A Spotted Dick in the Mouth
Poppy clutches the door handle and stares at me with wide horror-film eyes.
“I’m not a serial killer.” I look her in the eye. “I promise I won’t eat your liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.”
I stop short of making the Hannibal Lecter slurp, because I am not sure my new friend is ready for full-on Vivia dramatics.
Poppy just blinks at me.
By the time I finish giving her a synopsis of my run-in with the Buckingham Palace Guards, she seems more relaxed.
“Misadventure seems to follow you wherever you go.”
“Hashtag understatement!”
We laugh.
The cab pulls to an abrupt stop in front of a magnificent brick Georgian building. Poppy thanks the driver, hands him a twenty pound note, and turns to me.
“Shall we?”
I follow her out of the cab and up the stairs of the brick building. As we approach, a liveried door man snaps to attention with the bearing of a well-drilled soldier, back stiff, gaze fixed on a distant point.
“Good day, Miss Worthington.”
“Good day, Archie.”
“Where are we?” I whisper.
“The Luxe, one of the hotels in the Worthington chain,” Poppy says, smiling. “I have a meeting here this afternoon, so I thought we might have lunch in Délais.”
“Délais?”
“Our new French restaurant. It’s opening next week, but the chef is doing a test run of a tasting menu. Would you mind terribly being a guinea pig?”
“Would I? Are you kidding me?”
“Am I to interpret your unbridled American enthusiasm as an affirmative?”
“Absolutely!”
Poppy laughs. She has a pretty cool laugh. It’s not loud and unrestrained like mine, but a throaty, controlled, I-was-raised-in-a-finishing school kind of laugh.
I follow Poppy through the lobby, the sharp tap-tap of her Louboutins on the marble floor announcing our arrival like the drumroll that precedes Hail to the Chief. Poppy could be the President. She strides through the hotel with complete confidence and authority, smiling at guests. I can’t help but wonder what people are thinking as they watch the cool, sophisticated blonde and her ginger minion.
If the Rubens is posh, Luxe is über-posh. The two-story lobby is Georgian London meets Contemporary LA, with an elaborate plaster ceiling and sleek midnight black velvet Chesterfield sofas—like Jane Austen and James Bond collaborated on the interior design.
Poppy leads me down a hallway, around a rope barrier, and through a set of plush velvet drapes.
“Welcome to Délais!”
The restaurant is swanky. Super swanky. With an elaborate plastered ceiling, glossy parquet floors, walls covered in an expensive silver metallic paper, and sleek black walnut tables, the dining room has the same Austen meets Bond vibe as the lobby. An eclectic collection of art covers one wall from ceiling to floor—photographs, portraits, landscapes, post-modern paintings.
“Wow!” I whisper, awed by the sumptuous candlelit scene. “This is outrageous.”
“Outrageous good or outrageous bad?”
The waver in Poppy’s voice prompts me to shift my gaze from the art wall to her face. She’s nibbling on her perfectly lacquered lower lip, and a tiny crease mars her otherwise porcelain smooth forehead. I can’t believe what I am seeing. This cool, collected, cultured woman has a chink in her confident armor. What could poised and polished Poppy Worthington have to stress about? It’s not like she’s toting a ginger ’fro and enough baggage to fill the Louis Vuitton flagship store.
“Outrageous good, Poppy!” I grab her hand and squeeze her fingers. “It’s like you opened a restaurant and cool cocktail lounge in the Louvre.”
She stops biting her lip, but specters of self-doubt still hover behind her eyes. If we were better acquainted, I’d hug her and say, “Believe, Sister! ’Cuz you got it going on.” Since I’m not sure perfectly pressed Poppy would appreciate such an exuberant public display of affection, I give her hand another little squeeze.
“This is the first hotel to be renovated since I assumed control of the Worthington Brand, and I am taking it in a totally new direction. Many don’t share my vision. They predict my changes will tarnish the Worthington’s golden reputation.”
Poppy’s looks down at her lap.
“You’re a visionary, Poppy. Visionaries always have detractors, those frightened by change. Look at Michelangelo.”
“Michelangelo?” she says, looking up.
“He was a visionary—painting naked saints and sinners on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel—and he had his share of detractors. The Pope took one look at the masterpiece and lost his holy mind. He didn’t appreciate seeing St. Paul with his peter hanging out, so he ordered Michelangelo to paint fig leaves over the saints’ and sinners’ genitalia. True story.”
