bit, please? Iâm trying to work â¦â
âTrying?â brayed Imogen, tossing her dyed-yellow hair. âWell, you probably need to try a bit harder then, donât you?â
âHahahaha! Oh, Imo, youâre so funny!â spluttered her equally obnoxious (though not so blubbery) friend.
Never the most patient of women at the best of times, Alison snapped, âJust shut up, you little bastards â¦â
âReally, Alison,â came a mild voice from behind her. âIâm sure itâs not necessary to speak to my children like that.â
âDadddddeeeee!â shouted Imogen, running as fast as her fat little legs would carry her. She launched herself into her fatherâs arms, as though she were 4, not 14.
âDarling!â Philip swung her up and round in the air. Alison was amazed he didnât rupture himself. He put Imogen down and saluted his son, who had hidden the air rifle behind his bespoke pool table.
âAll shipshape, captain?â
âAll shipshape, sir.â Toby saluted back, grinning.
âRighty-ho. Well, as itâs half-term, whoâs up for Pizza Express?â
âOh, Daddy, youâre the best!â Imogen snuggled up to him.
âI was going to cook coq au vin,â started Alison, even though she hated cooking.
âDarling, I thought Iâd give you a break from the kitchen. Itâs not exactly your forte, is it?â Philip winked at Imogen, who giggled.
As Alison walked wearily downstairs after them all, Toby turned round and gave her the finger, glee written all over his smug, spotty little face.
Chapter 5
âOwwww!â screamed Poppy as Fabrice pulled the first strip of wax from her nose. She scowled at him in the mirror. âSurely this isnât necessary? Of all the things Iâve ever been accused of, having a hairy nose isnât one of them.â
âWelcome to Manhattan grooming, Blondie.â
As the pain ebbed away, Poppy tried to smile, aware that it was important to keep the people behind the scenes on your side in this business. And it wasnât actually Fabriceâs fault â he was only doing his job, after all.
âSorry â just havenât got used to it yet.
And
these ridiculously early starts. How on earth do you do it?â This week they were shooting the coolest places for power breakfasts and weekend brunches, a deliciously New York concept. That said, it was six a.m., Poppy had already been up for an hour and she
still
had Hair and Make-up to go. She was looking forward to the week they did cocktail bars.
Poppyâs bosses had taken a huge punt in giving her, a complete unknown, such an enormous slice of airtime. Half an hour, Monday to Thursday nights at ten p.m., for twelve weeks. The later time meant that Poppy could be a little more risqué and attract younger, cooler viewers. Every week there was a different theme on
Poppy Takes Manhattan
. This week, breakfasts and brunches; last week, vintage clothes stores; the week before, hotels with roof terraces. To stay bang on trend, the programmes were broadcast the week after theyâd been shot (so this week they were showing the vintage clothes store episodes, Poppyâs favourites so far).
Already the show was gathering a loyal following. Poppy was proving to be a natural in front of the camera, chatty and conspiratorial without ever patronizing the viewer. Sheâd wondered how Americans would take to an English girl telling them what was cool on their territory, so she played up the fact that she was an outsider, acting delighted and awestruck with every new gem she discovered (most of the time she didnât have to act much). It worked. The natives lapped it up. The show was due to be broadcast in the UK later in the year, and Poppy hoped sheâd go down equally well with British audiences.
âHavenât been to bed yet.â Fabrice tapped the side of his own ink-black, perfectly
âTrying?â brayed Imogen, tossing her dyed-yellow hair. âWell, you probably need to try a bit harder then, donât you?â
âHahahaha! Oh, Imo, youâre so funny!â spluttered her equally obnoxious (though not so blubbery) friend.
Never the most patient of women at the best of times, Alison snapped, âJust shut up, you little bastards â¦â
âReally, Alison,â came a mild voice from behind her. âIâm sure itâs not necessary to speak to my children like that.â
âDadddddeeeee!â shouted Imogen, running as fast as her fat little legs would carry her. She launched herself into her fatherâs arms, as though she were 4, not 14.
âDarling!â Philip swung her up and round in the air. Alison was amazed he didnât rupture himself. He put Imogen down and saluted his son, who had hidden the air rifle behind his bespoke pool table.
âAll shipshape, captain?â
âAll shipshape, sir.â Toby saluted back, grinning.
âRighty-ho. Well, as itâs half-term, whoâs up for Pizza Express?â
âOh, Daddy, youâre the best!â Imogen snuggled up to him.
âI was going to cook coq au vin,â started Alison, even though she hated cooking.
âDarling, I thought Iâd give you a break from the kitchen. Itâs not exactly your forte, is it?â Philip winked at Imogen, who giggled.
As Alison walked wearily downstairs after them all, Toby turned round and gave her the finger, glee written all over his smug, spotty little face.
Chapter 5
âOwwww!â screamed Poppy as Fabrice pulled the first strip of wax from her nose. She scowled at him in the mirror. âSurely this isnât necessary? Of all the things Iâve ever been accused of, having a hairy nose isnât one of them.â
âWelcome to Manhattan grooming, Blondie.â
As the pain ebbed away, Poppy tried to smile, aware that it was important to keep the people behind the scenes on your side in this business. And it wasnât actually Fabriceâs fault â he was only doing his job, after all.
âSorry â just havenât got used to it yet.
And
these ridiculously early starts. How on earth do you do it?â This week they were shooting the coolest places for power breakfasts and weekend brunches, a deliciously New York concept. That said, it was six a.m., Poppy had already been up for an hour and she
still
had Hair and Make-up to go. She was looking forward to the week they did cocktail bars.
Poppyâs bosses had taken a huge punt in giving her, a complete unknown, such an enormous slice of airtime. Half an hour, Monday to Thursday nights at ten p.m., for twelve weeks. The later time meant that Poppy could be a little more risqué and attract younger, cooler viewers. Every week there was a different theme on
Poppy Takes Manhattan
. This week, breakfasts and brunches; last week, vintage clothes stores; the week before, hotels with roof terraces. To stay bang on trend, the programmes were broadcast the week after theyâd been shot (so this week they were showing the vintage clothes store episodes, Poppyâs favourites so far).
Already the show was gathering a loyal following. Poppy was proving to be a natural in front of the camera, chatty and conspiratorial without ever patronizing the viewer. Sheâd wondered how Americans would take to an English girl telling them what was cool on their territory, so she played up the fact that she was an outsider, acting delighted and awestruck with every new gem she discovered (most of the time she didnât have to act much). It worked. The natives lapped it up. The show was due to be broadcast in the UK later in the year, and Poppy hoped sheâd go down equally well with British audiences.
âHavenât been to bed yet.â Fabrice tapped the side of his own ink-black, perfectly
Similar Books
