‘You like it?’
‘I love it.’ I pull a sheet of paper out of my pocket that I’ve scribbled on. ‘I’ve made a note of some of the things I’d like to do. If we’re able. You’ve probably seen them a million times, but it’s all new to me. I’ll do whatever you fancy really.’ He is, after all, paying for everything and, to be honest, that makes me feel a bit weird. Indebted.
Then I realise that I’m gabbling and that Mason is regarding me with an indulgent smile on his face. He takes the piece of paper from my hands and tosses it onto the table beside us.
‘We have plenty of time,’ he says. ‘Let’s relax first. Get to know each other.’ He turns and kisses me deeply and I know that the entire reason for bringing me here is to seduce me, but the speed with which he moves takes my breath away. We’ve barely walked in the door.
He takes the glass from my hand and holds me tightly. His arms are strong and it feels good to be held like this. Every fibre of my being responds, my head swims and I’m flooded with feelings that have been missing for so long. Yet why am I feeling so coy? I knew the score. I knew exactly what I was coming here for. Mason doesn’t really want my opinion on the cafés or the food or the good wine. He wants to get down and dirty. As quickly as possible, it seems. Part of me wishes that I’d been able to prove Charlie wrong. I guess that was optimistic of me.
So I decide to go with the flow. I might as well enjoy myself too as Mason is obviously revved up. Hurriedly, we undress each other and, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower and with the breeze from the French windows on our skin, we make love on the huge bed. I want to rush to orgasm, but Mason slows it all down, teasing my body mercilessly. Charlie was right, he is good. He’s attentive and knows all the right places, all the moves. His body above me is taut, slender rather than muscled but he’s definitely all man and, when he’s ready, he makes me come with the ease of someone who’s done this many times before – quite possibly in this room. Afterwards, he pours us more champagne and I lean against his chest as we drink it and admire the view – the one out of the window and the one lying next to me. It was good. Very good by any measure and, at this moment, I feel surprisingly content.
‘I’ll take a quick shower,’ I say. ‘Then should we grab something to eat?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Mason agrees and he kisses my hair.
I’m elated and still feeling more than sexy when I let the hot water wash over me. It will set me up nicely for a bit of culture. Probably a good thing to get it out of the way now so that I didn’t have time to stress about it throughout the day.
When I go back into the bedroom, Mason is still sprawled out in the bed. ‘I’ve ordered us some room service food,’ he says. ‘Come back to bed.’
‘Oh.’ I can’t help but feel disappointed. All of Paris is out there waiting for me and I want to get up and at it. Rather than be in here and at it. Mason, it appears, has other ideas. Not entirely sure how to address this.
While I’m still prevaricating, the room service arrives. Mason slips on a dressing gown and takes the tray from the waiter to set it down on the table by the window. Then he brings me a dressing gown too and we sit at the table together. The noise of the bustling street below drifts up to us.
‘Ta-da,’ Mason says as he lifts the silver dome that covers my plate. ‘I hope madame approves.’
It is, exactly as I would have ordered, a croque-monsieur and frites. This feels nice. Quite romantic. That lifts my spirits and I tuck in. Mason watches me as I eat.
‘What?’ I wipe melted cheese from my lips.
‘I like you, Ruby,’ he says as he regards me. ‘I like you a lot.’
That makes me blush. ‘Thanks for bringing me.’ I want to make reference to the fact that I know other women have trodden this well-worn route before me, but I don’t want to spoil the mood. Besides, we are both single and have no commitments so why should it be a problem? Mason has never pretended that it would be anything more.
After lunch, I get dressed. I slip off my dressing gown and put on my bra and pants. I bought new stuff. Lacy bits. Only from Primark but I couldn’t let Mason see me in my best gym knickers, could I? You can’t come to Paris for a romantic weekend and not wear lace, right?
‘What do you fancy doing this afternoon?’ I throw over my shoulder as I try to find my jeans. What’s left of the afternoon, I should add.
‘This.’ He comes to wrap his arms around me, cupping my breasts. I’m not quite sure what happens next, but no sooner am I in my undies than I’m out of them again. Mason presses me against the wall and comes inside me, murmuring sweet nothings into my neck. I surrender to the sensations and think that the Louvre, the Seine, the lovely Eiffel Tower will all still be there tomorrow.
