French kiss (9 page)

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avoiding- Alexa's gaze. "Or any Spanish-speaking place. Barcelona's only an overnight train ride from Gare Austerlitz."

Alexa knelt to unclasp one of her bags, a little unsteady. So Diego, too, had formulated a plan on the Métro . She'd been half-hoping that he would follow her to her cousins', begging for forgiveness.

Since Diego was a meticulous packer (or, in Alexa's opinion, simply anal), and Alexa had practically the whole of Bloomingdale's SoHo to stuff into her six bags, the two of them finished packing at the exact same time. They locked the door, took the elevator down to the lobby in hostile silence, checked out, and exited through the hotel's sliding doors for the last time. Holding their respective bags, they stood on the boulevard St-Germain, regarding each other... perhaps also for the last time.

"I guess this is good-bye?" Diego asked gruffly, looking down.

Alexa nodded, feeling a tug of sorrow. How had things fallen apart so abruptly? That morning, she and Diego had been cuddling in the Louvre. Now, their glorious vacation was over, ruined. So much for having the best week of their lives.

For one crazy moment, Alexa wondered if she should follow Diego to Barcelona. It would be easy -- she'd trail him to Gare Austerlitz, hop on his

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train and, in the middle of the night, sneak over to his seat and start kissing him. By morning, they'd have made up and arrived in sunny Barcelona; Alexa had been to Barci before, and though the city wasn't as romantic as Paris, it would do in a pinch.

But no,
she realized. She didn't want to go to Barcelona. And she certainly didn't want to follow some
boy
there.

After all, Alexa was fiercely independent.

Wasn't she?

So she reached up, touched Diego's cheek her fingers caressing the very spot she had smacked and, her throat thick with tears, whispered,
"Au revoir."

In French, the expression literally meant "until we see each other again." Alexa wasn't sure if she and Diego ever would. But who knew?

Then they turned and headed in different directions he for the Métro , she for the nearest pay phone to call her cousins. Unfortunately, the closest phone was several blocks down, and Alexa, lugging her heavy bags down the empty boulevard, was cursing the mules that pinched her feet. When she made it to the phone booth, Alexa dropped her bags in relief, but then realized she'd never bought one of those little phone cards that were needed to place a call that was why she'd never gotten around to calling her dad.

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Crap.

Alexa drew a deep breath. She'd work it out; she always did. She was nothing if not resourceful. Miraculously, she spotted a tall man with a trim moustache, wearing a double-breasted coat and a cockeyed black beret, striding down the boulevard toward her.
A real Frenchman,
Alexa thought, catching his eye and feeling a warm rush of familiarity. He reminded her of her father's brother, Uncle Julien. He'd definitely be able to help her.

"Pardon, monsieur,
" Alexa called, waving him over.

He stopped before her with a ready smile.
"Oui, mademoiselle?"

In her fluent, fabulous French, Alexa explained the phone card sitch, asked if she could borrow his card, and -- gesturing to her Miu Miu clutch -- promised to repay him.

Alexa noticed that the Frenchman's eyes lingered a beat too long on her clutch -- and on her Coach bags and she felt a flicker of hesitation. But then he shot her another smile, reached into his pocket, and said,
"Pour une belle jeune fille? Mais bien sûr."

Alexa grinned and fluttered her eyelashes, accepting the phone card he was extending. She was a sucker for being called a beautiful girl, especially when she'd just broken up with her boyfriend. Then, the instant the phone card touched her hand, the Frenchman

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reached over and snatched her clutch out from under her arm, scooped up four of her Coach bags and took off down the boulevard in a flash.

"
No!" Alexa screamed after him. In her blind panic, she found herself shrieking in English. "Come back here, you asshole! Give me back my bags! Somebody stop him! Thief!" Of course, there wasn't another soul on the boulevard, so Alexa grabbed her remaining two bags and started off after him. But it was impossible to run in her mules, and by now, the nimble thief was a mere spot in the distance. Alexa let out a helpless sob. She'd never catch him.

Her whole body shaking, Alexa quickly assessed her bags to confirm that --
whew
-- the thief hadn't made off with the one that contained her passport. But since he had taken her clutch -- and with it, her wallet she now had no money, and no scrap of paper with her cousins' phone number, which she'd never bothered to memorize.

And by far the
worst
news of all was that the bastard had snatched the precious suitcase that contained her new lilac-colored piqué Behnaz Sarafpour strapless dress -- and most of her best outfits.

She was screwed.

Clutching the phone card and her bags, Alexa limped into the phone booth. With wildly trembling fingers, she dialed her dad in New Jersey; she knew

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he'd calm her down
and
give her the cousins' number. But the answering machine picked up, so Alexa, craving emotional support, tried her mom in New York. No luck there, either -- Alexa was left sniffling to the sound of her mother's "Kiss, kiss, dahling" voice mail prompt.

Who was left? Alexa knew Portia's and Maeve's cell numbers by heart, but calling them now, in this sorry condition, would be a disaster. Alexa could all too vividly imagine the girls gloating over her split with Diego. Some support
that
would be.

Resting her head against the cool glass pane of the phone booth, Alexa finally broke down crying. This was a nightmare. She was boyfriendless, friendless, parentless, penniless, starving -- and
freezing
in her silly spaghetti-strap dress. Couldn't she have at least changed back at the hotel? Alexa wished, not for the first time, that she were a more practical sort of person. Someone like, say, Holly Jacobson would have surely slipped into jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie before taking on the streets of Paris by night.

Oh, my God,
Alexa realized, catching her breath. That was it.

Holly Jacobson!

