Love in a Warm Climate

by Helena Frith-Powell

I thank the girls and Madame Chanel escorts me back to the hotel. My clothes, she tells me, will be delivered to my room. Meanwhile she has been told to take me to the beauty spa, where again I am treated like a film star. I don’t think I have spent four hours in a beauty spa in my entire life, but the time whizzes by. I can see now what all those ‘ladies who lunch’ are on. Why would you ever want to do anything but go shopping and get your nails done? Especially if someone else is paying for it.

  The threading is extraordinary. I didn’t even know my eyebrows were unruly until the beautician did one for me and showed me the difference. Now of course I am going to have find a ‘threader’ in Boujan – how likely is that? Or maybe I can just pounce on the new hairs and pluck them out as they grow back and keep this shape forever.

  After the spa, the newly coiffed, manicured, waxed and threaded me is taken up to my room, where there a massage bed and a masseuse await me.

  “Undress, please, and lie on your front,” says the masseuse, an extremely delicate-looking Asian lady.

  She puts a towel on top of me and then presses down firmly all over my body. After that she lifts the towel off my left leg and starts rubbing oil over my right foot and leg. It is an incredible feeling, being pampered like this. She pushes on pressure points on the sole of my foot and along the back of my leg. I feel my whole body relaxing beneath her touch, melting into the thick towel on the massage bed. Before I know it, I’m dozing off.

  I wake up and realise I must have missed the other leg being massaged. She is now working on my back and neck; her hands feel incredibly strong. She runs her hands all the way down my spine, then up the sides of my body to my armpits and out along my arms. To my horror I gasp with pleasure. She repeats this several times, and each time I feel my body melting deeper into her oily hands. Then she moves her hands up along my spine, pushing gently as she goes. She massages my neck firmly and I feel all the tension of the past few weeks and months vanishing into them.

  She moves down my spine again. I feel her reach the top of my buttocks. I am totally ashamed to admit that I start thinking how nice it would be if she went further down. She starts to gently rotate my buttocks so they move in time with her hands in a circular motion. For the first time in years I feel really turned on. This is ridiculous; I’m not a lesbian. I don’t even much like sex with men, or at least I didn’t when I was married. I need to snap out of this.

  Maybe if I open my eyes and actually look at her I will come back to reality. This is a massage, not a porn film. All that pampering this morning has obviously sent me over the edge.

  I lift my head out of the hole it has been jammed into throughout the massage and move it to one side, slowly opening my eyes and adjusting to the soft afternoon light.

  And there, wearing nothing but a towelling robe and a big smile, is Johnny Fray.

  Rule 14

  Always maintain your dignity

  The French Art of Having Affairs

  I leap up from the massage table in shock. Then I remember that apart from some jasmine oil I am wearing nothing at all. Thank God for the waxing session earlier.

  “Hey Cunningham, I didn’t recognise you with your clothes off,” grins Johnny.

  “Johnny! What. On. Earth? Why are you here? What’s going on?” I say grabbing a towel and wrapping it around me.

  “Calm down, calm down,” says England’s answer to George Clooney. “Your mother called me.”

  “My mother? How?”

  “We’ve been in touch on and off since that time we met in the pub. She told me what had happened with Nick. I would have come sooner but I was filming in Prague. Anyway, she said you needed a break to have your mind taken off things so I arranged all this.” He motions around the room. “Have you had a good time?”

  He smiles at me so sweetly and with such expectation, I want to fling my arms around him. But then my towel might fall off.

  I smile back. “Johnny it’s been amazing, every girl’s dream, thank you. It really means a lot to me.”

  He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me intensely.

  “You mean a lot to me, Cunningham, you’re like family.”

  I blush, partly with shame when I remember how badly I treated him and partly because I am so touched.

  “Now come on gal, we need to get dressed, we’re going out on the town,” he adds.

  He really does look great; this film-star life obviously suits him. His hair is as wild and tousled as ever, his dark-blue eyes are fiery, as he takes his bathrobe off and puts his trousers and shirt on, I see that he has clearly been working out. I pretend I am not checking him out from where I’m sitting, although I am of course.

