When you’re alone people look at you differently – with suspicion, or desire, or concern.
It’s not yet cold, but it’s getting cooler fast. A gentle breeze is rocking the small fishing boats moored along the dockside.
‘That was perfect,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘Nearly perfect,’ Charles says.
‘Oh that’s nothing,’ I laugh. ‘When I went to Paris with . . . when I went to Paris . . . everyone was so mean. And we used to say, shall we go and eat at Mr Grumpy’s, or at Mr Nasty’s?’
‘It’s strange that it never changes. I mean with all the international travel going on. You’d think they’d realise.’
‘It is strange,’ I agree. ‘Though to be honest, I do think it’s getting a bit better. Slowly.’
‘You’d be sacked on the spot for showing off like that in the States.’
‘I don’t think they can sack people in France. I think that’s the whole problem. But anyway. Let’s not think about Mr Grumpy any more. The fish was delicious.’
‘Yes. That vegetable thing too.’
‘The terrine?’
‘Yes. Absolutely gorgeous.’
‘It’s been a lovely day all round,’ I say.
‘It has,’ Charles says, softly, stopping and leaning against the guard rail. ‘I don’t know quite how to say this. Not without ruining everything . . .’
‘No?’ I reply. ‘Just say it. However it comes out will be fine.’
‘I’ve had a lovely day,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘So have I. I’m so glad I came.’
‘And I’m fighting the desire to kiss you.’
I turn to face him and smile. ‘Then kiss me,’ I say, with a shrug.
He slips into the widest grin and then leans in towards me. ‘You’re sure it’s OK?’ he asks.
‘Do I look like it might not be?’
We both lean in and he rests his lips against mine. A slow, chaste, peck. And then he straightens and smiles at me again.
‘Is that it?’ I ask, using humour to disguise my request for more. ‘I mean, it was nice, but . . .’
Charles winks at me. ‘I’m not very public,’ he says, glancing around. ‘What do you say we go back to the hotel?’
I raise one shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘Sure. Why not?’
‘I just need to make a quick call,’ he says, pulling his phone from his pocket. ‘You will excuse me?’
‘Sure,’ I say again.
As Charles wanders away, I hike myself up onto the railings and stare out at the lights rippling on the surface of the sea.
Inside, I’m trembling.
I feel nervous, and a little afraid. But also excited and joyous and reckless and brilliant. Of course, I wonder for a moment if I’m doing the right thing, for it’s clear as day that we’re going to have sex, and fairly likely that we won’t see each other again, or at least, not until his next trip this way.
Maybe it’s the wine and the moonlight, or maybe it’s that it’s just been too long and the animal in me is not asking, but demanding physical comfort . . . Perhaps it is simply that it is the right decision after all. But whatever the reason, I order my internal voice to stop criticising. ‘This is happening,’ I tell it quietly. ‘So shut it!’
The Wrong Kind of Rubber
In the taxi on our way back to Nice, Charles rests one arm along the back of the seat rest; his hand drapes gently over my shoulder, and our thighs bump together as the car swings around the many bends in the coast road.
It all feels lovely, and, for the moment at any rate, I’m suffering from nothing more than normal, first-time-with-a-new-partner nerves. If anything, I’m feeling quite pleased with my bravery.
My only negative emotion is a niggling sadness that whatever this is, it won’t last. Charles doesn’t live in London. In fact, as far as I can tell, Charles doesn’t live anywhere. Q: How can you have a relationship with someone who never stands still? A: You can’t.
Back at the hotel, there is a brief moment of confusion in the lift again. Charles hits button three, clearly thinking that we’re going to my room.
For reasons I would rather not have to explain, I prefer to go to his. ‘Let’s go to yours,’ I say with a smile, certain that he will politely comply.
Charles, though, has other ideas. ‘No,’ he says, firmly. ‘I would rather go to yours. I haven’t seen your room anyway.’
‘I haven’t seen yours,’ I counter.