“Thanks.” Poppy sniffs. “But I am no Michelangelo.”
“Oh, I am not so sure about that.” I glance around the restaurant. “You’re an artist, Poppy Worthington, and this is your masterpiece.”
“You can’t know how much your praise means to me. You’re precisely the demographic we had in mind when we designed Délais.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Young, hip, well-traveled, and well-educated. Traditional values, but with a slightly irreverent approach to life.”
Hip? Me? In my trying-too-hard London ensemble? I don’t think so. “You got all of that from watching me hail a cab?”
Poppy chuckles. “And reading your column for the last year.”
“Well, I am not sure if I deserve such praise, but Délais definitely nails the young, hip, cultured vibe.”
Poppy’s eyes fill with fresh tears.
“Oh, bollocks!” She murmurs, quickly blinking. “It’s our GM. I mustn’t let him see me all weepy.”
I shove my hand into my purse and fish around. I whip out a bottle of Visine just as an officious looking man wearing a Saville Row suit, and smug expression, saunters up.
“Allergies are the worst. Here.” I hand the Visine to Poppy. “Two drops per eye usually does the trick.”
“Thank you.” Poppy slips the bottle into her pocket.
“Good Morning, Miss Worthington,” Saville Row says. “Might I have a word?”
“Certainly, Malcolm.” She turns to me. “Would you excuse me a moment?”
“Of course.”
While Poppy takes care of business, I whip out my iPhone and compose a text to Big Boss Woman.
Text to Louanne Collins-London:
Thank you for springing me from the pokey. It was a mortifying misunderstanding. Am already working on another story that should be equally as enthralling. Super excited. Will call with details as soon as possible.
All right, I’ll admit it; I lied to my editor when I said I had connections to the royal family, and I just lied to her again when I said I am working on an enthralling story. I have no idea what I am going to write about. Something tells me Louanne Collins-London wouldn’t appreciate a thousand-word piece on my extremely tenuous connection to Prince Andrew’s naughty ex. And I don’t think she would accept a rags-to-riches story about a plucky young hairdresser with a dream, who started off in a grungy chop-shop, but ended up styling the tresses of a disgraced Duchess.
GoGirl! readers are young, stylish, professional women who want to read smart, sassy, sexy pieces about life beyond their borders. Louanne Collins-London tells me they want to vicariously visit posh resorts, exclusive clubs, and offbeat shops. They want me to take them on adventures kayaking the Amazon, joining an archaeological excavation in Cairo, or hiking the Highlands. They want to meet larger-than-life characters—like spoiled debutantes, entitled movie stars, and jet-setting celebrities—but through my slightly distorted lens. They don’t want to read about my mother’s cousin’s hairdresser.
Text to Jean-Luc de Caumont:
I am going to be a little late.
Text from Jean-Luc:
I read your tweets and was about to launch Operation Rescue Vivia.
Tweet to Jean-Luc:
Ha ha! No rescue needed, my French cowboy. The hostiles have released me.
Text from Jean-Luc:
Does that mean I should unpack my six-shooter?
Text to Jean-Luc de Caumont:
Keep your weapon holstered, partner—at least for a little bit longer ;)
Text from Jean-Luc de Caumont:
Would you like me to come to London?
Text to Jean-Luc:
No! I’m just going to grab something to eat and then I will be on the next train, plane, or ferry out of this miserable moldering country. I’ll send you my arrival info as soon as I have it.
Text from Jean-Luc:
See you soon, mon cœur.
We’ve barely taken our seats in one of the banquettes when Poppy says, “Do you really have a court injunction prohibiting you from approaching the royal family?”
“Yes.”
“Did you spend time in prison? Truly?”
“Yes.”
“You’re quite serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This morning. In fact, I had only just been released from Belgravia Station when you found me on the street flagging a cab.”
Poppy presses her hand to her throat again and takes an audible swallow.
I give her the low-down on my bogus rap, and by the time I am finished telling her my story, she is dabbing tears of laughter from her eyes.
The sommelier arrives with a bottle of Château Doisy-Daëne, removes the cork, pours the golden liquid into two glasses, and then silently retreats into the shadows.
“A toast,” Poppy says, lifting her glass. “To Prince Harry!”
“Huzzah!” I laugh. “To Prince Harry!”
