‘I just wanted to see if you would,’ I teased him.
‘What! You nearly gave me an ’eart attack,’ Marc said, coming to terms with the prank. ‘Did you see the price tag on that thing?’
‘Nope.’
He lit up a cigarette.
‘’Ow do they say…there’s another side to you, I think.’
‘Oh yes. We’re just getting to know each other. Let’s skip the shops and move on to lunch. How about it?’ I said.
‘Gladly. My card can ’andle that,’ he said.
*
After a short stroll, and time for him to finish his cigarette, we found a little pizza place tucked away down a back street, alfresco style. We sat down at a table and a well-dressed waiter brought out a couple of menus.
‘Do you need me to ’elp you with the menu?’ he asked.
‘I’ll go for pizza margherite and a Perrier, s’il vous plait,’ I proudly replied, not wanting to appear too ignorant. It was the only pizza I knew in French.
Sitting opposite our table was another young couple – a pretty blonde with her boyfriend. I assumed that’s who he was because of the mild bickering. He’d just paid the bill and was trying to leave a tip. Although I didn’t understand the conversation, he’d placed some copper coins on the table. She made him take them away by pushing them aside in favour of silver coins. He did exactly as she instructed. I picked all this up without understanding a word. Curious, I asked Marc, ‘Would you leave copper coins for a tip?’
He’d been oblivious to the goings-on with the other couple. He looked at me bizarrely.
‘They ’ave to make a living, so it’s not a good idea.’ He shrugged.
I liked his answer. The girl had been instantly obeyed by the guy, which got me thinking about relationships between men and women in France. How different was their culture? I thought back to the handbag prank – poor Marc. He would have gone through with it, I felt sure. Maybe that’s why Marc had been prepared to hand me his credit card and not protest at my attempt to become a gold-digger. I could have taken full advantage. He wasn’t stupid, though. He’d have dumped me afterwards. I giggled.
‘What’s the joke this time?’ he asked.
‘Just thinking back to earlier. Planning your next heart attack,’ I said.
‘I’m going to ’ave to watch out,’ he said with a grin.
Our pizzas arrived. They could have fed us twice over. My food disorder (the one where I couldn’t eat around him) had vanished. Despite being starving, my pizza was the size of a serving plate. But there was no way I could eat it all. I usually shared one the same size with Emma, even though this one had a thin, crispy crust. Plus I didn’t want to end up bloated, even though I wasn’t wearing slim jeans. Stuffing myself usually resulted in undoing my top button, enabling a muffin-top hangover, but cleverly disguised by my jacket. Today, my pretty dress would adequately float over any incidents. But there was potential to look very unattractive in pants later. I left half. I couldn’t hide bloating stood in knickers.
After lunch, we ambled along the streets together in the sun, with no purpose in particular, but soaking up the sights and sounds of Paris. And the feeling of bliss was complete, having a Frenchman by my side. He took hold of my hand and led me to some nearby gardens within a park. Swiss Valley Gardens were almost secluded from the rest of Paris, but ironically just a stroll away from the Champs Elysees; a contrast to the hubbub of the city. We found a spot on the grass, away from the rest of Paris, and lay down in the sun, looking up at the sky.
Dreamily, I watched the floating clouds drift by. It was a perfect summer romance in the capital of love. Perhaps, to any onlookers, we were a passionate French couple that met up during their lunch breaks and bonked like mad before returning to the office, flustered. I liked the fantasy.
‘My eardrums are still giving me trouble. I ’ave a doctor’s appointment later today. We better get going,’ Marc said.
He interrupted my fantasy bubble of a moment. But I forgave him, even though he was unaware of the gesture. He’d been suffering with his ears. I knew that. And it was partly the reason I was there. He’d done well not to moan about it. But it now seemed an inconvenience rather than an excuse to see each other.
*
It was late afternoon and we were back at his place. I said I’d do my yoga whilst he was out.
‘I could stay and watch,’ he suggested with a cheeky grin.
‘Get to the doctor’s. I’ll show you some yoga later.’
