“Whatever,” I mumbled.
“Look, Emma, if you’re going to stay with me this month, I’m not going to let you sit around and mope about Brett.” Poppy was suddenly very serious. “You have to get back out there. In Secrets of Desirable Women, Dr. Fishington writes that your chances for finding love decrease by six percent for every week you refrain from dating after a breakup.”
I stared at her for a moment. Although I didn’t believe in her self-help mumbo jumbo, I couldn’t help doing the calculations in my head. It had been four weeks since Brett and I broke up. By Poppy’s inane theory, that meant that my chances at love had diminished by almost a quarter.
“That’s ridiculous, Poppy,” I said, wishing I felt as confident as I sounded.
“Emma, French guys are the best,” Poppy continued, ignoring me. “It will build your self-esteem. Besides, when’s the last time you’ve just been on a date that you didn’t intend to turn into a relationship?”
I opened my mouth to respond but thought better of it. I considered her question for a moment. Even before Brett, every guy I’d dated had turned into a boyfriend, at least for a few months. In fact, I couldn’t even remember a time when I’d gone on a series of meaningless first dates. But wasn’t dating supposed to be all about finding Mr. Right?
“You’ve just been racing into relationships, haven’t you?” Poppy continued, evidently reading my mind. “The French call it the quest for l’oiseau rare—the rare bird, the perfect man. You were like that the summer we lived together, too,” she added triumphantly.
I stared at her. Was she right? I’d gone out on exactly two first dates that summer. One, with a British guy named Michael, had resulted in us having drunken sex at the end of the night and me falling head over heels for him, which scared him away inside of five weeks. The next date I’d had, with a banker named Colin, had resulted in a three-month relationship that he finally broke off after I’d moved back to the States, citing the difficulty of doing long distance.
“So?” I mumbled.
“So . . . ,” Poppy said, drawing the word out. “Maybe you need to simply date without trying to make it a race to girlfriend status.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but nothing came out.
“You’re at your sexual peak, you know,” she added.
“Um, what?” I asked, wondering how this was relevant.
“Yes.” She nodded with confidence. “According to Sexy Time by Dr. Boris Sudoko, a woman’s sex drive peaks between twenty-nine and thirty-five. Now, I’m not suggesting you sleep with anyone. But there’s no better time in your life to feel attractive and sexy. Frenchmen are the best remedy for heartbreak.”
“You realize you’re insane,” I muttered.
“Yes, of course.” Poppy thought for a second. The guy in gray was on his way back, balancing three drinks and smiling at Poppy.
“Look,” she said. “What if I see if this guy Gérard has a friend that he can set you up with? And the four of us can meet tomorrow for a drink? Not a date, just a drink.”
“You know I don’t want to,” I said.
“And you know that’s mostly irrelevant.”
I made a face at her and was about to respond when Poppy’s cell phone began ringing to the tune of Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy.”
“Bollocks,” Poppy cursed. She blushed and, casting a quick look at the approaching charcoal-clothed guy, scrambled for the phone, which was sticking out of her purse. “All??” she answered, sounding very French. I watched as the color drained from her face. She spoke a few more sentences in rapid French and hung up, looking distressed. “Bollocks!” she exclaimed again, slamming her fist down on the bar in frustration. The guy in gray glanced at her, set two of the drinks down, and hurried away, shaking his head.
“What’s wrong?” I asked with concern.
“It’s work,” she said tersely. She reached for a drink and took a big swig. “We have to go.”
“Work?” I repeated in disbelief. I checked my watch. “But it’s almost one in the morning!”
“Well, technically we’re on call all the time.” She made a face. “That’s what happens when you run your own agency.”
I just stared at her. “What on earth could we possibly have to do at one a.m.?” At Boy Bandz, I’d been “on call” two nights a week, but there had never been a middle-of-the-night incident I’d had to respond to. Our boys were usually tucked away in bed by eleven, probably with their night-lights on.
“It’s Guillaume Riche,” Poppy said tightly, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “Véronique from KMG just called. There’s apparently been, er, an incident.”
“An incident?” I asked.
“Véronique didn’t explain,” Poppy said. “She just said we needed to get to her office immediately. We need to do some damage control.”
Damage control? I opened my mouth but didn’t have time to respond before Poppy grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the exit.