Million Love Songs

by Carole Matthews

  But it’s not a cab. I recognise the throaty sound of that car instantly. Dammit, Mason has just rocked up. I can hardly fess up to Charlie that I know the exact engine note of our boss’s car by heart, so we grab our bags, turn off the staffroom lights and head out.

  Mason is coming through the door of the restaurant as we hit the bar. He’s looking really lovely in a tight-fitting black sweater that may well be cashmere, and grey jeans. He hasn’t shaved and even that suits him. I wish I was looking more scrubbed and polished.

  Not surprisingly, Mason recoils in horror as he sees us. ‘Whoah.’

  I hold up a hand. ‘Say nothing.’

  ‘What have you two ladies come as? Pepsi and Shirley?’

  If he wasn’t our boss Charlie would tell him to sod off. I can see it written all over her face. He’s trying very hard to suppress his grin and is failing miserably. ‘Going somewhere nice?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think we’d get into your club looking like this.’

  ‘Definitely not,’ he agrees.

  ‘Eighties party,’ Charlie informs him. ‘We thought you were the cab.’

  ‘I’d run you there, but I’ve only got room for one.’ He gives me a meaningful look which I hope Charlie misses.

  ‘We’re off to Wilton Hall,’ she says sharply. ‘It’ll only take five minutes.’ Another set of headlights appears outside the window. ‘Our chariot’s here now.’

  ‘Have a great time, ladies. I’ll lock up.’ He turns his attention to me and gives a wink when he adds, ‘Catch you later.’

  ‘Hold your skirt down,’ Charlie instructs as we scuttle out. ‘I don’t want that lecherous bugger getting an eyeful of my bum.’

  It’s fair to say that I feel exactly the same.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Charlie and I avail ourselves of many sparkly drinks to get up to speed with the party. We had a lot of catching up to do and I’ve thrown myself into it with enthusiasm. Then, feeling decidedly more cheery/squiffy, we dance our way through the many and varied hits of Culture Club, Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, Wham, T’Pau and Madonna until the wee small hours. The DJ also throws in a sprinkling of Take That as requested by the crowd – lots of Charlie’s GB Army mates are here, who we met down in London. Including Nice Paul, who has come as Boy George and is wearing a long colourful coat, nylon plaits and a jaunty hat.

  I’ve no idea what time it is, but it must be late. My feet are throbbing and I’ve had enough to drink to forget the sheer awfulness of my outfit. It helps that I’m surrounded by people who are dressed in similarly bad-taste clothes.

  I’m giving it my all to ‘The Only Way is Up’ – if my memory serves me right, the only hit for Yazz and the Plastic Population – when my phone pings. It’s lucky that I even hear it over the music.

  I’m outside, it says. Mason xx.

  That pulls me up short. I’m assuming that means he’d like me to go outside too. I know he said catch you later, but I didn’t really think that he meant it. Does he think it’s OK to sweep in like this and expect me to drop everything for him? Of course he does. And there’s my dilemma. I really want to. I’m sort of done here and I need a sit down. Looking over at my friend, I can see that she’s still in full party mode. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to go out for a little while and see what Mason’s up to?

  I shout over to Charlie, ‘Back in a minute,’ but I’m not sure that she hears me as she seems to be quite engrossed with Nice Paul. Hmm.

  So with only a modicum of apprehension, I head out of the main door. Sure enough, Mason’s flashmobile is parked right out front in a spot that is very clearly labelled no parking in big letters. He swings open the passenger door and, even though I try my best to get into the car like models do, I end up falling inside. The night has turned cold and I’m wearing nothing more substantial than netting. I attempt to pull said netting down to cover my legs, but it’s going nowhere.

  ‘I was feeling lonely, Brown,’ Mason says with a pout.

  ‘Come in. Join the party!’ I sound a bit more slurry and a bit more shouty than I’d like.

  ‘I feel a little under-dressed.’ He gestures at his black sweater and jeans. He may have a point. One bloke in there has come as the Incredible Hulk. ‘Let’s go to the club.’

  ‘I can’t really go anywhere else dressed like this, can I?’ My head is sweating under my rainbow wig and I’m torn between keeping it on and having wiggy hair. ‘Plus I’m knackered now.’ I check my phone and it’s gone two o’clock. The party will be winding up pretty soon anyway. Having sat down, I don’t think I’m going to be able to get up again.

