Already, I felt a bit like I was coming home.
“So what’s Guillaume Riche actually like?” I asked once I had settled my bags into the tiny second bedroom of Poppy’s small apartment, where I’d be staying for the next several weeks. She had misled me slightly when she’d said that her place was a “spacious two-bedroom flat.” In fact, it couldn’t have been more than five hundred square feet, and in the room that would be mine, I could stretch my arms out to the sides and touch both walls at once. Its one saving grace—and it was a huge saving grace—was that it was a mere two blocks from the Eiffel Tower; if you looked out the living room window, you could see the graceful iron structure rising upward behind the apartments across the courtyard. My throat felt strangely constricted each time I caught a glimpse of it.
“Oh, Guillaume? He has quite a lovely voice,” Poppy said vaguely. “Would you like a café au lait?”
“I’d love one,” I said with a smile. Poppy walked over to her tiny, crowded kitchen area and busied herself with a bright red espresso maker that hissed and spewed steam when she pressed down on the handle. “So he’s talented? Guillaume Riche?” I tried again. “I’ve never heard him sing.”
“Oh, yes, he’s quite good, really,” Poppy said hurriedly. “Would you like cinnamon on top? Or whipped cream perhaps?”
I had a nagging feeling that she was purposely avoiding my questions. “I think it’s really cool that you’re working with him. He’s huge right now,” I said, making a third attempt to bring him up. “I heard a rumor he was dating Jennifer Aniston.”
“Just a rumor,” Poppy said promptly.
“How can you be so sure?”
Poppy shot me a sly grin. “Because I’m the one who started it. It’s all about building buzz.”
I stared at her, incredulous. “And the rumor that he wanted to adopt a baby from Ethiopia, like Angelina and Brad?”
Poppy smiled sheepishly. “I started that one, too,” she admitted.
“But that’s why the press have started calling him Saint Guillaume!” I exclaimed. “It’s not even true?”
“Not at all,” Poppy said, winking at me.
“So what can you tell me about him?” I asked as we walked into the living room and settled side by side onto the sofa with steaming mugs in our hands. “Is he as perfect as he always seems in the magazines? Or have you made that up, too?” The sofa was lumpy, and I could see water stains on the ceiling, but there was something about the window box of yellow daisies and the quaint rooftops across the miniature courtyard outside that made the apartment seem much more luxurious than it probably was. I took a sip of the café au lait Poppy had made.
“Er . . .” Poppy seemed to be at a loss for words, quite a rare condition for her. “Yes, he’s wonderful,” she said finally. “Do you fancy a croissant with that café au lait? I picked some up this morning from the patisserie on the corner.”
“That sounds great,” I said, suddenly realizing how hungry I was. Poppy hopped up from the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen, where I could hear the rustling of a paper bag.
I stood up while I waited for her to come back and studied the tall bookcase against the wall, which was overflowing with more than forty of what appeared to be self-help books. I read a few of the spines: How to Make Men Lust After You, Forty Dates with Forty Men, Boys Love Bitches, Love Them and Leave Them. I shook my head and smiled. Poppy had always gone overboard on things. I’d had no idea that self-help dating books were her new obsession.
“This is quite a collection you have here,” I said to Poppy as she returned with a pair of delectably flaky-looking croissants on a pale pink plate.
Poppy glanced at the bookcase and smiled proudly. “I know,” she said. “They’ve changed my life, Emma.”
I raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Changed your life?”
“It’s amazing,” she replied, her eyes sparkling. She reached out and grasped one of my hands as we sank back into the couch. “After Darren . . . well, let’s just say I went a little nuts.”
I nodded sympathetically. Darren had basically been Poppy’s Brett. They’d dated for three years, and when he’d broken up with her four years ago, she’d gone into seclusion for two months, refusing to talk to anyone. I hadn’t entirely understood what she was going through at the time, but now . . . well, let’s just say that going into seclusion for two months didn’t sound like such a terrible plan.
“This book got me through,” she said excitedly, leaping up from the couch and pulling a tattered pale green volume from the shelf. She handed it to me, and I glanced down at the cover. I blinked a few times, registering the words, and then stared at it incredulously.