Unglamorous or not, I somehow had a date twenty minutes later.
“Told you so!” Poppy singsonged triumphantly as my new Monsieur Right excused himself to go buy us a round of drinks. “I told you I could get you a date!”
“What did you say to him?” I demanded. Poppy had disappeared into the crowd and returned ten minutes later with Thibault (which sounded like T-bone when he said it), a thirtysomething architect who lived nearby. He spoke good English, had deep brown eyes rimmed with thick, dark lashes, and was the stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome Frenchman. In short, he seemed perfect. And he’d had the charm turned on full-force since arriving at our table and asking if I’d like to meet him at noon tomorrow at Notre Dame for a little tour of Paris.
“I just said that my very beautiful American friend was new in town and hadn’t met anyone yet,” Poppy said with a nonchalant shrug. “He wanted to meet you right away.”
I looked at her skeptically. “You’re kidding me. That gorgeous guy wanted to meet me?”
Poppy sighed. “I’m getting a little tired of you selling yourself short. You’re a doll, and any man would be lucky to have you.”
I shrugged and looked away. I didn’t believe her.
The next morning, after a quick breakfast of cappuccino and pains au chocolat at Café de l’Alma, a little café near our apartment, Poppy and I were standing outside the Galeries Lafayette, the biggest and most famous department store in Paris, when the doors opened at nine thirty. Despite my exhaustion and reluctance to be dragged around what I figured would be an oversize Macy’s, I couldn’t help but be dazzled when we walked in.
My jaw must have literally dropped, because Poppy started laughing. “I had the same expression on my face the first time I came here,” she said. “It’s nine floors of pure fashion heaven. If I ever win the lottery, I’m coming here straightaway.”
“Oh, my,” was all I could manage in reply.
From where we were standing, I could see only the ground floor, but it was breathtaking. There were colorful clothes, beautiful salespeople, and seemingly endless rows of accessories and cosmetics as far as the eye could see, all in dazzlingly bright colors and patterns. I felt like a kid in a candy store. A very big, very beautiful candy store.
But it was the ceiling that really blew me away. Rising above us, nine floors off the ground, was an enormous dome of stained glass and wrought iron, through which the morning light was pouring, illuminating the center arcade. It reminded me of something you might find in an exquisitely decorated old church, except that here we were worshipping at the altar of fashion. Each level of the enormous department store overlooked the ground floor in a beautiful tiered arrangement that made me feel like I was inside a wedding cake. It was like nothing I had ever seen.
“Okay, Wide Eyes,” Poppy said after a moment. “Stop gawking. Let’s get going.”
We had a mission today. Poppy had vowed to help me pick out an outfit for my tour of Paris with Thibault, and we had only two hours before I had to meet him.
“Spending the day with someone creates the perfect opportunity for romance,” Poppy informed me solemnly as we wove our way through endless accessories. “It’s what Date for the Day is all about. It’s one of my favorite dating advice books.”
I tried not to feel uneasy, thinking of the fact that I was about to go on my first date since Brett.
Poppy took me by the arm and led me past row upon row of jewelry counters, gorgeous handbags, silky hosiery, ornate watches, and facial care displays that promised to restore youthful skin to all buyers. I gaped the whole way. I felt sure this was what my heaven would look like. In fact, I even pinched myself once to make sure I hadn’t fallen back asleep on Poppy’s floor and dreamed it all.
“Ouch!” I exclaimed when the pinch did, in fact, hurt. Okay, so I was awake.
Poppy glanced at me. “No offense, but you should probably stop staring and start acting nonchalant. You’ll fit in a lot better. You look very American at the moment, you know.”
I snapped my mouth closed and tried to look casual. Poppy was right. All around me, bored-looking Frenchwomen, who looked far too put together for nine thirty on a Saturday morning, browsed among the endless accessories, looking like they weren’t impressed at all to be here. It had to be an act! How could they not feel like dancing gleefully through the aisles, touching scarves and bags and belts in all sorts of rich fabrics and beautiful shapes?
“Bonjour,” Poppy said to the woman at the Clinique counter as we walked up. The woman’s makeup and hair were impeccable, and her black wrap dress looked perfect. I felt even frumpier than usual next to her. “My friend here needs to have her colors done. Do you speak English?”
The woman beamed at me.
“Oui, I do speak English, a little,” she said. “I would love to do your makeup. Have a seat.”