Read Online Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) by Nicola Doherty - Free Book Online

it. I’m beginning to feel as if Charlie has a point.
    ‘What kind of things did he jot down in his notebook?’ Charlie says. ‘If that’s not a rude question.’
    I groan. ‘Just stuff I told him about my mum and dad. And random things I said. And something about mocha-coloured skin, in case I was in any doubt.’
    ‘Seriously? Isn’t that a Ricky Martin lyric?’
    I start to laugh.
    ‘That’s better,’ Charlie says. ‘Look. We’re not going to salvage the whole book thing, are we? Unless you want to go back to Jonathan and tell him you have Tourette’s or you had a flashback to when you were in Vietnam, or something. Do you?’
    I shake my head violently, feeling panicked at the thought of having to see Jonathan ever again.
    ‘And our train isn’t until tomorrow morning. So we might as well enjoy ourselves. I still haven’t been up the Eiffel Tower, you know.’
    ‘Charlie, I can’t swan around pretending I’m on holiday. I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to tell Ellen. And what is Constance going to do, and Jonathan? If the whole thing gets out, I could be fired.’
    ‘No you won’t,’ says Charlie. ‘I promise. Don’t forget, he doesn’t come out very well from it either. Now, how about you show me some of the sights of Paris?’
    Six hours later, I’m sitting at a table in a bar near the Eiffel Tower, flipping through my Instagram pictures of our day out. There’s one of me flattening my nose against the window of Ladurée; me afterwards with a box full of
macarons
. There’s Charlie having a huge pistachio ice cream on a
bateau mouche
river trip down the Seine, which he insisted on us taking although I told him it was a rip-off, strictly for tourists.
    ‘But we are tourists,’ he pointed out.
    To my surprise the
bateau mouche
was great, dodgy loudspeaker commentary aside. And there’s the two of us at the top of the Eiffel Tower, my hair blown vertical by the wind. Charlie claimed to be scared of heights and said he needed a drink afterwards, so we’re now having very overpriced gin and tonics off the Champ de Mars. The trauma of lunch has receded, and I’m actually having a great time. Charlie doesn’t quote Virginia Woolf, and he’s not going to expand my horizons, or anything: but he is fun.
    ‘I’m sorry we didn’t have time to go into the Musée D’Orsay,’ I say archly as he rejoins me, wondering if he’ll remember that this was a tip from his beloved Constance.
    ‘The what? Oh, the art museum. To be honest, I don’t see the point of hanging around in art museums when you’re in a foreign city. I mean, they have lots of art in London, right?’
    I smile, thinking: he is sweet, but he’s still a bit of a philistine.
    ‘Much more important,’ he says, ‘is where you want to eat tonight. I’ve heard good things about a place across the river.’
    ‘Sure.’ I’m about to ask where he got his tip from before remembering: of course, it must be from Constance. I wonder what the deal is with them. When they went out together yesterday – was that a date? I might ask him over dinner. Not that I’m curious of course.
    After a short Metro ride, we get out at the Pont d’Iéna, and start walking down one of the massive avenues that run parallel to the Seine.
    ‘Are you sure we got out at the right stop?’ I ask doubtfully. I should have known better than to trust him with something as important as dinner. I’m now starving, and if we have to trek for hours before we eat I’m going to be very bad company. I’m like the Incredible Hulk; you wouldn’t like me when I’m hungry.
    ‘Here we are,’ he says, sounding pleased with himself. We’re outside a vast stone modernist building right by the river.
    ‘Wait. Is this the Palais de Tokyo? It is!’ I remember this place: it’s a gigantic space dedicated to experimental art. Outside it looks like a 1930s stone palace; inside, it’s all unfinished, like an aircraft hangar or Battersea Power