French Kissing

by Lynne Shelby

  ‘Enchanté, madame.’ Alex took hold of Natalie’s hand and kissed it. His dark eyes locked on hers. ‘I am Alexandre Tourville. I wish you un joyeux anniversaire.’

  What’s with the French and the hand-kissing? I shot Alex a look, but his attention was focused on Natalie.

  ‘Thank you, Alexandre,’ Natalie said, rather breathlessly. ‘Oliver, would you take everyone’s coats upstairs? And Anna, would you mind helping yourself and Nick to drinks? And get one for Alexandre? I’d like to introduce him to some friends of mine.’

  After a brief hiatus while Oliver relieved us of our outdoor wear, Natalie spirited Alex off into the living room. Nick and I found our way to the kitchen, where other guests were also helping themselves to drinks from an extensive array of wines, beer, and spirits. I introduced Nick to the people I knew, and he was soon discussing that afternoon’s football results with a copy-writer, a freelance illustrator, and Natalie’s father. I poured myself a glass of wine, and as there was no sign of the conversation turning from sport to a subject in which I had the slightest interest, I poured a second glass for Alex, and went and joined the party in the other room.

  Natalie and Oliver’s long through living room (think white walls, white voile curtains, pale wooden floor) was overflowing with people, music, and conversation. The first person I recognised was Alfie Lennox, a designer who’d been working at Nova Graphics for almost a year. For once, he didn’t have earphones clamped to his head (claiming that he needed to hear music at all times to inspire his artwork, Alfie was rarely without his iPod), and he’d combed his unruly hair and had a shave. And he was wearing jeans without holes in the knees, together with a neatly ironed shirt.

  ‘Hey, Mr Lennox,’ I said. ‘You’re looking very dapper tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, well, got to make an effort for Natalie’s fortieth,’ Alfie said, with a grin. ‘You scrub up pretty well yourself, Ms Mitchel.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ I said. ‘You haven’t seen a tall, dark French guy anywhere around, have you? I was supposed to be fetching him a drink.’

  ‘I saw Natalie leading a tall dark man in the direction of the conservatory. I don’t know if he was French.’

  ‘I’ll try in there, then,’ I said.

  I edged my way through the crowd in the living room, stopping to talk to Natalie’s mother, and one or two other people, and went into the conservatory at the back of the house.

  There were fewer people out here, and I spotted Alex straight away. He was standing in the middle of the room, leaning casually against a table, surrounded by women. At least half a dozen of them. Apart from Natalie, I didn’t know any of them. Alex was talking, and the women were hanging on his every word, smiling at him, tossing their hair, practically salivating. Not that I blamed them. He was ridiculously good-looking.

  Natalie detached herself from the back of the group and came and stood beside me.

  I said, ‘I see that you’ve helped Alex make some useful new contacts.’

  ‘Oliver isn’t the only one who’s good at networking,’ Natalie said. ‘Not that your Frenchman needed much help from me to raise his profile.’

  ‘I guess his Unique Selling Point is instantly recognisable.’

  ‘I’m a happily married woman, but when he kissed my hand, I swear my legs turned to jelly.’ Natalie fanned her face with her fingers. ‘He is so hot, Anna. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I said. ‘The last time I saw him, he was thirteen and a bit of a geek.’

  ‘But surely you’ve seen him in photos since then?’

  I shook my head. ‘Alex photographs other people. He’s not into selfies.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever Googled him? What about Facebook?’

  ‘There aren’t any pictures of him on the internet. He has a website, but that’s for his work. I’d no idea that he’d grown up into such an attractive guy until yesterday, when I met him off the Eurostar from Paris.’

  ‘Natalie! Happy birthday!’ Izzy Drake, Nova Graphic’s most recent recruit, rushed up to Natalie. A petite brunette, Izzy had joined the creative team as a graphic designer six months ago, soon after she’d graduated from college.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ Izzy said. ‘I decided to drive, but my car wouldn’t start. And then there was a delay on the tube …’ Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Alex. ‘Who is that simply gorgeous man?’

  ‘That,’ Natalie said, ‘is Anna’s French penfriend.’

  ‘Penfriend? You mean you write to him?’

