“The avenue is blocked,” Edouard said stiffly as we pulled up. There were several Paris police officers motioning for drivers to keep going. I groaned. I had no doubt that they were there because of whatever Guillaume had done. Edouard pulled down the next side street and looped around to the top of Rue Banville. “This is as close as the police will let me get.”
“Thank you,” I muttered. “And again, I’m sorry.”
“You know,” Edouard said, his face stony as he watched me exit the car. “You will never find a boyfriend if you continue putting your career first.”
I stared at him. “But I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”
“I’m just giving you some advice,” he said. “Bonne nuit.” And with that, he nodded at me and sped away. I stared after him for a moment.
“Hot date?” came a voice from behind me. I spun around to see Gabe standing there on the curb, watching me with a look of amusement on his face.
“None of your business.” I narrowed my eyes at him.
“Seemed like a nice guy,” Gabe said, raising an eyebrow.
“He was,” I said curtly, feeling foolish, wondering how much of the conversation he’d heard.
I brushed past him and into the throng waiting outside. I could feel Gabe following me, but I didn’t turn around. When I rounded the corner onto Rue Banville, I stopped dead in my tracks.
“He doesn’t look too comfortable up there, does he?” Gabe asked from behind me, his voice far too cheerful for the situation at hand.
“Oh, no,” I breathed. High above the street, which was blocked off by police barricades, Guillaume was dangling by his ankles from a thick rope suspended between two buildings, at least twelve or thirteen floors off the ground. He was belting out a slurred version of “City of Light,” complete with grandiose arm gestures.
Mon amie, mon coeur et mon amour
Won’t you show me what our love is for?
His words rang out, deep and melodic, between the buildings.
“He sounds good,” Gabe said, as nonchalantly as if we were listening to his song on the radio. I turned to glare at him.
Beneath Guillaume were four Parisian fire trucks, one with its ladder extended up a few stories, and several firefighters gazing up at him. But no one seemed to be making a move to get him down.
“Someone has to do something!” I exclaimed, more to myself than anyone else.
“This is France,” Gabe replied cheerfully. “The pompiers will stand around all night and gaze up at him, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.”
“But . . . what if he falls?” I asked.
“Then I guess you’ll get your big publicity push,” he said.
I turned around and glared. “What’s wrong with you? He could get hurt up there!”
Gabe looked slightly abashed. “Emma.” He reached out and put his hand on my arm. “I’m just sure he’ll be fine. He always is. He’s always getting himself into scrapes like this. He loves them. Relax.”
I glared at him and shook my arm away. “Go back and wait with the other media,” I muttered. I focused my attention away from him and turned to the police officer standing at the top of the street, keeping the crowds away.
“Hello,” I began politely. He looked down at me, his forehead creasing. “I’m Guillaume’s publicist. May I please get through?”
“Comment?” he asked sharply. Darn it. He didn’t understand me.
“Um, I’m the publicist. For Guillaume Riche.” I spoke slowly, firmly, keeping eye contact with the officer, who still looked confused.
“Comment?” he asked again. “Je ne parle pas anglais.”
Great. I’d found the only Parisian who didn’t speak even basic English. Just my luck.
“Um, okay,” I said, trying to seize on whatever French I’d picked up. “Um, je . . . um, amie of Guillaume.”
“Vous êtes une amie de ce fou?” the police officer asked slowly. I gathered that he was confirming that I was Guillaume’s friend. I wished I knew how to say “publicist” in French, as I was certainly no friend of the wacky rock star.
“Oui,” I confirmed confidently.
The police officer started to laugh. He shook his head and said something in rapid French that I didn’t understand. Then he said in clear English. “You no come. Too many girl.”
“No, no, I’m not actually a friend,” I started to protest. “I’m his publicist.” I couldn’t for the life of me think how to say the word, so I said the closest thing I could think of. “Um, journaliste.”
Clearly that was the wrong thing to say, because the moment the word was out of my mouth, the police officer began pushing me away and muttering in French.
“No, no wait!” I protested, realizing too late that I was being pushed back to where the press was kept waiting. But the officer ignored me.
“Well, hello again,” said a voice behind me as the officer guided me forcefully around the corner. I glanced up and saw Gabe, along with several other members of the press pool. Great. The officer had brought me back to the media horde, thinking I was one of them. “Do you need some help?” Gabe asked, arching an eyebrow at me and glancing between me and the policeman.
I sighed. “Yes,” I muttered.