Chapter Thirty-One
We make it out of the hotel for dinner. You’ll be pleased to know that. I’m pleased to know that. We eventually get out of bed and into clothes without another false start. Honestly, I’ve already had more sex in a day than I had in a year of married life. Mason is insatiable. I wonder if this is what it was like when my ex-husband went off with her of the jewelled vajayjay? Could he simply not keep his hands off her and, thereby, our marriage was doomed? But I won’t think of Simon today, not while I’m living it up in Paris.
I should be present in the here and now. I confess that I’m liking the glint in Mason’s eye, the sheer lust of his need. It’s quite a heady feeling to be the object of so much desire. Was it like that with the women who came here before me? I should stop thinking about that, really, shouldn’t I? It feels good to be wanted, even if it’s for a fleeting moment.
‘I’ve booked a table just down the road,’ Mason says into my reverie. ‘It’s one of my favourite places. Good, traditional French cooking. You won’t be disappointed.’
So we head out of the hotel and the pretty girl is still on reception.
‘Have a nice dinner,’ she shouts out to us in her sexy accent. ‘À plus tard.’
She and Mason exchange a glance, I’m sure. I’m no mug. What was that about? There’s definitely history there, if you ask me.
The street is busy with people heading out for the evening and it’s so very French that I could cry out with glee. The road is cobbled, pretty awnings cover pavement tables, couples share a bottle of red wine or sip at tiny cups of espresso – the sort of scene you see in every clichéd drawing of Paris. I love it. Mason takes my hand as we walk together down to the restaurant which, I have to admit, feels good too. Isn’t it weird that, in this day and age, you can have had enthusiastic sex with someone – a number of times – yet never have held hands with them?
‘You’re quiet,’ Mason says.
‘Just thinking.’
‘We can walk over to the Eiffel Tower after dinner,’ he says. ‘If you want to.’
‘I’d like that.’ As much as I’ve enjoyed our bedroom gymnastics, it would be great to see some of actual France while I’m here.
We’re shown to a table in the window complete with candle in a bottle and a red and white gingham cloth. I feel as if I’m in heaven. Mason orders for us and we share a delicious bottle of red wine with pan-fried mussels from the bay of Locquémeau for me – which Mason assures me is a good thing – and steak tartare for him. Frankly, he looks like the type of man who would enjoy raw meat. Perhaps that’s where he gets all his … ahem … energy from. Would a vegetarian bloke be able to go at it like that? It’s not a study that I’ve ever undertaken. Is that a bit vegetarianist?
We both have duck leg confit for main course with black cherry sauce, dauphinoise potatoes, pot-roasted carrots and French beans. The chocolate mousse for dessert is smooth and rich – quite like Mason. We get on well and laugh a lot. His leg rests against mine beneath the table. The wines goes down too easily. As we have coffee – milky and frothy for me, dark and strong for Mason – we watch as rain sweeps in, runs down the windows, turns the pavements slick with water.
Mason waves away my offer to pay for dinner an
d, when I see the bill, I’m relieved that Mason is settling it. Traditional French cooking, but at thoroughly contemporary prices. While Mason is paying, Charlie texts me. Have you shagged him yet? xx
Many, many times, I ping back.
Tart! comes straight back and several emoticons of a pie which I guess is the closest she could find to a tart. No doubt Charlie is going to want the whole chapter and verse the minute I get back.
How are you getting on with Gary? I ask. She was going to see the opening night of Gary Barlow’s new musical tonight with the fan club.
Fab. Going to wait at the stage door afterwards to see if I can get a cheeky cuddle. xx
For all Mason’s faults, I still think I’d rather be here with a flesh and blood man than waiting for a glimpse of an unattainable celebrity. Never tell Charlie I said that.
When it’s time to leave, the rain is hammering down and we don’t have an umbrella. We hover at the door of the restaurant looking at the gutters running with water and the rain bouncing back from the pavement.
‘It’s too wet for sightseeing,’ Mason says. ‘We still have all day tomorrow. Let’s go back to the hotel for a nightcap.’
So he takes off his jacket and, very chivalrously, holds it above my head as we run back to the hotel in the pouring rain, laughing. In the small bar, we drink French brandy and play footsie on the bar stools.
Then, in the bedroom, fuelled with brandy and chocolate mousse, we rev it up again and are soon in the throes of passion. We’re naked and Mason is doing pleasurable things to my nether regions when there’s a knock at the door.
