I reply.
How are things at home?
Fine, Ben’s come round for pizza.
Say hi from me?
He says: “Stop being a dweeb and get out there.”
Charming. I have major FOMO.
WTF? You’re at Cannes Film Festival with Ryan Gosling and you have FOMO because me and Ben are getting pizza? In my flat? In London? GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER JASMINE.
I size up my surroundings. This club is fancy, but we could be anywhere. I’d love some pictures of proper Cannes. Violet and I were walking along the bustling Croisette earlier and I bet the seafront looks amazing now that the sun has started to dip. One last glance at my boss tells me that she is preoccupied (read: doing things in public I barely do in private *blushing face emoji*) so I decide to head out while I still can. Just ten minutesshould do it. Yeah, that’s the spirit! Turning towards the exit, I swing my camera over my shoulder with a renewed sense of purpose.
Only, I accidentally knock against someone as I do it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I turn just in time to see a dozen flutes of champagne clatter, almost in slow-mo, to the floor. The sound of smashing glass fills the air and a pool of fizz trickles towards my trainers.
‘Ohmon dieu!’ Snarls a very angry-looking French waiter, now standing with an empty tray in his hand and a smear of champagne froth across his dirty blond hair,There’s- Something-About-Mary-style.
I bend down and start picking up glass in a bid not to giggle at his ‘do,
‘DO NOT DO THAT! Are you completely stupid? It is bad enough that you have broken all of this glass and spilled a lot of expensive champagne. I do not want you to go cutting your stupid hands as well.’ He runs a hand through his hair as he shouts, making the situation a whole lot more smirksome.
‘But if you’d just let me help we could get this cleared up quickly and. . .’
‘NON!Step away, you buffoon.’
Buffoon? Like, I’m impressed with this dude’s grasp of the English language but seriously, did he need to call me a buffoon just now? I stand back up, watching him get increasingly angry over the spillage. His hands are flying everywhere as he mutters French expletives in my direction. His eyebrows are wiggling about as if they don’t belong to his face.
‘Listen,señor. . .’ I begin, wiggling my eyebrows right back. He rolls his eyes. I do not like this man.
‘Señoris Spanish, you stupid English. Did you learn nothing at school, other than how to knock people’s drinks down? I was trying to take this champagne over to a table of very special guests and now I’ll have to explain to them why their drinks are late, and get this mess cleaned up. Are you pleased to have given me so much more work?’
‘Hey!’ I protest. I’m not normally a confrontation type of person, but this man’s anger is making me riled up. ‘I didn’t do it on purpose so there is no need to be so rude. I was just about to go and make the most of the five minutes I’ve had off ALL BLOODY DAY by taking some photos of things that aren’t my boss’s butt, for a change.’ More eyebrow wiggling. ‘And I am not stupid! I mean, sure, I’ve been making some bad decisions regarding my love life of late. Okay fine, since my late teens. And yes, some may say that the fact that I got drunk the night before flying to the Cannes Film Festival wasn’t my smartest move. And, you know, sometimes I do wonder whether I’m actually going anywhere in life. But that does not make me stupid so you can stick your stupid jizz hairstyle and your stupid French expletives up youDERRIÈRE. Now if you’ll excuse me–’ I finally pause for breath to find that quite a lot of people have stopped to stare at our head to head. Ordinarily I’d feel mortified by such an outburst but I’m pretty sure Leonardo is clapping.
Holding my chin up high, I gather myself together and shoot a look at the waiter.
‘Merde,’ he says. I definitely know whatthatmeans. ‘You are sexy when you are cross. I forgive you for knocking into me.’
How very dare he! I don’t need his bloody forgiveness! But more importantly. . . I’m sexy when I’m cross?! This is new information. I round my shoulders back and prepare to stalk off, sexily, when the Frenchman adds, ‘What is jizz?’
Nope.Nuh uh. Not about to explain that English word in front of a crowd of celebrities, thank you very much. Could someone, maybe, kill me now? The Frenchman sighs dramatically, clearly getting bored of waiting for a response.
‘Never mind, I’ll ask my boss. She speaks fluent English.’ I’m about to protest that he definitely shouldn’t ask his boss about the definition of jizz when he adds, ‘You will come on a date with me, okay.’
‘I. . . I’m sorry, what?’
‘A date. I know you English are useless at romance but you must have heard of a date. Tomorrow night.’
‘You don’t seem to be asking me a question?’ I splutter, blind-sided.
‘And you seem to be asking questions when they are not required,’ he replies, brushing back his hair and looking sort of irritated that I haven’t immediately agreed to his plans.
‘I don’t get it. One minute you’re calling me stupid a hundred times and the next you’re asking me out?’
‘That’s right. Come by tomorrow at seven.’ Without waiting for me to explain that I’m busy tomorrow night, he spins on his heels while I puff out my cheeks in confusion, champagne now seeping through to my socks.