‘If you promise.’
He got down on the floor to where I was sitting on a makeshift mat, having improvised with one of his towels. He delivered a lengthy kiss. The type where you end up glued to each other, not wanting to come unstuck. It nearly resulted in another flying lesson, but we resisted.
‘You made me a promise for later,’ he said. His eyes flashed as he got up to leave.
‘Don’t be long,’ I replied.
Hearing his car engine grow fainter as he drove off, I was alone, and in his place. A perfect opportunity to get to know Marc a bit better, despite him not being there. Starting with his passport on the sideboard, I checked through his details. His photo aged him, but pictures in passports were never complimentary. And it wasn’t about his looks. His date of birth confirmed his age, not that I suspected he’d lied or that I even noticed our age gap. But his confidence made him attractive. Closing his passport shut, I put it back in the same spot and headed upstairs.
His wardrobe door creaked as it opened. Uniform filled the left side with shirts and jumpers on the right. Apart from a navy jumper, he wore a lot of black and grey. His leather jacket hung at the end. He wore it to work over his uniform, in colder weather. Running my hand across it, I let my fingers explore the silky feel of the inside.
Yoga Tantrics
Coming up into cobra, I knew I should have given it more time after the pizza lunch. It was confirmed when going into a downward dog. Instantly I felt queasy. Cutting the session short, I skipped to the meditative part.
It reminded me of the time I’d felt sick when flying on the Dash. Only this time I wasn’t suspended in the air at thirty thousand feet, mercilessly strapped into a crew seat and about to be devastatingly embarrassed. No way would I ever share that detail with Marc, even though Emma had found it hilarious.
The end was always the best bit. Lying on the floor in the darkness with an empty head, allowing complete inner peace to wash over me. I loved it, a bit like rolling over contentedly after having experienced the best sexual climax, which hadn’t happened often… until recently.
I fetched a glass of water and sat on the sofa to let the nauseous feeling pass. Having recovered from the downward dog, I looked through his collection of CDs stacked next to the TV. Nothing was familiar. Maybe I’d listen later. I picked up the remote control for the TV, not expecting to be able to work it. When it burst into life at the click of a red button, I surpassed my own expectations. Flipping through the channels, I paused at a kids’ cartoon. Trying to decipher the French, I sprawled back on his sofa, distracted with teaching myself some phrases, including le singe mange des bananes (the monkey eats bananas).
The next minute, I heard Marc’s car pull up outside. I hadn’t realised how long I must have spent watching TV. A nervous thrill ran through my body as I wondered whether I should meet him at the door. Instead, I switched off the TV and in a stupid sense of urgency, I ran to the shower upstairs. Having rolled around on the floor, I wanted to freshen up. It was the fastest shower as the water barely touched my skin. By the time he came through the front door, I was virtually getting dry. Hearing his footsteps getting closer on the stairs made me tremble excitedly.
‘Get dressed; I’m taking you out for dinner,’ he said as I opened the bathroom door and he stood smiling at me on the landing.
Temporarily blocking me from entering his bedroom, he looked me up and down,
still smiling. Instinctively, I pulled my towel tight to my body and looked down at the floor. Why was I so shy and prudish?
Knowing he’d locked the bathroom door, when I walked into his bedroom, I threw off my towel on his bed and shouted, ‘Somewhere fancy, I hope.’
‘Put on a nice dress, I want to show you off at my favourite restaurant,’ he said with the bathroom door still shut.
Secretly, I squealed at the thought of a fancy restaurant. Nobody had ever taken me to experience their favourite restaurant. And definitely not to show me off. It made me wish I’d taken more time in the shower. My hair needed washing. An up-do was my best bet, with a few loose strands.
I wanted to look pretty for him. I dug out the fitted little black number I had with me, courtesy of Emma. She’d thrown it in last minute as a just in case, along with the dobbers. Later, I’d text her to say thanks. I’d had about three texts from her that day wanting all the gossip. Her latest one read: How was ur adult sleepover? Hope u used dobbers. It was mainly nosiness but also her way of showing she cared. I hadn’t yet replied.