  ‘So what shall we do?’ He runs a finger gently down my cheek and I hear myself gulp. Mason smiles, turning on the full wattage.

  I’m suddenly feeling the excess of prosecco and my long shift at work. I’m clearly not as young as I like to think I am. ‘You could drive me home,’ I say. ‘That’s really all I’m fit for.’

  ‘Really? The night is young, Brown.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not.’ I unleash a yawn that I’m not able to stifle.

  ‘I get the point. So you just want to go home?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He sighs at me. ‘OK. My pleasure.’

  ‘No funny business though.’

  He laughs. ‘None at all.’

  I settle back in the plush leather seat and give Mason my postcode for him to tap into the Satnav. Then I text Charlie to let her know that I’m going home and she sends me back two kisses. She’s in safe hands with Nice Paul who I’m sure will see her into a cab.

  I close my eyes and lay my head back as Mason speeds along the deserted roads of Milton Keynes. His car is comfortable and warm, and I think I may have dozed off as, sooner than I imagined, we reach my estate and he pulls into my road. The moonlight shimmers on the lake. It looks positively romantic.

  ‘Nice area,’ he says.

  ‘That’s my place.’ I point out the granny annexe.

  ‘You could invite me in for coffee.’

  ‘Nooooooo,’ I say. ‘That would be a really bad idea.’ I think of Gary Barlow standing in the corner of my bedroom and know without a shadow of a doubt that Mason would think that was weird.

  ‘We’ve got some chemistry going on here, Brown. I know that you feel it too.’

  ‘You’re my boss,’ I remind him. ‘Bad idea. Very bad idea.’

  ‘You don’t fancy a walk by the lake in the moonlight?’

  ‘There are usually drunks down there.’

  ‘Ah. We could sit here and look at it,’ he says. ‘I can do romance if that’s what you’re looking for.’

  ‘I’m not looking for anything.’

  He turns on the music and flicks through his playlist until something suitably smooth serenades me.

  ‘Huh.’ I try to sound unimpressed. ‘Music to make babies by.’

  ‘If I’m lucky.’ Then he leans in and kisses me and my head spins. I think his lips must be supercharged, as the touch of them makes me tingle all over. Despite my earlier resolve, I feel myself responding. I can’t even begin to tell you what a good kisser he is. So we kiss and soon it intensifies. Mason’s hands become more bold. They slide up inside my ra-ra skirt, they travel down over the canary yellow top, maybe a bit inside it. And like it. I like it a lot. I haven’t had decent sex for soooooo long. Or even indecent sex.

  We move closer together and the kissing goes to another level, but then gearstick gets in the way and breaks the moment.

  ‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ Mason laughs. ‘Sports cars aren’t made for lurrrrrve.’

  To be honest with you, that stops me short and makes me realise what we’re doing. I push Mason away and, slightly breathlessly, say, ‘This is wrong on many levels.’

  ‘Why?’ He looks perplexed. ‘I thought we were just getting started.’

  ‘For one, I’m wearing a ra-ra skirt and a rainbow wig. Two – I haven’t had sex in a car since I was about seventeen,’ I tell him. ‘It wasn’t gr
eat then. And it was only because I had nowhere else to go.’

  ‘But you have to admit that it felt great,’ Mason says. ‘In a slightly sleazy and ridiculous way.’

  Pulling down my ra-ra skirt to cover my … ahem … modesty, I say, ‘We should call it a night.’

  ‘We could move into your place. That would be a lot more comfortable.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mason.’ My head is clearing slightly. I don’t want to wake up in the morning full of regrets and needing to hand in my notice. ‘I should be going. Thanks for the lift home.’

  ‘Don’t go, Brown.’ He puts a hand on my arm. ‘Let’s talk about stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He looks at me, a teasing smile on those kissable lips. I should get out of the car. I should get out of the car now. Then he says, ‘I do know! Let’s go away somewhere. Come to Paris with me.’

  I laugh. ‘Paris?’

  ‘I’m going shortly. A work trip. Once the club is running smoothly, my next project is to open a chain of French-style cafés. I’m going over there for research.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it.’

