I Heart Paris. Lindsey Kelk

to you. You callous, British heartbreaker.’

      I paused in the doorway, slipping my feet into my Havaianas, and watched him shuffle back under the thin white sheet on his bed. I was being stupid. Imagine waking up to that messy black bedhead every morning. And imagine not having to leg it back to Manhattan to use a decent brand of shampoo, conditioner of any kind, and find something to wear. How did boys keep their hair so soft without conditioner? Was the whole industry a sham? I shook my head and tried to concentrate. Now was not the time to worry about the effectiveness of Pantene.

      ‘You planning on going soon or are you just gonna stand there and freak me out all day?’ Alex asked from under his covers, making me jump.

      ‘Going,’ I said, grabbing my handbag from the sofa. ‘Gone.’

      ‘I’ll come over tonight? We’ll talk Paris?’ he called.

      ‘Tonight,’ I agreed, closing the door behind me. Shower and Pastis first. Alex and Paris later.

      Putting myself together for my lunch meeting would have been a lot easier if I hadn’t started running through a million different terrifying scenarios in my head on the way home, during my shower, through every wardrobe change and while applying the few scraps of make-up that might not melt off on my way downtown to Pastis. I hailed a yellow cab outside the apartment in my LA-purchased dandelion yellow Phillip Lim dress and gold strappy flats, and tried not to think about all the reasons Mr Spencer might want to see me. Maybe he just wanted to meet the girl that had interviewed and inadvertently outed James Jacobs. Lots of people did. Mostly women, young and old, who wanted to give me a really, really filthy look and then ask me incredibly inappropriate questions about his boyfriend.

      Or maybe he was a fan of my blog. My slightly random English-girl-living-in-New-York-rambling-on-about-her-everyday-life blog. Yes, that would definitely appeal to a sixty-something media magnate. Or perhaps he was a massive fan of the Shakira album review I’d just filed? Or perhaps he was a massive Shakira fan and didn’t like the album review? Surely not, I’d been super kind. No, there were just too many possibilities even to begin guessing.

      I hoped and prayed all the way downtown that Cici would have booked us a table inside the restaurant, very near an air-conditioning unit, and not one of the see-and-be-seen tiny tables outside looking out on to the cobbles of the Meatpacking District, but as the cab swerved across the street, I could see Mary’s steel-grey bob sitting opposite an equally authoritative head of icy white hair. Not only was I the last to arrive, I was going to be stuck sweating like a pig in the street. Fantastic. Attempting to get out of the cab in a ladylike fashion and failing, I stumbled forwards, snagging the front of my sandal in the cobblestones. I caught myself at the last minute, stood up, straightened my skirt and gave Mary a half wave. I couldn’t see behind her massive black sunglasses, but I was fairly certain the smile she gave me in return did not make it all the way up to her eyes.

      ‘Angela Clark, this is Robert Spencer,’ she said, rising out of her chair as I hobbled around the table.

      Mr Spencer held out his hand and gave me a very, very firm handshake. Ow.

      ‘Well, hello Angela,’ he said, gesturing for me to take a seat beside Mary. ‘I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a while. And please, call me Bob.’

      I gave Mary a quick sideways look, but she was too busy spitting her water back into her glass to respond.

      ‘Thank you, uh, Bob,’ I replied, setting my handbag between my feet, underneath the table. ‘It’s really lovely to meet you. A real privilege. An honour, really.’ Mary kicked me sharply under the table before I could carry on. It seemed fair.

      ‘Not at all,’ he said smoothly, nodding to the waiter at his elbow to pour three large glasses of white wine. ‘I always like to take time out to meet our rising stars here at Spencer Media.’

      He held up his glass. ‘To you, Angela.’

      ‘Thank you.’ I tried not to think about what could happen if I started drinking wine on a completely empty and panicky stomach and took a small sip.

      ‘So, Mr Spencer wanted to meet with you and talk about some new opportunities,’ Mary said, folding the menu with which she was clearly very familiar. ‘Things you might do outside the blog, outside The Look.’

      ‘He did?’ I asked, staring into the opaque glass of her sunnies. Was she serious?

      ‘Ladies,’ Mr Spencer folded up his own menu and placed it in front of him. ‘Shall we at least order before we talk business?’

      ‘Of course, Bob,’ Mary smiled tightly and sipped her wine. It was so strange. I’d never seen her outside her office and she did not look comfortable at all. In fact, nothing about this entire scenario was comfortable. I was starting to feel as if I were at dinner with my mum and dad while they were in the middle of a particularly nasty argument. And no one who’s ever argued with my mum would want that.

      ‘Have you eaten at Pastis before, Angela?’ Bob asked.

      I shook my head and chugged my wine. I had a feeling that it was just going to be better to avoid talking whenever possible.

      ‘Then I’d recommend the scallops to start and then maybe the pasta puttanesca?’ Bob folded up his menu.

      ‘You know pasta puttanesca means whore’s pasta?’ I dropped in casually.

      Mary coughed into her wine glass.

      ‘I mean, it’s what whores would make after they’d you know, worked.’ I looked from Mary to Bob and back to Mary again. Yep. Should have stuck with the no talking plan.

      ‘Perhaps the moules frites,’ Bob said quietly.

      Before I could agree, someone’s mobile started to chirp. Bob pushed out his chair and took a tiny phone out of his jacket pocket. ‘So sorry ladies, that’s me. Excuse me for a moment?’

      ‘Of course, Bob,’ Mary said again, this time through gritted teeth as he left the table.

      ‘How is he even wearing a jacket?’ I asked, turning in my seat to watch him walk out into the street. My head span as I turned back around. ‘It is so bloody hot.’

      ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t drink quite so fast, Angela,’ Mary said, pouring me a glass of water. ‘This isn’t a social lunch.’

      ‘Arses. I was really, really hoping that it was,’ I reluctantly swapped my, wow, more than half empty wine glass for a tumbler of water. ‘So what is it?’

      ‘It’s a pain in my ass, is what it is.’ Mary drained her wine glass and returned my raised eyebrow with a look of her own. ‘I can hold my liquor, don’t you worry. This, Angela, is a “Big Deal For You”. Apparently one of Bob’s granddaughters is your “biggest fan” and she seems to think you should be doing more, I don’t know, “legitimate journalism” for some of Spencer’s other magazines like Icon or Belle.’

      ‘Legitimate journalism?’ I didn’t enjoy the number of times she had made air quotes during her last sentence. ‘Belle? They want me to write on a fashion magazine?’

      ‘Apparently so. I don’t know what though, so don’t ask me.’ She poured herself more wine. ‘I’m only here because I heard about this through Cici and called Bob to find out what the hell was going on.’

      ‘Hang on a minute, how did Cici hear?’ Now I was really confused.

      ‘Cici Spencer. She’s one of Bob’s granddaughters.’

      I was sober in a heartbeat. ‘Of course she is.’

      ‘You don’t think I employ her for her charm, do you?’ Mary gave me an understanding grimace. ‘Bob and I are old friends.’

      It took everything I had not to raise an eyebrow. Old friends. That old chestnut.

      ‘But Cici hates me,’ I said, swapping my water