French Kisses

by Jan Ellis

  “How about this?”

  “Very beautiful,” said Irina, snapping pictures as her boss leapt around and adopted various silly poses. “You should be a model, Madame.”

  Rachel laughed. “I think not!” she said, taking the camera. “Right. Better get on. I’ve got lots to do today.”

  Chapter 10: Some Technical Assistance

  Back in the studio, she spent the afternoon finalising the drawings for a range of Christmas cards she had designed. At 6pm she stopped and went downstairs to prepare supper. She had decided to make a gigantic lamb casserole for them all. She had just finished and had stashed the pans in the dishwasher when she heard a car on the drive. Looking out she saw Paul Callot approaching with a bottle of wine in one hand and a flat canvas bag in the other.

  “I thought you might like to have this back,” he said, handing the bag to her as she ushered him into the cosy sitting room. Taking the bag and peering inside she saw that it contained the small seascape – now with the ruby red mount Paul had picked out – and a pale oak frame.

  “Goodness, I’d forgotten about this one! It looks lovely,” she said, walking around the room with it, holding it against different sections of the wall. “You know, I might keep it for us rather than letting it go to the guests.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad you like it. I’ll have the last couple of pieces ready next week, if that’s okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, thinking that it would be nice to see him again. “Shall we get started? I don’t want to keep you too long.”

  Paul shrugged, “I’m all yours.”

  She led the way to the office where the family computer lived. Paul sat in front of it and opened up the website template that he had chosen for Rachel.

  “What do you think? Smart isn’t it?”

  “Wow, yes!” she said, feeling completely out of her depth. “So what do we do now?”

  “Well, we choose which of your photos to use and put in some words about the guest house. You know – where it is, what you offer, costs, contact details, directions,” he smiled. “Oh, speaking of which, I wasn’t sure that I was on the right road so I asked a guy in the village where you were.”

  “Really? Who was that?”

  “I didn’t catch his name.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Chubby, about 60, pot-belly, stubble.”

  “Hmm, that could be half the population of Pelette.”

  Paul laughed. “He was sitting outside the grocer’s shop with an old gentleman in a serge suit.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I’d no idea people really wore serge. And they had a three-legged dog with them.”

  “Oh, that’s Fred the Bread, his father Monsieur Bertrand and Fifi.”

  “‘Fred the Bread’? He’s the baker, right?”

  She smiled brightly and handed him the camera. “You got it. Well, you make a start with that and I’ll fetch us a drink. Beer okay?”

  “That would be great.”

  When she returned with their drinks, Paul had all the house pictures on the computer, ready for her to look at. She peered at the screen as the slide show started and the images swept by.

  “Kitchen, bedroom 1, bedroom 2, view from the balcony, back terrace, chickens, Fudge and Mousey – ooh, better delete those. We don’t want to frighten the anti-bird people and cat-phobics.”

  “I think you should keep them,” said Paul, taking a swig from his beer. “It suggests that this is a homely place to stay.”

  “Hmm, maybe. Ah, here’s bedroom 3, the big courtyard, more chickens. What’s next?”

  The photos that Irina had taken of Rachel prancing around on the terrace flashed up in front of them.

  “Oh definitely delete those!”

  “They’re lovely. Keep them,” said Paul, putting them into the ‘Website’ folder.

  “Are you familiar with the English concept of beer goggles?”

  Paul shook his head slowly. “‘Beer goggles’? No, I don’t think I am,” he said, tipping the last of the beer into his mouth. “But another of these small beers would be nice.”

  “Coming up.”

  They spent the next half an hour making pages for the website and choosing pictures for each of them.

  “It looks great,” said Rachel. “We’re nearly done!”

  “Er, not quite. You have to put some words in yet.”

  She groaned. “I do pictures. I’m rubbish with words.”

  “It’s not that hard. Just tell me about the rooms and I’ll write it down.”

