“Very nice, very nice,” his father said haltingly.
It was so strange seeing Guillaume interact with his dad. He seemed almost . . . normal.
“Guillaume,” the elder man said slowly. “I talk to Gabriel during your show. He has some, how you say, concern about you.”
My head whipped toward Guillaume. “Wait, Gabriel Francoeur?” I interrupted in surprise. “Your dad actually knows Gabriel Francoeur?”
Guillaume’s father started to say something, but then Guillaume interrupted. “Let’s just say Gabe and I go way back,” he said quickly.
I looked at him in confusion. I’d realized last night that Gabe hailed from Brittany, too, but it was an enormous region. I hadn’t thought they would actually have known each other. And why had neither man mentioned it before? I was about to ask more, but just then Poppy came flouncing up with a handsome, dark-haired man in tow.
“Guillaume!’” she bubbled, completely unaware what she was interrupting. “I would like you to meet Vick Vincent, London’s premier disc jockey and one of the people who has been pushing your record hard. He’s an old school chum of mine.”
“I don’t know that I like the adjective old, Poppy,” Vick boomed in a flawlessly deep deejay voice. “But indeed I’ve become one of Guillaume Riche’s supporters. Good job, mate.” He clapped Guillaume on the back.
“Thank you,” Guillaume said graciously. He took a small step back. I knew he didn’t like to be touched—unless he invited the touching. And he usually only invited touching from females, not pompous male disc jockeys.
I leaned closer to Guillaume. “You want to call it a night?” I whispered in his ear while Poppy was saying something to Vick.
Guillaume nodded. I looked around to gather his father up, too, but he had seemingly vanished. What was it with men and their disappearing acts this evening?
“Where’s your dad?” I asked Guillaume.
He glanced around and shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “But he’ll find his way. I’m the only one you have to worry about.”
Chapter Sixteen
The interviews the next day went flawlessly. Once again, Guillaume was on his best behavior, which made me nervous. I was starting to worry that his good-guy routine was too good to be true. I found myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. But so far, so good. Poppy and I took turns sitting in on the interviews all day, so we each heard him say, dozens of times, how pleased he was to be bridging the gap between France and the English-speaking world with his music.
He sang a few verses a cappella for the TV journalists who thought to request it and flirted incessantly enough that most of the women, regardless of age or experience, were reduced to giggling schoolgirls within five minutes. He looked handsome, acted charming, and came across cool, calm, and collected. In short, he was perfect.
“He’s a dream!” bubbled one starstruck reporter from the Daily Buzz after she emerged from her interview room.
“He’s hotter than Justin Timberlake and John Mayer and Adam Levine put together!” exclaimed a reporter from the Orlando Sentinel. “And omigawd, he kissed me! I’m never washing this cheek again!”
“What a charmer,” said a red-faced reporter for The Advocate. “I think I’m in love,” he added.
Poppy and I celebrated the success of the day’s interviews that evening in the hotel bar with a big dinner and a bottle of wine between us. Most of the journalists would be leaving in the morning, after a lavish breakfast, during which Guillaume would perform a surprise acoustic rendition of “City of Light.” Then Poppy and I were to escort Guillaume back on the four-twelve Eurostar train, so as long as we made it through tonight, we’d be through the junket virtually scot-free. Neither of us could quite believe how easy it had all been.
After dinner, Poppy yawned and said she was tired; she was thinking of turning in. I was a bit disappointed; I’d hoped that now that the bulk of the junket was over, she’d feel up for a night on the town and I’d be able to see a bit of London. Poppy had given her mobile number to the security director of the hotel so that if there was any sort of problem, we could be reached anywhere. But I’d have to resign myself instead to a night of watching pay-per-view movies on TV from my king-size hotel bed.
Thirty minutes later, I sat in bored silence in my room, flipping aimlessly through muted channels on the television. I found myself thinking of Gabe and feeling disappointed that I hadn’t seen more of him. He had somehow managed to change his interview time today without my knowing it, and I’d been taking a lunch break downstairs the entire time he was in the press suite.