  ‘We’ve been writing to each other since we were eleven years old,’ I said. ‘My French teacher had once worked in Paris, and knew his English teacher – actually, now I look back, I’m pretty sure they were having a torrid affair. They arranged for their students to exchange letters. Everyone else gave up after a while, but Alex and I carried on writing.’

  ‘You write letters to him?’ Izzy sounded incredulous. ‘Actually write? On paper?’

  ‘Yep. By hand. On notepaper.’

  ‘But nobody actually writes letters any more,’ Izzy said. ‘If you wanted to keep in touch, why not just phone him? Or text?’

  ‘I guess we both like getting letters,’ I said. ‘We do email each other occasionally, but even that’s not the same as receiving an envelope with a foreign postmark.’

  At that moment, Alex glanced across the room, and saw the three of us staring at him. With a smile, he extricated himself from the group of women he’d been talking to (their sighs were audible), and joined Natalie, Izzy and myself.

  ‘I brought you a drink,’ I said, handing him the wine I’d been holding all that time.

  ‘Merci.’ Alex’s dark eyes met mine, and even though he was a friend, and I was in a steady relationship, my whole body shivered deliciously. Firmly, I told myself to get a grip.

  ‘Alex,’ I said, ‘you’ve not met my colleague, Izzy Drake. She’s a very gifted graphic designer. Izzy, this is Alexandre. He’s a photographer, and also very gifted.’

  Alex raised Izzy’s hand to his lips, ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle.’

  Izzy looked as though she was about to swoon. ‘Alexandre … Sorry, how exactly do you say your name?’

  Alex repeated his name, exaggerating the French pronunciation, drawing out the last syllable by rolling the ‘r’.

  ‘Alexandrrr,’ Izzy cooed, looking up at him from under her long lashes. ‘Alexandrrr.’

  ‘C’est parfait,’ Alex said.

  ‘I do wish I spoke French,’ Izzy laughed. ‘I find it so irritating having to read the subtitles whenever I watch a French film.’

  ‘You like French films?’ Alex said.

  ‘Very much.’

  Natalie broke in, ‘I see that my in-laws have just arrived. I must go and say hello to them.’

  She hurried off. Sensing that neither Izzy or Alex were particularly anxious for my company at that precise moment, I left them discussing the delights of the French cinema, and went in search of another drink.

  The evening went on. Oliver produced a cake (Natalie swore there really was no need for him to have put forty candles on it), and pink champagne (Natalie decided turning forty wasn’t so awful if you got to drink champagne), and after she’d blown out the offending flames, and we’d all sung ‘Happy Birthday’, there was dancing. Or what passes for dancing among the mildly inebriated. I danced with Oliver, Alfie, and some of the other guys from work (and with Nick, of course). Alex danced with Izzy, and I saw that he was a remarkably good dancer, one of those rare men who moves easily with the music, rather than flailing about. I’d have liked to dance with him myself. Annoyingly, he’d led Izzy off the improvised dance floor and vanished back into the conservatory before I got the chance.

  Towards midnight, the party quietened down. People lounged on sofas and floor-cushions, drinking coffee and ‘maybe just one more glass of wine’. Several older couples (not old, but older than me) left, citing the need to ‘get back to drive the babysitter home’. I was t
alking to one of Natalie’s school-friends (who was very interested to discover that Alex didn’t have a girlfriend pining for him back in Paris), when Nick appeared at my elbow, and said that we should also be making a move. I’d have happily stayed longer at the party (no need to rush home before dawn when you’re not a parent), but I could see that Nick was determined that we were leaving. The clue was that he already had his coat on. And he was holding my faux fur and Alex’s leather jacket.

  ‘Where’s Alexandre?’ Nick said, passing me my coat.

  ‘Well, he’s not in here,’ I said, gesturing towards the people scattered about the living room, ‘so he must still be in the conservatory. I’ll get him. You go and start saying goodbye to Natalie and Oliver.’

