poppy’s young officer and two others pulled Guillaume and me to safety.

“That was fun!” Guillaume exclaimed, grinning at me as the police untied his ankles and unhooked him from the rope. There was some yelling outside as the officers in the building across the way discussed how to detach the rope. As soon as Guillaume was free, he reached out and pulled me into a hug. “You saved me!” he declared in a deep, theatrical voice.

I rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth. “You’re insane.” I didn’t mean it facetiously.

“Emma, you were worried about me!” Guillaume said, pulling back and studying my face.

I avoided his glance. “I was worried about the
album
,” I mumbled.

“No, you were worried about
me
!” Guillaume insisted triumphantly. He turned to Poppy and gave her a hug, too. “Poppy! Emma loves me!” he announced.

Poppy frowned. “Then she’s even crazier than you are.”

After Guillaume had been ushered out a back entrance by Richard and Edgar, who had arrived during my dangling duet, Poppy and I walked outside to where the police were keeping the waiting journalists at bay. I’d taken the police pants off.

“Do you want to do the talking?” Poppy whispered as we walked.

I just looked at her. “Are you kidding? I just dangled thirteen stories above Paris singing a duet from a John Travolta musical. I think it’s your turn to handle this.”

“Fine.” We arrived at the bank of microphones and tape recorders that the reporters had thrown together, and Poppy raised a hand to silence the crowd.

“I’m pleased to announce that Guillaume Riche is perfectly fine and is on his way home with his bodyguards,” Poppy began. “Thank you all for your concern.”

She repeated the words in French. As she went on to explain that Guillaume’s stunt certainly wasn’t illegal and certainly wasn’t the result of drunken stupidity, I gazed around at the journalists, trying to gauge their reactions. Most were listening and nodding as if Poppy’s words were entirely sensible. Were they crazy? There were a few skeptical faces in the crowd. Oddly, Gabe didn’t appear to be watching Poppy, although once in a while he scribbled something on his pad. Instead he appeared to be staring hard at me.

Every time I caught his eye, I glanced quickly away, but he kept right on looking, as if he could see right through me. It was making me feel uneasy.

“This was simply an impromptu demonstration on Guillaume’s part,” Poppy concluded, “to show you how much he enjoys singing with regular women. Like my colleague, Emma.”

I smiled weakly. After a round of questions, each of which Poppy answered quickly and crisply, she finally called on Gabe. I braced myself for something sarcastic.

Instead, looking straight at me, he spoke softly. “That was really brave, Emma,” he said in English. “Are you okay?”

I gulped and nodded. “Yes, I’m fine,” I said.

Once the press conference had ended and the reporters began to go their separate ways, Poppy returned to me, looking exhausted.

“Feel like going out for an Our-Rock-Star-Isn’t-Splattered-on-the-Pavement celebratory drink?” she asked. She leaned in. “That cute officer asked me out!” she whispered.

I smiled weakly and shook my head. “No,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m just worn out. I think I’m going to go home and go to bed.”

Poppy nodded. “I understand.”

I smiled. “Have fun with Officer McDreamy, though. See you at home.”

We hugged good-bye, and I began walking toward the Porte Maillot Métro stop, which was several blocks away, according to the little “Plan de Paris” map Poppy had loaned me.

There was a chill in the air, and with the uneven cobblestones of some of the sidewalks I was beginning to doubt the logic of wearing high heels in a city like this. How did Frenchwomen do it, anyhow? I glanced around, hoping I’d see the gleaming light of a taxi somewhere, but the streets were empty. As I walked through the puddles of light cast from the street lamps, my feet ached more and more with each step.

I’d walked four blocks and was just beginning to contemplate whether it would be worse to keep my heels on (I was already getting massive blisters), or walk barefoot on the grimy streets, when I heard a car horn honk beside me. I turned my head wearily to the right, gritting my teeth against the pain, and was somehow unsurprised to see Gabe sitting there in his little Peugeot, smiling at me.

I stopped walking, and he rolled down his window. “Need a ride home?”

“No,” I said grumpily. I regretted it the moment the words were out of my mouth. It was another few blocks to the Métro, then, after I got off the train at the closest stop to our apartment, I’d still have to walk all the way home, which meant crossing the Pont de’lAlma and walking halfway up Avenue Bosquet—a good half mile. I’d surely have to have my feet amputated. But I was in no mood to need anyone—particularly Gabe—so I started walking again, pretending to ignore him. Better to go through the rest of my life without sensation in my feet, right?

“Okay,” Gabe said cheerfully. I expected him to speed up and drive off, leaving me and my aching feet in the dust, but instead, as I walked and stared straight ahead, I could sense his car beside me, creeping slowly along, keeping pace.

Ignore him
, I told myself.
It’s like he’s not even there. Don’t look.

That worked for a block. But when I turned left onto Boulevard Péreire and Gabe turned with me and continued inching along beside me, I’d finally had enough.

“Stop following me!” I snapped, halting in my tracks and turning to face him.

“Oh, you’re still there?” Gabe feigned surprise. He stopped his car. “I hadn’t noticed.”

