‘Yeah, you were always breaking the rules even when you were six. Didn’t you sneak it on under your uniform?’
‘Yep. Mum was livid,’ she says, breaking into a bit of chair dancing and shouty song. ‘Yyyyo, tell me whatcha wan—’
‘What I want? I’m not really sure,’ I answer, cutting her off. Meanwhile, Edith Piaf belts out her lack of regret over pretty much everything. I wonder if she ever went off to have a great adventure, only to end up crashing on her friend’s sofa less than a year later? Probably not.
‘I thought a bit of Edith and a strong French red would entice you to spill all the sordid details of your trip.’
‘There are no details to spill, sordid or otherwise.’ To be honest, I feel a bit underwhelmed by the whole experience.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she scoffs. ‘You didn’t undergo an image overhaul and move to another country without results.’
‘You make it sound like I went into a witness protection program.’ I pick an invisible piece of lint from my pyjama pants as I answer. ‘It was just a bit of Keratin straightening and a little laser,’ I say, my finger automatically touching my top lip.
‘You did not have a moustache,’ Julia replies sternly. ‘And there was nothing wrong with the way you looked before you left.’
‘Apart from being a bit pudding-y. With a penchant for wearing horrible clothes.’
‘Ridiculous. Besides, everyone wears awful clothes at university. Remember that trilby hat I bought from Oxfam our first year?’ I thought I looked the business. Really, I just looked like dog’s business. And as for being overweight, that was just the fresher fifteen caused by too many pints of cheap lager and chips.’
‘I was chunky way before then.’ And well she knows it because we’ve been friends since we were four. She’s like my blonder, braver, hipper alter ego.
‘There was nothing wrong with the way you looked, even if you are a little slimmer now.’
‘Was,’ I interject. ‘Thanks to croissants.’
‘And you’ve a better sense of what suits your va-va-voom,’ she says, ignoring me and making an hourglass outline with her hands.
It’s true that I dress better these days, and living in Paris certainly helped. I’m all about the tailored look. Dresses, pencil skirts, retro twinsets, and heels. It suits my figure. A figure wrong for the decade.
‘And I no longer have a gay boyfriend.’ Leaning over, I clink my glass with hers.
‘Liam, the fucking loser.’ She snorts. ‘You mean you no longer have a bellend of a boyfriend who made you feel less than you are, which is damn fucking sexy.’
‘It’s hard to feel sexy when all your boyfriend wants to do is kiss and hold hands. And then only sometimes.’ Like when we had an audience, I’d realised in hindsight. ‘Maybe it was the moustache.’
‘He did a real number on you. I don’t know how you stuck it out so long. I never liked him.’
‘No shit, Sherlock! I thought we were in love and getting married, didn’t I? At some point. And I thought we were saving ourselves. At least one of us was,’ I add, taking a large gulp of red and swallowing it along with my bitterness. I’m not a lightweight these days. Living in the land of delicious cabernets, sauvignons, and pinot noirs will do that to a girl.
Check me out. Sophisticated woman of the world. If only.
‘Yeah, one of you were saving yourself. The other happened to have had more balls in his mouth than a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos.’
‘Don’t let anyone ever tell you your words aren’t pure poetry.’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere. Now, come on. Pay me my tribute. Tell me about ze French boys,’ she says in a terrible accent as she turns to face me fully, crossing her legs.
‘You’ve been binge watching episodes of Rome again, haven’t you? You’ve got that rabid gleam in your eye.’
‘Yes. Because . . . nakedness. And stop changing the subject.’ Julia grabs a tortilla chip, dunking it into the jar of salsa sat between us. ‘But I’m warning you, if you tell me it’s all swiping right and casual shags, I might cry.’
‘I probably wasn’t there long enough to form an accurate picture.’ I sigh and hug my almost empty glass to my chest.
‘Speaking of pictures, tell me about this Henri. And don’t hold back. I’ve already done my Friends of Friends Facebook stalk.’
‘He was . . . nice.’
‘That’s it?’
‘He didn’t exactly set my heart alight, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘I am not. I want to know if he set your knickers alight and if you’re still clinging to your V plates.’
At this stage, I’m beginning to feel like Elizabeth I. It’s embarrassing. Who goes to live in the city of love and doesn’t get any? Love? Dick? Any of those things. To make matters worse, I find myself nodding in the affirmative, while preparing my eardrums for her delighted squeal.