Read I Heart Paris for Free Online Page B

a good thing at least.’ Jenny sighed, audibly relieved. Cow. ‘OK, I have an idea. I’m gonna pull some pieces together for you, OK? When are you leaving?’
    This was the first part of the phone call I did not hate. Jenny being a million miles away in LA was completely shitty. Jenny being a stylist with access to lots and lots of beautiful free clothes was not shitty in the slightest. ‘Monday, but really, don’t go to too much trouble, you don’t have to do this.’ Yes she bloody well did.
    ‘Honey, I got you covered. Skinny jeans, slept-in eyeliner, beret, I’m all over it. I’ll just take it up a notch. You’ll be like, a Belle -hipster. A Bipster.’ Her laugh turned into a yawn. ‘Seriously, I’m freaking dying here. Email me the details, what you’re doing when you get there and I’ll send some stuff over. And I’m sure I must know someone in Paris. I’m on it.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Really. Angie, it’s like, totally what I do. Now let me go back to sleep.’
    ‘Like, totally go back to sleep.’ I laughed. ‘You’ve gone totally LA on me, Lopez.’
    ‘Like, rilly. Screw you, Clark.’ She yawned again. ‘Go buy Belle , let the intimidation build a little more. Love you.’
    ‘Love you too.’
    Or at least, I’d thought that I loved Jenny until the three giant DHL packages arrived the next morning. It turned out, I really hadn’t known what love was. Love was one box labelled ‘evening’, one box labelled ‘day’ and one box labelled ‘I don’t know when the fuck you’ll wear these, but they’re awesome’. I hacked into them desperately, using my keys to slit the package tape and carefully pull out one beautiful outfit after another. In each box was a manila envelope with handwritten (well, scribbled) notes along with gorgeous sketches of how each ensemble was supposed to go together. The Joe Jeans with the Tory Burch flats and Elizabeth and James blazer. The DVF royal blue silk romper with the YSL wedges. The beaded Balenciaga flapper dress with the Giuseppe Zanotti platforms. The Miu Miu purse with everything. After an hour and a half of playing dress up, I perched on the edge of the sofa in a pale blue silk Lanvin number, flustered, redfaced and grinning maniacally. At the very bottom of the ‘Fuck Knows’ box, under the Kenneth Jay Lane pendants and bangles, was a note from Jenny.

I know you said not to go to too much trouble, but you’re going to Paris. For Belle . And people know you know me so there’s no way I’m letting you head over to the fashion capital of the world, head-to-toe in American Apparel – don’t tell me you weren’t wearing it when you opened the box, even if you’re in the Narciso Rodriguez jumpsuit by now—

    I paused to look at all the outfits on the sofa, there was a jumpsuit? Had I missed it?

—because it’s awesome. You’re going to be amazing at this, Angie, I’m so proud of you. Just take the clothes, wear them, rock them, take photos and BRING THEM BACK, preferably in one piece and without ketchup all over them.
Love you, JLo xxx

    It was only eight in LA, four hours before I was legally permitted to call Jenny without it going on her ‘you’re dead to me’ list. Three strikes and you were out and I already had one from the time she caught me ironing the collar of a Thomas Pink shirt I had borrowed from her with my hair straighteners. Apparently, she had never done it. I did not believe her. What I did believe was that the collection of clothes, currently acting as a very expensive throw on my sofa, was a) amazing b) worth more than my apartment and c) going to make me the best dressed bargain hunter in all of Paris.
    I tapped out a text to let her know that the package had arrived and that I would love and cherish the clothes as though they were my firstborn child. Which I would be more than happy to trade to keep this stuff for ever. Clutching a pair of pale blue Stella McCartney widelegged trousers to my heart, I stared at the