  I go into my bathroom to get dressed. I opt for the white dress with flesh-coloured underwear and the white ballet pumps. Happily I remembered to pack my make-up and my hair still looks good from its pampering this afternoon. It’s amazing what a difference a few highlights can make to a girl’s confidence.

  I look at myself in the mirror before I go to join Johnny. I look better than I have done for years, I conclude. I am not being bigheaded – after all, the bar wasn’t set very high – but I do feel good.

  Johnny is waiting with a bottle of champagne when I come out. “You look great, Cunningham,” he says pouring me a glass. “Cheers. Here’s to old friends.”

  “Cheers,” I say. The first sip of a glass of cold champagne is one of life’s luxuries. It is lively and smooth, and makes me feel instantly relaxed. So far, on a scale of perfect days in my life, this really has to be up there.

  “That was some massage,” I say. “And I mean the part after the masseuse left.”

  Johnny laughs. “I had to play a gigolo in a film once and massaging was part of the package. Actually it was one of my favourite roles – not a bad one to do a bit of method acting for.”

  “I could tell,” I smile.

  “How are your lovely children?” he asks. Johnny was always such a traditional family man. It seems film stardom hasn’t changed him. He has put us in separate bedrooms too. In fact this suite is big enough for at least three families.

  “Great, thanks. We haven’t told them yet, about us splitting up; I have that to look forward to when I get back tomorrow.”

  Suddenly the thought of tomorrow and going home seems utterly depressing. An ex-husband-to-be and a vineyard that needs running, wine that needs making, children who need telling Mummy and Daddy are no more and a cleaning lady who hates me.

  “So you’re definitely going to get divorced?”

  I bite my lip and take another sip of champagne. Divorced; it’s such a big word, a word I never thought would be associated with Nick and me.

  “Yes, it looks that way. He showed up last night and told me,” I sigh. “He’s got this woman, Cécile. I think he must be in love with her.”

  “What a fool,” says Johnny. “I would never have let you go. How do you think the kids will take it?”

  “Badly I guess, who knows? I just don’t know what to say to them, it’s too awful.”

  Johnny moves onto the sofa next to me and puts his arm around me. “Don’t worry Cunningham, it’ll be all right. I’ll look after you.”

  I almost start crying, but remember that I have just put some mascara on and do not want to spend the rest of the evening resembling a panda. But looking after is just what I need right now.

  We finish off the champagne and then head down to Johnny’s car and driver. As we walk through reception people look at us and whisper. I wonder if I have accidentally put my underwear on my head, until I remember that Johnny is now a huge film star and it’s him they are all noticing. I strut along proudly next to him, imagining the headline in tomorrow’s Daily Mail: ‘Johnny Fray spotted with mystery blonde in St Tropez’. I hope that girl I hated at school, Claire Booth, reads it.

  We get into the Mercedes and are whisked off towards the port. Johnny tells me we are going to a restaurant called Leï Mouscardins in the Tour du Portalet because it has
the best views of the sea and also its own fishing boat, so the fish is always excellent.

  “Seems you hang out in St Tropez a lot these days,” I tease him.

  Johnny laughs. “It’s a long way from Leeds. But yes, one of the upsides to film stardom is that you get to come to the best places.”

  We are greeted like film stars, which of course one of us is, and shown to a table tucked away from the main room, with a magnificent view of the bobbing boats down below. After dinner Johnny suggests we skip pudding and instead grab an ice cream down by the port so we can go and ogle the yachts moored there.

  It is chilly down by the water and Johnny lends me his jumper; it smells lovely, of some unidentified aftershave and also of him – a smell that still makes me go weak even if it has a hint of nicotine in it. He puts his arm around me and we wander along the port looking at the massive boats. Most of the owners are out and the crew members run around polishing and cleaning. The water splashes gently up against the boats.

  We cross the road to an Italian-sounding ice-cream parlour. Johnny goes for vanilla, I am determined to try something exotic and opt for tiramisu, a creamy chocolatey and coffee mix.

