‘Yes. I’ll just need to look into hotels for that,’ I said. The words had dribbled starchily from my mouth, making me feel prudishly English.
‘You’re not staying at no ’otel. You’re staying with me. That’s settled,’ he said.
‘Okay then,’ I laughed, but his intentions were clear.
It made me determined to swallow anything put on my plate, fish-face included.
*
Arriving back at his, Marc fixed us some drinks. Remembering his music collection from earlier and curious about his taste, I ran my fingers down his CDs. Randomly selecting one, I inserted it into his stereo and pushed play. A soft-sounding jazz rhythm made me sway. I began humming the tune, and as I turned, Marc was watching. I stopped. But taking my hands in his, he placed them over his shoulders. He grasped my waist and as his hips pressed close to mine, he started to rock me gently. Our feet shuffled in time to the music.
I kicked off my stilettos. He kissed me then swept me up, putting me down on his sofa. We kissed again. His fingers encroached on my thigh as he ran a hand under the fabric of my dress, reaching my knickers. His fingers lingered. My heart pumped faster. Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. I was so wet I thought I’d collapse.
‘Come on. I can’t do what I want to do to you ’ere,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ I whispered, biting my lip.
‘Let me show you,’ he said.
He pulled me into his arms and we tumbled onto his bed. Then his eyes locked on mine. His hand reached beneath my dress and parted my legs. His fingers travelled up between my legs until he reached my knickers. He swept aside the damp patch and with a single finger, he stroked beneath. I closed my eyes. Then removing his hand, he climbed on top. He lowered my knickers to my knees then worked the slither of fabric all the way down to my ankles. He rolled me over. Face down, I felt my zip come free. His hand slid under my bra. Nudging aside the loose straps, he pushed his palms upwards, fondling my breasts from beneath. Turning me back to face him, his pupils were wide. He tugged at the front of my dress, fully exposing my breasts. He moved his hand up my thigh and rubbed at my crotch. Then I yanked at his belt with unhinged desire and reached inside, feeling the stiffness of his arousal. The more I kneaded him, the heavier his breathing became, until he grasped my legs and pushed apart my thighs. Hoisting me over his arms, he drew me towards him. His head burrowed between my legs. I tried to hold back. But as his tongue flicked the spot, an uncontrollable moan escaped.
*
The next morning arrived too quickly.
‘Wake up,’ said Marc.
My head was tucked under a pillow, but I could hear the faint sound of his voice. I’d pulled the pillow over my head to block out the brightness of the morning light.
‘You brought your training shoes, right?’ he asked. His voice was barely audible.
‘My trainers?’ I said, just about forcing some words from my mouth.
‘Good. You want to go running? It’s sunny. Let’s get out there. Right away,’ he said.
‘Today… like now?’ I croaked.
Why had I said I wanted to run a marathon? It was a stupid ambition that needed abandoning. Where were the croissants and hot tea? I’d have settled for coffee, followed by another steamy sack session. My hands scrabbled around the wooden floor for my mobile. The screen glared 7 am. Ridiculous o’clock. Yoga didn’t even happen that early. And I enjoyed that.
‘Come on. You’ll have fun. Meet me downstairs when you’re dressed,’ he said.
Fun? Who’s he fucking kidding? I peeled the pillow off my face. There was no point faking enthusiasm; it was betrayed by my facial expression.
He stuck his lips on mine. It caught me by surprise. Had he noticed my disgusting morning breath? The breath sniff test wasn’t necessary. I blamed the fish from last night. Launching myself back down on the bed, I failed to find his enthusiasm catching.
Having only brought one workout outfit, I put on yesterday’s pink shorts and black t-shirt and dowsed myself in deodorant. Burying my nose into my armpit, there was no honk of BO. I grabbed my trainers and headed downstairs. Marc’s hand gripped the back of the sofa. His head was visible over the top. He performed on-the-spot lunges, hands on hips, wearing the tightest shorts, which left nothing for my imagination. Who’d kidnapped my sexy Frenchman and replaced him with an over-zealous stick-legged action man? The shorts seemed capable of a chaffing incident, but I’d only ever heard of runner’s nipple. Attempting to disguise a chuckle, I coughed then pretended to wipe my nose.
