The French Lesson

by Robyn Elliot

  “You’re saying I’m thin!” Danny had pouted, teasing, the second night together, when Stef had commented on Danny’s habit of leaving food on his plate.

  “Yes!” Stef had shot back, leaving Danny momentarily nonplussed. Fork still poised mid- air, he had spluttered his indignation. He’d expected Stef to say, no, babe, of course you’re not thin! The smug French shit. That was another thing. Stef’s frankness and occasional bluntness. It was something Stef was understanding he’d have to work on, for Danny if no one else.

  “Well, thanks…you are supposed to tell me I am perfect!” Danny had said, only half joking.

  Stef had sat back in his chair, took a deep and substantial swig of wine and gave Danny one of his most smoldering looks. “You are, Danny; you are so fucking beautiful I can’t take my eyes off you. You’re sexy, dirty, prim, uptight, slutty, gorgeous, with the most delicious, tight body that leaves me more or less with a permanent semi. And yes, you don’t eat enough, because you hate making a mess in the kitchen, and as a consequence, baby, you are very slender.”

  “You said thin.”

  “No, you said that; I concurred, to a degree, Danny, but you’ve just heard that one thing and ignored the rest.”

  “Stop being reasonable.”

  “And you stop behaving like a spoilt brat – even though you are one, clearly – else I will have to take you over my knee again. Like this morning, remember, when you were begging me to spank you while you jacked yourself off.” Danny had wriggled in his chair, and found moral support in his wine glass, fighting down the furious flush that had risen in his cheeks.

  Facial cheeks, that is.

  He’d started it, but Stef was good at finishing this kind of stuff. “I may have to be very firm with you tonight, Danny; now, eat your dinner, all of it, then we can have a hot bath together – I know how much you like steam – before I remind you how much I adore my sexy, English drama queen. “

  “I hated drama at school,” Danny replied in willing defeat, smiling seductively at Stef over the rim of his wine glass.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “Please tell me some more about France, Stef.” Danny was resting his head against Stef’s shoulder, as Stef absently caressed his hair.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Can you be a bit more specific, babe?”

  Danny lifted his head, kissed Stef’s lips. “Well, what about your friends? You must miss them…”

  Stef shrugged. “Of course.”

  “Well?” Danny encouraged, nudging him slightly.

  “What about yours?” Stef asked.

  There it was. Again. It was starting to irritate Danny, if he was honest with himself. Stef, deflecting Danny’s attempts to learn more about the man he wanted to be with for the rest of his life. Not an unreasonable aim, by any standards.

  “You know I have few friends, Stef,” Danny paused, feeling a little uncomfortable. He guessed rightly that Stef had lots of friends back in France, and that he would have to negotiate the whirlpool of long standing friendships, no doubt several ex partners, and the curiosity of every single one of them when Stef finally introduced him.

  In Danny’s febrile mind set, these friends were the equivalent of gods, if Stef’s looks were anything to go by. Oh, and of course, Danny imagined them to be coldly polite, whilst talking behind their hands. “There’s Katharine, Greg at Chambers (Stef had made a point of finding out if he was straight or not – he was, and Stef had felt much better knowing it), Paul, Greta and Sam from uni...that’s it, and even then, I haven’t spoken to Greta and Sam for a while.” Or Katharine. Shit, she’ll kill me, Danny’s thoughts idled for a few seconds.

  Then, Stef passed sentence of death. “I'll introduce you bit by bit, at meals and parties, that kind of thing.”

  Danny faked a smile, nodding, trying not to swallow hard. Knew it, knew it. Bit by bit? Didn’t that imply that were so many of them, he’d have to meet them – all – by degrees rather than getting it over in one fell swoop. Oh God, Danny thought, me and my big mouth. “I suppose…well, are they lecturers like you?”

  Stef sat forward, extricating himself from Danny. “Some of them, yes; like you, I’ve known them since university, though a lot of them are now in couples so friends have kind of doubled over the years.”

  “Straight and gay?” Danny asked.

