Jojo's French Escape

by Lorraine Wilson

  Deep in thought, I’ve barely tasted the confit de canard I chose for my main course. I try to pay more attention to the tarte tatin I ordered for dessert as it’s one of my favourite dishes. I take a bite of warm apple, puff pastry and vanilla ice cream and make myself savour it. It’s not often I get cooked for, certainly not once we’re into the summer season, and as much as I enjoy cooking it is nice to have a night off.

  I glance over at Cal. I may have surreptitiously been watching him. Sneaking peeks when I think he’s not looking at me. He really is bloody gorgeous with his piercing blue eyes, wild black hair and a smile that does things to me … complicated, sexy things … This might be harder than I thought.

  At that moment his piercing eyes lock onto me. I know then, in the flash of exchange that passes between us, that he has noticed every glance. Maybe I haven’t been as surreptitious as I thought. I think someone might have been refilling my wine glass while I’ve not been looking. He sees me, sees far more of me than I want him to. Of course, he knows I’m attracted to him.

  I think he probably even knows about the illicit sex fantasies filling my mind. Something tells me he’s having them too.

  I break eye contact and look away, down at my plate. He may think he knows what happens next but he’s wrong. Everyone knows how this goes. Girl fancies boy. Girl plays hard to get and protests just a little bit too hard. Girl inevitably falls into bed with boy and admits what everyone knew from the start – that she likes the boy.

  That is not what’s going to happen here, for a very good reason. Willingly volunteer to be trashed in the gossip columns again? Not likely. I ran away to France for a reason and I’m not going to forget it for a pair of brilliant blue eyes and some Irish charm.

  So, he may have a point. I might well be sleepwalking through life but that’s my choice. I never asked him to wake me up or challenge me, intervention style. He’s going to have to find another fuckbuddy while he’s here. People always assume I’m easy, because of the sex tape, but, much as I enjoy sex, I’ve only ever had sex within a monogamous relationship. Well, I’ve been monogamous, at least. I don’t think I could do sex without emotion, I’m too much of a romantic. Well, I used to be anyway.

  I won’t be the one to scratch Cal’s itch to keep him from getting bored, during the short time he’s here. It won’t be long before he goes back to London and forgets all about me.

  ‘I can teach you how to make that if you like?’ Cal interrupts my thoughts.

  I imagine the two of us in the guesthouse kitchen, plenty of accidental arm brushes and opportunity for deep and meaningful conversation.

  A flush creeps up my neck and onto my cheeks.

  ‘Sorry?’ I ask politely, armour back in place.

  ‘Tarte tatin. I can teach you how to make one that’s a world away from the one you’re eating.’

  I’m torn. Of course, I’d love to learn from a professional chef, but I really can’t … I can’t risk it given the chemistry between us.

  I always regretted not being able to take up my place at catering college. Mum suffered horrible injuries in a hit-and-run accident and needed someone at home with her. Dad was working away. My sister Annabel was still at school, so I had to step up … I don’t regret putting family first or being there for Mum. I just wish I hadn’t had to let go of my ambitions at the same time but that’s life. It’s the kind of thing that happens to lots of people who just quietly get on with what needs to be done.

  ‘I’m not sure we’ll have time, but thank you, I appreciate the offer,’ I say. ‘What with opening up The Barn, preparing for the wedding and keeping the guesthouse running through its busiest season.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we can make time.’ Cal shrugs, laidback and unconcerned by all the hard work ahead of us this summer.

  ‘Okay,’ I reply, fully expecting he’ll forget all about it. I’m certainly not planning to remind him.

  One-on-one time with Cal is to be avoided as much as possible if I’m going to stay safe. Alone is safe, that’s a given.

  Alone is also lonely.

  I try to ignore that thought and stroke Pickwick instead. Maybe I should stick to dogs.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow’

  Albert Einstein

  From callum@callum’scook-off.com

  To caitlino’connor85@hotmail.com

  Subject: It’s true!

  No, I’m not kidding you. It’s really JoJo from Sex in the Suburbs, she’s living and working here. At first, I thought we really wouldn’t get on. After all you know how I feel about reality TV, and after the way Daria behaved I was a little jaded, I’ll admit.

