The Art of French Kissing (17 page)

“Thanks,” Gabe said drily. “You’re too kind.” He looked back at his notes, and I began visualizing the worst. Perhaps he would ask something about Guillaume’s reputation for frequenting strip clubs (something we had, thus far, kept out of the press). Or rumors that he had to go to rehab for a coke addiction before KMG would sign him (something no one, including Poppy and me, had ever been able to verify). But instead, Gabe’s face settled into a look of calm. “So, Guillaume, do you talk to all women with the same disrespect you talk to Emma with?” he asked pleasantly.

I choked on the sip of coffee I had just taken. I looked at Gabe, my eyes wide, then I turned to Guillaume, who didn’t look offended at all.

Guillaume grinned. “Just the ones who like it,” he said, winking at me. My jaw dropped.

“Wonderful,” Gabe said tightly. He stood up. “Nice to see both of you. You can expect an article about Guillaume on tomorrow’s UPP wires. Thanks for setting up the interview, Emma. And thank you for your time, both of you.”

My stomach was tying itself into hard knots. “Gabe, you’re not going to write anything bad, are you?” I asked, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. I didn’t know how things had spiraled to such an extent.

“I’ll only write what’s fair, Emma,” Gabe said, looking hard at me. I gulped. That wasn’t good. I knew as well as Gabe probably did that
fair
would mean skewering the crazy rocker.

Gabe reached out and shook my hand briskly, then Guillaume’s. “Until next time,” he said, turning to Guillaume and putting a hand to his forehead in a little salute. Guillaume cheerfully and grandly saluted back. I waved weakly, feeling shell-shocked. “Have a nice day,” Gabe added. Then he stood up and strode toward the door without looking back.

I waited until he was gone, then turned slowly to Guillaume. “What was that all about?” I demanded. “You acted like a jerk!”

Guillaume looked a bit offended. “Emma! Relax!”

“Relax? You want me to relax? You just ruined an interview with a guy whose story will literally be picked up all over the world! Seriously, Véronique will fire Poppy and me!”

“No one’s getting fired,” Guillaume said calmly. He smiled and reached across the table to put a hand on my arm. “Just relax, Emma. Gabe’s article will be fine.”

“You don’t know that,” I grumbled. “What was that all about, anyhow?”

“Ah, I was just having a bit of fun,” Guillaume said, shrugging grandly.

“A bit of
fun
?” I repeated.

Guillaume nodded. “He obviously likes you,” he said, as if it was the plainest thing in the world. I stared at him. “I just thought I’d see if I could get under his skin a little,” he added. “I guess it worked! Good for me!”

Chapter Thirteen

I
tossed and turned all night worrying about what horrible things Gabe would write in the UPP article. Would my career be ruined? Would Guillaume’s? Exactly how far would Gabe go? Poppy had tried to calm me down by serving a slightly overdone baked chicken for dinner and filling me up with wine, but I only wound up feeling more nervous. I was at work the next day by 7 a.m., and I quickly logged on to my computer to see what KMG’s in-house electronic clipping service had pulled up for the day. I was anticipating the worst from Gabe. After all, Guillaume—and I—probably deserved it.

As the results came in, I saw that Guillaume had been mentioned in 123 publications in the past twenty-four hours; that 119 of them were different versions of the same article (undoubtedly Gabe’s, sent over the UPP wires and picked up in entertainment sections worldwide). There would certainly be more additions popping up over the course of the day as papers in the States began to add us. It was only 1 a.m. in New York and 10 p.m. in LA, and many papers hadn’t closed yet.

Gulping and steeling myself for the worst, I clicked on
READ TEXT
and waited for the first article, from the
Sydney Morning Herald
in Australia, to load. When it came up, it was indeed from the UPP wire service, with Gabriel Francoeur’s byline. The headline screamed at me from the page.

CONTROVERSIAL CROSSOVER ROCKER OPENS UP ON EVE OF DEBUT ALBUM!

I gulped. I wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. Not now. I loved my new job. I was falling in love with Paris. I was even learning to consider that there might be life after Brett. Now Gabe would probably bring it all to a close. I braced myself and began to read.

Celeb bachelor Guillaume Riche’s debut album hits stores worldwide next Tuesday, and his first single, “City of Light,” is already burning up the charts across Europe as well as in the United States and Australia. But although the buzz about Riche’s album is strong and he’s already being hailed as “the greatest European export since the Beatles” by
Rolling Stone
magazine, the eccentric star is perhaps currently better known for his many mishaps than for his music.

From getting trapped in the Eiffel Tower—reportedly without his clothing, although publicists for Riche deny it—to getting trapped in midair between two high-rise apartment buildings earlier this week, Riche is anything but your typical rock star.

“Sure, Ozzy Osborne can eat bats and Pete Wentz can wear eyeliner,” Riche said in an exclusive interview yesterday. “But no one can be Guillaume Riche.”