  Stef stretched, nodding then yawning, flopping back against the sofa. “Can I smoke in here?” he asked in vain. He already knew the answer, he just wanted to distract Danny from his Inspector Clouseau improvisation.

  Danny hated the fact that Stef smoked; and he wasn’t impressed, either, by Stef’s assertion that back in France he had smoked far more. Standing in the bathroom, the window open, leaning out whilst inhaling nicotine wasn’t Stef’s idea of relaxation, after they’d had sex or food. And he was trying to cut down, more for Danny than anything else. Not that he smoked that many, but Danny was insistent that his mission was to have Stef completely off cigarettes by Christmas. Whereas with anyone else, Stef would have told them to fuck off, he loved Danny and, unnervingly for Stef, he wanted to please someone more than himself.

  “No smoking in here, Stef, and I fail to understand why you keep asking me a question to which you already know the answer.”

  Stef shook his head, laughing. “Hello, still the barrister there, Mr. Hastings; you little posh shit.”

  “Oh, sorry, Monsieur I Live In A Chateau...”

  “Kiss me,” Stef insisted, leaning over to cover Danny’s slightly protesting lips with his own. God, his uptight boyfriend tasted great. All of him.

  “So when will I met some of your friends?” Danny pulled back, determined not to be distracted by the stiffening in his groin.

  Stef stood up, fishing in his jeans for his cigarettes and lighter. “When we’re in France, obviously.”

  Danny folded his arms and gave Stef one of his barrister looks, just to wind Stef up. “Hmm, you’re being very cagey…I think you’re hiding something, Stephane Clermont...” Danny hadn’t finished the sentence, smiling as he said it, only meaning to tease, before Stef rounded on him suddenly.

  “You know what, Danny? Don’t put all your paranoia on me!”

  Danny spluttered in surprise. “Stef...I was just joking…”

  “If you want to pry, why don’t you go and ask Maman, or better still, ask Guillaume seeing as he thinks he’s my moral guardian…” and with that, Stef made his way upstairs, leaving Danny slightly dumbfounded.

  Shit, I’ve hit a nerve, Danny immediately registered. So what is my dream guy hiding? And Guillaume? The familiar washing machine churn of his stomach reminded Danny he still had a long way to go on the road to recovery. It was going to take more than sex, albeit hot and beautiful and magnificent, to stop the panic attacks, the terrors, the stalking fear that sometimes he really was quite mad.

  Then, he thought, hold on a minute! Prying! All I was asking was about friends, and wanting to know a little bit about him, and he tells me I’m prying like I was some fucking stranger!

  Danny followed Stef upstairs, wrinkling his nose at the smell of cigarette smoke emanating from the bathroom, along with the cold blast of their first official row. Stef had pulled the sash window up, resting his elbows on the ledge, smoking in the nonchalant manner only Stef could do. He turned when he saw Danny appear, seeing the look on Danny’s face.

  “Sorry I shouted, there,” he conceded, knowing Danny was still fragile.

  “I’m sorry too…for upsetting you, sweetheart.”

  Stef’s cock quivered. He loved Danny’s breathy little endearments, so very touching, so English, so very Danny.

  “You haven’t upset me,” Stef assured him.

  Danny came and sat on the lid of the wooden loo seat. He put his hand in the small of Stef’s back, rubbing the hard muscle there. They were quiet for a few moments, the only sound Stef’s nicotine fueled inhalations.

  “What
’s wrong?” Danny ventured, “something’s wrong, did I hit a nerve, Stef? Whatever it is, you know you can tell me. I love you.”

  “No, you didn’t hit any nerve, it’s just that lately both Guillaume and Maman have been nagging me.”

  Stef tapped ash onto the window ledge.

  “About?”

  Stef sighed, staring out of the window, his eyes following the twirling pigeon on the opposite roof, trying his avian heart out to tempt the indifferent hen. “Nothing much,” Stef said, making Danny roll his eyes and make a noise of disapproval.

  “For goodness sake, Stef, it’s like getting blood out of a stone.”

  “I don’t know what it is you particularly want to know.”

