by Fiona Gibson
‘Only a few euros, what does it matter?’
He gives me a bemused look, adding, ‘Well, I think it matters. It’s deceit, isn’t it? She singled you out because you looked gullible—’
‘Yes, okay,’ I cut in, eager to change the subject now. But maybe he’s right, and if I wasn’t all happy and giddy, my head full of those dazzling Chagalls and Matisses … well, perhaps I’d be less inclined to admire the woman’s resourcefulness. After all, we behave differently away from home. For instance, we drink in the late afternoon, as Antoine and I are now, having stopped at a charmingly ramshackle bar with wobbly metal tables outside. He has a beer, I have wine, and I sense a glow of pleasure spreading through me as he touches my hand. It’s almost 5 p.m., and I feel – in the best way possible – as if my feet have barely touched the ground since I arrived.
‘I’ve had a wonderful day,’ he says, ‘have you?’
‘It’s been lovely, Antoine. Thanks so much for showing me around.’
‘Oh, my pleasure. Shall we eat soon?’
I pause, picturing the array of dishes entirely covering our table at Grill Istanbul. ‘I’m not sure if I can just yet.’
‘More art?’
‘I’m not sure I can manage that either …’
He laughs and leans into me, nuzzling my ear, sending a shower of sparks shooting through me. ‘I’m joking. We’re too late now anyway. Shall we have another drink here or just head back to my place? I can fix us something to eat at my apartment.’ He catches the waiter’s attention with a nod.
‘That sounds like a brilliant idea,’ I say, thinking, Yes please, let’s forget the drink and jump into your bed right now.
He lets us into the flat and pours us wine, putting on some gentle classical piano music in the background. We sip from our glasses and stand at the window, watching the sky darken. He sets out bread, and a variety of cheese, ham and fruit on the coffee table. But we don’t eat anything because the moment we sit down we are kissing, fireworks shooting in my head as he strokes my hair. Then he takes my hand and leads me through to his bedroom where he draws the floaty white curtains, then unzips my dress, so slowly I’m pretty sure I stop breathing until it drops in a soft heap onto the floor.
He unclips my bra, still kissing me – impressively dexterous, Antoine – and swiftly pulls off his own shirt, jeans and underwear (snug stripy pants, very fetching). We fall onto the bed where the poshest knickers I have ever owned are disposed of too, flung onto the floor like a piece of litter. I am not thinking, hell, what does he think of my stomach and thighs? Is he finding them terribly wobbly and not like the taut French fillies he’s probably used to? At least, not much – and soon not at all – because he obviously likes them very much as he’s kissing me all over, sending my body into some kind of ecstatic state.
It’s wonderful, when it actually happens. So wonderful, I think I go wild, a bit shouty even as my brain spins off to some other place. Oh my God, it’s amazing. I can’t remember sex ever being like this. It must have been – with David, certainly – but all I can think right now is: so this is what it can be like. I had forgotten how it feels to be lost in the moment and desired.
Afterwards, we lie still, holding each other. I can feel the thump of his heart. He smiles languidly and kisses my lips. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks gently.
I realise tears have sprung into my eyes because it’s the first time I’ve done it since David died – properly done it, I mean. Pete Parkin didn’t count. I wipe my eyes, hoping he hasn’t noticed. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m more than okay …’ I whisper it, but what I really want to do is cry out, ‘I can still do it! D’you realise what this means to me?’
It means, I want to tell this gorgeous man, who’s now turned away and is snoring softly, that my body is still capable of experiencing the most exquisite pleasure. It means I can still feel.
Chapter Thirty
We doze on and off, or at least I do. Antoine is properly asleep, lying on his back, his chest rising and falling with his breath. I’d like to curl up close to him but don’t want to wake him. The glow of the city’s lights creeps through the curtains, and he looks quite beautiful. I find myself studying him, as if to convince myself that I really am in his bedroom, having done it, and not just in a terribly workmanlike way, like those aerobics classes I forced myself to attend, briefly – going through the motions whilst thinking: Surely we must be nearly finished now?