  He acknowledges my jibe. ‘Come then.’

  ‘I don’t have “Paris” money,’ I point out. ‘I barely make my rent each month. I don’t have anything left over for holidays.’

  ‘It’s my treat. If it makes you feel better, I can put it down on business expenses. We can check out some great restaurants and cafés. You can give me your valued opinion. It would be so much better with you by my side.’ That little bit of flattery brings a flush of colour to my cheeks and Mason clearly sees me wavering as he presses on. ‘Then, when our work is done, we could take a romantic stroll along the Seine, go and see the Mona Lisa, climb the Eiffel Tower. Tourist stuff.’

  ‘I don’t do heights.’

  That doesn’t deter him. ‘We can sit at pavement cafés and watch the world go by. Then we can make love all night with the French doors open onto a little wrought iron balcony and the lights of Paris beneath us.’

  It is actually sounding rather appealing.

  ‘Have you been to Paris?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Ah, then you don’t know what you’re missing, Brown.’

  ‘I can’t come to Paris with you, Mason. That would be stupid.’

  ‘OK.’ He shrugs. ‘But I could come in and discuss it further.’

  I push him away. ‘Nice try.’ Then I kiss his cheek, a friendly peck. ‘I’m going now. My bed is calling.’

  ‘Your bed’s calling me too.’ He gives me pathetic eyes.

  ‘I know bed language,’ I tell him, firmly. ‘And my bed is very definitely saying “Stay out”.’

  He grins good-naturedly and starts the engine of his car. ‘I know when I’m beaten.’

  I open the door and get out. ‘Goodnight, Mason. Thanks for the lift home. I do appreciate it.’

  ‘Think about Paris,’ he says, then he roars off into the night and I check round to see if any of my neighbour’s curtains are twitching.

  ‘Paris,’ I say with a scoff as I open my door.

  In the bedroom, cut-out Gary Barlow is waiting for me. I throw myself onto the bed and sigh. ‘What do you think about me going to Paris with Mason, Gazza Bazza?’

  But, as always, Gary keeps his opinion to himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Charlie and I are on the late shift together the next day. She looks as rough as I feel. We are sitting on what we’ve christened ‘our’ bench half an hour before we have to start work. Me with a coffee, Charlie with an e-cig and a hangover. The industrial bins hide us from the customers who are enjoying the sunshine in our beer garden, so we’re not likely to be asked, inadvertently, for menus or something. We skulk here while we have our obligatory pre-shift natter.

  ‘Where did you disappear to last night?’ my friend asks, narrowing her eyes as she puffs out a cloud of vapour.

  I could lie and, I have to say, that it’s very tempting. I know that Charlie will be very disapproving and she has every right to be. But she has laser vision and can see right through me, so I’d better come clean. ‘Mason rocked up outside – unexpectedly.’ I want to make that very clear. ‘He gave me a lift home.’

  She frowns at me and nicks a sip of my coffee. ‘I’m not liking the sound of this.’

  ‘He’s OK.’ I insist.

  ‘There’s no way you got out of that car without snogging him.’

  ‘We did have a bit of a snog,’ I confess. ‘In my defence, I had rather a lot to drink and was wearing a ra-ra skirt. I was feeling quite reckless.’

  ‘He’s an arch manipulator, Ruby. I’ve warned you. Shagger Soames likes getting his own way.’

  ‘I’m a big girl and I’m treading very carefully. Trust me.’ I pick at the rotting wood and marvel at the fact that we don’t get splinters in our bottoms. ‘Besides, who did you go home with?’

  ‘I shared a cab with Amanda.’

  I don’t actually know who Amanda is, but I was fully expecting a different answer. ‘Not Nice Paul?’

  ‘Nooooo.’ She shakes her head. ‘Why would I go home with Nice Paul? He’s just a mate.’

  ‘You looked as if you were getting quite cosy.’

  ‘Looks can be deceiving, my friend,’ she says. ‘Besides, you can’t kiss a bloke dressed as Boy George. That would be totes weird. He was wearing more make-up than me.’

  ‘You did think about kissing him then?’

  ‘No. What is this, primary school?’

