Colin too looks at the two through two red watery eyes, and as if on cue from a prompter, all four of us burst out laughing.
Our joint laughter having broken down what restraint Alice still might have had, she returns to our table, swinging her hips ever more voluptuously, and leans over the table, her face almost touching that of Colin.
“Good? Not so, Colin?” she asks.
Still unable to speak, he nods.
She begins to tell him the story of how Frascot began to honour the trou normand tradition. I have heard the story here at the Vaybee often, but for Colin’s sake I fake interest.
“Frascot’s parents collected old porcelain stuff and had several of these urinals. So, when he opened this place, he, then still a young buck and not averse to getting cucumbered himself, decided to introduce the trou normand to his patrons. Just for a laugh, you know. Must say, not all people go for the urinal thing. Women especially do not care for it. They claim drinking the brandy this way leaves a coat of slime on the tongue.”
“A coat of slime?” asks Colin, his voice having returned.
Alice winks at me.
“How in heaven’s name can that be?” he wants to know, turning to me.
“Alice?” I ask.
“Well … Colin, not to say that I told you this, but if a restaurant owner buys old urinals, say from a hospital, he may not clean them thoroughly, and well … . urine residue will stick to the porcelain or plastic …whatever … interior of the urinal and the brandy will liquefy it,” she explains.
Colin looks at me, disgust all over his face.
“Did you know this, Bella?”
I think he is also angry, and I rather like the dark look it brings to his eyes.
“Oh, not to worry, Colin,” says Alice quickly. “I can assure you our urinals are as clean as a baby’s bottle and those which have belonged to his parents have long broken.”
“I hope so,” says Colin.
“You need not worry about having caught anything,” I tell him.
He smiles, the dark look in his eyes unfortunately gone.
“In that case, I will have another sip, because I rather liked the kick which went with it.”
Duly, he raises the urinal pistol to his mouth.
“Steady, steady,” Alice warns him. “You have to get up the hill on your bike.”
I lean over the table and take the urinal away from him. The white of his eyes have become red.
Alice wants to know whether we want dessert and coffee. We want neither.
From outside comes a flash of lightning. It is followed with a clap of thunder. The vocalist starts to belt out a song I do not recognise … Take good care of my heart …baby you’re the first to take it … you’re the only one who can break it … She is singing with full voice, both hands clutching the microphone as if it has to hold her up, and it is suddenly very noisy in the Vaybee.
“I think we better get back up to Le Presbytère,” I shout out to Colin.
“Yes,” he shouts back, “let’s be on our way.”
We stop at the till and he shakes his head when I reach for the bill.
“No,” he mouths.
Alice, all smiles, is tapping one foot to the rhythm of the music.
“Going straight to bed?” she shouts at us.
Neither Colin nor I try to shout a reply over the music.
“You are going to get soaked,” I tell him, walking from the Vaybee.
“It will be fresh air. It was rather stuffy in there. And, there was the brandy.”
“And, it was noisy.”
“Sure was,” he agrees and adds, “The singer actually did a good impersonation of Whitney Houston.”
“So it was a Whitney Houston she was singing.”
He nods.
“It was Take Good Care of my Heart. The lyrics start something like … Time can pass so slowly when you feel so all alone … Then love can strike like lightning when you find your heart a home … Something along those lines. Very true it is. Love can strike like lightning.”
The lights behind the windows of the houses on the square are casting their silvery glows onto the pools of water on the pavement. A battered Deux Chevaux comes bumping towards us. We jump for safety from the spray of water its wheels are throwing up.
We reach his motorcycle and my car.
“I was going to suggest I race you up to Le Presbytère, but in this rain it won’t be wise,” he says.
“I was going to suggest you leave the bike here and get in with me,” I tell him.
He takes my hands.
“Bella, what a lovely few moments these were.”
He bends forward and plants a brief kiss on my forehead. The rain is coming down in buckets, and I am sure that, drenched as I am, I am not a pretty sight. I lift myself up to my toes and I am the one to plant a kiss now. I let my lips rest for a moment on his cold and wet forehead.
“I’ll risk it on the bike,” he says.
“See you up on top,” I reply.
-0-
He passes me on the road. He is going fast, too fast, and my first thought is to tick him off about it when we get to Le Presbytère, but, no, it is not for me to do so.
At the house, he stands at the front door waiting for me. I park the Merc beside his motorcycle.
He holds a hand out for the key. I let it dangle between my thumb and forefinger and he takes it. There is a little light on the key ring and he switches it on to be able to unlock the door.
The bland smell of damp attacks our nostrils once we are in the house. I take mental note to air the house a little, to throw open the windows on those days when the weather will permit.
Colin and I both reach for the light switch in the small front room. Our hands touch and quickly I pull back.
“Apologies,” he murmurs.
His voice was deep. Filled with emotion? Or was it just because of the Calvados?
He starts climbing the stairs; I walk to the clock to silence it. Neither of us has switched on the drawing room light. I hear him walk into his bedroom. I do not hear the click of the door.
“Goodnight, Colin,” I call out passing the door.
I looked into the room, but I could not see him. He must have gone into the bathroom.