Poppy and I spend several minutes getting acquainted, and you know what? She’s really cool. She’s not the uptight etiquette Nazi I feared she would be. She didn’t even flinch when I sipped my wine without swirling, sniffing, or checking for legs—a ritual that remains mystifying despite Jean-Luc’s many attempts to educate me of the wonders of wine.
“I was probably setting my price tag too low—as my BFF Fanny likes to say—but I didn’t understand why someone as polished and poised as you would want to hang with me until…”
Filter Vivia! Filter! Damn my unfortunate habit of articulating my every thought.
“Until you discovered I am a sad, neurotic mess with premature crow’s feet?” Poppy finishes my sentence.
We both laugh.
“I think we shall be great friends, Vivia.” Poppy raises her glass. “That is, as long as you leave the hailing of cabs to me.”
A short dark haired man strides confidently up to our table, his strong Gallic nose tilted at an arrogant angle. I recognize the haughty expression immediately—the upturned nose, the slightly hooded eyes indicating boredom and disdain. Il est Français!
French haughtiness used to piss me off. Now, I find it endearing and humorous.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Worthington.”
“Bonjour, Michel,” Poppy says, prattling on in flawless French. “J'espère que cela ne vous dérange pas que j'ai amené un ami avec moi aujourd'hui...”
I nod my head as if I understand what Poppy is saying even though I am only able to translate every third word. Despite Rosetta Stone’s emphatic promise—“You’ll start communicating quickly and have fun doing it!”—I butcher the French language like Michel with a side of beef. I want to learn to speak French fluently—I really do—but I think I have Language Alzheimer’s. Jean-Luc or Fanny will teach me a word. I will practice saying the word, repeating it several times a day, but as soon as they quiz me, my mind goes blank, and I stare wide-eyed, mouth agape.
Both Michel and Poppy are staring at me. I am too embarrassed to admit I zoned out and have no idea what they asked me, so I whip out one of the few French phrases I have managed to master.
“Je voudrais commander un café au lait, s’il vous plâit.”
Poppy blinks. Michel stares as if I were a fly in his béchamel. I have been on the receiving end of that expression—that patronizing, my-family-home-ees-older-than-your-country expression—more times than I care to admit.
“Je voudrais commander un café au lait,” I nervously repeat.
I would like to order a coffee with milk. I learned that handy phrase while listening to Earworms, a French language CD that uses catchy tunes and repetition. I don’t know how handy the phrase is, actually, since I don’t even drink coffee.
“Michel asked if you had any food allergies, Vivia,” Poppy explains. “Though I am certain we can get you a coffee with milk.”
Prickly heat spreads from my cheeks to my toes like a California wildfire. I want to go limp, slide off my chair, and pretend I am suffering from a fit of the vapors. Victorian women worked the vapor swoons, so why can’t I? Generally speaking, the Victorians creep me out, but I could get behind a swooning revival.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “My French is rusty.”
Michel rolls his eyes. “Pfft.”
What the…? Did he just pfft me? I might not speak fluent French, but I can translate pfft. He just dismissed me as a creature beneath him. Pfft means, “Naturally, you are just another sad, ignorant Américaine.”
I am tempted to tell the little chef to stick his ladle in his pompous French ass, but I don’t want to embarrass Poppy. Instead, I tell him I am allergic to mushrooms. Ha! That oughta throw a little cayenne into his crock-pot. What French chef cooks sans mushrooms?
Michel narrows his eyes.
I totally lied. I am not allergic to mushrooms—not in the strictly, grab-an-EpiPen-STAT, medical sense—but I do gag and retch like a cat yukking up a furball whenever I am forced to feast on fungi. It’s not a pretty site.
Michel pivots on one foot and stalks back to the kitchen.
Poppy rolls her eyes. “The French really take the biscuit, don’t they? They’re self-impressed and right temperamental. They completely disintegrate if we don’t wax poetic about their Camembert or rhapsodize over every bottle of Burgundy they uncork.”
I think of Jean-Luc. I always think of Jean-Luc when someone mentions France, or speaks in French. Thinking of Jean-Luc—his ripped, tanned body, his smoldering gaze—always makes my chest constrict. The thought of him literally takes my breath away.
“My boyfriend is French.”
“Cor!” Poppy’s cheeks flush apple red. “I forgot you have a French boyfriend! I am sorry if I offended you.”