I smile, hugging the feeling to myself because tonight – well, it was different. I close my eyes to replay the highlights – i.e. all of it – then open them in order to gaze at Antoine again: the mussed-up light brown hair, the fine cheekbones, the full lips. The closed eyelids, which I want very much to kiss, but fear might startle him. So I just turn on my side and watch this sleeping man, to whom I wrote fervently – ‘I feel like my heart’s going to burst!!’ – in my teenage handwriting, when I still did little circles for the dots on i’s.
An eye opens sleepily, and a bemused smile flickers across his lips. ‘You’re looking at me,’ he murmurs.
‘Well, you look lovely, lying there.’
He blinks at me. ‘I’m being observed.’
I sit up and draw my knees up to my chin, glimpsing the clock on the wicker bedside table: 1.37 a.m. ‘Am I freaking you out?’
‘No, not at all,’ he says gruffly. ‘Let’s get some sleep, though. It’s very late.’
Although he’s right, we are adults, and we’re not going to turn into pumpkins. I’m being silly, I know, wanting him to stay awake so we can talk, so he can be with me instead of drifting away into a dreamworld of his own. However, his eyes have closed, his breathing resuming that slow, steady pattern, so I close my eyes and wait for sleep to come.
It does, eventually, and when I wake up, morning light is filtering in through the curtains. I flip over, expecting Antoine to still be sleeping there – but there are only rumpled sheets.
I lie still, listening for sounds in the apartment. There’s the chink of crockery and a tap being turned on. Ah, he’s in the kitchen. Perhaps he’ll bring coffee for us to drink companionably. I remember now how nice it is to sit and drink coffee with someone in bed. David and I used to do that on weekend mornings.
I wait, scanning his bedroom for further clues as to what kind of man he is, but virtually nothing is on show: just a stripy dressing gown, hanging on a hook on the bedroom door, and a small blue vase on a chest of drawers.
I wait some more, deciding now that he must be making us breakfast too, and wonder what it might be. I’m pretty peckish. Perhaps he’s nipped out to buy us some fresh croissants?
I slip out of bed, less confident about my nakedness in the morning light. It’s 9.13 a.m., and I consider pulling on underwear – my navy blue scalloped lace ensemble, my second-best – as that would seem rather sexily French, wouldn’t it, ambling through in lingerie while Antoine tends to domestic matters? Only, I don’t have the nerve. I could borrow his dressing gown, but that might seem rather forward (ridiculous, considering what we got up to last night). Eventually, I decide to get dressed in my simple pale blue cotton shift dress – silly really as I still need to shower – and find him stretched out on the sofa. He is also fully dressed, in a white T-shirt and jeans, and is … reading a newspaper.
Seeing me, he smiles and folds it, placing it on his lap. ‘Hey. Sleep well?’
I register the cup on the coffee table. One cup of coffee, not two.
‘Yes, thanks.’ I stand there, waiting for him to draw up his knees to make space for me beside him on the sofa, and wondering why he’s chosen to lie here alone, reading, instead of coming back to bed with me.
I am being ridiculous. Of course he can read the paper if he wants to. After one night of passion I am in no position to start policing what he does in his own home. I clear my throat and perch my bottom next to his bare feet on the sofa, hoping there’s enough space for it. Almost grudgingly, I feel, he draws his legs back to allow me a couple of inches more
room.
‘What would you like to do today?’ he asks.
Be offered a coffee? Something to eat? I’m so hungry now, given that we didn’t have dinner last night – too thrilled by each other to bother with food – and if that bread and cheese was still lying out now, I’d be stuffing it into my mouth. ‘I’m happy to do some more exploring,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light.
‘Yes, we can do that.’ He smiles brightly. I inspect my fingernails which I painted so carefully in La Beauté’s Un Tendre Baiser: a tender kiss. Seems like none of those are forthcoming now. I look at him, trying to figure out what’s going on. And I realise it’s just like with Stu, when he announced he’ll be moving into Bob’s place: I am wondering what on earth I have done to make this happen.
