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band, can provide the other side of things. The, oh, I don’t know, the cool, hipster side of Paris?’
    ‘Oh God, honestly, I’m not cool,’ I said altogether too quickly. ‘I don’t have any tattoos. I don’t even live in Brooklyn. I’m just very, very English.’
    ‘Oh. Well that could be a problem then.’ Donna leaned back in her chair. ‘Because either you give me Paris’s best flea markets, vintage stores, late-night cafés and dance clubs, or you don’t give me anything.’
    Meep.
    After sitting through another hour of Donna’s directions on exactly how she wanted the piece to come out – quirky, but not too quirky, edgy, but not too edgy, underground, but not grimy. Just very, very Belle – I was finally released from the office, none the wiser, but actually relatively chipper. I might not have received any compliments, but I had got the job. That was good, wasn’t it?
    There was only one person I could talk to about this. And that person better not be screening her calls.
    ‘Pick up the phone, Jenny,’ I said quietly, dashing into the shade of the nearest skyscraper and following it along 42nd street.
    ‘Angie, baby, it’s seven-thirty a.m.,’ Jenny crackled all the way from LA. ‘Are you dying?’
    ‘No, listen, I just had this meeting at Belle —’ I started.
    ‘You’re not dying, I only got in two hours ago, I’ll call you back later,’ Jenny interrupted.
    ‘No! Jenny, listen, I have the most amazing news. Did you hear what I said? I’ve got a job writing for Belle magazine.’ I hoped that dropping the name of one of her style bibles might keep her on the phone for five minutes more. ‘ Belle . Your favourite magazine. B-E-L-L-E.’
    ‘No offense, Angie,’ Jenny yawned into life, ‘but what are you going to write for Belle ?’
    ‘None taken.’ I pouted. What about me was so fundamentally un- Belle -like? I had sorted myself out massively in the last year. Well, Jenny had sorted me out massively, but I could do my own eyeliner and everything now. I could do an entire evening out in proper heels if I had my roll-up ballet pumps in my bag. ‘They want me to write an insider’s guide to Paris. They’re going to get some other girl to write the swanky high-end stuff, she’s going to do, who did Donna say, uh, Balmain? Is that right? And you know, Chanel and whatever, and I’m supposed to write about the cool, underground stuff. But I could really use your help, I want this to be good. Do you know any stylists in Paris? Anyone who might know some cool second-hand shops or flea markets?’
    ‘Balmain? Oh…’ she breathed.
    ‘Jenny, listen to me,’ I said slowly. I should have known better than to start talking designer at her. ‘Do you know anyone who can help me in Paris?’
    ‘Oh honey, you know I think you’ve come a real long way,’ Jenny snapped back, ‘but you are so not ready to write a fashion piece, a fashion piece about Paris for Belle magazine.’
    At least I had her attention.
    ‘Firstly, thanks for your confidence and secondly, it’s not a fashion piece, it’s a travel piece,’ I said. ‘I’ve just got to write about a few vintage stores, a couple of cafés and then cover Alex’s gig. It’s going to be fine. I thought you’d be excited for me?’
    ‘But it’s Belle , Angie. And I don’t want you to look stupid,’ Jenny insisted. ‘’Cause, you know honey, some people know you know me.’
    ‘Really, your belief in me is incredibly reassuring and I promise not to show you up in any way. Especially if you answer my bloody questions and tell me if you know any stylists in Paris.’
    ‘Is Belle going to style you? Have they given you a list of places to go?’ She carried on ignoring me. ‘Are there going to be photos of you in the feature?’
    ‘No they’re not styling me, no they haven’t given me a list of places to go – that’s my job – and no of course they’re not going to let me be in the bloody photos.’
    ‘I guess that’s