“Really?” he asked. He seemed to consider this. “Okay then. Thanks!”
As the young officer had instructed, I asked Guillaume to grab my ankles. He acquiesced, and I shouted inside to let the officers know we were ready. Slowly, three officers pulled on the rope attached to my back so that Guillaume and I, locked in a strange head-to-toe position, were slowly dragged along the length of the rope, via the pulley I’d been connected to. Five agonizing minutes later, Poppy’s young officer and two others pulled Guillaume and me to safety.
“That was fun!” Guillaume exclaimed, grinning at me as the police untied his ankles and unhooked him from the rope. There was some yelling outside as the officers in the building across the way discussed how to detach the rope. As soon as Guillaume was free, he reached out and pulled me into a hug. “You saved me!” he declared in a deep, theatrical voice.
I rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth. “You’re insane.” I didn’t mean it facetiously.
“Emma, you were worried about me!” Guillaume said, pulling back and studying my face.
I avoided his glance. “I was worried about the album,” I mumbled.
“No, you were worried about me!” Guillaume insisted triumphantly. He turned to Poppy and gave her a hug, too. “Poppy! Emma loves me!” he announced.
Poppy frowned. “Then she’s even crazier than you are.”
After Guillaume had been ushered out a back entrance by Richard and Edgar, who had arrived during my dangling duet, Poppy and I walked outside to where the police were keeping the waiting journalists at bay. I’d taken the police pants off.
“Do you want to do the talking?” Poppy whispered as we walked.
I just looked at her. “Are you kidding? I just dangled thirteen stories above Paris singing a duet from a John Travolta musical. I think it’s your turn to handle this.”
“Fine.” We arrived at the bank of microphones and tape recorders that the reporters had thrown together, and Poppy raised a hand to silence the crowd.
“I’m pleased to announce that Guillaume Riche is perfectly fine and is on his way home with his bodyguards,” Poppy began. “Thank you all for your concern.”
She repeated the words in French. As she went on to explain that Guillaume’s stunt certainly wasn’t illegal and certainly wasn’t the result of drunken stupidity, I gazed around at the journalists, trying to gauge their reactions. Most were listening and nodding as if Poppy’s words were entirely sensible. Were they crazy? There were a few skeptical faces in the crowd. Oddly, Gabe didn’t appear to be watching Poppy, although once in a while he scribbled something on his pad. Instead he appeared to be staring hard at me.
Every time I caught his eye, I glanced quickly away, but he kept right on looking, as if he could see right through me. It was making me feel uneasy.
“This was simply an impromptu demonstration on Guillaume’s part,” Poppy concluded, “to show you how much he enjoys singing with regular women. Like my colleague, Emma.”
I smiled weakly. After a round of questions, each of which Poppy answered quickly and crisply, she finally called on Gabe. I braced myself for something sarcastic.
Instead, looking straight at me, he spoke softly. “That was really brave, Emma,” he said in English. “Are you okay?”
I gulped and nodded. “Yes, I’m fine,” I said.
Once the press conference had ended and the reporters began to go their separate ways, Poppy returned to me, looking exhausted.
“Feel like going out for an Our-Rock-Star-Isn’t-Splattered-on-the-Pavement celebratory drink?” she asked. She leaned in. “That cute officer asked me out!” she whispered.
I smiled weakly and shook my head. “No,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m just worn out. I think I’m going to go home and go to bed.”
Poppy nodded. “I understand.”
I smiled. “Have fun with Officer McDreamy, though. See you at home.”
We hugged good-bye, and I began walking toward the Porte Maillot Métro stop, which was several blocks away, according to the little “Plan de Paris” map Poppy had loaned me.
There was a chill in the air, and with the uneven cobblestones of some of the sidewalks I was beginning to doubt the logic of wearing high heels in a city like this. How did Frenchwomen do it, anyhow? I glanced around, hoping I’d see the gleaming light of a taxi somewhere, but the streets were empty. As I walked through the puddles of light cast from the street lamps, my feet ached more and more with each step.
I’d walked four blocks and was just beginning to contemplate whether it would be worse to keep my heels on (I was already getting massive blisters), or walk barefoot on the grimy streets, when I heard a car horn honk beside me. I turned my head wearily to the right, gritting my teeth against the pain, and was somehow unsurprised to see Gabe sitting there in his little Peugeot, smiling at me.