Maybe I kicked off the covers during the night and he got the chance to have a proper look at my naked body and thought: ew. Or, despite rigorous teeth cleaning, my breath wasn’t still pleasant after copious spiced lamb from our Turkish lunch. Or perhaps he’s thinking, this is too much, too soon – and when we lay on the grass by the Serpentine and he asked me to come here, he didn’t really mean it. Perhaps the wine had rushed to his head?
He picks up the newspaper and resumes his reading.
‘Antoine?’
His gaze flicks up from the seemingly fascinating article. ‘Yes?’
I squirm on the sofa and adjust the hem of my dress. ‘Is everything all right?’
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Yes, of course?’ He phrases it as a question. Why do you ask?
‘Are you sure? Because it doesn’t …’ I feel myself reddening as I wonder how to put it. ‘I’m just wondering if you feel okay about last night?’
He blinks at me and frowns. ‘Yes, of course I do.’ The newspaper is placed on the floor now, and his face settles into an expression of … what exactly? Not disgust or regret, so at least there’s that. It’s more a sort of resigned look. My heart seems to turn over as, for the first time this morning, he turns to face me properly. ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he adds off-handedly.
I peer at him, sensing a chill settling over me. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’
‘No, no …’ Brisk shake of the head.
My mind whirrs, spinning back to my conversation with Pearl: One of those films where it all, inevitably, goes horribly wrong and there’s actually a wife stashed away in Paris. Christ, beautiful bra-less Nicole is still in the picture. ‘Antoine … you’re not still married, are you?’
‘What?’ he exclaims.
‘… Or still, you know – together. With Nicole. You’re not cheating on her with me, are you?’
He whirls round to face me. ‘Of course I’m not! We’ve been apart for four years. I promise you, I would never do that. Why do you say it?’ He looks appalled.
‘Because you’re acting a bit oddly.’
He sighs loudly and fiddles with a toe. ‘Okay, I just, um … last night was very …’ He breaks off. This is torture. It was very what, for crying out loud?
‘You can say, you know, if something’s bothering you. You can tell me anything and it won’t freak me out.’
His face is impassive. ‘Well …’ He observes me over the rim of the cup. ‘You were very … eager.’
‘Eager? What does that mean?’
‘You were very … keen.’ Keen? I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘You mean … too keen?’
‘Well, no, not exactly …’
‘Would you rather I’d acted bored?’
‘No, of course not!’
My heart is banging, and I take a breath, trying to bat down the humiliation that’s welling inside me. ‘Would you have preferred me to lie there, filing my nails, or doing some knitting?’
He lets out a little snort. ‘Don’t be silly, Lorrie, I just meant—’
‘Or my Kindle? I could have reached for my Kindle while you were, you know – doing that thing. I did bring it, it’s in my suitcase, although I’m not sure there’s any battery left …’ I know I’m being ridiculous, but I just can’t stop.
‘Lorrie, please, just leave it …’
‘Leave it? How can I leave it when you’re criticising me?’
‘I don’t mean it like that. Look, it’s just a misunderstanding, okay?’ He glances distractedly around the room, as if willing something to happen to curtail this conversation.
My mind races through the rest of our weekend together: today, and tonight, and the whole of Sunday until I fly home in the evening, none of which seems quite as appealing as it did yesterday.
‘We should get ready,’ he adds. ‘My cleaner will be arriving soon …’
Sod your sodding cleaner! ‘When you say keen and eager,’ I remark, ‘do you mean like a puppy? Because that’s what it sounds like …’
‘No,’ he says, irritation growing in his voice now as he gathers himself up, towering above me now. ‘I just mean you were shouting quite a lot.’ Oh, Jesus God. I glance at the huge picture window and consider hurling myself through it. ‘You were very enthusiastic,’ he adds, ‘and I wondered if people might hear, you know – the neighbours, the people below …’ What did he expect? Three years, I’ve been celibate.
My mouth is bone dry and I feel quite sick. ‘You mean,’ I say carefully, ‘you’d have preferred it if you weren’t quite sure whether I was enjoying myself or not?’