In my room, in the dark, I stand very still beside the bed. The bed I had shared with Jean-Louis when he was here for a weekend. The bed I had not shared with another man. Oh yes, I have had sex since Jean-Louis but never here at Le Presbytère. I had too much respect for my mother and our staff to have brought men here for casual sex, and also, there was the memory of Jean-Louis which clung to this room, this bed. Casual sex was for when I went to Paris and on the holidays I took.
I go to the bathroom and undress. Naked, I splash water over my face, and, still faithful to Van Cleef & Arpels’ First I squirt some over me, not much, but just enough to destroy the cigarette smoke from the Vaybee which may cling to me. Quickly, I clean my teeth. Next, I pull a short nightshirt over my head and let it fall over my hips; it just covers my hips.
Now what?
Standing in the doorway of my room I see Colin still has not closed his bedroom door. He also has not switched on the ceiling light in the room, only one of the bedside lamps, and it throws a pallid strip of light into the corridor.
This is a now or never moment.
I give a deep breath and I walk to the light.
Colin lies on his left side, his back to me, a book in his hands. He is wearing a white T-shirt and white y-fronts. At the door, I step out of the nightshirt I have just put on. I step over it and leave it on the floor. There is no movement from the bed. Has he not heard my approach?
I swing a leg onto the old brass bed where so many brides, here on their honeymoon, have lost their virginity, and I slip under the sheets. They smell musty like the house and confirm I must air the house. I did plan to light the fireplace in the drawing room tomorrow, but perhaps I should delay it for a couple of days.
C
olin still has not moved.
Gently, I take the book from his hands. I put it down on the bedside table, making sure the pages face downwards so that he will be able to find the page where he was reading. In the bedside lamp’s dim light I read the title: Catherine the Great. I have the book, written by Henri Troyat, in my library room.
“Colin,” I whisper. “Close your eyes.”
My naked breasts are touching his face. Fumbling somewhat clumsily, I roll his white T-shirt up over his torso. For a moment I let a hand rest on the graying smattering of hair on his chest. He inhales lightly; once, twice. I pull the T-shirt over my own head, catching my hair around one of the buttons.
Colin’s eyelids flutter as if he is going to open them.
“No, Colin,” I say. “Eyes. Eyes. Keep them closed.”
His T-shirt is far too big for me. It covers me right down to my thighs. Covered in this way I am hot, which is uncomfortable. But I love the smell of him which envelopes me.
This is the now moment.
I curl up close to him, my hands searching for what of him remains covered in his y-fronts. Jean-Louis would never have worn such underpants.
I lift my right leg over Colin’s left leg, moving the rest of me up against him. In the darkness I try to see whether his manhood is erect yet. Yes, it is. I begin to stroke his thighs. He lets out a loud moan, and I, startled by such sudden vocal interjection, begin to caress his manhood. It fills my hand. He is well-endowed. I begin to roll his underpants down and as I do so his manhood lifts itself up. I move away a little from the glory of his naked flesh, and I begin to lick his stomach, just a moist brushing of my tongue. He moans loudly again.
I am the master here on this bed.
“Eyes, Colin, eyes,” I say again.
He scrunches them ever tighter and I take his arms and place them between the rails of the brass headboard. As if he fears he may fall from the bed, he grabs a rail in each hand. He is holding on tightly, with all his strength; his knuckles are turning white. Working downwards, I kiss his face, his chest, the tip of his erect manhood, all the time pulling down his underpants. When he is naked, I kiss his thighs, his knees, his feet. Straightening my back a little, I take his manhood in one hand, and with a swift movement I mount him, sliding him inside me, little by little until he has disappeared totally within me. He is groaning loudly. He climaxes inside me.
He opens his eyes and searches for my face. Smilingly, his eyes sweep over my body and rest on my hard nipples protruding from under his T-shirt. He is still holding onto the headboard of the bed, but lets go of these, and, both his hands free, he sweeps them over my body. He begins to stroke my thighs. He motions with his head I must move over onto my back. I can see he is ready to enter me again. I arch my back slightly to ease his entry.
Our climax is simultaneous.
I roll off him.
Now, I feel light. Free of the weight of the loneliness of my life, free of the weight of being the daughter of a horizontal collaborator and a Nazi soldier. Free of Miss Jambenoire. Free of the memory of Jean-Louis.
“Darling,” whispers Colin beside me.
“Yes, Colin?”
He shakes his head.
“Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you are beside me and I have not just had a wonderful dream.”
His body glistens with sweat and I suppose so must mine.
I push my weight onto my elbows to go to the bathroom for a towel, but he grabs me.
“Where are you off to, my pretty?”
I point to the bathroom.
“No, no, no, you are not,” he whispers into my face.
He swings a leg over me; he is yet again fully erect. He enters me.
“Now, you close your eyes,” he murmurs.
His face is close to mine.
Obediently, I do as I am told, but I immediately open my eyes again. His eyes are smiling.
“Bella, I am a happy man …”
“Colin …”
He closes his mouth over mine stopping my words.