  I took Alex’s jacket from Nick, and went out into the conservatory. Alex and Izzy were sitting on a wicker bench, twisting towards each other, so that their heads were very close together. He was talking, too quietly for me to hear what he was saying, and she was smiling, laughing softly at something he whispered in her ear. He reached up his hand and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

  I thought, this, I do not need to see. It was one thing reading about Alex’s amorous exploits in his letters, but it was quite another watching him in action. Feeling excruciatingly awkward, I cleared my throat. Loudly.

  Alex turned his head towards me. ‘Hey, Anna. You ready to go home?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ I said. ‘Are you coming with us?’

  Alex looked at Izzy, and his mouth lifted in a lazy smile. ‘I think I’ll stay a while longer. But you and Nick head off, Anna. Don’t worry about me. I’ll make my own way back – I’ve got my key.’

  Alex had a key to my flat, and Nick didn’t. I realised I really should give Nick a key.

  ‘I’ll see you later, then, Alex,’ I said. ‘Bye, Izzy.’

  I don’t think she heard me.

  Four

  Alex and I are alone in a capsule on the London Eye, looking out over the city. I am wearing the dress I wore to the party, but he is naked except for a towel slung around his hips. I point out various landmarks, Buckingham Palace, the O2, the Gherkin, and the Shard. He reaches up and unzips my dress. I shrug it off my shoulders so that it falls to the floor. When Alex sees that I’m not wearing any underwear, he smiles, and cups my breast with his hand …

  I awoke with a start, my heart beating furiously. Nick, lying next to me, muttered something in his sleep and rolled over onto his side, taking the duvet with him. Guilt washed over me. I was in bed with my boyfriend and I was having erotic dreams about Alex.

  But it was just a dream. It didn’t mean anything. And if Nick had made love to me last night, instead of falling asleep as soon as we were in bed, I probably wouldn’t have dreamt about another man. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. 8.00 a.m. Way too early to be getting up on a Sunday, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep. Careful not to disturb Nick, I slid off the bed, pulled on a sweatshirt over my pyjamas, and padded out of my bedroom, closing the door quietly behind me.

  In the kitchen, I found Alex making coffee. For a moment, my dream still vivid in my head, I was acutely embarrassed to be in his presence. Then I reminded myself that he couldn’t possibly know I’d been dreaming about him.

  I said, ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘I’ve only just got in.’

  I realised that he was dressed in the same shirt and jeans he’d worn last night. He still looked jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

  ‘Oh, so you’ve not been to bed yet …’

  ‘I stayed at Izzy’s,’ Alex said.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I saw her home after the party.’

  ‘And you stayed over.’

  ‘Yeah. Do you want coffee?’

  ‘Tea. I’ll make it.’ Alex had slept with Izzy. The thought of the two of them together left me feeling oddly disquieted.

  Alex said, ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To make you a pot of tea. I may be French, but I do know how. My English mother made sure of that.’

  Alex had slept with Izzy. ‘OK. You make the tea. I’ll make toast.’

  ‘French toast?’

  ‘Absolutely not. You’re living in England now, monsieur. You’ll have toast and Marmite and like it.’

  Grinning, Alex filled the kettle, and I shoved two slices of bread in the toaster.

  I said, ‘So are you going to see Izzy again? Are you going to ask her out?’

  ‘You mean, am I going to ask her on a date? No I’m not. I’ve just been through the break-up of a serious, long-term relationship. I’ve no intention of getting involved with anyone else right now.’

  So it was just a one night stand. Did Izzy know that, or was she sitting at home, wondering when – if – Alexandre was going to call?

  Aloud, I said, ‘Alex, do me a favour. Try not to break anyone’s heart while you’re in London. At least, not any of my friends’ hearts.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  Alex gave me a quizzical look. ‘You’re in a strange mood, Anna. Have I done something that’s upset you?’

  He’d slept with my friend. And it shouldn’t matter. But it did. And I wasn’t sure why. ‘Of course not.’ I forced myself to smile. ‘So. What are your plans for today?’

  ‘I thought I might do some more sightseeing –’

  ‘There you are, Anna.’ Nick stepped into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Seeing him standing there in his boxers and crumpled T-shirt, I felt a surge of affection for him. OK, maybe we didn’t have sex as often as we used to, but I suspected that was true of most couples who’d been together as long as we had.

  ‘Good morning, Nicholas,’ Alex said.