I glared at him.

“Oh, come on, Emma,” Gabe said after a moment of smiling at me. His face looked serious now. “Just get in the car, already. I know your feet hurt in those shoes.”

“I’m fine,” I said through gritted teeth.

“No, you’re not,” Gabe said simply. “Stop being proud and just get in. I’m going to your neighborhood anyhow.”

I opened my mouth to say something sarcastic in reply, but what was the point? My feet
were
killing me.

“Fine,” I grumbled. I marched over to his car like
I
was doing
him
a favor, yanked the door open, and slammed it behind me after I’d flopped into his passenger’s seat.

“Um, you appear to have shut your dress in the door, Emma,” Gabe said. I glanced at him and was perturbed to see that he appeared to be hiding a smile.

I looked down and realized that in all my righteous indignation, I had, in fact, managed to shut the hem of my dress into the car door. “Thanks,” I mumbled. I opened the door, pulled in my dress, and slammed the door again, fervently hoping that my cheeks hadn’t turned too red.

Gabe pulled away from the curb, and I looked out the window, trying to ignore him—admittedly difficult when I was sitting two feet away from him. We drove in silence for a few moments.

“So really, Emma, are you okay?” Gabe asked finally.

I glanced at him and nodded. “Yeah.”

“I meant what I said back there,” he said. “That was really brave.”

“Thanks,” I said, surprised.

“And really foolish,” he continued.

I made a face. I should have known his apparent kindness was too good to be true.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” I snapped.

“Guillaume would have come down eventually on his own,” Gabe said softly.

“You don’t know that,” I protested. “Maybe I saved his life.”

Gabe was quiet for a moment. “You know, he’s not as crazy as he looks,” he said finally. “He just enjoys the attention.”

I ignored him and looked out the window. What was he, Guillaume’s psychiatrist?

“So, how was that date of yours tonight?” Gabe asked casually as we entered the roundabout that circled the Arc de Triomphe.

I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks again. I blinked a few times. “None of your business,” I muttered. After all, what was I going to do, admit to him that it had been a horrible failure? That I had thought Edouard was perfect until his chauvinistic resentment came pouring out? I glanced up at the Arc, which loomed, big, glowing, and impressive, over the street, casting its pools of light every which way. I tried to ignore Gabe.

“No, I suppose it’s
not
my business.” Gabe paused and glanced at me as we pulled out of the roundabout and up to a stop sign. “But you
do
look really pretty in that dress.”

I looked at him in surprise. Of course he was being sarcastic, right? “Um, thanks,” I mumbled, feeling like I was on the outside of some inside joke.

“I mean it,” he said softly.

“Oh,” I said awkwardly, not quite knowing what to make of him.

We drove in silence down the crowded Champs-Élysées, and Gabe didn’t talk again until he was on Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, heading toward the Seine.

“So how about that interview with Guillaume, Emma?” he asked just as the Eiffel Tower came into view on the horizon, off to the right. “Can you help me out?”

Ah. So
that
was it. That was why he was giving me a ride and pretending he thought I was pretty. Typical. As if I’d be stupid enough to eat up his compliments and respond by giving him carte blanche to harass my client.

Then again, if I was smart enough to realize what his ulterior motives were, why was I feeling disappointed?

“I’ve told you that I’ll book an interview for you,” I said wearily, staring out the window. We were passing the entrance to the tunnel where Princess Diana had died, and as always I felt a little twinge of sadness.

“I know,” Gabe persisted. “But we’re all leaving for London next Saturday for the press junket. Why don’t you set it up for Tuesday? We can meet for coffee. I don’t think Guillaume has any plans.”

I turned to look at him. “How would
you
know if Guillaume has any plans?”

Gabe had the decency to look a bit embarrassed. “Well, I wouldn’t, exactly. I just meant that no public appearances have been announced or anything. So how about it? I need only half an hour for a UPP write-up. I promise I’ll go easy on him.”

I studied his profile for a moment, noting for the first time that there was a small, nearly imperceptible bump on the bridge of his angular nose, probably from a break at some point in his life, as well as a small scar just above his right eyebrow.

“Do you promise the write-up will be positive?” I asked, trying to ignore the fact that I had also just noticed for the first time how long his dark eyelashes were. We were on the Left Bank now, a few blocks from my apartment. I had to admit, this had been much easier than walking and taking the Métro, even with Gabe’s constant questions.

Gabe smiled. “You know I can’t promise that,” he said. “But I
can
promise you that I’m not going into this with any bad intentions. I just want to ask Guillaume about all these crazy antics lately. I’ll also ask him about the new album, and his much-anticipated launch, and everything. You can’t ask for better publicity than this, Emma. My story goes out to hundreds of papers around the world.”

“I know,” I grumbled. I tried to weigh in my mind how much harm Gabe could do versus how much extra publicity he could bring us. In the end, I knew I had to grant him the interview, if for no other reason than that I had already given him my word. “Fine,” I said finally. “I’ll call you tomorrow with a time and place.”