  As a result, I may have been too quick to judge. I fully admit it’s one of my failings but at least I do admit it when I get it wrong. She’s interesting. I think I might really like her and I really don’t think she cares about being famous anymore. It’s a shame she lives in France. You know how I feel about long-distance relationships, they almost never work out.

  So I guess I’ll just have to hold back and remember why I’m here, to plan what I want from my future, not to get distracted by what could only ever be a holiday romance.

  I do care about her though and I’d like to help her. I think she was treated really badly. It’s interesting that she was one of your favourites from the show.

  How are things with you anyway? Are you still feeling sick? Have you tried adding stem ginger to your diet? I’ve heard it helps.

  Btw do you still follow Sex in the Suburbs? What’s this Aiden character like?

  ‘I am glad we’re not going to the actual rescue centre.’ Poppy swivels in the driving seat and checks the in-car sat nav. We’ve pulled up so we can program in the address of the woman who’s fostering my puppy. My puppy, that sounds good.

  We’ve taken her car so I can look after him on the way back if I need to. I’ve got him a little car harness to attach to a seat belt. It was the smallest I could get but I think it might still be too big.

  ‘Because you’d want to bring them all home with you?’

  ‘Maybe not all.’ She shrugs. ‘Just as many as I could fit into the car.’

  ‘Leo would kill you,’ I reply but we both know that isn’t true. ‘Okay, maybe not actually kill you but …’

  ‘He’d give me a lecture about it not being my responsibility to save every abused and abandoned animal in Europe, make me rehome them all and make a donation to the charity …’ Poppy pauses reflectively. ‘Maybe it would be worth it.’

  ‘You have far too much going on at the moment,’ I say. ‘You should be stressing about flowers or your wedding guest list like any normal bride-to-be.’

  ‘Mmm … It will all work out, I’m sure,’ she says, biting her lip, a sure sign she’s feeling a bit stressed. ‘Leo says things are done on a different scale here in France – it’s more low-key and relaxed so I shouldn’t plan everything the way we would in England.’

  Thanks, Leo. I send him an annoyed telepathic signal.

  ‘I’ve researched the differences between French and English weddings and I’m not sure he’s right about not planning. I’d say it’s a good thing I’m helping you.’ I roll my eyes. ‘If I left it up to you and Leo, God knows what would happen on the day. In fact, God will be the only one in the know. Talking about flowers we really do need to sit down and go over our “do-it” list. It’s time to get organised …’

  ‘I know I’m really lucky to have you helping. Oh, actually, about the flowers – I had an idea.’ Poppy follows the sat nav’s instructions to turn off down a country lane that looks more like a rough farmer’s track than a road to me.

  ‘Oh really? So what idea was that?’ I try to keep my voice neutral. I’ve been the sounding board for a few wacky wedding ideas so far and have managed to successfully keep her on track for a more traditional wedding, in line with what she and Leo originally said they wanted. Also, hopefully, a wedding that will keep both sets of parent
s happy too and honour both French and English traditions.

  ‘I saw this story online about a bride who didn’t have flowers at her wedding. She had her bridesmaids carry rescue puppies down the aisle instead. Guests were called on to donate to the charity to help pay for foster care and in most cases they even found the pups new homes,’ she says. ‘After all our dogs will be at the wedding so what’s the problem with adding a few more to the mix?’

  ‘Your mum would have kittens.’ I’m sure Poppy is imagining cute little puppies who stay quiet and are well behaved for the wedding and reception. I’m imagining lots of incontinent puppies weeing on the bridesmaids’ dresses.

  ‘Well, we could have kittens as well, I suppose,’ she replies a little doubtfully. ‘But with Peanut’s cat-chasing tendencies it might not be a good idea.’

  ‘No … I meant …’

  ‘I know what you meant.’ Poppy’s face creases into a laugh. ‘Got you.’

  ‘So … it’s a joke?’

  ‘About the kittens, yes,’ she says.

  ‘Okay, good.’ I relax a little.

  ‘But I’m serious about the puppies,’ she adds.