‘Got to warm up properly,’ he said, with a look of concentration and seriousness on his face. I had no intention of making a tit of myself. I burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you think this is funny?’ he said, with a grin. The he waffled on about tight muscles or something, whilst slapping the backs of his thighs, adding to his ridiculousness.
‘Just enjoying the view,’ I said, although I much preferred the Adonis from last night.
He opened the front door.
‘Let’s go. Just a gentle jog to start with,’ he said.
‘To start with!’ I repeated.
After a couple of minutes of exertion, and a good part-way down the street, he started doing a backwards jog and watched me.
‘Okay. I want to be positive for you… but you look like a distressed Bambi,’ he told me firmly. ‘Drop your shoulders. Just relax. It’s a beautiful day… enjoy.’
‘I didn’t know you expected me to look good doing this.’ I panted, felt self-conscious and tried to retain a level of dignity.
It took roughly five minutes to run around the block. He was a few steps ahead. But I managed to muster the effort to raise my voice and get him to stop.
‘I’m done,’ I said. Disappointed in myself and yoga for not being better at running, I wouldn’t admit it to him.
‘Okay.’ He reached inside his shorts. ‘’Ere’s the key.’ He pulled out a cord with his key attached at the end. I watched. As it dangled, he untied the knot. Then he reached out and placed it in the palm of my hand. ‘Let yourself in; meet you back at my place in about ’alf an ’our.’
The key was warm, but not sweaty. And too knackered and out of breath to care, I couldn’t fathom whether it was gross or kinky.
‘Half an hour?’ I wheezed.
‘Gonna get a few miles in. Do your yoga. We’ll do brunch when I’m back,’ he said, then took off at speed.
Surely, he wasn’t going to do that much when he had an ear problem? He was probably stubborn and foolish. As he ran, he kept tapping the side of his head, so I knew it was an irritation.
*
Having taken time to recover on the sofa with a glass of water, I stared at the walls, noticing the sparsity of pictures. Being rented probably explained it. My attention was drawn to a massive sailing picture on his wall close to the window. The strong colours drew me closer to look at it. To the far side was his piano. He’d said he could play by ear. I wondered how good a musician he was. A few framed photos sat on top. On closer inspection, I guessed they were family members, apart from the one of a great big, long-haired dark dog. Extracting it, the happy, dewy-eyed and big toothed expression reminded me how people said owners looked like their dogs, although it couldn’t be a recent pet. He was never around to take care of it. I wouldn’t ask if it had died. Putting it back in place, as I moved away, I bumped my leg into the corner of a set of drawers next to the piano.
‘Bugger!’ I shouted.
Frantically, I reached down and rubbed my leg, trying to relieve the throbbing pain. One of the drawers hadn’t been closed properly. There was a piece of paper poking out. I pulled it out. Logic and privacy escaped me in the moment. The content was typed in English.
It concerned a job offer – a captain’s position based in Indonesia. I re-read it. Checking the date, it was only a few days old. It was surely one of the most d
angerous places to fly. Stuffing the letter back in the drawer exactly as I’d found it, drawer still partially open, my thoughts raced. Had he accepted? Was he going to tell me? If so, why was I here – a weekend shag?
There was a knock on the frosted window panel of the door. He was back. My heart beat faster. My brain must have conveyed a puzzled look to my face.
‘You okay?’ he said, panting and slightly out of breath.
‘Yes, fine. I’ll get you some water,’ I said.
Pleased to exit the room, the excuse was time to compose myself. I took a breath and filled a glass with water. Things had been too good to be true. When I returned, he was half naked. He mopped his head with his already sweat-drenched top. A few drips landed on the floor.