  ‘Morning, Alexandre,’ Nick said. ‘Did you enjoy the party?’

  ‘Very much,’ Alex said.

  I’ll bet he did, I thought.

  Further conversation was interrupted by the ping of the toaster.

  ‘Toast,’ I said, somewhat unnecessarily, rooting in the fridge for butter.

  ‘Tea,’ Alex said, colliding with me as he reached for the tea-pot.

  I ducked under his arm and retrieved jam, peanut butter, and Marmite from a cupboard.

  Nick hovered for a moment, watching us as we dodged around each other in the confined space of the kitchen, and then he said, ‘I’m going back to bed. There isn’t enough room in here for three people.’

  Left on our own, Alex and I quickly assembled breakfast.

  ‘I’ll take this in to Nick,’ I said, putting two mugs and plates on a tray.

  ‘Valérie always used to bring me bed in breakfast on a Sunday morning,’ Alex said.

  ‘Valérie? Is she the dancer at the Moulin Rouge?’

  ‘No, that’s Monique. Valérie is a singer.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t remember the name and profession of every woman you’ve dated.’

  I thought about the letter Alex had written to me when he was about fifteen, telling me how difficult he found it to walk up to a girl and ask her to dance. A couple of years later, and he was dating a different girl almost every time he wrote.

  Hi Anna,

  I met a girl. Her name is Thérèse … Francine … Monique … Camille … Valérie …

  Solange… Maxine …

  For the last year, his letters had only mentioned Cécile.

  Alex said, ‘Valérie threw a plate of croissants at me the last time we ate breakfast together.’

  ‘She threw a plate at you?’

  ‘Well, if I’m honest, she threw it at the wall,’ Alex said. ‘She was always throwing stuff. She’s a very passionate woman.’

  ‘I don’t think smashing crockery has much to do with passion.’ It sounded more like she was crazy.

  ‘That’s because you’re English.’ Alex picked up his tea and a mountain of toast, and headed out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll see you later, Anna.’

  I went and j
oined Nick in my bedroom.

  ‘Alexandre’s looking somewhat worse for wear today,’ Nick said.

  ‘You think? I can’t say I noticed.’ I set the breakfast tray down on the bed between us.

  ‘Did he tell you what time he got in? It must have been very late.’

  ‘More like very early this morning.’

  ‘Really? Did he get lucky last night?’

  ‘If you’re asking, in an Unreconstructed Male sort of way, if he spent the night with a woman, then yes.’

  Nick chuckled. ‘He’s only been in London for two days. He doesn’t waste much time, does he?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  Nick said, ‘Who was she? Anyone I know?’

  ‘Izzy Drake.’

  ‘Pretty dark-haired girl who works in your office?’

  ‘Yes. Izzy works in the same design studio as me. Could we talk about something – anything – other than Alex’s sex life, please.’

  ‘I guess he’s less likely to hit on you if he’s shagging your friends.’

  ‘Would you stop?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  We ate and drank, and when we’d finished, Nick leant back against the pillows. I put the tray on the floor and lay down next to him. He put his arms around me, and bent his head so that he could kiss me.

  Well, I may be an English rose, but I’m just as passionate as some crazy Frenchwoman.

  I said, ‘Nick, what you said about spending the day together, just the two of us … It seems like a plan to me.’

  ‘Good. What would you like to do?’

  ‘Something … passionate.’

  Smiling in what I hoped was a seductive manner, I peeled off my sweatshirt, and just to make sure that Nick knew exactly what was expected of him, I took off my pyjamas as well. He caught on pretty quick. It wasn’t his fault that his mobile rang just as he was stripping off his boxers. Though he really shouldn’t have answered it.

  ‘Mum. Hi.’ Nick pulled up his boxers and sat on the side of the bed. ‘I’m very well, thank you. How are you?’

  That woman’s timing is impeccable, I thought. How does she do it? With a sigh, I covered myself with the duvet, and reached for the paperback on my bedside table. I knew from experience that any call from Nick’s mother was likely to last long enough for me to read several chapters. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely unknown for me to have hour-long conversations on the phone with my mother or my sister, Vicky, but not at a time that would irritate Nick.