‘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 ofvin rouge. ‘He looks a bit like Dynamo’s Dad.’
‘Well you don’t have to actuallycoucherwith 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 plaît,’ 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 actuallywantto 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?’
