I glanced at him in surprise. “He’s not my rock star,” I stammered.
“Is something going on between you and Guillaume?” Gabe asked, staring at me.
“What? No!”
“Then why is he dedicating songs to you?” It was not an unreasonable question. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a good answer.
“I don’t know!” I insisted.
Gabe made a face but didn’t respond.
I cleared my throat and looked away, hoping that Gabe would drop the subject. I gazed around the room for a moment while Guillaume played, taking in the rapt, smiling faces of most of the journalists. His charm was so evident in a small, intimate live show. I knew half the female reporters would go back to their rooms tonight fully in love with him.
“So what time is your interview with Guillaume tomorrow?” I asked Gabe as the song wound down, hoping that we could move on to safer conversational topics. But when I looked to my left for his answer, he had disappeared. I frowned and looked around. He was nowhere to be seen.
Guillaume ended the song with a big grin, a wave, and a shouted, “I’ll see you all in a little while!” He strode offstage, and I realized I didn’t have time to worry about Gabe or where he had gone. I needed to go find Guillaume so I could escort him briefly through the reception room to meet journalists.
I found Poppy backstage.
“So? What did Gabriel say?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said, averting my eyes.
She gave me a funny look. “No, I mean about why he was talking to Guillaume’s dad,” she said.
“Oh. Right. Well, he didn’t exactly explain.”
“That’s weird,” Poppy murmured. Just then, Guillaume appeared with his guitar case in hand.
“I’m ready for the walk-through, ladies,” he said with a grin. “How did you like the songs?”
“Oh, Guillaume, you were marvelous!” Poppy exclaimed.
“Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle,” he said with a little bow. He turned to me. “Et toi? Emma, did you like the concert?”
“Yes, Guillaume, you did a great job,” I said.
“And the dedication? What did you think of that?”
“Um—” I didn’t know what to say. “It was . . . it was very thoughtful, Guillaume. Thank you very much.”
“You are a beautiful girl,” he said, staring at me intensely. I glanced at Poppy, who was looking intently at Guillaume.
I cleared my throat. “Um, well, thank you anyhow,” I said quickly. “So, uh, are you ready for the walk around the room?”
“You take him first,” Poppy piped up, making matters worse. She glanced back and forth between us then reached out her arms. “I’ll put his guitar away.” Guillaume obediently handed the instrument over, and I made a face at Poppy.
For the next twenty minutes, I led Guillaume around the room and tried to introduce him to the various journalists, all of whom were conveniently wearing HELLO MY NAME IS . . . stickers with their names and affiliations. I was worried at first, because this was the Get-to-Know-the-Real-Guillaume-Riche part of the evening, and of course Poppy and I were trying to conceal that the real Guillaume Riche was, at times, a raving lunatic.
But tonight, miraculously, he stayed normal. He shook hands with the men and chatted them up about soccer (if they were British), his visits to the United States (if they were American), and his love of music (if they were from anywhere else). With the women, he turned on the charm to full voltage, talking, laughing, and flirting like it was his job, which, I supposed, it was.
Eventually, after Guillaume had shaken hands with all the journalists and Poppy had wandered off to talk to a British radio host she knew, Guillaume and I made our way over to his father, who was standing near the bar in the back of the room, drinking a glass of red wine.
“Emma, have you met my father yet?” Guillaume asked as we approached. I shook my head. “I would love to introduce you. Come.”
Guillaume’s father was about five foot ten with a slender build, thin and trembling hands, and green eyes that looked surprisingly bright on a face that had sunken into itself with age. It was easy to see the resemblance between father and son; it was all in the brilliant eyes and the mop of dark hair, although the elder man’s hair was peppered with gray. Guillaume said something to his father in French, then I caught my name.
“Oui, oui, enchanté.” Guillaume’s father smiled at me pleasantly and leaned forward to kiss me once on each cheek.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling at the older man. “We are very happy to work with your son.”
“He eez, how you say, very good. Very good talent,” his father said.
I smiled. “Yes, absolutely. He’s wonderful.”
His father nodded and smiled at me. “Merci beaucoup,” he said.
Father and son talked for a few moments in rapid French, then, seeming to realize he was excluding me, Guillaume switched to English.
“So you liked the show?” he asked his father slowly.
“Oui, oui,” his father said. “Eet was perfect.”
“Thanks, Papa.” Guillaume smiled. “And this party? What do you think?”