Marc had showered and changed. It was the first time I’d seen him dressed up, complete with his leather jacket. It had got chillier now it was evening. His swept-back hair and unshaven look suited him. He looked proper hot wearing a dark shirt and smart jeans. His jeans clung to him where it counted. His aftershave filled my lungs as he drew me close for a kiss. One of his hands rested on my lower back, just high enough that he touched my skin exposed through the deep-cut “V” on the reverse of my dress. A tingly shiver ran through me. Wanting to jump him then and there, I exercised self-control, although I wasn’t sure why. He’d already had me.
‘You look amazing,’ he said, speaking softly into my ear. I felt myself blush. ‘I’m taking you somewhere special. It ’as a balcony outside where we can sit if you like and a pianist in the bar. You came all this way just to see me. I ’ope you like it.’
‘Well, it’s been quite a hardship but I can put up with you a bit longer, if I must,’ I said with a smile, then added a shoulder shrug.
‘We can start with champagne cocktails. It’s pretty special,’ he said.
‘Okay. I’ll let you try and impress me.’
*
He drove us to a place in the suburbs. It was that hazy time of evening before darkness but when the light is starting to disappear. The restaurant was lit up with rows of tiny fairy lights and hanging lanterns. We were welcomed in and shown straight to a table outside on a balcony, just as he’d described. And the type of place where you hoped you knew which piece of cutlery to use. All I could remember was to start from the outside and work in, but I’d take my lead from Marc. The doors were pushed open to the main seating area, and inside was a pianist playing soft melodic jazz. Our table was private. There were a few other couples, but it wasn’t busy – empty, as expected for a Monday.
‘You wouldn’t expect a pianist on a Monday,’ I said.
‘You’re in Paris,’ he said, then added, ‘I ’ave a confession. ’E’s a friend of mine – a buddy. Not the owner, just the pianist. I’m working on the owner – becoming a buddy, I mean. So, my friend plays ’ere at weekends. Sometimes ’e comes just to practise. I asked for ’im to come ’ere tonight.’
‘Wow,’ I replied, stumped for anything further to say.
‘You’re a beautiful woman,’ he said, touching my knee with his hand under the table.
‘Thank you,’ I said, almost bursting into laughter. He made me glow. I wondered whether all Frenchmen were born with an innate ability for romance, or whether it was a learned art. Whatever it was, Englishmen needed lessons.
The champagne cocktails arrived. They were large and fancy-looking with an arrangement of thin fruit and crushed ice on top. I took a sip. The sweet taste made me lick my lips.
‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to order for you – if you’ll let me, that is? I don’t usually do that, but I want you to try what I think is the best they ’ave on the menu. That okay?’ he asked.
Upmarket style seduction was not something I was familiar with. His offer was right on cue seeing as my brain had turned to mush, making it impossible for me to decipher a menu. Maybe this was what older men did, or older foreign men.
‘Perfect,’ I said. I hoped it would be. It wasn’t that long since we’d eaten an enormous pizza, even if I had only eaten half. Keeping in mind that posh places rarely did big portions, I was bound to be okay. ‘And what is the best they have?’
‘Seabass. C’est magnifique,’ he said, kissing his fingers. ‘The dish is cooked to perfection. You ’ave to try it.’
‘Okay,’ I replied, smiling, whilst my face hid what I secretly detested.
A fish fan I was not. And the thought of fish served complete with a face violated my appetite. It made my stomach lurch. I preferred my fish Captain Birdseye style – in a finger, unidentified and smothered in tomato sauce. But it seemed a better idea to hide that revelation for now and bury thoughts of fish.
‘So, you’ve been on your best behaviour, so far,’ I said, whilst running my finger around the rim of my glass to try and help me concentrate. The cocktail wasn’t helping matters; tasting good but obviously potent. ‘I haven’t seen much in the way of flaws.’
‘Flaws?’ he asked.
‘You know, tell me what your faults are,’ I said, leaning in, trying not to drool.
