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

Station.
    ‘Apparently it has a very good restaurant. Art museums always do.’
    He’s absolutely right. The dining room is a huge, buzzing space, with Manga cartoons decorating the windows and futuristic-looking giant red lanterns hanging from the high ceilings. The menu looks very exciting – we’ve barely sat down before I’m eyeing up a caramel chicken dish. Screw the diet; I’m in Paris.
    ‘It seems a bit of a waste not to look at the art,’ I say guiltily, as we take our seats. ‘I saw a sign for some kind of pop-up exhibition about Chanel No. 5—’
    ‘I wouldn’t understand it. I haven’t seen number one, two, three or four.’
    I laugh. I’m relieved to see, in the mirror opposite, that the orange dress is still going strong after a day trekking up and down towers. I wish I’d thought to bring my make-up bag to do a touch-up – but it doesn’t matter, I remind myself. It’s just Charlie.
    ‘I might have a cocktail,’ he says, as the waiter comes over. ‘What about you? One of your Kirs?’
    ‘Definitely not.’ I shudder. I order a glass of white wine, and for once the waiter doesn’t reply in English.
    ‘This is my happy place,’ I tell Charlie, when he’s gone. ‘Most people here reply in English when I’m trying to talk French; it’s very annoying.’
    ‘I think they’re just trying to be helpful,’ Charlie says. ‘I find it helpful, anyway. I’d be a bit stuck if I had to rely on the ten words of French I know.’
    ‘Fair enough,’ I say, laughing.
    When our drinks arrive, Charlie lifts his glass to me. ‘To Paris,’ he says. ‘And to you. And to me. And to publishing. And to world peace. And to Manga—’
    ‘OK. Very funny.’ But I’m laughing. He does sound a bit like Jonathan. ‘What are you going to have?’
    ‘Hm. Difficult, but probably the cauliflower soufflé, and the seared liver.’ He frowns. ‘They’ve put cow’s liver in the English menu, but they must mean calf’s, no?’
    ‘I’m sure they do. Beef liver is practically inedible, isn’t it?’
    ‘It’s not inedible, but it’s very gamey. I wouldn’t cook it myself. It would need a strong sauce. Whereas a calf’s liver just needs a dash of sherry, some butter and a very hot pan. And maybe some sage. And maybe some crispy little matchsticks of bacon.’ He puts his menu down. ‘I’m obviously hungrier than I thought.’ And after checking I’m ready to order, he waves frantically as if he’s hailing a cab: gauche but very effective, as the waiter comes straight over.
    After we’ve ordered, I say curiously, ‘I didn’t know you were quite so into your food.’ What I mean is: I’ve seen him stuff it down himself at every opportunity but I didn’t know he could actually make it himself.
    ‘I love food. Can’t you tell?’ He pretends to pinch an inch. Two girls beside us see him doing so, and I notice they’re blatantly checking him out. I suppose his blond, blue-eyed looks are even more potent in Paris, because of the novelty value.
    ‘Don’t be silly, you’re not fat,’ I say.
    ‘I will be if I keep going to MEATliquor.’
    ‘Oh, God, I love MEATliquor! I just wish I didn’t have to deal with the queues. That’s the annoying thing; so many of the places with good food, you have to queue at. It drives me crazy. I mean, do they do it to create hype or what?’ I continue in this vein for a while before I realise he’s smiling. ‘What?’
    ‘Nothing, I just like it when you rant on about stuff. I eat at home mostly, anyway.’ He makes a tragic face. ‘Nobody to eat out with.’
    ‘So do you cook a lot?’
    ‘Almost every evening, for me and my brother. He’s in the police force, so he’s not always home of an evening. But I like to think he’s the only bobby on his beat who comes home to fried polenta and mushrooms with parmesan crisps . . . or a goat’s cheese soufflé with a fennel and almond salad . . . or a really good steak and chips.’
    ‘Do you make the