Chapter 59
Poppy
Rose couldn’t look more nervous if she tried. She also looks great – I’ve seen to that – but her hands are shaking and her breath is coming in panicky little wheezes. It’s so sweet; she’s like a teenager on her first night out.
‘It’s easy,’ I say, leading her into the crowded bar, the noise levels so high I have to shout. ‘We’ll just give fake names, and make up fake jobs. I do it all the time. I usually pretend I’m a nurse – men go nuts for nurses. Just listen to what I do, and play along.’
She glares at me, her made-up eyes sparkling, and I suspect that if she had biblical powers, I would just have been turned into a pillar of salt.
We decided, after laughing and cringing our way through Mum’s last video, that she was right – we did need cheering up.
We’d travelled the world, made steps towards meeting our estranged father, and I’d had a mini-meltdown.
Then, after all that, we’d had to watch as our visibly wasting-away mother pretended to be jolly for our sake.
This was bloody hard going, and we both needed to take the Alcohol Cure.
The bar is dark and hot and throbbing with life. The music is R&B with occasional French hip-hop beats thrown in, and I smile as we are enveloped in the warmth and potential. These places are my natural environment – but poor Rose looks terrified.
‘I don’t speak French,’ she’d said, lamely, as we were getting ready. ‘Apart from stuff I know from song titles.’
‘That’s fine. In fact, that’s even better – nobody will expect much of you. Anyway, these are French men, Rose. They’re genetically hard-wired to flirt with any woman they encounter.’
I’m not sure whether my pep talk helped, but the three glasses of wine she’d downed certainly had.
I hand over an extortionate amount of euros in return for some more, and look around until I spot a table.
There’s one that’s almost full of men, men who have clearly come here straight from the office and are letting off steam.
There are two chairs free at the end, and I stride towards them.
I don’t bother asking if the seats are taken – that’s a very English tradition – and instead simply sit down, smiling widely at the group. There’s a mix of ages, from early 20s through to mid-50s, and they’re all pretty drunk. Perfect.
‘Salut, tout le monde!’ I say, greeting them. ‘Je m’appelle Millie.’
It’s a fake name I’ve used before – Millie is a nurse on the paediatric unit – and one I feel comfy with. I look at Rose expectantly, raising my eyebrows at her in a prompt. She visibly jumps, as though she’s just remembered that she has to talk, and says: ‘Je m’appelle … er … Vanilli!’
I blink my eyes, and try not to laugh. Which is more than can be said for our new pals, who clearly think this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. Even Rose, once she realises what’s she’s done, starts to giggle.
It turns out to be perfect, and breaks the ice in a way that no amount of stories about my imaginary time on the children’s A&E ward could have done.
Within seconds, we are all chatting. Well, to be precise, I’m chatting. Rose is grinning like my simpleton sister, and drinking. A lot.
One man in particular seems very taken with her. Or at least certain parts of her. He’s probably in his later thirties, and has chocolate-drop eyes and deep-brown hair and a borderline weird goatee. Truth be told, he looks a bit like an off-duty magician – stick a cape on him and hey presto.
His name is Patrice, and he can’t take his eyes off Rose’s chest. He’s definitely much more drunk than we are, and tells me in French that she has beautiful boobs.
‘What did he say?’ asks Rose, whispering in my ear. ‘I heard “beautiful”. Was it my eyes? Does he think I have beautiful eyes?’
I giggle, then bite it back. She sounds so excited.
‘Yeah, let’s go with that, shall we? Anyway … look around. This place is full of potential S partners. Maybe it’s time to use some of your French?’
‘But I’ll sound stupid!’
‘No, they’ll appreciate the effort. And Mum is watching. Come on, finish that glass, then go and get us some more. Make it a bottle. And on the way, talk to some men, all right?’
She downs almost a whole glass of wine in one go, and gets to her feet. She’s slightly unsteady, but looks determined as she makes her way through the crowds. I keep my eye on her, ready to leap to her aid if necessary, and grin as she encounters a large gaggle of guys.
I can’t hear what she’s saying over the din of the music, but the group lets out a huge whoop of delight, and cheers as she goes past. One of them accompanies her to the bar, and I suspect that she is not paying for her own drinks.
By the time she gets back to us, she is flushed bright red, but looking slightly triumphant. The men are waving at her and she is waving back.
‘What on earth did you say?’ I ask, genuinely intrigued.
‘Well … you know how I said I only know French from song titles?’
‘Yes.’
‘I used one of them.’
‘Which one?’ I say, not able to keep the grin off my face at her shocked expression. I’m not sure if she’s shocked at their reaction, or her own behaviour.
