Stars

I awoke on our third day in Paris to the sound of the shower and a rendition of With Or Without You by U2. I was also desperate for the toilet, which explained the following series of events.

I ran to the bathroom door and attempted to open it, shaking the handle and groaning when nothing happened. I resorted to pounding on the door with my fists and screaming, “Oi, Bono! Open the fucking door you pretentious wanker!”

I gave up on the pounding of the door but continued to spout loud insults regarding U2, only instead of standing, lying on my back with my feet against the bathroom door, sliding them around in a circular motion and occasionally kicking. It seemed that Tom had realised I was in dire need of the bathroom and had continued to sing once he got out of the shower, doing god only knows what.

He eventually opened the door, giving me a strange look as I rolled around on the floor in a pair of purple lace pants and in a large shirt with a picture of a troll on. “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?” He replied, wiping some toothpaste from the corner of his mouth and running his free hand through his damp, blonde curls.

“The Edge.”

“The Edge who…”

“The Edge who wants to know why the fuck Bono won’t let Sylvie pee.” I stood up and squealed, “Move out of the way.”

“What’s the magic word?” He replied with a dirty smirk and a cross of his arms.

“Please, please let me go in the bathroom.” I put my hands on his shoulders, “I’ll be your domestic housewife, wait on you hand and foot if you just move.” He laughed, putting his foot against the closed door, “I’M GOING TO PISS MYSELF, YOU SADISTIC BASTARD.”

I came out of the bathroom twenty minutes later with my hair in a towel and a scowl on my face. Tom appeared to be listening to some French radio station that was playing Grace Jones’ Slave to the Rhythm in its entirety.

“You’re so malicious and hate-filled, you bloody… bitch.” He said, pulling on a pair of argyle socks. “Insulting one of the greatest bands ever just for kicks.”

I laughed, “Hate-filled? No. But malicious? Oh yes. That’s why none of the popular kids liked me at school.” I sat down next to him, pulled my hair from the towel and handed said towel to Tom to help dry my hair.

“Are you sure that they didn’t like you because of your superiority and overwhelming beauty, my queen?” His tone was light and teasing. I stuck my middle finger up at him and crossed my arms. “No, of course, I was wrong – I assume they disliked you for your love of the arts, your sarcasm, your perfectly straight hair, your smile, your talent, your intelligence and your remarkable ability of being rather nasty.”

“And I also called them out on the fact that they pretended to be Blink-182 fans, yet they only knew the chorus to All The Small Things whereas I’d seen them six times.”

“Were they the music craze of your school days, then?” I held up my right thumb, “It was Green Day in Year Seven, but then Britpop happened and everyone was choosing between Blur and Oasis.”

“What side were you on, then?”

“Oasis – half of the student body thought they were middle class Londoners like they thought Blur were, but truthfully, those people hadn’t been 5 miles out of Chelsea; but they believed that Blur represented them.” A neon pink comb ran through my hair, Tom let out a curse as it got stuck at the end, “Should I just pull until it lets loose?” I nodded, so he pulled, “Wait, I’ll tell you the truth, I bought Roll With It instead of Country House, but I wasn’t a massive fan of them, I liked Oasis, preferred Pulp and disliked Blur. Admittedly, they do have some good songs and the Gorillaz are fantastic, but, you know.”

“I do know.” We sat there, he combed and dried my hair, we listened to the end of the Grace Jones song and then I stood up. “I’ve come up with three more reasons they disliked me was because I was Head Girl, I got three As in my A-Levels and my boyfriend was the best looking guy in the school.”

“Also, you’re rather smug, darling.”

“I know.”

“I was a House Captain – therefore I was almost as important as you.” I ripped open a packet of complimentary biscuits and threw one in his direction, he continued after nibbling on the corner, “I never asked, what school did you go to?”

“Charters in Ascot.” I replied, pulling on a t-shirt, “Before that I went to some tiny primary school in Sunningdale. After Charters, I went to Jesus College, Cambridge and studied English – but I told you that before.”
“You accuse me of having rich boy benefits and yet you’re the epitome of someone with rich girl benefits.”

“Nuh-uh, I went to Charters on scholarship because I was the smartest in my class in year six. Then I went Cambridge only because my parents had saved half their lives for me to get a good education – they moved from a three bedroom house in Windsor to a two bedroom flat in Egham.” I picked a pair of red shorts out of my suitcase and put them on, “Anyhow, my great aunt Ingrid has just died and left her house to my mother, so they’re moving to Norway in three months.”

“You don’t seem particularly upset about your great aunt Ingrid. I’d be rather emotional.”

“She lived up a Fjord her whole life, I met her once!”

“You’re mind-boggling, you know that, right?” He said, passing me my jacket and the hairdryer. “So, what are we doing today?”

“Eiffel fucking Tower according to this piece of paper.” I held up our week’s itinerary (that Tom had written on the plane over after my can of Red Bull had worn off and I’d fell asleep), “And then we are going somewhere fancy for dinner, I believe.”

He crouched down and put his head on my shoulder, looking into my eyes in the mirror. “Well, hurry yourself up or we’ll never reach the top.” He kissed my cheek and wondered out onto the balcony, leaving me with a ridiculous smile on my face and a warm feeling within of me.