‘Do you like it?’ he asked.
‘It’s nice,’ I nodded. Everything was becoming nice. I made a mental note to stop using that word. His presence escalated my self-consciousness and my vocabulary became limited.
Fidgeting in my seat, the second he told me the name of the artist on the CD, the instant I forgot. My bra was still uncomfortable.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
The damned bra was too tight, but I needed it clasped firm and tort, to support my chest in the right position. What I hadn’t accounted for was the heat causing things to swell.
‘All good,’ I lied, ready to explode.
‘My place is about twenty minutes away. Shouldn’t take long, there’s not much traffic around today,’ he said.
He looked across at me with his big toothy characteristic grin. I forced a smile. The thought of another twenty minutes at least in tight lingerie made me feel less sexy super-babe and more like a sausage in a pan.
I hoped Marc was worth the discomfort. I rested my elbow on the window as we chatted. Focusing on the views, I tried to forget about Annie. But the main roads and traffic were not inspiring. Eventually, we turned into a tree-lined road.
‘ ’Ere it is,’ he said, pulling up outside a quaint house, nothing like I’d pictured.
It wasn’t a Parisian apartment, but we weren’t in the centre. We were rural, and a good distance from central Paris. It was a countryside home, with a courtyard full of plants and flowers, making me wonder if he’d borrowed a place to impress me. He didn’t seem the green-fingered type or an avid gardener. But I liked it much better than any city apartment.
‘This is ’ome, for now at least… it’s rented. The landlady looks after the garden,’ he said. It made sense. Seeing where he lived was like discovering another part of him.
He unlocked the door. I followed him in and took off my sandals. The terracotta floor tiles cooled my bare feet. The walls were white and fresh looking. The porch led into the sitting room, which faced directly onto the stairs. It had a low lintel, too small for Marc’s height. I could tell just by looking that he must have hit his head on that lintel more than once. I smirked, envisioning the clonk to his head.
‘Please, make yourself at ’ome,’ he said, resting my bag down next to the stairs.
I sat down on his sofa. Then I bounced up and down.
‘Comfy,’ I said, turning to look at him.
What the hell was I doing? I stopped bouncing, like I was testing it out in a shop. I wasn’t usually a performing monkey. I didn’t usually display bizarre habits. But he was watching me. And I felt nervous, being in his lair. I drew a sharp intake of breath and promised myself I’d stop being weird. Acting completely normal was difficult.
‘I’ll get us the champagne,’ he said.
As he walked off to the kitchen, I covered my face. Oh God, he thinks I’m a freak. Emma knew I was peculiar, but I’d hoped not to reveal that to Marc so soon. Moments later, he returned with two glasses and some chilled champagne.
‘So ’ere we are. Thank you for coming,’ he said and handed me a delicate flute.
‘Thank you for having me,’ I replied politely as we clinked glasses.
Shit. Had I really just said that? Thanks for having me was a phrase my Mum had drilled into me as a child, and it still obediently and automatically replayed each time polite behaviour was prompted. Trying to banish further thoughts, I forgave myself.
‘I’m making chicken curry for dinner. I ’ope you like it?’ he asked.
‘I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t be too impressed. I’m sorry but I’m using a jar,’ he said.
‘If you hadn’t have told me, I wouldn’t have known,’ I said, laughing.
It was an honest confession that surprised me because the French always seemed super proud of their cuisine.
‘I ’ave plenty of time to impress you yet. We ’ave two days together. And ’ow am I doing so far?’ he asked, with a cheeky grin.
‘You’ve only just started, so you definitely need to keep trying,’ I said, smiling.
‘An ’ard woman to please,’ he said with another smile.
He topped up our champagne. Marc was a good host. He soon put me at ease and I relaxed in his company, or maybe that was the champagne. I hadn’t decided. Curling my legs up onto his sofa, I chilled out whilst he was in the kitchen.
When he emerged, he was carrying two plates of chicken curry. He walked past the sofa to the large, heavy looking table behind and placed them down.