‘I said … voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir.’
That’s it for me. I’m out for the next five minutes, laughing so hard I have tears streaming down my face and feel on the verge of some kind of stroke. Absolutely perfect.
‘God Rose,’ I finally manage to mutter, ‘that’s … brilliant. Where have you been hiding your inner slapper for the last few weeks?’
‘The last few years, to be honest. And that was fun, I have to say. Plus they all said yes, apart from one who looked like he might not be keen on lady parts in general. So, what next?’
‘Try it on him,’ I say, gesturing to Patrice, who is now chatting to his friends – probably about the crazy English girls pretending to be a 1980s boy band.
‘I’m not sure I want to,’ she whispers, glugging down another half-glass of vin rouge. ‘He looks a bit like Dynamo’s Dad.’
‘Well you don’t have to actually coucher with him, do you? It’s just for fun!’
She nods, and tucks her curls behind her ears, and sticks out her boobs.
She taps Patrice on the shoulder, and he immediately turns round.
She leans in, and murmurs to him, and the response is instant.
He stands to his feet, and offers her his hand in a ‘let’s go’ gesture that leaves her utterly terrified.
It’s so stupidly funny – the look of delight on his face, the look of horror on hers – that I fear I may never breathe again. Rose, though, is staring at me in desperation, obviously needing a rescue.
‘Un moment, s’il vous pla?t,’ I say to Patrice, who is still waiting. His friends are grinning away, and clearly having the French equivalent of a ‘get your coat you’ve pulled’ conversation.
I lead a furiously blushing Rose towards the ladies, where we immediately collapse in giggles, leaning against the sinks and gasping for breath.
‘Oh no!’ she says, once we’ve calmed down. ‘What do I do now?’
‘Well, do you want to shag Patrice? I’m sure he’d be happy to show you his magic wand!’
I touch up my lipstick as I wait for her to think about it. I don’t have to wait long.
‘No!’ she squeaks, looking shocked. ‘Of course not! I’ve only just met him!’
‘Well that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?’ I say, frowning at her in the mirror. ‘Mum wanted us to go out on the pull.’
‘Well, we have pulled. She didn’t say we had to shag them as well. It’s … not me, Poppy. Never has been, probably never will be. It does feel good to think that someone under the age of eighty might actually want to shag me, but … no. Thank you.’
‘Okay,’ I reply, stashing my make-up back in my bag. ‘No problem. It’s not a big deal, either way.’
She looks completely flabbergasted, but I’m not sure why.
I am struck again by how different our lives have become – this kind of thing is normal for me.
It happens most weekends, although admittedly not usually in Paris.
For her, though, it’s all a bit of a revelation.
Perhaps, between us, we make one normal human being.
We sneak out of the loos, and hide behind the pulsating crowds of dancers as we edge our way to the door. Rose, who seems to feel maternal even towards grown men, is worried that we will hurt Patrice’s feelings, but I assure her he’ll get over it.
‘So,’ I say, as we emerge back out on to the street. There are people standing around smoking and chatting, and the air is still warm. Summer in Paris. Divine. ‘I’m glad you had a good time. And I’m glad you asked a whole bar-ful of French men to sleep with you. Mum would be proud. Any regrets?’
I’m clearly feeding her a line, and she gets it straight away.
‘Non,’ she warbles, creditably in tune and attracting some strange looks from the smoking crowd, ‘je ne regrette rien!’
I raise my palm to Rose, and she gives me a hefty high-five. We start to stroll along the pavement – going in completely the wrong direction – but enjoying seeing the city at night.
‘It was good, wasn’t it?’ she says, linking her arm into mine. ‘Being out, and not doing something heavy and serious?’
‘I know what you mean,’ I reply, thinking back to my earlier melodrama and feeling a bit embarrassed about it. ‘And I’m really sorry I went all Teenage Angsty Mutant Poppy on you earlier.’
‘It’s all right,’ Rose says, patting my hand. ‘I kind of miss Teenage Angsty Mutant Poppy. She’s more authentic than Perfectly Poised Poppy. And you know what you said, about me going back to Liverpool, and never seeing me and Joe again?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, I really hope that’s not true.’
I squeeze her fingers, and say a little prayer that she’s right. That all of this turns out all right in the end.
‘Okay. Good. I hope so too. Do you want to go anywhere else?’
Rose ponders it, then replies: ‘I don’t think so. If I drink any more wine, I’ll be embarrassing myself in the gutters of Gay Paris.’
‘Well, in that case, you know what it’s time for, don’t you?’
She shakes her head, still grinning.
‘It’s time for Joe le Taxi …’