  So that’s what they did. They looked at the photographs and Rachel explained which room was which, how many people each of them could take, what the views were like, and so on. After another half hour they had filled most of the pages and finished their second beer.

  Rachel, who was bored by this time, yawned and stretched. “Thanks so much Paul. I could never have done it without you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, you’ve still got to write a description of the guest house for the Home page that will persuade people to choose you.”

  “Have I? Oh dear.” She blew across the top of her empty beer bottle making it whistle and gazed up at the ceiling. “What about ‘Nice house in the countryside’?”

  Paul frowned. “Don’t you think that’s perhaps a bit boring?”

  “Probably. What about ‘Peaceful country retreat . . .?’ No, that makes us sounds like Buddhists.”

  “How about ‘Traditional guest house in, er . . .’”

  “In the middle of nowhere? Hmm, I’m not sure that sounds right either.” She peered into her empty bottle. “I’m going to put supper on and get us another drink.” As she got up from her chair, she patted him playfully on the thigh. “You carry on.”

  He gave her an amused look. “Okay boss.”

  Feeling quite wicked she skipped down to the kitchen past her son, who was watching a film on the TV.

  “Will you set the table for me, sweetheart? And tell Alice that supper won’t be long. I’m just finishing off with Monsieur Callot.”

  Charlie grunted, stopped the film and hoisted himself up from the sofa. “Good. I’m starving.”

  Rachel put the casserole in the oven and kissed her son as she headed back to the office.

  “Why are you making that noise?”

  “What noise, love?”

  “You’re humming.”

  “Am I?” she laughed. “Yes, perhaps I am.”

  She was definitely humming when she got back to the office and sat down in her place next to Paul, who was concentrating on the screen.

  “Okay, I think I’ve got it,” he said. “‘A warm welcome awaits you in rural France’. What do you think?”

  Rachel screwed up her face. “It’s a bit cheesy, but I guess it will do.”

  “Let’s put it up there for now,” said Paul, bending over the keyboard and tapping in the words with two fingers. “You can always change it later.” He gave her a sideways glance. “If you can think of anything better, that is.”

  Rachel lent back in her chair and studied the back of Paul’s head, thinking that the separate curls of his hair were the colour of wood ash, ranging from black to the palest of greys. The evening was cool and he had put on a textured purple sweater that reminded her of moorland heather. She was thinking what nice shoulders he had, when he turned and caught her looking at him. He held her glance for a moment with his blue-grey eyes.

  “Anything else?”

  “Sorry,” she asked, realising that her mind had wandered far away from the matter at hand.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to say about the guest house? Does it have a name, for example?”

  “A name? Golly, I suppose we do need a name.” She spun on her chair, biting a nail. “Well, the house is called Tournesol – sunflower.”

  Paul nodded and typed. “‘A warm welcome is guaranteed at the Tournesol Guest House.’” Next to it he put a photo of Rachel in green and purple smiling at the camera.

>   Rachel laughed. “How could anyone resist that!”

  He span around to face her, his expression suddenly quite serious. “Impossible,” he said, quietly.

  Rachel felt an unexpected thrill run through her as their eyes met and didn’t know what to say.

  Paul smiled and clinked his bottle against hers. “Do I get supper now?”

  “You do!” she said, coming back to reality. “I hope you like lamb casserole.”

  “Love it.”

  Rachel left Paul in the sitting room with Charlie while she went to make a salad. Alice joined her in the kitchen.

  “Who’s that man?”

  “That’s Paul Callot from the picture framer’s and he has been helping me with the guest house website.” Rachel looked nervously across at her daughter. “Is that all right with you?”

  Alice shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Good,” said Rachel with a smile. She wasn’t sure why she cared what her children thought about Paul, but she did. “Can you call them in, please love?”

  Charlie came in with Paul, the two of them in a dense conversation about computer games.

  “I’ll show you sometime, if you like?”

  “That would be great, Charlie. I’ve heard a lot about RuneScape but I don’t know how it works.”