‘Oh. Why would I want to do that?’ He shrugged. ‘You might run away! Why don’t you tell me yours?’
‘I can’t believe you’re asking me that question. I don’t have any,’ I said.
‘Same,’ he said. ‘You only get to know that when you know each other well, don’t you think? I’ve got my faults, not too many, or flaws as you call them – in the past. For instance, when I was eighteen, I ’ad a girlfriend. It was a long-distance thing. She was my first real relationship. I don’t think either of us were faithful. She definitely wasn’t. But that was a long time ago. I was stupid then. It didn’t work out, as you’d expect. But I learned my lesson. I don’t know whether she did. But I’ve never done anything like that since.’
His eyes caught mine. His big, dark intense eyes stared at me and his smile lit up his face.
‘More champagne?’ he asked and called the waiter over without waiting for my reply. I hadn’t yet finished the first. It was my last chance to tell him about fish as he placed our order. But not wanting to spoil things, I let it go. I’d tell him another time, when he wasn’t trying so hard to impress. And there was plenty of booze to wash it down.
‘You’re not getting me drunk again.’ I laughed, thinking I’d better save a full glass.
‘But it’s more fun,’ he replied cheekily. ‘Sorry, I forgot to ask ’ow your yoga was earlier. You were going to show me, remember?’
‘I don’t remember saying that exactly. But the yoga was good, thank you. I didn’t do much, actually. I think that pizza we had at lunchtime didn’t agree with yoga. I didn’t feel good. I hadn’t felt like that since flying on the Dash a few months ago,’ I said, without thinking.
‘Wait a minute. So that was you?’ he said.
‘Was me what?’ I asked.
‘I ’eard about what happened on the Dash, but I didn’t believe it was you,’ he said.
Shit. How did he even know about that? And why the hell had I just mentioned it? Unable to lift my eyes to meet his, I sat there not knowing what to say next. And that if he knew, then probably everyone knew about it. He was probably picturing me yacking up all over the aircraft and finding me revolting along with his dinner. I wanted to slope off in shame.
‘Don’t worry. It’s ’appened to me too. But I don’t think I made such a good job,’ he said, laughing.
I didn’t believe him, but I raised my reddened face as he continued laughing, then masked my face with my hands.
‘It was really embarrassing,
’ I replied, suddenly finding it amusing too. ‘In front of all those passengers. I’m still mortified about that.’ Peeping through my fingers, I checked whether he was still entertained or appalled.
‘Sure,’ he nodded, with a huge grin.
‘Who told you?’ I asked.
‘Ron. We ’ad a night-stop. But ’e’s forgetful with names so I thought ’e got confused. I couldn’t imagine…’ he said then paused. Bloody Ron. Not wanting Marc to continue any further, I interrupted.
‘Now, I want to know about you. Tell me about running the Paris marathon,’ I asked, keen to skip over the subject of vomit, fast, and before food arrived.
‘What’s to tell? I ran it. It was something I wanted to do. I like the freedom of running. I show you tomorrow,’ he said as a matter of fact.
‘Okay,’ I replied, thinking nothing more of it.
‘But my real passion, the thing I love, and I think you know this now… is sailing. But I’m afraid we’ll run out of time before I can show you that… this time,’ he said.
‘You mean there’ll have to be a next time?’ I asked. As we smiled at each other across the table, my body smouldered in warmth at the thought of him wanting to see me again.
‘I ’ope so,’ he said.
The food arrived. A purple beetroot dish with salad leaves and dotted with sauce. The fish course was still to come, a couple of dishes in.
He told me more about learning to sail as a child, having been taught by his dad, and how he’d grown up with it being a part of him. He mentioned the special part of France by the coast that he kept returning to. I couldn’t help but soak up his every word. His background fascinated me. He spoke of his interests with passionate enthusiasm and oozed natural charm.
‘You can show me next time,’ I said.
‘Definitely,’ he said, nodding his head. He reached out his hand and placed it on mine, looking into my eyes. ‘And, you’re coming to my party, right?’
Free Fall in Stilettos Page 11