  Before I can question her any further the car announces that we have arrived at our destination.

  I’ve already decided to call my puppy Flump. He’s being fostered by a woman who already has three dogs of her own and three additional foster dogs so he’s going to be used to other dogs at least. Just as well given he’s being introduced to our pack later. He’s had his vaccinations so we’re good to go. From what I’ve read about introducing new dogs to existing dogs the fact he is so much younger than the others will help – they shouldn’t feel threatened.

  When the creamy bundle of fur comes hurtling into the room, a stuffed duck in his mouth, I think I’ve been converted to the idea of love at first sight.

  The toy isn’t his, apparently, we work out after a bit of translation. He likes to take the other dogs’ favourite toys to get them to chase him. Mad chases seem to be his favourite thing. Well, along with cuddles and duck strip chews. He’s on my lap in seconds, chomping on the chew I’ve given him, duck toy abandoned on the floor. His fur is so soft, and his big eyes take me in solemnly, trustingly. It’s then that I feel it, the crack in the ice, the surge of warm love for him rising up inside me. It’s up to me now, to protect him and be worthy of his trust. Even after the chew is finished, he stays on my lap, looking up at me, just waiting. Like he’s saying, ‘Come on then, let’s go home.’ Poppy has been taking care of the paperwork for me, so I just have to sign my name. And just like that I’m now a dog owner.

  And maybe it’s just my imagination but I don’t feel quite so alone.

  I’m still feeling a bit off about Cal being in the house. He’s altered the dynamic somehow, like he’s changed the energy of the house. It’s not necessarily a bad thing but for me all change is scary. St Quentin is my safe place and Cal has invaded it.

  I’m sure he’s perfectly nice but he’s a charmer and I’ve had my fill of charming men. So what if my body experiences a little … frisson when he is near? My mind is in control and it’s staying that way. I’m learning from my mistakes. I need to be more careful about who I trust, and I can’t trust my body to make the best choices for me.

  I step into the shower and squeeze out some shampoo to rub into my scalp. There wasn’t time to wash my hair earlier and it’s annoying me. The warm water cascades down over my shoulders and over my breasts.

  Sex with Cal would be lovely. I try to squash that thought down, to not imagine what it would be like if he joined me in the shower.

  I have to suppress those instincts; they’re only going to lead me into trouble again. I’ve always been a sexual person, happy in my body and aware of my sexual energy. I can’t help but feel that in suppressing my sexual energy I’m also losing a vital part of myself.

  There are some exceptions to the rule of not trusting anyone. Poppy, for example. Poppy is … well, Poppy is Poppy and you can’t help but trust her. I can’t imagine her ever betraying me or being bitchy, and honestly, I owe her so much for taking me in and giving me something to concentrate on. It’s not exaggerating to say I was drowning and she threw me a lifeline, pulling me up into her lifeboat. I was in a dark place when she found me. I honestly don’t know what might have happened to me if I hadn’t stopped in St Quentin that day I met her.

  I step out of the shower and after towelling my hair dry a little I wrap the towel around myself. Flump jumps up from where he’s been curled up on the bath mat and leaps into the air, clamping his jaws around the hem of the towel, trying to tug it away from me. He obviously thinks this is a brand-new game, like trying to tug my socks away from me before I put them on – that’s another of his new favourite pastimes.

  ‘Hey, let go, squirt. That’s not a toy.’ I tug firmly back, put my clothes in the washing basket and head out, planning to scoot quickly back to my room before anyone can see me. ‘Come on, let’s go – no, not that way.’

  Instead of slipping quickly to my room I’m forced to follow Flump, who is woofing delightedly. I turn the corner and bump into Cal, also wearing a towel although his is lower, around his waist. I try not to stare at his chest but really, it’s quite lovely, and the thought of what it would be like to press my bare breasts up against his firm, hairy chest flits into my mind before I have time to bat it away. I’ve always been appreciative of a hairy chest. There’s just something so … manly about it.

  Bad hormones. Down, girl. Engage your brain. I give myself a mental slap and try to focus on a spot just over his shoulder. Big mistake. I forgot to keep my eye on Flump, being distracted by manly chests and X-rated thoughts.