  Rachel smiled and handed Paul a plate, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ as she did so.

  * * *

  After the meal, the children went back to their TV and texting, and the adults lingered at the table, nibbling on hunks of local cheese and finishing the wine.

  Paul looked up at the clock. “We’re not going to get the map and the pricing information on there tonight, I’m afraid.”

  Rachel nodded. “I guess I’ll manage the rest.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .”

  “Okay, okay! I know I’m hopeless.” She looked at him, emboldened by the red wine and conversation. “I don’t suppose you’d consider coming back to help? For a fee obviously.”

  He lent back in the chair and raised his glass to her. “For a supper like that and your charming company, I would be very happy to help.”

  “Good, great,” she said, pouring out the coffee and offering him pralines. Was he flirting with her? She looked at the second empty bottle on the table.

  “You know, I really can’t let you drive home after all the beer and the wine. You are very welcome to stay – I mean, we have plenty of beds,” she added, in case he thought she was after him.

  Paul hesitated for a moment then smiled and nodded. “If that’s no problem, it would probably be wise.”

  Rachel stood. “Good. Well, pick a bed – er, I mean a room – and I’ll just tidy up here.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble. I know the rooms are all set up for your guests. I’ll be fine down here.”

  She was torn between being a generous hostess and the thought of having to strip the brand-new linen off one of the beds and remake the darned thing. Laziness won.

  “Well, if you wouldn’t mind, the sofa in the sitting room is ever so comfortable . . .”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all. Really.”

  “And there’s a downstairs loo. So, okay,” she said, smiling nervously. “I’ll bring down some bedding. And something for you to wear.”

  He caught her by the wrist and gave her a lazy smile. “I’m in your hands.”

  Blimey, she thought, skipping up the stairs. If the kids weren’t here I don’t know what might happen. She went to the linen cupboard and pulled out a single duvet, a sheet, pillows, towel and a toothbrush and threw them downstairs to where Paul was waiting.

  “Sorry,” she said, wrestling with a pillowcase. “This is ‘house’ bed linen for the kids and me. I’m keeping all the good stuff for paying guests. God, that sounds awful!”

  Paul laughed as he stuffed the duvet into its cover. “That’s fine. I’m just happy not having to drive home past the local gendarme.”

  Rachel could have told him that the local gendarme was based 60km away and only came anywhere near Pelette on high days and holidays, but decided not to.

  “I do hope you’ll be comfy,” she said, dislodging a plastic toy from down the side of the raspberry red sofa as she shook out a sheet and threw down a pillow. “I’m afraid the bed linen is rather garish.”

  “It’s fine, really.” Paul lay down on the duvet, his hands folded behind his head. “I’m a big fan of ‘My Little Pony’.”

  She handed him one of Michael’s old T-shirts to sleep in. “And Metallica?”

  “My favourite band.”

  She laughed. “You are a very easy house guest.”

  He got up from the sofa and came towards her. She held her breath, half hoping that he’d press his mouth on hers, but instead she felt his lips against one cheek and then the other, his hands on her arms.

  “Goodnight Rachel. And thank you for a very nice evening.”

  She opened her eyes to find him ever so close. He had taken off his sweater earlier in the evening and she could see one or two curls from his chest through the gap in his shirt.

  “Well, sleep well Paul.”

  Controlling the urge to grab and kiss him properly, she said goodnight and went upstairs to her room. There, she couldn’t sleep for thinking of him lying below her. Okay, the ‘My Little Pony’ bed linen was a bit of a passion killer, but she still felt excited at the thought of a man who wasn’t Michael coming into her life.

  Chapter 11: The Morning After

  The next morning Rachel took extra care getting dressed before going downstairs to find her guest. She hesitated at the sitting room door, wondering whether or not to knock. What was the etiquette when you had a man you barely knew but definitely fancied sleeping on your sofa? What would Paul think if she tapped and opened the door? Yikes – what if he invited her in to join him? Her imagination was running riot.