  “It’s perfectly natural to want to know about your life, Stef. All I do know is that you used to lecture in Paris, you left because of that lying student, you and Guillaume get on each other’s nerves, your parents are called Elisabeth and Jean-Claude, and live in a chateau a thirty-minute drive out of Paris; oh, and that you have a sister, Delphine, you have lots of friends, you’ve had lots of lovers…”

  “You’re being sarcastic,” Stef interrupted Danny in mid flow.

  “I’m not, Stef; but really, that’s all I know. I mean, I get this feeling you’ve got some deep and dark secret and that’s why you left France, because it became too much for you and you have this terror that I’ll find out that you were…once a woman.”

  “Ha-ha, very unfunny, Danny.”

  “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Do I look like a woman? Look, I have no secrets from you. I love you, I want you, every time I look at you my cock salutes you, I’m so fucking glad you are in my life, Danny. How many more times must I say it to convince you?”

  “I don’t need convincing you love me,” Danny said, unconvincingly, “it’s just the way you reacted downstairs, when I was joking…it made me think, that’s all.”

  “Ah, and that’s dangerous territory, babe, you know what happens when you start thinking.”

  “So,” Danny pressed, “has something happened in France? Is that why you came to London,” he paused, gathering himself, “to escape?”

  Stef waved his hand, indicating for Danny to stand up so Stef could dispose of the cigarette butt down the loo.

  “I left France because I needed a different environment for a while; nothing sinister, no secrets, just…”

  “Is this about Antoine?”

  Stef was caught off guard at the mention of his ex. “And who the hell told you about him? Oh, I see, the world service of Guillaume.”

  “No.”

  “Who then?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It’s not about Antoine.”

  Danny’s ears pricked up. There was more barrister in him than he realized. “So there is something, then…”

  “No.”

  “It’s not about Antoine you said, meaning...”

  “Meaning nothing, Danny! Antoine is history of the most ancient variety, and stop fishing for details about my ex lays!”

  “Charmingly put, Stef. I wasn’t, though, truly I wasn’t.”

  Stef looked at Danny then, saw the sweet earnestness of his expression. “Okay, listen. Everything just became…complicated for me, back home. I need some time to think, which is very different from your conclusions, Poirot.”

  “I prefer Clouseau.”

  Stef rubbed at his beard. “Hmm, I can see why, chaos and all that.” He laughed, but sat down on the edge of the bath with a darkening expression on his face. He was aware how Danny’s eyes were moving searchingly over him, as if trying to prise the truth from Stef's body language alone.

  Danny was no fool, Stef knew; annoyingly spoilt, in some ways, caring, loving, trusting, as well as being a candidate for neurotic of the year. Danny was also the guy who was threatening to change everything.

  “Fancy a coffee, babe?” Stef asked, and Danny nodded, glad for something practical to do, as he padded down the stairs to the kitchen to make some. Stef shut the bathroom window, and stood still, as if rooted to the spot, staring at some speck on the glass. He hadn’t taken into account, when leaving France and leaving the complications behind, that in England he’d fall irrevocably in love. Stef swallowed hard. It took a lot to scare him, to make him nervy and worrisome. That was Danny’s specialty, but it seemed it was catching. He knew Danny would be appalled with him, just like Guillaume, and Maman and especially Papa. Especially Papa.

  Father and son had had a terrible row before Stef had left for London. Stef and Jean-Claude had always endured a prickly relationship, lacking the steadiness of Guillaume, and disliking Stef’s unpredictability. Everything with Madeleine created proof for Jean-Claude, if he ever needed any, that his younger son was the epitome of irresponsible, selfish behavior. Stef had thrown several accusations back at this father, with Elisabeth between them trying to defuse two incendiary tempers; there was the irony. Stef had inherited his father’s passionate nature and hot temper. Stef reminded his father that no matter what he, Stef, did, it was never good enough, successful enough, principled enough to meet his father’s ridiculous standards. And such expectation, Stef had flung at Jean-Claude, from a hypocrite who betrayed his own wife any chance he got.

