I smiled, feeling suddenly shy as I sat down in the makeup chair.
“I’ll leave you here for a bit,” Poppy said. “Good luck! I love this counter. They always do such a great job.”
Thirty minutes later, when she returned to retrieve me, I was a whole new person.
The makeup artist, whose name was Ana, chattered pleasantly in broken English while plucking foundations, blushes, shadows, and lipsticks from the enormous counter beside us as if it was second nature. She wouldn’t let me look in the mirror until she was done.
“Voilà!” she said finally. Poppy grinned at me. “What do you think?”
Ana handed me a mirror. I hardly recognized the woman reflected in it.
Gone were the constant dark circles beneath my eyes and the reddish shade of my chin, something I’d never been able to correct on my own. My skin looked silky smooth and completely even, yet natural at the same time. My cheeks had a healthy, dewy flush to them, and my lips were a perfect shade of pale pink.
“Emma, you’re lovely!” Poppy exclaimed.
“I can’t believe it,” I replied. I looked at Ana in astonishment. “How did you do that?”
She laughed. “Nothing complicated. I used a little more foundation, a different color rouge, and better moisturizer. You’re really quite pretty.”
I bought all the makeup on the spot (despite the fact that I hadn’t received my first paycheck—but really, how could I not?) and, with a final thank-you, followed Poppy upstairs to the women’s clothing department.
An hour later, after paying for a sheer pink blouse and a cream-colored tulip skirt that fit just as perfectly, I went back to the dressing room to change into my new clothes and then let Poppy help me pick out a pair of shoes to match. We settled on a silky pair of ballet flats in the same color as the new shirt, as I figured I’d need something easy to walk in if I was going to be accompanying my new Frenchman around Paris all day.
Poppy walked me to Notre Dame by eleven forty-five, and as we parted ways, she gave me a peck on the cheek.
“Your date is going to be fabulous,” she reassured me. “You look beautiful. Thibault will fall for you in an instant. Trust me, you’re going to love your new city. And Paris is going to love you right back.”
Chapter Eight
Poppy had actually succeeded in getting me excited about my date.
I hadn’t expected to feel that way. After all, the Brett wound was still wide open. Being dismissed nonchalantly by the man I’d been with for three years, the man I’d planned to marry in September, wasn’t exactly confidence inspiring.
And while I still felt vaguely like I was betraying Brett in some way (although I knew that was utterly illogical), there was also a part of me that was looking forward to spending the day with someone new. After all, as Poppy had said, it wasn’t like I was going to spend my life with this guy. It was just a few hours. And maybe there was something to be said for being with someone who made me feel attractive and interesting. I hadn’t felt that way around Brett in quite a while.
Despite myself, I had to admit that there was something to Poppy’s theory. Or at least to the magic of this city. I couldn’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed by the romance of it all as I sat in a little park in front of Notre Dame, gazing up at the seven-hundred-year-old Gothic church with its stately towers and soaring stained-glass windows.
As I waited, I let my imagination wander. Perhaps Thibault would arrive with red roses. Don’t Frenchmen always go around giving red roses to their dates in movies? I felt sure he’d give me a peck on each cheek and perhaps gallantly take my small hand in his strong one as he led me into the church, where he had promised we would begin our Parisian tour by climbing the steps to one of Notre Dame’s towers. Perhaps afterward we’d take a little boat ride on the Seine, followed by a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower, then dinner in some yummy French restaurant.
I felt a little shiver of anticipation. And then, just as quickly, I felt a little pang of guilt. I knew it was ridiculous, but waiting for a romantic date in this romantic city so soon after my breakup made me feel a little like I was cheating on Brett.
“Stop thinking about him. He left you,” I said aloud, prompting an odd look from the woman on the other end of the bench. She stared at me for a moment. Then she closed the book she was reading, stood up, and hurried away.
Okay, so perhaps I should avoid talking to myself in public. Duly noted.
I hated that I missed Brett. Poppy would have killed me for saying so, but I would have given anything in that moment to be waiting for Brett to turn the corner of the cathedral to sweep me off my feet, declare how wrong he had been, and take me on a whirlwind tour of the City of Love.
But no, I shouldn’t think like that. Brett was in the past. Thibault was in the future.
My French knight in shining armor would be here at any moment.