  “We can walk back to the hotel,” he says. “There’s just one more place I want to show you and it’s in the hotel grounds. It’s a nightclub called Les Caves du Roy. I have no idea who Roy was, but it’s a place where you will often find George Clooney dancing on the tables.”

  “And what about Johnny Fray?”

  “Only if you’re an extremely lucky gal,” he laughs.

  I love the sound of his laugh. if Daisy Buchanan’s laugh in The Great Gatsby sounds ‘full of money’, Johnny Fray’s is full of mischief.

  He takes my hand and leads me towards the nightclub. “Let’s see if George is in.”

  We walk into Les Caves du Roy and the doorman greets Johnny like a long-lost brother. My eyes adjust slowly to the dim light; I can’t remember when I was last in a nightclub.

  “No sign of George,” I shout to Johnny over the loud music, “I’ll have to make do with you.”

  “Cheeky bugger,” he mouths back and leads me to the bar, where he orders a bottle of champagne.

  “Cheers, Cunningham. Whatever happens, we’ll always have St Tropez,” he says, smiling.

  “You’ve been watching too many movies,” I smile back, looking into those blue eyes.

  The memory of that kiss comes flooding back. “It’s lovely to see you,” I say moving closer to him. Somewhere in the vague recesses of my brain there is a voice saying ‘Hussy, last night you were sidling up to a French aristo and now look at you’. But I ignore it, and instead breathe in the scent of Johnny Fray, which makes my head spin even more than the champagne.

  George Clooney may not be dancing on the tables, but by 2am I am. It is something I always wanted to do, and when better to do it than after several bottles of champagne in St Tropez with a film star? Johnny laughs and stops me from falling off several times.

  “Thank God they don’t allow the press in here, Cunningham, you’d be famous by the morning,” he laughs as I fall into his arms after a spectacular twirl. “Come on gal, let’s get you home.”

  We walk through the grounds of the hotel to our suite.

  “Did you know,” I say, as we pass the swimming pool, which is beautifully lit up, “that you can jump from the window of our room into the pool? Mick Jagger does it all the time.”

  “Maybe we’ll try that one next time,” says Johnny, “after we’ve invested in some life insurance.”

  He opens the door to our suite and takes me by the hand into his bedroom. We stand opposite each other. He puts his hands around my face and draws me closer to him. “Are you glad you came?” he asks.

  I nod. My heart is racing, this is the first time I have been in a bedroom with any man except Nick for more years than I care to remember. What should I do? Etiquette dictates that I should say thank you for dinner and trot off to my bedroom, but I don’t want to.

  Slowly Johnny draws me into his arms and starts caressing my back, reminding me of the massage earlier. I put my arms around his neck and long for him to kiss me so that I can see if it is still as magical as it was all those years ago. He pulls himself away and looks at me smiling.

  “After all these years,” he says, “I’ve finally got you into bed.”

  “Not yet,” I grin, not entirely soberly. I am taken over by a sudden rush of confidence and whisk my dress off before leaping under the covers. Johnny takes his shirt and trousers off and gets in next to me. I try to check out his body without being too unsubtle. I can see two of them, but they both look good to me.

  I lie back in a haze of contentment. I am where millions of women across the world want to be: in bed with Johnny Fray.

  Rule 15

  Guilt is a wasted emotion

  The French Art of Having Affairs

  When I wake up I have no idea where I am. I try to open my eyes but it’s too painful. I move my head – ooooowwwwww.

  What happened to me? Did I get hit by a truck and end up in hospital? I feel terrible. But this bed feels too comfortable to be a hospital bed and the sheets are pure linen. Maybe I died and went to heaven?

  I force one eye open. All I can see is a white ceiling. I turn my head slowly. Next to me in bed there is another person, someone with very thick, curly black hair. Oh shit. Now I remember – I threw myself into Johnny Fray’s bed. But what happened after that? I look under the sheets to gauge my state of undress. I am still wearing my matching skin-tone underwear. I sneak a look at Johnny’s tall, slender body. He is still wearing his boxer shorts.

