Guillaume looked at me for a moment, then shook his head, looked down at the piece of paper I had given him, and began to speak.
“I regret that I was locked accidentally into the Eiffel Tower last night while scouting locations for the ‘City of Lights’ video,” he read slowly and stiffly. It was obvious his words were scripted. I cringed and snuck a look at the media. Some of the reporters looked skeptical (especially Mr. Skepticism himself in the front row), but all appeared to be listening and jotting down notes. “I feel terrible that all of you have come here to report on what isn’t really a story. It was an unfortunate incident, and I’m sure you’ll understand when you see the video next month. Thank you for your concern.”
“Thank you very much,” I added quickly. “Please direct all questions to my office.”
The reporters started shouting out questions, but I ignored them and hustled Guillaume toward the dark-windowed limo idling at the curb. I’d called Poppy before coming down and asked her to order one for us. It was the least she could do from her cushy seat on the Eurostar.
“Nice job, Emma!” Guillaume said admiringly once the car pulled away from the curb and the Eiffel Tower began to disappear behind us. He had put his top hat back on his head and was fiddling with his cane.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Guillaume, what were you doing in the Eiffel Tower without your clothes anyhow?”
He looked puzzled. “You know, I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said slowly. “One minute I was drinking manzana with a girl I met at Buddha Bar. The next thing I knew, I was waking up without my clothes with some security guard staring at me. Rather embarrassing, you know.”
“You were at Buddha Bar?” I asked, startled. I thought back to Gabriel’s warning.
“Oui,” Guillaume said. “Although it’s all a blur, really.”
“You are unbelievable,” I muttered.
“Thank you!” Guillaume said brightly.
I shot him a look. “That wasn’t a compliment,” I said.
He grinned and tipped his hat to me. “I know.”
Chapter Ten
I filled Poppy in on everything when she returned from London late that afternoon, and she apologized about a thousand times for not being there to help out.
“It’s fine, Poppy,” I said. “Really.” And I meant it. Knowing that I could handle a situation like that changed something inside me. Perhaps I hadn’t been giving myself enough credit—for anything.
That night, all the news stations in Paris ran reports on Guillaume’s Eiffel Tower incident, and they showed clips of him addressing the media. He looked even more handsome on TV, and I knew that girls all across the world, wherever this was being aired, were probably swooning and saving up their money to buy his album. Poppy translated what the anchors were saying, and it was all good. Guillaume’s debut album, which would be mostly in English, was one of the most highly anticipated releases of the year, one anchor said. His good looks already had girls around the globe plastering his poster on their walls, said another. A third network’s anchor interviewed the president of the Club d’Admirateurs de Guillaume Riche—the Paris-based Guillaume Riche Fan Club.
“He has a fan club?” I asked incredulously.
“He has three hundred forty-one fan clubs around the world, at last count,” Poppy said mildly. “Including one in a remote village in Siberia where they don’t even get TV reception. It’s mind-boggling.”
That night, for the first time, Poppy and I heard “City of Light” on the radio while we were eating the premade meals from French supermarket chain Champion that we’d heated up. We both squealed and leapt from our seats.
“He’s really on the radio!” Poppy exclaimed, jumping up and down.
“He sounds fantastic!”
We went out that night to celebrate at the Long Hop, and thanks to my ebullience over the quick save at the Eiffel Tower, I didn’t even protest when Poppy brought two cute guys back from the bar along with our cocktails. She quickly disappeared into another corner of the bar to flirt with Alain, the sandy-haired, slightly freckled one she’d evidently chosen. That left me with Christian, who was tall with bushy dark brown hair, glasses, and a slightly crooked nose. He was cute, nice, and spoke great English. By the time we went home that night, Poppy had persuaded me to go on a double date with her and the guys later that week.
The next morning, the e-clipping service Poppy subscribed to had found 219 new hits for the name “Guillaume Riche” in the past twenty-four hours, and even the New York Times had dedicated five paragraphs to describing the “misunderstanding” that had ensued when a false tip led the press to believe “rising rock star and international playboy Guillaume Riche” was trapped inside the Eiffel Tower without his clothes.