‘Dinner is ready. It doesn’t look too good… but it tastes okay,’ he said.
He seemed embarrassed by his efforts. And it wasn’t the high self-assurance I’d have expected from a Frenchman delivering home-cooked cuisine, despite being assisted by a jar of commercial sauce. But I wasn’t any better. In the Penthouse, the sound of the microwave ping was a regular occurrence. I kept that to myself.
He pulled out a chair for me at the table and beckoned me over. He seated me at his table. Inspecting the plate, it looked like chunks of chicken in an anaemic yellow sauce. But I couldn’t have cared less.
‘Looks good to me,’ I said.
‘Here, let me get you a glass of red. The French ’ave to ’ave wine before a meal,’ he said.
Not only was he feeding me but attempting to educate me too. Did he think I lacked awareness of French culture? My knowledge wasn’t extensive, but it wasn’t completely non-existent.
‘So, are you now trying to get me drunk on champagne and red wine?’ I asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said with a huge smile.
I’d heard about Frenchmen having an in-bred knowledge of selecting wine for a meal – the Holy Trinity of French cuisine. Not that I knew anything about wine or cuisine, but I knew what I liked. And I liked him. He’d already lived up to his stereotypical talent for god-given sex appeal. He’d also been dealt more than his share of the romance genes at birth. And although he hadn’t served up a culinary masterpiece, he was probably saving his best talent for dessert. Passion in abundance. The iconic art of seduction French style. I took a large gulp of champagne. What did he think of me? Was I starchy and English?
Pulling a cigarette lighter from his pocket, he lit a large white candle and moved it to the centre of the table. As he placed the lighter by the edge of his plate directly in my line of view, I was reminded again that he was a smoker. But I hadn’t detected a smell of smoke on him or in his place. Not that I cared. Things were perfect.
Playing with my fork, poking at the curry on my plate before finally trying it, it was edible, but I still wasn’t hungry. But as he’d gone to the trouble of cooking, I felt obliged to eat his offerings and managed to swallow small mouthfuls.
He touched the lighter with his fingers, making me wonder whether he had an urge and was accustomed to finishing off his meals with a smoke.
‘So, how do you manage the running and smoking?’ I teased.
He shrugged.
‘Look, I like fine wine, good food and I enjoy smoking. I run because of the food and wine, but I’m not giving up the smoking. I like that too.’ He smiled at me. ‘I’m not giving any of that up just because it might not be good for me. Okay?’ The okay was a statement, not a question. It was clear that he did as he pleased, confirming my suspicions about his stubbornness and Darcy-esque similarities.
We rounded off the meal draining the bottle of red. As the large round rim of my glass touched my face, I became vaguely aware of the potential for causing a stained expression. The type of look I accidentally achieved with lipstick, although usually confined to my mouth and teeth. But the combined effects of champagne and wine diluted my nerves and self-consciousness. And he was too polite to point out my lack of sophistication. Contentedly, I smiled.
He got up to tidy away the plates.
‘Let me help,
’ I said.
‘No. Please, you are my guest.’
And I really like being your guest, I whispered to myself before slurping the remains of my wine as he made his way towards the kitchen. When he returned, he gestured his hand towards the sofa, inviting me over. He collected our champagne glasses and set them down on the little glass coffee table in front. Then he sat next to me on the sofa, closer than before. The light flow of conversation had so far been general, but I wanted to concentrate a spotlight on him. And know all about him. I hardly knew anything.
‘Seeing as you know about me, time to tell me about your hobbies,’ I said.
‘I like sailing. It’s in my blood. I grew up with it as a young boy by the coast in France. I love the ocean. And you?’ he asked.
‘I’ve only done a bit. I learned to sail dinghies on a reservoir in England. Does that count?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ he said too chirpily, so I didn’t believe him.
‘Oh, and my granddad keeps a yacht in the Caribbean,’ I said.