God! Why is it always so hard to talk about sex? Of course, it is the fact of verbally acknowledging what we are about to have sex that is the problem here. Sex isn’t, for some reason, supposed to be planned. It’s just, somehow, meant to happen. I know what is likely to transpire in my room, and Charles knows it too, but discussing it before it happens is quite another thing. Discussing it means that it is, as they say in murder cases, premeditated. And, for me at any rate, there is something profoundly uncomfortable about that.
When the door opens, I hesitate. ‘No, really,’ I say. ‘Let’s go to yours.’
‘Why?’
‘My room’s a mess.’
‘How can your room be a mess?’
‘Oh, you know girls. Make-up and dresses all over the place . . .’
Charles frowns and holds the ‘door open’ button as the door lurches back and forth, as undecided as ourselves.
‘Maybe mine’s a mess too,’ he offers.
‘Is it?’
‘No, but it could be.’
I roll my eyes. This is getting even more uncomfortable than simply confronting the truth. ‘Look,’ I say, steeling myself. ‘I don’t have any contraceptives in my room. Have you, in yours?’
‘Oh!’ Charles exclaims, blushing. ‘Condoms – of course. Sorry. I’ll nip up to mine. I’ll be right back.’
As the lift doors close behind me, I let myself frown. What was all that about? I wonder.
When I open the door to my room it becomes clear though that Charles’ room really would have been the better option. Due to God knows what mix-up, my room has been filled with pink balloons. They cover almost every inch of the floor and bed.
‘Jesus!’ I exclaim, stamping on a couple to make enough room to be able to move into the room. And there was I worrying about a lack of rubbers, I think, laughing and shaking my head in disbelief.
I pick up the phone and call the front desk. ‘Allo?’ I say. ‘Je viens de rentrer et j’ai plein de . . .’
But it’s no good. I don’t know the word for balloons in French.
‘Oui?’
‘I’m sorry, do you speak English?’
‘Of course, madam.’
‘Well there are loads of balloons in my room.’
‘Yes?’
‘Erm, I don’t want loads of balloons in my room.’
‘No. What would you like me to do?’
‘I don’t know. Get rid of them? Deliver them to whoever does want a room full of balloons?’
‘I will send someone up immediately,’ the man says.
For the second time today, I wish I had a camera. I pick up the phone to ask Charles to bring his, but then realise that this might sound a bit kinky. He might want to take photos of a different kind.
I laugh and kick a balloon, and then remember that Charles is on his way, and wonder if I have time for a shower, and if I do have a shower, would it be slutty not to get dressed again before he arrives?
But before I can decide, it’s already too late. There is a sharp rat-a-tat-tat.
I wade through the pink sea and open the door. Charles looks into the room, smiles, and raises an eyebrow. ‘Nice,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I laugh. ‘How crazy is that? There’s been a mix-up and some idiot has filled my room with balloons.’
Charles steps into the room, picks one up and throws it across onto the bed. ‘I rather like them,’ he says, apparently unfazed.
I kick a few out of the way and follow him into the bedroom. ‘Some five-year-old somewhere will
be weeping,’ I say.
‘Don’t you like them?’ he asks, in mock concern.
‘I did when I was five,’ I laugh.
‘I think it’s rather fun,’ he says, reaching out to stroke my arm. ‘So are you still up for more kissing?’ he asks. ‘Or have the balloons put you off?’
I laugh. ‘I’m not so easily put off,’ I say.
‘Good,’ he says, stepping forward, sliding one arm around my waist and reeling me in. He repeats the chaste kiss of before, only this time he follows it with a series of mini-pecks. And then, I open my mouth and let myself melt against him.
I can feel his erection pressing through our clothes, which, momentarily, unnervingly, reminds me of my nightmare. But I push this thought away and run a hand over his chest, which feels surprisingly muscular. ‘Someone’s been working out,’ I say.
‘Not much else to do when you live in hotels,’ Charles says. ‘At least they all have a gym.’
‘Can I?’ I ask, fingering the top button of his shirt.