  She walked into the kitchen and got a glass, deciding that she really wanted to know whether he was awake or not. She held the glass against the heavy wooden door and pressed one ear to it. She stuffed a finger in the other ear so she could hear better, but it was hopeless: all she could hear was her own heartbeat and the blood swooshing around her body.

  “Darn,” she muttered, deciding that she would just have to be patient and wait for Paul to get up when he was ready. She was just about to tiptoe away, when she remembered the lock low down on the door. Sinking down into a squat, she placed an eye against the keyhole and squinted into the room.

  Ahead of her she could see a mound of lurid pink and purple duvet and the sole of one brown foot sticking up over the arm of the sofa. She chuckled at the thought of going in and tickling it, but decided that the sensible thing to do would be to make a big pot of coffee and see if the aroma would lure him out.

  “You drop something, Madame?”

  Irina’s voice at full volume made Rachel swear and topple backwards onto the floor.

  “Oh, you gave me a fright!” she said, bringing a hand to her chest where her heart was pounding.

  Irina stood over her, arms folded across her chest looking a bit miffed. “I wipe the door and I polish the handle every week.”

  “Your work is immaculate,” hissed Rachel, from where she sat with her back against the wall, the empty glass clutched in her hand.

  “You have problem with throat, Madame? Your voice is sounding funny.”

  Rachel patted her throat, “I’m fine really.”

  Irina raised one sharply defined eyebrow. “And why you sit on the ground?”

  “No particular reason,” whispered Rachel, shrugging her shoulders. She then watched in horror as the beautifully polished brass knob slowly turned and the door opened to reveal Paul Callot in Michael’s Metallica T-shirt and a pair of blue and white striped boxer shorts.

  From her position on the floor Rachel was at eye level with his shorts. Lifting her gaze to preserve his modesty, she gave Paul a wave in what she hoped was a casual manner.

  “Good mornin
g. I hope you slept well?”

  Paul looked blearily from Rachel to Irina, who had a barely suppressed smirk across her face. Paul ran a hand across his chin, which now sported a rather attractive sprinkling of salt-and-pepper stubble. “Are you all right down there?”

  Rachel smiled and got to her feet. “Yes, yes. Just checking for, er . . .” Her mind went a complete blank as her mouth opened but no words came out. What possible reason was there for her to be on hands and knees directly outside Paul’s room?

  After what seemed like an age, Irina broke the silence. “Spiders, Madame?”

  The woman was worth her weight in gold. “Spiders, yes! I can’t stand them, you see,” she added, turning to her guest. “Have you met Irina, my wonderful housekeeper?”

  Paul extended a hand to Irina, both of them ignoring the fact that he was in his underwear.

  Rachel grinned desperately. “Yes, excellent work. There are definitely no spiders to catch down here.” She handed the glass to Irina. “Do carry on.”

  Irina turned and headed back to the laundry room from where she could be heard trying and failing to suppress a laugh.

  Rachel got to her feet, dusting off her hands. “Is there anything you need?” she asked brightly. “Coffee?”

  “Could I have a shower perhaps?”

  “Sure, help yourself.” She pointed him in the direction of the bathroom then went into the kitchen to feed the cats. She stood at the sink, her head in her hands groaning.

  “He’s going to think that I’m completely mad.” She sighed deeply. “But we must just carry on as normal, pusskins. It’s the only way.”

  Twenty minutes later Paul came into the room, his damp hair brushed back in unruly strands on his head. He smelled fresh and clean and Rachel had a vision of herself nuzzling his neck. Instead she smiled and asked him again how he had slept.

  “Not too bad, thanks.” He dug in his jeans pocket and dug out a plastic soldier and a tiny pink shoe that he placed on the kitchen table. “You might be needing these.”

  Rachel picked up the shoe and smiled at it. “You know, Barbie has spent years looking for that.” Grimacing, she poured them each a coffee. “Oh dear – was the sofa really uncomfortable?”