‘No! Please don’t take this as a criticism …’
Miraculously, the tears that were threatening to spill over have dried completely. ‘Right. So this is a sort of appraisal, is it? About my performance last night.’
‘Don’t be crazy …’
‘It is! It’s a performance review. You said you were devising new ways of monitoring progress and establishing goals, didn’t you? Well I’ve had enough of those for one week. You might as well just come out with it and sum up my strengths and weaknesses while you’re at it …’ The simpering faces of Sonia, Dennis and Nigel loom over me, sniggering now.
‘Lorrie, let’s just stop this …’
‘“Strengths: we’ll come back to those in a minute. Weaknesses: bit overweight. Too enthusiastic in the sack.”’
He frowns. ‘In the sack? I don’t quite—’
‘In bed,’ I explain tersely.
‘Oh, I see. Well, yes, but I wouldn’t say you’re overweight. Not really. You’re not slim, of course; you’re a larger woman …’ Oh, good God. Just shoot me now.
‘I’m a larger woman,’ I repeat.
Antoine blinks at me. ‘I’m just saying. You’re very attractive, you know, but you’d be absolutely beautiful if …’
At this point my hearing seems to shut off as I glance around the room for my shoulder bag. Spotting it lying by the coffee table, I get up from the sofa and grab it.
‘Lorrie?’ Antoine says with a frown. ‘What on earth’s wrong?’
Instead of replying I stride into the hallway, aware of his bare footsteps behind me and realising that my feet are bare too. I dart into his bedroom where I cram my feet into my flat pumps. He stands in the doorway, one hand clasped to his neck. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going for a walk,’ I mutter, already back out on the landing.
‘Oh, don’t rush out. Give me a few minutes and I’ll come with you …’
‘What, so you can go into more detail about how I’d be a decent-looking woman if I lost a stone or two?’
‘I didn’t mean that!’ he protests as I push the front door open, making a mental note to burn my sexy undies as soon as I’m home and never sleep with anyone ever again.
Chapter Thirty-One
I keep glancing back, my breathing shallow and rapid, but there is no sight of a handsome and rather shell-shocked Frenchman emerging from the gate. I march down the hill, with not the faintest clue as to where I might be going, and find myself on the fringes of the old town, a warren of twisty, narrow streets filled with the smells of baking and coffee.
The coffee is gratifyingly good. I must look a state, I reflect, un-showered, my hair unbrushed and not a scrap of make-up on – not that I care. I probably look about eighty-two. What would Sonia Richardson think of me now? What kind of image might I be projecting to younger customers? I fish my phone from my bag, wondering if Antoine has texted to apologise or ask if I’m all right. There’s just a message from Helena: What’s going on? Are you okay?
I seem to have been put on gardening leave, I reply. Don’t worry, I’m okay. In France at mo. Will explain all xx.
I scroll through my contacts and spot Stu’s name there, and am seized by an urge to call him. My friend Stu, who would never say such disparaging things about my body or shoutiness – not that we would ever find ourselves in that kind of situation. But still.
I text Cam instead. Hope all okay love, missing you x.
Hi Mum all fine hope you having fun.
Yes thanks honey, Nice is amazing!
I pay the waiter – he gives my hair a brief, puzzled look – and step out into the warm, dusty morning, wondering what Stu is doing now, and craving the familiarity of a friend with whom I can just be myself. He has seen me being sick after eating bad prawns and terribly drunk at his fortieth birthday party. He has pulled a shard of glass out of the sole of my foot, and applied nit lotion to my hair. Never mind being spontaneous, or having an adventure. There is something to be said for the company of someone who knows you so well, the two of you are almost telepathic. There are none of those small, startling surprises that don’t feel quite right – like Antoine’s reaction to that woman with the cheap sparkly ring. Like seeing his kids twice in three months and thinking that’s fine. Like reading a newspaper when he could have been back in bed with me, enjoying the morning because, really, what else would any sane person have done when we only have two days together?