‘You get to use it?’ he said, his eyes sparkling when they looked at me. Whether it was his interest in me or the mention of the Caribbean sailing that was holding his attention, I couldn’t decide.
‘Only once, when he was in Italy, not the Caribbean. It was the holiday before I started university. I spent a week sailing around the coast of southern Italy when he was out that way. We travelled by car to Pisa and then got the train to La Spezia,’ I said, purposefully leaving out the part about it being a terrible car journey. ‘The views look amazing from a yacht. Watching the coastline was stunning. At night, I remember watching the glow of pretty red candles in the distance and poking my head through the porthole in my cabin to look at the coastline and stars in the sky… for hours. It was funny, sort of. But only afterwards. I arrived with this massive suitcase to take on his yacht.’
‘No way,’ he laughed.
‘Yeah. Anyway, Sam, my evil and disgusting younger brother, thought it funnier to let me take it. That’s brotherly love for you.’
‘Disgusting brother?’ Marc raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes. He virtually lived in the clothes he went in and was more than happy to join the great unwashed the whole time we were there. He’s disgusting like that,’ I said.
‘It’s a bit like that with some sailing,’ he said.
‘I didn’t mean that all sailors are revolting,’ I added quickly, having remembered that some Frenchmen had a reputation for being a bit smelly. I hoped he didn’t think that I was implying that he had a lack of hygiene. Silently, I cursed.
‘And what ’appened to your case?’ he asked.
‘My granddad and brother tried to pull it on board. I had visions of watching my suitcase sink into the harbour after their first attempt failed, but fortunately my granddad came up with the sensible idea of unpacking some stuff to get it on board and make it lighter. Well, I hadn’t realised that a suitcase wasn’t appropriate for a boat, and if no one tells you, how are you supposed to know?’ I asked.
‘Of course.’ He smiled at me. ‘We’ll get you a couple of smaller bags for my boat.’
‘Excellent. I like shopping,’ I said, whilst mentally noting the part about him mentioning us going to his boat, which would involve another date.
Telling stuff to Marc was easy. In a typed email, it wouldn’t have been the same. It reminded me of wanting to tell him about flying over Corsica that time.
‘I have to tell you about Italy; it’s beautiful,’ I said.
‘Go on,’ he said and nodded.
‘The ocean is crystal clear by the coastline. There’s all these delicate coloured fish that glisten in the sunlight. They layer the water in size, starting off tiny and getting bigger closer to the seabed. I’d never seen the bottom of the seabed until going to Italy, and I mean being quite a way out from the shore in a boat and the water being clear enough to see it all.’ I had no idea if he was interested in what I was telling him, but when he continued to nod I interpreted it as positive.
‘Amazing stuff,’ he replied.
‘We threw out an anchor and I swam in the sea, which I loved. When I climbed back on board, having survived climbing up the ladder with metal rungs – which really hurt my feet – then I got seasick. I lay down and tried to fix my gaze, which is what you’re supposed to do, right?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘It must have been the sudden motion. According to my granddad, I had yet to find my sea legs.’
Oh God – did I just mention being seasick? I took a breath, and worried about having rambled on too much and the mention of vomit.
‘I didn’t even know there was a whole community out at sea either,’ I said, thinking that further ramblings might help cover up the vomit.
‘No?’ said Marc, tilting his head to one side.
‘People pass each other on boats and get to know each other, having moored together somewhere previously, or the ice-cream boats that look exactly the same on water as they do on land, minus the wheels, because it’s a boat.’ Marc laughed. I knew he was being polite, but I couldn’t stop my verbal diarrhoea. ‘Getting back on land was interesting. He had this dodgy old dinghy that you felt you risked your life in. He only spent money out of necessity.’
Marc laughed again then ran his fingers through his hair, the way I’d seen him do it before. He stretched out his arm on the seatback, grasping his glass of wine. He seemed so confident. He’d probably been everywhere and seen it all. Marc stroked his hair again and then stared at me intently, making me glance away, unable to meet his eyes at first. Then I looked back at him.