“No worries,” I laugh, thinking about Luc’s obsession with Taco Bell and John Wayne movies. “Jean-Luc isn’t your typical Frenchman.”
“No, he certainly is not.”
I frown. How does Poppy Worthington know about my boyfriend?
Poppy reads my thoughts. “I follow your Twitter account. You’ve tweeted about him.”
I don’t know if I should feel flattered or slightly creeped out. A year ago, my friend G tweeted a photo of me hanging on the beach in Cannes with Jett Jericho. The photo went viral. I’m talking Ebola sized viral. My Twitter followers jumped from 362 to 193,000. Big Boss Woman checks my numbers each month and sends me gleeful texts.
Text from Louanne Collins-London:
1,178 more followers this month. You’re starting to give Jenna Marbles a run for her money. Tweet! Tweet! Followers = readers.
I’ve never taken the numbers seriously. My Twitter Followers have never seemed real to me. They are just nameless, faceless entities with disembodied voices who respond to or RT my ramblings. It’s not like @BottleBlonde @AtomicDawg @112UserNotFound or @DuchessofBainbridge are real friends—not drink-champagne-cocktails-until-you’re-drunk-enough-to-get-an-ass-tattoo friends. They’re my faux amies.
It’s weird to think of Poppy as one of the disembodied voices. I can’t wrap my mind around someone as smart and chic as Poppy Worthington taking time out of her important shed-yule to read one of my tweets about seeing Rachel Zoe licking a cracker wrapper in the Milan airport, let alone committing details of my private life to memory.
“Hello! Vivia?” Poppy waves her hand in front of my face. “You’ve gone all polka dots and unicorns.”
“Polka dots and unicorns?” I frown. “Oh! You mean zoned out?”
Polka dots and unicorns. The British are hilarious. I am so working that into my next conversation with Fanny or Jean-Luc.
“I’m sorry, Poppy,” I say, smiling. “I feel a little guilty.”
“Guilty? Why?”
“I was supposed to meet Jean-Luc in Paris this weekend for…”
Poppy waggles her eyebrows. “A shag fest?”
“I was going to say for our first anniversary celebration, but shag fest works too.”
I dig Poppy. I know dig is a 1950s word, but deep down I’ve got an inner Beatnik that’s aching to bang a bongo while composing bombastic poems about my spiritual journey.
“You can still meet him in Paris,” Poppy says brightly. “British Airways have flights leaving every hour.”
“I’ll hop a flight this afternoon, but my heart’s not totally in it.”
Poppy tilts her head and her sleek angled bob spills over her shoulder. “Why not?”
I shrug. “I am going to spend the whole weekend stressing about blowing the Prince Harry story. I should probably scrub my shag fest, stay in London, and conjure up another story.”
“You’re a smashing writer, Vivia.” Poppy smiles. “I am certain you will get it sorted out.”
“I hope so!” I don’t share Poppy’s confidence. “I can’t afford to lose another writing gig. I have a chocolate addiction that needs regular fixes.”
“You aren’t going to lose your job over one lost story.”
“I might.” My voice is wobbling like a newborn colt. “Unemployment is high. The economy sucks. It’s only a matter of time before my boss realizes readers don’t want to hear about my frivolous wanderings.”
“Have you lost the plot?”
“What?”
“Are you crazy? You’re a bloody brilliant writer. Your boss knows you’re a valuable commodity. She wouldn’t sack you over one cocked-up story.”
“Really?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely!” Poppy slams her fist on the table. “Set your price tag high, Vivia, and others will appreciate your value.”
I feel like stomping my feet, raising my hands, and saying, “Preach, Sister!” Poppy’s little sermon is the same one I gave myself last year when I was picking up the pieces of my shattered life. I have a habit of setting my price tag too low.
“Thanks, Poppy.”
“Of course. Now stop frowning. No job—or man—is worth risking wrinkles.”
“Don’t risk the wrinkles. I like that mantra.”
“You may have it.”
I laugh. “Thanks!”
Michel arrives bearing two plates. “I formulated zee menu as a general formulates zee battle plan,” he says, nose thrust high in the air. “I have brazenly selected flavors to assault your senses. I wish to take you unaware.”
Now that’s a frightening thought. Ratatouille taking me unaware. Ugh.