I fixed that image in my mind. It was foul, and referral material if I needed to get over him.
‘Listen, I’ll take a shower and we’ll fix up some brunch. Sound good?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be right here,’ I said.
‘What time did you say your flight was?’ he asked.
‘12.25,’ I replied.
‘Okay, we still got time,’ he said as he ran upstairs.
Time for what? Time for a chat? Time to tell me he’d enjoyed his shaggathon and now he was fucking off to Indonesia?
A sinking feeling groaned in the pit of my stomach as I tried to analyse my thoughts. If I hadn’t discovered the letter, then everything would have been just fine… which wasn’t true. The evidence was lying in a drawer behind me. There was no way he’d knock back the opportunity.
Marc came downstairs.
‘You like omelette?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ I said, trying to smile.
‘Come with me,’ he said, and pecked me on the cheek as we went into the kitchen. I turned my head. He paused but didn’t say anything.
He took out pots and pans and laid out eggs and tomato and basil from the fridge.
‘Am I getting a lesson?’ I asked, trying not to sound sarcastic.
‘This is omelette-making French style,’ he said, delighting in his culinary skills. ‘The secret is in the mixing. It’s lighter this way,’ he said, almost as though he were sharing a top secret. He handed me the jug. ‘Keep going.’ I copied his whisking until my arm was about to drop off. He added tomato and loads of basil.
We sat down at his French table again. He served our omelettes. I tasted it. There was no wine this time and no music or candles either. He was due to deliver me back to the airport. My stuff still needed to be packed. Not that it would take long. I’d throw it back in the case.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked.
‘It’s fine,’ I replied.
‘Come on. It’s better than just fine. It’s good, don’t you think? And now you know how to make it, French style,’ he said.
‘Yes, I do,’ I replied.
We ate our lunch quietly, catching glimpses of each other with an occasional smile as we looked up from our plates. The letter had stolen my concentration. It acted as a silent barrier to prevent the flow of conversation. But our time together was draining fast. Neither one of us had yet broached the subject about seeing each other again, apart from the mention of his party.
A Goodbye Kiss
My clothes lay scattered about his room. Momentarily pausing to remember last night and committing it to memory, I gathered up my stuff and shoved everything into my suitcase before heading back downstairs.
Standing at the open window overlooking the courtyard, he looked so tall with his back to me. From where I sat, not quite within reaching distance of him, he almost blotted out the light on one side of the window, the rustic shutters cast wide apart as he leaned forward. Resting his elbows on the windowsill, he blew out wisps of smoke. A gentle, warm summer breeze filled the air and slightly ruffled strands of his dark hair. Turning his head to glimpse over his shoulder at me, our eyes met briefly before I diverted mine to the canvas picture on his wall.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said, between the puffs of smoke from his cigarette, which curled off into the distance.
Hearing the intonation of his voice still made me melt. The way he spoke English in such a romantic French accent. In my heart, I couldn’t help it; my feelings for him were more than fondness.
‘Perfect,’ I replied.
‘I love the ocean. Best place on Earth.’
He was unaware that my attention was directly on him. Or if he was, he was diverting it as the realisation struck me that he was talking about the unmissable large canvas, the same one I’d looked at earlier, rather than the view from his window. The stark contrasting colours forced you to acknowledge it. A huge dark blue ocean scene dotted with fishing boats and a deep orange sunset on the horizon. I pondered; if he hadn’t become an airline pilot, he would most certainly have been skippering a boat. Both pursuits were his passion.
He drew a few more drags on his cigarette, before turning around and pulling out a chair with his free hand, sitting down to face me at the table. His cigarette still occupied his fingers. It was the same spot where only a couple of nights previously we’d sat cosily together by candlelight, listening to soft foreign music by an artist I’d never heard of, eating the meal that he’d cooked for us and drinking red wine by the glassful. I hadn’t known or thought about what to expect before arriving. He’d introduced me to his world, and that seemed an age ago now, although it was only two heavenly days earlier. Smoothing the table with his large hands in a circular motion, almost in preparation for his words, whilst still retaining the same cigarette between his fingers, reduced to almost a butt, he reached for his ashtray.