Of course. Hadn't Holly said Alexa could call her cell while she was in London? And Alexa was positive she remembered Holly's number, since she'd known

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it since junior high. Alexa wasn't entirely sure how Holly Jacobson could bail her out of this mess, but all that mattered now was hearing her old friend's reassuring voice.

When Holly answered her phone with the adorably out-of-it "Tyler? Where are you calling from?" Alexa burst into fresh tears -- but, through her sobs and the static, managed to convince Holly that it was her, and not Tyler Davis, calling.

"I'm in really, really big trouble," Alexa hiccuped, relieved to have a sympathetic ear at last. "I broke up with Diego and got mugged and now I'm homeless...."

"Are you
serious?""
Holly gasped. Alexa heard her move the phone away from her mouth.

"You guys?" Holly said -- Alexa guessed she was addressing Meghan and Jess -- "I'll meet you back at the hostel. Tell Ms. Graham I had to oh, forget it. I'll just deal with her when I get there." There was a pause, and then Alexa distinctly heard Holly say, "No, it's
not
Tyler." She sounded uncharacteristically brusque, and Alexa couldn't help but grin through her tears. A second later, Holly was back. "Okay, tell me exactly what happened," she said calmly.

Alexa started to, but the line kept crackling noisily, and Holly had to constantly interrupt her with "Alexa, I can't
hear
you!"

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"This is ridiculous," Alexa moaned. Suddenly, she didn't want to be on the phone with Holly. She wanted to be sitting across from her in a café, watching her friend's green-gray eyes widen at Alexa's tales of woe. With a rush of nostalgia, Alexa remembered all the insane fiascos she and Holly had survived
together --
in South Beach. Maybe it was because Holly was a childhood friend, but Alexa found her presence unfailingly comforting. Alexa knew that the two of them weren't the best of buddies anymore, but somehow she sensed that having Holly Jacobson with her in Paris would make everything better.

Besides, she was only a Chunnel ride away.

"Hoi, just come to Paris," Alexa blurted, gripping the phone. "Please? I'm so alone here." Normally, Alexa never admitted to being helpless, but around Holly, she'd mostly learned to swallow her pride. "You don't need to stay the whole week maybe, like, a day or two?" She wiped her streaming eyes with the heel of her hand, hoping Holly would agree to the last-minute plan.

"Paris? Now?" Holly cried. "Alexa, are you nuts? I can't! I'm in the middle of my track meet and my coach will
kill
me if I leave and what if my parents found out and --"

"All right, all right," Alexa cut off her friend's rambling. She should have known responsible Holly

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wouldn't take off on an impromptu trip. "Don't worry about it. Honest."

There was a moment of staticky silence, and then Holly whispered, "Should I try to get there tonight, or is tomorrow morning okay?"

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chapter six

On the Run

It was somewhere under the English Channel, on the thundering Eurostar train, that Holly realized the enormity of what she'd just pulled off.

Holy shit,
she thought, scrunching down in her seat and pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head. Holly glanced at the passenger beside her -- a silver-haired woman in a massive mink stole who'd been shooting Holly suspicious looks the whole ride -- and her heart started hammering wildly.
I'm a fugitive.

Trying not to hyperventilate, Holly hugged her knees to her chest, gazed out at the dark tunnel, and replayed the insane chain of events that had led her to where she was that Tuesday morning.

The night before, after talking to Alexa, Holly had made curfew by a hair and, nervous but exhilarated,

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went up to her room to confer with Meghan and Jess. At first, Holly hadn't wanted to let her friends in on the news, but she knew this stunt would be far too risky to carry off alone. And she didn't want them thinking she'd been kidnapped or something if she suddenly disappeared.

"Why are you letting Alexa boss you around?" Meghan had exclaimed as Holly jammed socks and underwear into her duffel bag. Neither Meghan nor Jess ever bothered to disguise their disdain for Alexa, who they considered snotty and superficial. Holly's newfound closeness with her had been a sore point among the girls all year.

Holly refolded her sea-green Forever 21 halter top, which she'd packed in the vain hope that Wimbledon might have some fun dance clubs. She remained silent for a minute. It would be impossible to tell her friends that there'd been no bossing involved: Holly
was
eager to escape England and, more important, primed to indulge in serious boy analysis with Alexa -- and not
them.

So instead, she explained, truthfully, that Alexa was in dire straits and needed Holly's help, at least for a couple of days. Holly figured she'd only stay in Paris until Alexa was back on her stilettos and return to England in time for the final meet on Friday.

"It won't be too awful," she assured the girls, trying

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to convince herself as well. "I mean, I can't even practice or compete with you guys, right? And Wednesday's supposed to be the team's free day in London. Coach Graham won't even notice I'm missing then!"

Jess groaned, flopping back on her pillow. "But Holly, we need you here for moral support. And Coach Graham expects you to be at the meets. You're our freaking
captain!"

Holly swallowed her guilt. She knew that bailing on her teammates during their big international meet was terrible. But Holly also felt like Alexa's call had been a sign from the heavens. In a way, the choice was no longer hers; she simply had to get on that Chunnel train tomorrow morning no matter what it took.

Swearing to walk dogs, babysit siblings, and do laundry, she begged Meghan and Jess to cover for her. As Holly packed, she and the girls invented a slew of excuses from her ankle swelling up to food poisoning, from migraines to anxiety attacks --- for when Coach Graham would ask where Holly was. The girls
could
whip out the classic "problems back home" sob story, but that might be dicey; Holly was worried Ms. Graham might decide to call the Jacobsons herself -- there was no way in hell Holly was telling her parents about this little excursion to Paris.

"If Coach Graham finds out," Jess warned, turning off the light a mere two hours before their 4:30 a.m.