With great pomp and pageantry, Michel presents us each with a plate of what appears to be pureed bologna floating in a sea of snot or cat food floating in bile.
“For the first course, I have prepared canard pâté de foie avec de la mousse de pomme de terre.”
Duck liver pâté with potato foam. Did I miss something? Is food supposed to be foamy? I don’t remember Guy Fieri saying anything about foamy potatoes. Potatoes can be sliced and deep fried in peanut oil or mashed and mixed with heavy cream and butter, but not foamed. How does one foam a potato?
I stare at my plate skeptically before taking the tiniest of bites. Then, I take another bite— just to confirm my first impression. The verdict? Duck innards floating in potato bile is actually good…like crazy good. The pâté is smooth, buttery, with just a hint of brie, and the potato foam is so delicious I am actually reconsidering a rendezvous with ratatouille. Jean-Luc is loyal, sweet, and insanely hot in bed, but I’m pretty sure he can’t make potato foam.
Michel returns with our next course: deconstructed coq au vin with a beaker of warm, fruity Rhône Valley grenache. It’s like grandma went into the kitchen and whipped up some comfort food—assuming the grandma was Coco Chanel. Michel’s coq au vin is classic but modern, complicated yet straightforward.
“This is amazing, like a symphony in my mouth” I murmur, forking another piece of chicken and dipping it in the wine sauce. “Michel is a culinary virtuoso.”
“He is, isn’t he?”
Michel returns with our choice of desserts: Profiteroles filled with Bourbon vanilla custard and drizzled with spicy Mayan dark chocolate sauce or a spotted dick in crème anglaise.
I confess. I have a simple palate. Until I accepted the GoGirl! gig, my most adventurous foray into the world of exotic cuisine was Mr. Foo’s Spicy Chicken—eaten with disposable chopsticks from a white take-out carton. Michel has broadened my gastronomical horizons.
I am torn between two lovers. Profiteroles or spotted dick? Which one should I choose? I want them both. Why, oh why, can’t I have my cake and eat it, too?
Mistaking my hesitation for disinterest, Michel starts to step away from the table. Uh-uh Michel. Don’t even play.
“Wait!” I shout. “I want your spotted dick!”
Sweet Aunt Jemima! There’s a phrase I never thought I’d say. Poppy pretends to blot her lips with her napkin, but I know it’s only to hide her smile.
Michel serves the spotted dick and hurries back to the kitchen, presumably to puree a mushroom digestif as a chaser for my spotted dick.
“Vivia, I’ve just had a scathingly brilliant idea!”
“Scathingly brilliant idea?” I pause between bites of warm, spongy pudding soaked in crème anglaise to stare at my new friend. “Haley Mills. The Trouble with Angels, right?”
“Yes! I love that movie.”
“Me too!”
Poppy and I grin at each other like two love sick teenagers—the way new friends smile when they discover common interests or experiences.
“Okay.” I pop a golden raisin in my mouth. “Let’s hear it, Hayley. What’s your scathingly brilliant idea?”
Poppy forks a chocolate covered profiterole into her mouth. She’s nearly finished her dessert. Thank God she’s not one of those “I’ll just have a glass of water and watch you eat dessert” kinda girls. Score! Another thing we have in common.
“You need a bang-up story, right?”
“Yes.”
“I might have one for you.”
Oh man! I should have known something was up when a complete stranger offered me a comped lunch at a chi-chi restaurant. She probably wants me to write a promo piece about her restaurant.
“Look, Poppy.” I put my spoon down and push my spotted dick away. “GoGirl! strictly forbids employees from receiving anything of monetary value gratis, even meals. I would be happy to write an article about Délais, but then I must insist on paying for my lunch.”
“What?” Poppy frowns—though, maddeningly, not a single wrinkle appears on her face—and then chuckles. “You think I want you to write an article about the restaurant? Don’t be absurd.”
My face warms. I suddenly feel absurd. Why would someone as posh as Poppy Worthington care if I wrote a silly little article about her world class restaurant? I mean, it’s not like I hobnob with Tristan Kent and Sir Richard Branson.
“I would be absolutely delighted if you wrote an article about Délais, but that is not what I was suggesting. I would never impose upon our friendship in such a way,” Poppy’s brow knits together for a moment. “I was invited to a party by an American cable station tonight and thought perhaps you would like to be my plus one.”
“Really? Which station?”