  All hell had broken loose then. It was true; or had been. Early in their marriage, it had taken Stef’s father a bit of time – well, try a few years – to stop thinking he was still a single man. But the wounds of those past years were still ready to be flayed open, when Stef and his father fought.

  Stef understood, if he was prepared to admit it to himself, why his father was so bitterly disappointed in him. But Stef hadn’t been ready to take a long, hard look at himself and accept his responsibility to Madeleine. Danny had made things happier and more wonderful for Stef than they had ever been...only with Danny came commitment. And try as he might, Stef could not think of a way to circumvent the responsibilities of his life in France, whilst being with Danny.

  Something had to give. Or someone.

  Stef came downstairs, in time to hear his mobile phone ringing on Danny’s kitchen table – the well and truly christened kitchen table. He picked up the 'phone, and wrapped his arm around Danny’s waist, nuzzling his neck.

  Stef groaned inwardly but not from arousal, for once.

  “I’ve left messages on your phone, and you should have given me Danny’s number,” Guillaume's urgent voice making Stef’s head start to ache.

  “Well, you’re talking to me now. Either you want me to do a shift, or Marshal Petain is nagging me by proxy,” Stef replied to his brother's sharp tone.

  “Nothing so straightforward, baby brother. Er, we have a visitor here, Stephane.”

  The aroma of coffee and Danny’s warm, soft skin made Stef feel unusually benevolent to his brother’s bossiness.

  “Whoever it is, tell them the cheque’s in the post.”

  “Tell him yourself, seeing as we can’t get rid of him until he’s seen you.”

  Slowly, a cold trickle of reality ran down Stef’s spine.

  “Please say you’re kidding me, Guillaume.”

  Danny stroked Stef’s face, loving him, adoring him, seeing the tension suddenly make Stef’s features pinched, harsh.

  “Well, as much as I would like to make a joke about your ghastly taste – previous ghastly taste in men, rather – it’s a bit difficult with the ghastliest of them all sitting in my kitchen eating my food and drinking my wine.”

  “What the hell’s he doing there?” Stef snapped, locking eyes with Danny, feeling that everything was about to go shitwards.

  Danny straightened his back, unconsciously bracing himself. A cold feeling seeped over him, as if a bucket of water had been tipped down his spine.

  “Since when could either of us ever work out Antoine?”

  For once, Stef had to agree with his brother. “Give me half an hour, I’ll be there,” Stef said heavily, more or less knowing why Antoine had shown up. Shit stirring was a
n Antoine specialty.

  “Trouble?” Danny asked, his face pale, fretful.

  Indeed, that is his middle name. Look, don’t worry, Danny, but…well, I must go…”

  Chapter Nine

  Stephane was taking the longest taxi journey of his life. Seemed like it, as the rain started up again, streaming sideways across the thick, Perspex windows. It had rained when he and Danny had taken a taxi a few days ago, to Danny’s home. To love, be loved and make love. That twenty-minute journey, which had comprised longing glances, the surreptitious holding of hands, fingers fused in a caress that meant commitment, and happy every after-ness. Only the rain had been lighter than, sweeter and clear with spring-like hope for the future. Now, it lashed against the windows of the taxi with a foreboding kind of menace, dark rivulets streak-staining the Perspex, and somewhere in the back of Stef’s mind, he imagined Danny wanting to clean away the stains, and wipe away all the tears.

  Tears. Stef had pulled up the collar of his jacket when he’d got into the taxi, which the driver accurately translated into a 'don’t speak to me, okay'? And Stef had rubbed at his eyes when the sting pressed behind his pupils, threatening to turn to liquid heartbreak on his cheeks. Tears. They’d still escaped; this pain was not to be shored up by flippancy and denial, Stef’s usual techniques of coping over the years.

  No, this pain was a pain all of its own. It was the kind of pain that made Stef’s entire body throb with aching, and he knew then, in that taxi which was taking him to face the assuredly dissonant music, that heartbreak was as sensory as it was emotional. And lo and behold, for Stef, that was wisdom…too late, too late thrummed the rain against the windows.