‘Oh yes,’ he laughs.
But the second I have undone the top button there is a second, more formal, knock on the door.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, letting go and crossing the room. ‘It’ll be room service. I’ll just get rid of them.’
I open the door a quarter of the way and see a teenager in hotel uniform grinning and brandishing a huge hat pin.
‘That’s perfect,’ I tell him, taking the pin from his grasp. ‘I can manage myself. Thanks so much.’
I close the door and turn back to face Charles.
‘I’ll just pop a couple of these – make some room,’ I say, showing him the pin.
‘Humm,’ Charles murmurs, pointing at a balloon. ‘Pop this one!’
As soon as I pop it, he points to another. ‘And this one.’
‘Actually,’ I say, glancing at my watch. ‘It’s a bit late for popping balloons. I’ll wake the whole hotel up.’
I glance up at him and see that not only has he removed his shirt, but his erection is now so pronounced that it truly does look like . . .
‘Is that a gun in your pocket?’ I laugh.
‘No,’ he says, running his own hand over it. ‘Just pleased to see you.’
‘Well, I think we have better things to do than pop balloons, don’t you?’
‘I suppose we do,’ he says.
And so, surrounded by pink, squealing balloons, we make love. It’s all very slow, very sensual, to start with. And then, just as the doctor would have ordered, it builds to a sweaty, back-arching climax. I worry that in spite of leaving the balloons intact, I may be waking a few neighbours anyway.
Afterwards, I doze in Charles’ arms for a while. I’m surprised to see that his erection though, doesn’t go away – I suspect that he has taken Viagra.
Brian used to pop a Viagra sometimes for fun, and there was always something a little artificial, a little larger-than-life, or, more particularly, longer-lasting-than-life about the erections the drug produced. I always felt afterwards that I had somehow had sex with an artificial appendage rather than with him. And I always struggled against the feeling that if he needed Viagra, then there was something wrong with our sexual chemistry.
Charles goes to the toilet, declares that he can’t pee, scoops a load of balloons off the floor and throws them at me, and then dives back onto the bed, squashing them between his body and mine.
By the time I fall asleep, the orgasm score is: Charles, three; CC, two. Which is more, let’s face it, than any girl dare hope for on a first date with a fifty-five-year-old.
When I wake up the next morning, I wonder for a moment if the whole thing wasn’t a dream. A single glance at the balloons covering the floor though proves that it all really happened. Charles, though, has vanished.
I stretch luxuriously in the bed, and reflect that this feeling, this desire to stretch, and purr like a cat, means that the sex, also, was real.
I don’t mind that Charles has vanished at all. In fact, I’m glad: it gives me time to wake up at my own rhythm. And time to decide how I feel about Charles now that we have done the deadly deed.
After dozing for another hour, I finally get up and dress. Realising that I have run out of clean clothes, I recycle the least suffering of my underwear and dress again in my jeans and pullover. It looks like I will have to do some shopping today.
I phone Charles’ room, but there is no answer, so, realising that I still don’t have his mobile number, I repeat yesterday’s schedule and head out for a walk, almost certain that I will find him sitting on one of the blue chairs.
As I pass the reception, the desk clerk calls me over. ‘Madame Kelly?’ he asks, waving a baby blue envelope at me.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Monsieur Van Heerden left this for you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the envelope between finger and thumb. ‘Is he in?’
‘I’m sorry, madam, I have no idea.’
I’m pretty certain the clerk knows exactly who is in and who isn’t, but I understand his tact. I smile and start to turn away, but then pause. ‘Oh, and no need to worry about the balloons,’ I say. ‘I popped them myself.’
‘Popped?’ he repeats, frowning.
‘Pop!’ I explain, making a pin motion.
He remains stoic and simply raises one eyebrow.
‘But you might want to find out who was supposed to have the balloons in the first place,’ I tell him. ‘Because some child somewhere is probably not too happy.’
The clerk frowns deeply at me.
‘The balloons . . . If I got them, then someone else didn’t.’