  Suddenly the theme tune to Top Gun comes blaring out from somewhere. I sit up and look around me. What the hell is it? Then I see Johnny reach for his mobile phone and put it to his ear. I quickly hide under the sheet.

  “Yep, thanks,” I hear him say. “I’ll be there in half an hour. What time is the flight? Okay, thanks, bye.”

  He leans back in bed. “Cunningham? Where the hell are you?”

  “Here,” I say, unable to show my face.

  He burrows under the sheets to find me.

  “Don’t worry, your virtue is intact,” he says softly.

  “What happened?”

  “You passed out.”

  “How classy,” I say, blushing in my hiding place.

  “After dancing on the tables in Les Caves du Roy for several hours. You put Clooney to shame.”

  “Oh God,” I groan. “Sorry. I feel terrible.”

  Johnny slowly extricates me from the covers. I look at him through half-open eyes in the same way I look at my bank balance online: half-hopeful, half-terrified of what I will find. Will he be furious with me?

  He is smiling. He bends down and kisses me on the lips. It’s not a full snog, thank heavens – my breath must be worse than Wolfie’s after he’s been chewing a rotting rabbit. But it’s a kiss somewhere between sexual and loving. I feel the blood race around my body. Did I really hear him say he had to go? I could weep.

  He is leaning above me, looking down at me with such an intense expression in his eyes, I feel almost scared. Now he looks like Wolfie about to devour a rotting rabbit.

  “Cunningham, I have to fly to Los Angeles, but I meant what I said last night. I’ll look after you, gal.”

  “Thanks,” I squeak.

  He ruffles my hair and goes into the bathroom.

  “Your car will be here at eleven to collect you,” he says when he comes out of the shower. His hair is wet and even blacker than normal but still curly. He looks like a Greek God. I watch him get dressed with total fascination. He really is beautiful.

  “I’ll get them to send some breakfast up. Good luck with your task today, Cunningham.” He is back over by the bed sitting next to me. “I don’t envy you. I’ll text you so you have my mobile number. Make sure you save it. Call or text me if you need anything at all. Love you, gal.”

  He kisses my forehead and walks out, leaving me
feeling extremely alone. I touch his side of the bed; the imprint of his body is still there, and it is still warm.

  I get up and throw his towelling robe on. There is just a hint of his aftershave on it. The doorbell rings and a man wheels in a table laden with fruit, an omelette, fresh orange juice and croissants. Around the plates are strewn rose petals. He pours me a green tea.

  I hear my mobile phone ping. There is a message on it from a UK number.

  “Have a nice breakfast, Cunningham. Miss you already.’

  It’s from Johnny. I save his number then look at his message again. It would be pretty easy to fall in love with this man, I conclude, as I text him back to say thank you.

  We drive out of St Tropez; it seems unforgivably bright and sunny, even though I am wearing shades. In a small square a market is already set up for business; the fruits and vegetables look perfect, like marzipan sweets neatly packed in boxes. If I had more energy, or any energy, I would ask the driver to stop so I could take some home with me. Instead I recline the seat and sleep for most of the rest of the way home, my new clothes packed neatly away in their shopping bags next to me.

  When I get there at around half past two, Nick and the children are just clearing away lunch. The children run to greet me. It is so lovely to see them, though I have only been away for a day.

  “Did you bring us a present?” they all ask when they see all the shopping bags around me.

  I feel like the world’s worst mother, I am overcome with guilt. ‘No, I was too busy shopping, being pampered, getting drunk, dancing on tables and falling in love with Johnny Fray to even think about you’ is what flashes through my mind. How selfish can you get?

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell them, hugging them one by one, “I didn’t have a chance to go shopping for presents. But I promise I will next time. How are you all?”

  “Oh, is this going to be a regular trip then?” asks Nick, who has come out of the kitchen carrying a tea-towel.

  “No, I mean, I don’t know,” I say, flustered. It feels very odd to be looking at my husband, even if we are estranged, knowing that just a few hours ago I was in bed with another man. “I would love a cup of tea,” I say. “I’m parched.”