Antics aside, though, Riche has the musical muscle to back up his record label’s claims that he’ll be the next big worldwide sensation. Not only do his vocals span the range from early Paul McCartney to Coldplay’s Chris Martin to John Mayer, but he has a writing credit on all the songs on his much-anticipated album, called simply
Riche
.

“Music just speaks to me,” Riche says. “And if I can channel that into something that touches other people, then that’s a gift, isn’t it?”

Riche is, of course, a French television star better known for his status as one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. The actor-turned-playboy has been widely linked to women including Dionne DeVrie, Jennifer Aniston and Kylie Dane.

Born in Brittany, France, to Pierre, an accountant, and Marie, a stay-at-home mom, Riche began taking piano lessons at the age of four and was proficient on piano, guitar, trumpet, saxophone and percussion by the age of seven. He wrote his first song when he was nine, and after spending two months in the hospital following a serious car accident that claimed the life of a schoolmate, he was performing in pubs by 15. A short stint in jail after a public disturbance charge just before his 17th birthday exposed him to famed producer Nicolas Ducellier, imprisoned in the same jail on a drug charge, and Riche’s musical formation was complete after working with this mentor for 30 days. His informal recordings lit up northern France’s airwaves around the time he turned 18, and he had earned a cult following by 20. Now, 10 years later, he’s finally about to make his musical debut on the world stage.

“I’m excited,” Riche says. “This is quite an opportunity. I think that music is the universal language, so if I can bridge the gap between English speakers and French speakers through my songs, then perhaps that’s one step closer to global harmony.”

The article went on to talk about Guillaume’s tour plans and to quote several record execs talking about how wonderful “City of Light” was and how eager the world was to hear the whole CD. It concluded with a mention that the upcoming press junket would be Guillaume’s official launch to the music world.

I sat in stunned silence for a moment after reading the article. I couldn’t believe it. Not only had Gabe not blasted Guillaume (despite the few early mentions of his antics), but he had actually sounded
positive
about the singer and his music. How could that be after the debacle yesterday?

I reread the piece. It was wonderful, but I was puzzled about something. Where had Gabe gotten the information about Guillaume’s past in Brittany? Sure, it wasn’t a secret where Guillaume was from; a few profiles in the past had mentioned it. But how had Gabe known about Guillaume’s parents? Or about his proficiency on so many instruments at such a young age? Or about his thirty days in jail at the age of seventeen? None of that had ever been printed, and I knew that Guillaume’s parents, sister, and half brother had never agreed to an interview before; Poppy had said they were an extremely private family.

Had Guillaume told Gabe about his background during our interview yesterday, while he was speaking in rapid French? I didn’t think there had been enough time for a conversation like that, but perhaps I’d just missed it.

In any case, there was no point in worrying, was there? Gabe had gone easy on Guillaume. We were out of the woods. I breathed a giant sigh of relief.

Poppy took me to lunch that day to thank me for somehow preventing whatever damage Gabe had intended to do, and when we got back to the office, there was an enormous bouquet of white lilies—my favorite flower—sitting in a vase in front of the door.

“I wonder who these are from?” Poppy asked, beaming as she picked them up and unlocked the door. Inside, she set them down on the corner of her desk and opened the attached envelope. “You know what? I bet they’re from Paul, the guy I went out with on Saturday. He seemed like quite the romantic!”

Still smiling, she pulled out the card and scanned it quickly. She blinked a few times, and her smile faltered for a second.

“My mistake, Emma,” she said, handing the envelope over to me. “The flowers are for you.”

Surprised, I took the card from her.

To Emma: Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman
, it read.

There was no signature. I could feel my cheeks burning.

“So?” Poppy asked eagerly. “Who are they from?”

She picked up the vase from her desk and carried it over to mine. I stared at the flowers in confusion for a moment.

“I have no idea,” I said. But even as I spoke, I realized that I was harboring a small hope that they were from Gabe, perhaps to thank me for the interview. But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Reporters didn’t send publicists flowers. And reporters like Gabe probably made it a general rule never to do anything nice at all, except when they were trying to get something out of you.

“Oh, come on,” Poppy said, smiling at me. “You must have
some
idea.”

“Really, I don’t,” I said. “I don’t think many people even know I work here.” I certainly hadn’t given my work address to any of the random dates I’d had. As far as I knew, Gabe, Guillaume, the KMG staff, Poppy, and my family were the only people who knew where to find me.

“Ooh, a mystery man!” Poppy squealed. “See? The whole French-kissing thing is working already!”

My phone rang a few times that afternoon, and each time I picked it up, I half expected to hear Gabe’s voice on the other end, admitting to sending me flowers and apologizing for the blowup during the Guillaume interview. Maybe he’d even ask me out—not that I would necessarily say yes. But he never phoned; the calls were all junket-related questions about catering, room accommodations, and journalists’ flight information.

I was still confused when the phone on my desk jingled again at five that evening. I dove for it.

“Hello?”

“Emma? It’s Brett.”