‘Listen… I think we ’ave to be sensible about this,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ I said, but already anticipating what he was about to say.
‘The only way forward after this is a relationship, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea for us to get involved like this,’ he said. He was different towards me now, distant even. He looked down and played with the stub of his cigarette in the ashtray, rolling it around in his fingers. ‘You’re sensible, so in a way, it makes this a bit easier to say.’ He drew a breath. ‘You’re living in England and I’m in Paris; ’ow’s that going to work? We’re never going to see each other. Distance relationships don’t work; I’ve tried it before.’
Speechless and compounded by nerves at the brief shock of his words, it rendered me almost incapable of doing anything but go over what he’d said. Despite having denied it to myself, I knew he was making a choice… that damned letter. I’d desperately wanted to bury that knowledge, but it was apparent. Hearing the words spoken out loud, I wasn’t reacting as coolly as I’d hoped. My thoughts were racing. Perhaps it wasn’t just the letter; maybe it was me.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ I said. The words came tripping out of my mouth without my brain engaging.
‘I’m trying to do the right thing by both of us ’ere. It’s only going to come to the point where we both end up getting ’urt, and that would be so much worse than just stopping it all now, before it starts.’
He didn’t look at me. Didn’t or couldn’t, I wasn’t sure. All I could do was stare.
He was still playing with the remains of the cigarette stub. Rolling it between his finger and thumb, making a pattern in the ash. It was probably helping him to concentrate, like doodling with a pen and paper on the phone and creating a small masterpiece by the time the conversation ends.
‘It’s selfish, I know,’ he said.
‘Well, if that’s the way you really feel…’ I trailed off. Perhaps I’d been too naïve. I hated myself and felt foolish and vulnerable for trusting him.
‘No, it is selfish and I’m sorry. Sorry for ’aving got you over ’ere like this and then doing this to you. If I’d ’ave thought about it, I would ’ave told you not to come,’ he said.
‘
Well, I’m glad I came… or I was until now. I tried not to let myself get too attached.’
I hadn’t meant to say that part out loud. Feeling myself blush, I looked away, hating myself even more for revealing that I’d fallen for him all too fast. He glanced up at me.
‘You don’t get attached to someone in just a few days,’ he said.
That just made it worse. And it wasn’t true. It hadn’t been just the last few days. Churning with emotion, I wasn’t ready to give up. My eyes came to rest back on the sailing canvas, whilst biting my lip and trying to gather some words. A scene from Titanic played out in my head. After falling overboard, our hands were slipping away from each other, desperate to be rescued. Sinking my teeth too hard into my bottom lip, I blinked back my tears.
‘I’m still coming to your party,’ I said.
‘Of course, you’re welcome for the party. I didn’t say it so you wouldn’t come. You’re always welcome ’ere. I’m not trying to cut ties with you – please don’t think that. It’s just that I don’t think a relationship between us is possible, that’s all, and it’s not you if that’s what you’re thinking… I feel like I’ve known you for years,’ he said.
‘Do you?’ I asked.
We caught each other’s eyes. His words sparked a tiny glimmer of hope amidst the confusion.
‘You make me feel like I’m fifteen again.’ He laughed then thought for a while. ‘It would be so easy to say… you’re coming to my party in about three weeks and then when am I going to see you?’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows, if they close down the Paris base like it’s rumoured… but I don’t want to live in the UK.’ He shrugged again. ‘It might work.’ We looked at each other. ‘No, what am I saying? I know it would work.’
‘Why won’t you give me a chance?’ I asked, barely able to speak.
He looked directly into my eyes.
‘Because I think this is for the best,’ he said.
‘I just can’t believe…’
Free Fall in Stilettos Page 12