His tongue is caressing mine. He begins to suck it and next he bites it. I give a little cry of pain, pleasurable pain. He moves himself into climax, again spilling his seed inside me. Immediately, he focuses his attention on me, his hands like those of a piano virtuoso on a keyboard, over my thighs and breasts. I climax quickly and silently, my face against his.
Both of us, exhausted, we lie side by side on the bed. After a few minutes he turns out the light.
Soon, I hear his steady breathing: he is asleep.
I adjust my pillow and I look up into the blackness of the room. I see glittering stars on the ceiling where I know there are no stars.
-0-
I touch Colin’s arm to wake him. His eyes manifest bewilderment.
“Sorry for waking you, but I want to say, if you do not mind I will go nap in my own bed.”
I do not give him time to reply but, naked, I walk from the ‘White Room’.
At the door, I pick up my nightshirt, and I turn round. Colin is lying on his back, his legs crossed. Shall I not go to my own bedroom? Shall I go back and lie down beside him again?
His eyes are closed; he opens them.
“Bella, tomorrow, or rather this morning, today, should the weather clear, I am taking you out for the day in the sidecar. All day we will ride around. And no arguing about it. And dress as if you are going skiing because it will be cold out there.”
“What a wonderful idea. Thank you, and thank you for everything, Colin,” I say.
I walk on to my bedroom and I close the door.
-0-
Chapter Thirty-Two
Should the rain clear. The rain has cleared. The sun is shining down on Mother Earth as I can see through my bedroom window.
Quickly, I jump out of bed.
I dress warmly, as warmly as I can. Dress as if you are going skiing. This is what I do. I pull woollen leggings over my panty. I put on a pair of leather trousers - Bella, what made you buy those asked Marion the first time she saw me in them. I pull on a thermal Damart long-sleeve vest, and next a corduroy long-sleeved sweater. Later, before we set off, I will add my leather jacket - Marion, surprisingly, likes it - and I will wear woollen socks under my fur-lined booties.
Sounds of someone getting out of bed and having a shower and getting dressed come from the ‘White Room’. I hear footsteps going downstairs. Soon, I can smell coffee. I go down to the kitchen.
“Bella, morning.”
Colin is standing at the stove. He is in his leather outfit, just like last night.
“Colin, morning.”
“Did you sleep alright after … afterwards?” he asks.
Two bowls of milky coffee stand on the work table.
“I slept wonderfully sound. And you?”
“Wonderfully sound too. Bella,” he says, “I will not regret last night. I want you to know this.”
I walk up to him.
“You need not say this in order to make me feel good, or so I do not feel bad about myself.”
He gives a step forward and our bodies touch.
“You were … I loved last night, Bella. It was perfect in every way.”
He encloses me in his arms and I drop my head against the cold of the leather of his jacket, each of us holding the other.
Suddenly, the smell of burning fills the room.
“The croissants!” he cries out. “I’ve popped some croissants into the oven.”
He lets go of me so fast I almost lose my balance.
“Oops,” he says. “Sorry.”
I slip on a padded kitchen glove, take the croissants from the oven, pop them onto two plates and these I put on the table.
“Just in time,” I say jovially.
The croissants have blackened, but just a little.
“I took a pot of Amandine’s apricot jam from the cupboard,” says Colin.
No apology this morning for making himself at home. I like this.
The pot stands on th
e table alongside the butter dish. The butter is also homemade: I buy it at a creamery in Avranches. It is the colour of a sunflower in August and it is salty and our guests adore it.
“If only I can take some of this terrific butter with me when I leave, Bella.”
When I leave.
It is the second time he has mentioned leaving. Of course, he will leave. Men leave.
I ask him whether he has decided where we will go today and he says he will leave it to me to navigate for us.
-0-
I prepare a picnic lunch for us just like the ones Gertrude always prepares for our guests. In two aluminium foil containers I pack two hard-boiled eggs; some sliced ham; gherkins, olives, tomatoes, small button mushrooms and two small wrapped cheeses. We will pull up somewhere and buy a baguette, some wrapped squares of butter, and something sweet for a dessert. I also pop paper cups, a knife, two teaspoons and a corkscrew into a basket in which I have already put a bottle of mineral water. When we stop for the baguette we will also pop into an off-licence and buy a bottle of wine.
“I’ll get the bike and sidecar ready,” Colin tells me.
He asks if he may take two cushions from the drawing room and a blanket from one of the downstairs bedrooms. I tell him of course he can; I am not sure of the wisdom of us using my beautiful and expensive drawing room cushions, but I do not want to say no to him. The picnic basket packed and standing on the work table, I go upstairs to my bedroom to finish dressing and for a last look in the mirror. I think I look like a sausage, all covered in layers of clothing as I am. One of those short, fat, sausages I so love for breakfast when I am at a London hotel.
From the window I watch Colin wipe the seat in the sidecar with a sponge from the kitchen. He leaves the cushions and the blanket on the seat, but the picnic basket he fits into the closed trunk compartment behind the seat and on which is fastened a spare wheel. I hope we will not need the spare wheel today.
“Bella!” he calls from downstairs. “Let’s go, girl!”
Bella...A French Life Page 26