“BravaTV”
“Brava? Ugh!” I literally have to stifle my groan. “I hate reality television. It’s totally ruined my viewing experience. Reality TV is like a hostile alien invasion, taking control of our airwaves and subjugating the masses with its hypnotically insipid message, and BravaTV is the mother ship. Real Housewhores of Brooklyn. Georgia Belles. Score a Bachelor.”
Filter, Vivia! Filter! Damn me and my ever-moving mouth. From the look on Poppy’s face, I’ve looked her gift horse in the mouth. Shit. I kicked her gift horse in its damned mouth.
“I am concerned our budding intimacy might restrict you from speaking with candor.” Poppy grins. “Do tell me how you really feel.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not a’tall. I find your forthrightness refreshing. British women aren’t nearly so uncensored. We choose our words with great care, often to devastating effect, and we hide behind false smiles.”
“It sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
A shadow moves over Poppy’s pretty features, like a dark amorphous cloud floating before the sun. I wonder if Poppy, with her jet-setting connections, feels as lonely as she looks.
“Why is Brava hosting a party in London?”
Poppy shifts in her seat.
“They’re celebrating the success of their new series, Brash Brits.”
Ladies of London? I imagine expressionless women with ridiculous fascinators perched atop their heads sipping tea while discussing the weather. Yawn.
“I haven’t heard of it.”
“They’ve been courting me for months now.” Poppy leans in and lowers her voice to a whisper. “They want me to be on the next season. Can you imagine?”
I stare at her with my mouth hanging open. Cultured, classy Poppy Worthington the next Bravalebrity? Isn’t that one of the signs of the apocalypse, right before the appearance of the horsemen?
“Anyway,” she says, “it supposed to be a big, splashy affair. They’ve invited several celebrities. David and Victoria Beckham. Wynona Pathlow. Hugh Grant. Bishop Raine.”
“Bishop Raine?”
“Yes. Why?”
Is it too soon to confess my unadulterated affection for bad boys like Ronnie Radke of the band Falling in Reverse and the sexy leather-clad comedian Bishop Raine? I think it might be.
“Readers enjoy articles about celebrities like Bishop Raine because he’s smart, politically astute, and funny.”
“You should come with me.”
“Are you serious? That would be awesome.” I hop to my feet. “Oh, Poppy! I could kiss you.”
Poppy holds up her hand. “I’m British. I don’t do kisses.”
I laugh. “How about hugs?”
Poppy grimaces. “Only on terribly special occasions.”
I laugh again and am about to pull perfectly pressed Poppy into a sisterly squeeze when I remember my interlude romantique with Luc. I hunch my shoulders and exhale slowly. I’m like a slow leaking balloon.
“What?” Poppy asks. “Oh, yes, the shag fest.”
“The shag fest,” I repeat, crinkling my nose. “What should I do?”
“Don’t ask me.” Poppy holds up her hands. “I will not be responsible for the French dis-Connection. It’s your decision.”
Poppy is totally cool, but I wish Fanny were here. Fanny would know exactly what to do. Fanny always knows what to do. My goal-setting, type A, itinerary-drafting best friend would organize another story and have me on a plane headed for Paris before sunset.
“Let me just check something.” I pull out my iPhone.
I open Safari and type Ryanair into the search bar. Maybe all of the flights to Paris are already booked, which would mean I am stuck in London until morning—and if I am stuck in London until morning, why shouldn’t I go to Poppy’s party?
“If you are checking on a flight to Paris, don’t bother.”
I look up from the glowing screen. “Why not?”
“I’ll have my assistant book you a seat on a British Airways flight out of Heathrow.” She whips out her smartphone and taps the screen. “How about the six fifty flight? You will arrive in time for breakfast.”
“Oh, thank you, but I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Too late.” She slips her phone back into her purse. “It’s done.”
Either Michel slipped a few mushrooms into my spotted dick or I’m already suffering pangs of guilt, because my stomach aches.
“I’ll still have three days and two nights with Luc,” I say, trying to rationalize my selfish decision. “Besides, we would have been asleep for most of the night anyway.”
I mentally calculate the profit versus the loss and decide it’s worth the risk. Luc might be a tiny bit irritated, but Big Boss Lady will probably give me a raise.
“Okay, I’d love to be your plus one, Poppy.”
“Splendid,” Poppy says, standing. “Now, we really should do something about your hair.”