‘Then there was one day when we watched a wedding procession through the ancient cobbled streets. I was eating lemon ice cream and wearing these cut-off scruffy shorts when this beautiful tanned Italian bride came by wearing a lace dress that trailed along behind her. It was just like watching a fairy tale romance of a wedding,’ I said, unable to stop talking until I halted my babble, aware of having mentioned the words fairytale, romance and wedding all in the same sentence. The extent of my knowledge or lack of about sailing was exhausted.
There was a silent pause.
‘Maybe I’ll take you out to see him one day,’ I said.
‘Sure,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.
It seemed a completely realistic and viable idea in a quiet moment, and the right gesture at the time, although the fact that I’d only been once myself made it highly unlikely to happen.
He leant over me and topped up both our glasses. He was still an enigma; I hardly knew him. I’d banged on about myself too much.
‘Tell me about you,’ I said. ‘What’s the best thing about flying?’
He took a sip, then put his glass down on the table and turned to face me. ‘The best thing about flying, umm… let me see. This might seem a bit, cheesy… I think that’s the right word,’ he said, looking at me for confirmation as I nodded and giggled. ‘To fulfil a child’ood dream. Matter of fact, man’s oldest dream. When I started working with light aircrafts it was the freedom of being alone, away from everything. Back then, there wasn’t much restrictions to where you could go. Now with airliners, I don’t know, everything is policed and run by investors.’
‘That’s a great cheesy answer,’ I said, teasing him. But secretly I loved his answer, sharing a personal part of himself.
‘You like that? Well, let me tell you my other dream: to live by the sea in a cottage filled with old furniture. Old furniture has a soul. It has lived and breathed a life before belonging to you,’ he said.
His romantic vision sounded perfectly plausible coming from him. But I was a sucker for languages, charming their way into my heart. I’d never thought about furniture having a soul, but it was an interesting concept. Had an Englishman said it, I’m pretty sure that I would have choked on my champagne.
‘My best piece is that table,’ he said proudly, po
inting over at where we’d eaten.
Anything he had to tell me was absorbing, like learning about his love of old wooden stuff. His voice was captivating. He made me smile. The similarity in his love of old things reminded me of Emma. Listening to him talk, the words he used, and the pitch and intonation of his voice was captivating.
‘You like reading books?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I shrugged, conscious of having imitated his mannerism. ‘You?’
‘Aeroplane manuals mainly. Just joking, although I ’ave to study them every six months for the Sim test. I read novels too, French ones, when I travel,’ he said. ‘Do you like the English Lakes? Looks beautiful flying over.’
‘When you look up from your novel?’ I joked. ‘Actually, it’s one of my favourite places. You talk about your cottage by the sea; well, I could happily live up in the Lakes… one day.’
‘You know it?’ he said, sounding surprised.
‘Yeah. I’ve managed to visit a few places outside Birmingham Airport, you know.’
‘Let’s add that to our list of places to go together, along with visiting your granddad in the Caribbean,’ he said, laughing. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘It’s late.’
Time felt irrelevant being with him. But time had escaped us, judging by the two bottles we’d slowly emptied together.
He finished off the last drop of his champagne. I sipped mine. He put down his glass and turned back towards me. Our eyes met. We smiled at each other. He reached out and carefully lifted my glass away. Then he stood up, offering out his hand for me. Placing my palm in his, slowly he pulled me to my feet. I trembled in anticipation. The alcohol had not entirely stemmed my nerves. Facing each other, he moved closer to me. Cupping my face in both his hands, tilting his head to one side, I felt his warm lips on mine. Then he kissed me again, tenderly and moved his hands to my waist, drawing me against his body. He slipped in his tongue and caressed my mouth. I pulled away unexpectedly. Then instinctively I threw myself back at him, responding to a sudden urge. He pressed his lips firmer to mine. My breathing quickened.
Free Fall in Stilettos Page 9