I gave Poppy a look and didn’t bother reminding her that I obviously wasn’t here to pick up any guys, French or otherwise. Surely she knew I was in full-on mope-about-Brett mode.
Inside, the Long Hop was dark and smoky, with a hardwood bar framed with a list of chalk-written drink specials, a pool table in the back, a stairway to a small second level, and a room full of twentysomethings packed in like sardines. Vintage beer posters and signs decorated the shadowed walls, and blond, study-abroad American girls in jeans and heels tried desperately to look more French by tying scarves around their necks while talking to Frenchmen, who were, amusingly, trying desperately to look more American in jeans, Nike and Adidas shirts, and sneakers. Music—mostly in English—pumped from the speakers, making it hard to hear. Half of the dozen flat-screen TVs around the room were tuned to soccer matches, the other half to a rotating mix of concert footage and music videos. The Eagles’ “Hotel California” ran effortlessly into Fergie’s “London Bridges,” which pumped seamlessly into Madonna’s “Material Girl.”
“Let’s find a place to sit!” Poppy shouted over the music. “There are a lot of hot guys here!”
I hid an amused smile and followed her around the room, where she unabashedly looked guys up and down and returned their glances with a confidently sexy stare. I couldn’t imagine ever being able to look at guys that way again. Not that I was sure I ever had. It sounded strange, but it was hard to remember what going out had been like before Brett.
“According to Smart Woman, Stupid Men, you have to exude confidence to attract confidence,” Poppy whispered as we walked. I shook my head and tried to hide my amused smile.
We settled on a ledge near the dance floor, and right away Poppy excused herself to get us drinks. She returned—after five minutes of flirtation with a tall, floppy-haired blond bartender—with a gin fizz for herself and a Brazilian lime-and-sugarcane concoction called a caipirinha for me.
“To your visit to Paris!” Poppy said cheerfully, holding her glass up. “And to you discovering the art of French kissing!”
I held my glass up and clinked it against hers uncertainly. “What exactly are you talking about?” I asked after we had both taken a sip. I tried not to feel insulted. “Things may not have worked out with Brett, but Poppy, it wasn’t because I didn’t know how to kiss!”
Poppy laughed. “No, no!” she said. “I don’t mean actual French kissing. I mean kissing Frenchmen!”
That didn’t clarify things at all. “What about kissing Frenchmen?” I asked. I was starting to get a bad feeling about this.
“Well,” she said dramatically, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “I’ve decided that the best way in the world to get over an ex is to date as many Frenchmen as possible and chuck them before they chuck you!”
“You’re telling me that you want me to date a bunch of Frenchmen?” I repeated incredulously. I looked suspiciously at her glass. What was in that gin fizz of hers anyhow?
“Exactly!”
“And then dump them?”
“Precisely!”
“And this is supposed to make me feel better?”
“Voilà!”
I took a deep breath. Clearly I wasn’t getting through. “Poppy,” I began patiently. “In case you’ve forgotten, I just got out of a three-year relationship with a guy I was engaged to. And I’m only in Paris for five weeks. I’m not exactly looking for another boyfriend here.”
“Who said anything about a boyfriend?” Poppy wrinkled her nose at the last word, as if it were somehow distasteful. She paused for a moment and intently studied a tall dark-haired guy in a striped, collared shirt and designer jeans who passed us by without a glance.
“I thought you did,” I said, confused. I focused on pretending that I didn’t notice the very attractive dark-haired guy in the striped shirt giving me the eye. Or the blond guy nursing a Guinness in the corner who was staring at me. Or the muscular black guy shooting pool near the dance floor who kept glancing my way and smiling.
“Boyfriends are more trouble than they’re worth,” Poppy said with a shrug. “Who needs them? I’m just talking about a lovely date or a good snog, Emma.”
I couldn’t imagine that any of the men at this bar would want to snog me—or do anything else with me, for that matter. “I’m not exactly Audrey Tautou,” I said, rolling my eyes. In fact, with my somewhat stringy blond hair, wrinkle-rimmed blue eyes, and less-than-lithe figure, I was pretty much the polar opposite of the doe-eyed brunette gamine.
“Oh, rubbish.” Poppy waved dismissively. “You’re gorgeous. Besides, just by virtue of your Americanism, you’re fascinating to these men, you know. We Anglos are quite different from French girls, you know. And guess what? These Frenchmen? They are rather fascinating, too.”