  ‘Hey,’ Cal exclaims.

  I look down. Flump is tugging the hem of Cal’s towel and manages to pull it free from the knot round his waist.

  ‘Oh, crap, I am so sorry. No, Flump, it’s not a tuggy toy.’ My cheeks flush with heat as I drop to the floor and attempt to disengage Flump. Unfortunately, he sees my intervention as part of the game of tug of war. For a small puppy he’s surprisingly strong and determined.

  I can’t believe this is happening. I’d suspect a set-up if it hadn’t been my puppy who led me into it and is causing the problem. I’m trying very hard not to look at the triangle of hair snaking down to Cal’s groin. Despite Cal’s best efforts there’s a lot more on show now than a hairy chest. My cheeks burn even hotter as I realise I’m kneeling down in front of Cal in a rather, um, suggestive position. I’m just level with … oh, double crap. I squeeze my eyes shut and firmly reject the thoughts trying to break through. It’s been a while since I felt turned on. A long while. And now Cal is doing it just by being there. And by accidentally flashing me, I suppose. Hmm.

  Hot with embarrassment and mortification, I finally get Flump’s jaws open by sliding a finger gently into his mouth at the point where his jaws meet.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ I squeak in Cal’s direction and hold Flump firmly against my chest, using him to cover up the glimpse of cleavage my towel seems determined to put on show. I scuttle quickly back in the direction of my room but not before I’ve caught the highly amused gleam in Cal’s eyes. There was something else in his expression too, something darker and more intense. I’m struck by the certainty that he knows what I was thinking about the position I was kneeling in and he was thinking it too. The atmosphere was certainly charged.

  I’m feeling far too hot and edgy, unsettled. I make it into my room, finally able to relax my firm hold on Flump and sigh in relief. Oh, fuckity fuck. That was … I need a drink. Next time I go to the bathroom I’ll wear my big towelling robe, even if it is getting too hot for it. We’re only in May yet we’ve had several days where the temperature exceeded thirty degrees. They’re forecasting a heat wave.

  I think I’ve got my very own heat wave going on as well.

  It’s definitely going to be a hot summer. One way or another.

  I sit on the bed and brush out my dam
p hair while Flump beats up his toy squirrel, providing a soundtrack of adorable squeaky growls and woofs. I can’t help wondering, since when did I scuttle away from sexy, half-dressed men, acting like a timid mouse?

  Since I got humiliated, trolled and slut-shamed for the whole world to see. The answer resounds loud and clear in my mind.

  This isn’t me. Why have I let them change me? Why am I letting them win?

  The thoughts unsettle me but as I get dressed they have to compete with other thoughts of the X-rated, raunchy kind. Being so turned on after so long feeling nothing sexually is a shock of seismic proportions.

  I knew Cal staying in the house would make waves and rock my nice safe lifeboat. I wish I didn’t want two totally opposing things. It’s just not possible to be safe and at the same time take a chance on Cal. My body and mind are now officially at war and I don’t know what to do about it.

  The next morning I’m trying to sort out bedding when I realise Flump has disappeared again. To him the guesthouse and grounds are one giant playground and he resents having his movements restricted. I have a sneaking suspicion I know where he might be, and my stomach does a weird flip when I think about checking to see. It appears Flump and I aren’t on the same page regarding avoiding Cal. If anything, Flump seems to adore Cal and seeks him out at every opportunity, which is … awkward, to say the least. In fact Flump seems to adore everyone, human and canine alike, and gets on well with all the other dogs, and even if Pickwick is a little bit sniffy about having to share my attention now, he does seem to recognise Flump is a pup and cuts him a bit of slack.

  I’m thinking of giving Flump the nickname Houdini as he’s become very adept at getting through closed doors and escaping. He’s always quick to dart away if he hears Cal’s voice. He loves attaching himself to the bottom of Cal’s jeans, hitching a ride along the floor. Cal takes it all in good humour instead of getting annoyed. He seems very fond of my puppy, and all the guesthouse’s canine contingent, something which makes it even harder not to like him.