My heart stopped for a second. It had been two weeks since I’d heard his voice. The familiar depth of it sent a jolt through me. My mouth suddenly felt dry.

“Emma?” he asked tentatively after a moment. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” I said shakily. “How did you get my work number?”

“Your sister,” he responded promptly. I made a face. I wished Jeannie would just mind her own business. But then again, she never had; why would I expect her to start now?

“Oh,” I managed.

“So,” Brett began slowly, “did you get the flowers?”

I felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. “Those were from
you
?” I asked.

“Of course, Emma.” Brett sounded surprised. “Who else would send you flowers?” He paused, and a thought seemed to occur to him. “Wait, you’re not dating someone over there, are you?”

“So what if I am?” I responded stubbornly.

He was silent for a moment. “I’m sure you’re just being facetious, Emma,” Brett said dismissively. “And I guess I deserve that, don’t I?”

Why was he so sure that I couldn’t be serious? I felt insulted.

“Look, Emma,” he went on before I could respond. “We really need to talk. You need to know something.”

“What?” In the silence, I could feel my palms beginning to sweat.

Brett spoke slowly and carefully. “I love you, Emma,” he said. “I always have. I always will. I just got scared.”

I didn’t know what to say. I drew a deep breath.

“Brett, you threw me out,” I said after a moment. “You slept with one of my best friends.” I looked up and saw Poppy staring at me.

Are you okay?
She mouthed the words at me. I nodded and looked down.

On the other end of the line, Brett sighed. “I know,” he said. “And I can never tell you how profoundly sorry I am, Emma. It was incredibly stupid and wrong.”

“No kidding,” I muttered.

“Please, Emma, let me make it up to you,” Brett pleaded. “Come home. This is where you belong. Let me show you how sorry I am. I love you.”

I paused. It was everything I’d thought I wanted. But I was fairly certain that it was too little, too late.

“I’ll have to call you back,” I said. I broke the connection before Brett could respond.

As soon as I hung up, Poppy announced we were going straight to Bar Dix for pitchers of sangrias and a conversation about Brett.

“Maybe he deserves another chance,” I mumbled once we’d ordered a pitcher and begun drinking. I was half hoping that Poppy wouldn’t hear me. I drowned my response—and apparently my self-respect—with a swig of sangria, wishing that the buzz would start to set in. No such luck.

“Another chance?”
Poppy repeated carefully. She took a sip of her sangria, never taking her eyes off me. “Haven’t we been over this, Emma?”

I looked down at the table and thought about it for a moment. I knew I sounded crazy. And I knew that Poppy—in all her one-date-and-leave-’em wisdom—would be the last person in the world who would understand where I was coming from. I supposed she was right. But sometimes, unfortunately, there’s a difference between what your brain tells you and what your heart feels.

I sighed. “I know you think I’m crazy,” I said finally. I took a big sip. “It’s just that it’s hard to throw away three years without looking back.”

“
You
didn’t throw them away,” Poppy said slowly.

I fumbled with my words, trying to explain. “I know. But can I just walk away from him, just like that? He says he made a mistake. Do I refuse to give him a chance just because he screwed up once?”

Poppy shook her head. “He didn’t just screw up, Emma. He slept with
your best friend
after unceremoniously chucking you.”

I could feel tears prickling at the backs of my eyes. “I
know.
But he left her. It only lasted a few weeks. Maybe he was just confused. Maybe I pushed him into getting engaged. Maybe he wasn’t ready and he freaked out.”

“Freaking out makes guys do a lot of things,” Poppy said firmly. “It doesn’t make them move into the beds of your friends. Not if they’re decent guys, anyhow.”

As Poppy studied my face, I could read pity in her big green eyes.

It made me sad. I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me. But on some level, I knew she was right. I was acting pathetic. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from feeling like maybe it was
my
fault that Brett had gotten scared away, had gone looking for something else with Amanda. After all, obviously there was something he wasn’t getting from me if he was so quick to move on to her. Obviously there was something lacking in me. Or had I simply been too obsessed with work? Or too concerned with dragging him down the aisle?

“Look,” Poppy said after a moment. “Are you happy? Here, I mean?”

I only had to think about it for a second. “Yes. I am.”

“Happier than you were in Orlando?”

I stopped for a moment. Was I? It was hard to compare. My life here was so different than it had been back home. My job in Paris was stimulating and exciting but at times infuriating and nerve-racking. But wasn’t that better than a nine-to-five job that was the same thing day in and day out? My social life in Orlando had been stable and secure; I was with Brett constantly, and I had my three-peas-in-a-pod girlfriends. Here, with Poppy as my social planner, I was going on interesting dates and spending my free nights sitting in cavelike bars sipping sangria. I had to admit, I was having fun.

“Yes,” I said slowly, realizing it for the first time as I said it. “I guess I
am
happier here.”

“Has he even taken a few days off to come over and apologize to you in person?” Poppy asked. “To try to win you back?”