“That report was false,” the security chief was quoted as saying. “We opened the tower so Guillaume and his production company could have a tour for their new video.”
The article went on to mention that Guillaume’s just-released single was already heating up airwaves across the United States and Europe and that his “Coldplay-meets-Jack-Johnson style” (a quote from my press release!) was expected to catch on.
“He’s the next big thing,” the paper quoted Ryan Seacrest as saying.
I was still riding high from all the success when Gabriel Francoeur called to rain on my parade.
“Hi, Emma, I’m glad I caught you,” he said when I answered. “It’s Gabe Francoeur from the UPP.”
The smile fell from my face. “What can I help you with?”
“Nothing big,” he said. “I just want to see if I can schedule an interview with Guillaume about some of his, um, odd behavior lately.”
“There’s nothing odd about his behavior,” I said right away, hating how stiff my voice sounded. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“Ah.” Gabriel sounded amused. “Right. I’m sure you’re not. But in any case, I’d just need a few minutes of his time. And yours, of course, if you’d like to sit in and comment.”
“I’m afraid that will be impossible,” I said. “His schedule is really quite busy right now.”
“Really?” Gabriel asked. “That’s funny, because I happen to know that right now, he’s sitting on the sofa in his apartment, watching cartoons. He doesn’t seem busy.”
“How would you know that?” Panic prickled at the back of my neck. “Are you spying on him?”
Gabriel laughed. “No, Emma! Of course not. But a good reporter never reveals his sources. So how about it? An interview?”
“No, really, we’re not doing interviews right now.”
He sighed dramatically. “Okay then,” he said casually. “I’ll just have to go with the story I’m working on about how he keeps getting into unsavory scrapes that his publicity team manages to get him out of.”
“Mr. Francoeur, I assure you that’s not true!”
“Call me Gabe,” he said. “All my American friends do. And, Emma, I won’t really have another option if I can’t get that interview, will I?”
“Is that blackmail?” I demanded.
“Call it creative negotiating,” he said. He paused and added, “I’m sure you know all about creative negotiating.”
“What?”
“I’m sure you know what I mean.” Gabriel sounded smug, and I felt suddenly uneasy. Did he know about the Eiffel Tower bribes? How would he know? But I couldn’t take any chances.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll get back to you about your interview request later this week,” I said stiffly.
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Emma.”
I hung up feeling like I’d just been outmaneuvered. And I didn’t like it one bit.
The rest of the workweek was spent studiously avoiding Gabe’s calls. He called every morning and every afternoon, like clockwork, and I always made sure to wait until at least 8 p.m. to call him back and leave an apologetic gosh-I’m-sorry-I-missed-you-again-but-maybe-we-can-connect-tomorrow message. So far, the avoidance seemed to be working, although I was slightly concerned that all this call dodging was just going to make him more annoyed at me.
Meanwhile, Poppy and I were working overtime to prepare for the press junket in London. We had a confirmed list of journalists, we’d ironed out all the reception details, and I was beginning to believe that everything would go off without a hitch. On top of that, Guillaume hadn’t gotten himself locked half naked in any major monuments lately.
On Friday, Poppy and I went out on our double date with Alain and Christian. They took us to dinner at Thomieux, a restaurant in our neighborhood specializing in southwestern French cuisine. Afterward, we went to Bar Dix, which Poppy said was one of her favorite hangouts. It was like no place I’d ever seen; it was small and had two levels that looked as if they’d been carved into the side of a cave. We wound up wedged into a tiny booth in the basement, sharing three pitchers of the best sangria I’d ever had. Poppy and I told stories, and Alain and Christian, both of whom had their arms thrown protectively over our shoulders, laughed and leaned in to give us pecks on our respective cheeks.
As our taxi pulled away from the curb at the end of the evening, leaving the two Frenchmen staring wistfully after us, I turned to Poppy, who was smiling.
“See?” Poppy asked. “Doesn’t it feel good to leave them in the dust?”
“I guess . . . ,” I responded, my voice trailing off. But actually, it didn’t feel that great at all. They seemed like nice enough guys. There was really no reason to reject them.
“Oh, stop worrying,” Poppy said. “They’d eventually do the same to you anyhow. You’re just beating them to the punch. You know what the author of How to Date Like a Dude says!”