The clerk shakes his head. ‘But Monsieur Van Heerden ordered the balloons for you, madam.’
I laugh and shake my head. ‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s what I’m telling you. It was a mistake. They must have been meant for someone else.’
The clerk frowns at me and raises the eyebrow again. I decide that he has the most mobile eyebrow that I have ever seen. I wonder if the other one moves as well. I get a fit of giggles at the crazy conversation I’m having. It’s like something from a Carry On movie . . . ‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not to me.’ The clerk shrugs and looks back down at his register, which I take as my cue to leave.
Outside, as I wait for the traffic lights to change so that I can cross the road, I read Charles’ note.
Dear Charlotte
Sorry to disappear like a thief in the night, but, as I explained, I have meetings all day today. Will be back about seven for dinner. Meet you in the red room. Have a lovely day. And enjoy the balloons!
Charles xx
Deflation
It’s closer to eight p.m. when Charles and I finally meet up in the red room. He kisses me lightly on the lips – not a sexual kiss, but not chaste either. ‘How did your meetings go?’ I ask, as we cross the lobby and step back out into the evening.
‘Great,’ he tells me. ‘I think I have a new contract with Rawling International. They supply Pirelli, amongst others.’
‘So you’re supplying Pirelli with rubber for their tyres?’ I ask, impressed.
Charles laughs. ‘Well, on paper.’
‘On paper.’
‘Do you know anything about options trading?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘Well, it is kind of complicated. There are markets, the same as stock markets, but these are options markets. People trade options . . . the option to buy things at a fixed price. So, suppose you think the price of petrol is going to go up, you could buy an option to buy it at today’s price. Does that make any sense?’
I nod. ‘Yes,’ I say. In fact it doesn’t really, but the truth is that for some reason, I find myself completely devoid of interest in the subject.
‘So I’m an options trader. Specialised in rubber, copper, and zinc.’
I nod. ‘Great!’ I say.
‘Anyway, how was your day?’
‘Fine. Nice. I walked b
ack into town, had breakfast on the Cours Saleya, phoned some friends, just to reassure them that I’m still alive. I bought a few bits, had a peep in the Museum of Modern Art . . . well, just in the shop to be honest . . . it’s been a perfect lazy day in a foreign city.’
‘Nice,’ Charles says. ‘I envy you.’
We automatically head east – back towards the old town again, before Charles asks, ‘So what do you fancy eating tonight? We had fish again at lunchtime, so if I can avoid fish this evening, that would be good.’
‘Actually,’ I laugh, ‘I phoned a friend in England. He knows Nice quite well, and he told me about a little local place where they supposedly do the best pizza on the planet.’
‘Pizza sounds perfect,’ Charles laughs.
‘OK. Well, I think it’s pretty close to the Cours Saleya. It’s sort of a few streets behind it according to the map.’
As we wander back through these streets, by now starting to feel familiar, I become hyper-aware that this is our last evening here. In fact, it’s very possibly our last evening anywhere together. I desperately want to broach the subject and see if, like me, Charles has any desire to take this further. Or indeed, any plausible strategy for meeting again somewhere so that we can take this further. The idea of simply jumping on a plane and arriving back in London as a single girl is heartbreaking. But I can’t help but think that a wrong answer will only spoil our last evening together. It’s clearly wiser to save that discussion for tomorrow.
The restaurant Mark suggested – Le Gesu – is probably a little lower key than Charles is used to, but he doesn’t say a word.
Though the chairs are plastic, and the prices as low as I have seen for some time, the pizza is as good as Mark said. The base is thin and crisp and somehow vaguely caramelised, whilst the topping is oozing in garlic, olive oil, and beautiful rich mozzarella. In fact, I can only agree with Mark’s verdict: it is probably the best pizza I have ever eaten.
The only real downside to the place is the gigantic Catholic church overlooking the restaurant. I sit with my back to the open door and between conversations I chant a mantra : that I’m not a Catholic, and therefore whatever I do, it isn’t a sin . . .
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 14