  ‘I like him.’

  ‘You go out with him then. Stop playing with fire with Shagger Soames.’

  ‘I think you’ve got him all wrong.’

  ‘Don’t think so, love. What did he have to say for himself that gave you that impression?’

  ‘Not a lot. I just get on OK with him. That’s all.’ I busy myself reorganising gravel with my toe. I don’t mention Paris. Charlie would do her pieces. He was probably just joking, anyway. As if I’d really go to Paris with him. Ha! Then the phone rings and I rush to answer it, glad of the distraction.

  We’re run off our feet. Sometimes, I have no idea where all these people come from. I go out to dinner once every blue moon, but there are couples who eat in here practically every night of the week.

  When Mason turns up – and, shame on me, I hoped he would – I’m busy on the phone. Every time I hang up, it rings again. We’ve got another steak night special that’s proving ridiculously popular as it’s half our usual price.

  He gives me a slow, sexy wink as he crosses the restaurant and disappears into the bar. I hope no one else saw it. When I finally get off the phone, he comes over to me. My heart starts to patter, ridiculously – particularly for a woman of my age. It’s a long time since I was a teenager and I must keep reminding myself as I thought I’d left this kind of stuff behind when I was a hormonally charged fifteen-year-old.

  ‘Busy, Brown? That’s what I like to see.’ He leans on my desk.

  ‘Steak special. It’s gone mad,’ I tell him. ‘Clearly a lot of carnivores around here.’

  ‘I enjoyed the other night, Brown.’ He grins at me as he openly eyes me up and down. ‘Preferred that outfit too.’

  ‘Stop that right now.’ I wag my finger at him. ‘You should treat your employees with respect.’

  ‘I’m not only treating you with respect, I’m trying very hard to spoil you.’ He lowers his voice and checks that no one else is within listening distance. ‘Come to Paris with me,’ he cajoles. ‘I meant it. We’d have fun. And it would be work too, of course. I’m booking it in the next few days. Premier class Eurostar, bijou little hotel with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower.’

  I go to speak, but he holds up a hand. ‘I know that you don’t like heights, but you won’t get dizzy just looking at it. Tell me that it isn’t sounding tempting.’

  Sighing at him, I lower my voice and say, ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem
?’

  Charlie is glaring at me from across the bar and, traitor that I am, I turn my back on her. ‘You’re my boss. I’m your employee.’

  ‘This hasn’t escaped my notice.’

  ‘A junior employee. It puts me in a compromising position.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope so.’ Then he looks at me sincerely. ‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get good, reliable staff who the customers love?’

  I confess that I don’t.

  ‘I don’t want to lose you,’ Mason assures me. ‘This will not affect our working relationship.’

  He sounds so very sure of it that he almost has me convinced.

  The worrying thing is that I’m already imaging myself sitting at those pavement cafés, glass of red wine in one hand, a baguette in the other. I can see my hand in his, him moving above me at night. That’s quite a strong imagine, if you must know. And we would have a good laugh together. I already know enough about Mason to realise that. It’s just that … I chew my lip with indecision.

  ‘I’ll pay for everything,’ he adds. ‘Happily. It won’t cost you a penny.’

  My mother always used to say there’s no such thing as a free lunch. What about a trip to Paris? What would the cost of that really be?

  ‘I’m not looking for a relationship,’ he leans close to me and speaks softly. ‘We’d have a great weekend. Lots of fun. We’re both adults. Where’s the harm in it?’

  ‘I’m not the sort of person who jets off to Europe for the weekend.’

  ‘Then maybe you should become that woman.’ Those blue eyes twinkle for all they’re worth.

  I think of the miserable time I’ve had recently. Don’t I deserve a bit of fun? Paris with Mason sounds sophisticated and elegant. No one’s ever taken me to Paris before. My ex took me for a surprise weekend to Alton Towers once, but that’s hardly the same is it? If Simon can take up with a younger model, then why the hell shouldn’t I? We could have a glamorous weekend of no-strings sex and gourmet food in the international city of love. This is exactly the sort of thing I should be doing as a newly divorced, single person. The whole of the world is out there for me to explore. I might as well start with France. Infinitely better than a gravel pit in Leicestershire, no?