‘Room service?’ I quip with a laugh.
‘Kind of.’ Mason sits up. ‘Just say if you’re not into this, but I thought it would be fun. You said you wanted a bit of adventure.’
I give him a puzzled look.
‘I’ve asked Valerie if she’d like to join us.’
‘What?’
He holds up a hand. ‘If you don’t want to, that’s cool. It’s nothing heavy, just a little playtime.’
‘A threesome?’
‘Some people would call it that.’
There’d be three of us. What else would I call it? ‘You’ve done this before?’
‘Yeah. Occasionally. Valerie is fun. She knows the score.’ He grins at me. ‘Go on. Be a little bit naughty. Try it. You might find you like it. No one need ever know. What happens in Paris, stays in Paris.’
This is supposed to be the city of love, not the city of three in a bed, but I’ve drunk so much that it’s clouding my judgement and I’m not exactly sure how to say no without appearing gauche. Never in a million years did I expect him to spring this one on me. Even Charlie didn’t warn me about this! Oh, my Lord. What am I to do now?
‘Have you done this before?’ Mason asks.
‘Never!’
‘I want you to feel entirely comfortable, Ruby,’ Mason stresses. ‘But don’t you feel a little bit tempted?’
And, I hate this, but he’s right. I am tempted. Part of me wants to say yes. I’ve never done this before, never had the opportunity and I wonder should it be on my bucket list. I read Cosmopolitan – when I find it in the hairdressers. Isn’t it the sort of thing that modern women do? Clearly it’s what Valerie does.
‘Be adventurous. No one need ever know but us. It can be our secret. You said you wanted to try some new experiences.’
I was thinking nice cheese or expensive wine. Not sharing my boyfriend with another lady. There’s another tentative knock at the door.
Mason looks at me earnestly. ‘I can send her away or she can come in. It’s entirely your call, Ruby.’
When I can’t really think of anything else to say, I bite down my apprehension and gulp as ‘OK’ pops out of my mouth.
Still naked, Mason opens the door and a second later Valerie is inside and stripping off her blouse. While I’m still wondering why the hell I’ve agreed to this, he helps her to undress and I sit there feeling more than a bit like a lemon. When Valerie’s naked too, she climbs onto the bed and takes my hand, guiding it to her waist. I feel frozen with terror, even though she’s soft and smiling. I have no idea what to do, but I’m pretty sure that bolting for the door isn’t an option. I could stop this, I know I could, yet something inside me is letting this happen. Is it because Simon, during our break-up, told me that I was as boring as hell in bed? I’m not. I’m sure I’m not. But that kind of thing sticks with you. He certainly wouldn’t say that if he could see me now.
While all this is knocking round my brain, Mason kisses me, then kisses her. Next Valerie’s mouth is on mine. Strains of Katy Perry’s song, ‘I Kissed a Girl’ go through my head. But I’m not sure I do like it. It just feels weird. Her lips are silky, her olive skin too. I can’t help but notice that she has a fantastic body, taut and toned, and I can’t say I’ve ever noticed that in a woman before. Rather than making me feel sexy, I think she’s making me feel very old and cellulitic.
‘Relax, Ruby,’ she purrs, her voice husky. ‘We’ll just have some fun. You will enjoy this.’
Then she goes further and her hands are on my skin, her fingers exploring, her lips sweet and firm. Mason joins in. Soon we’re a tangle of limbs – me, Valerie and Mason – and I’m not sure which bits are mine, whose hands are pleasuring me. Yet, God help me, I’m turned on even if I’m not certain that I want to be. However, it’s too late to back out now. I’m in for a penny and for a pound – or a Euro in this case – so I close my eyes and let the new and strange sensations flow over me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I wake up just as it’s coming light. Valerie and Mason have all the covers and I’m cold, hanging onto about an inch of bed. I look at them both, comfortable in sleep, legs entwined and feel mortified. As I think of the things that we did last night a flush comes to my neck and a feeling of nausea hits my stomach. Breathe, Ruby, breathe.
Running a hand through my hair, I wonder how I managed to get myself in this situation. I am so out of my comfort zone. I thought it might make me feel as if I had one up on my ex, but instead I’m just kind of feeling tawdry and a bit unclean. Perhaps Simon was right all along. I’m just not the adventurous type. If he could see me now he wouldn’t think I was a racy, daring woman. He’d think I was an idiot. And he’d be right.
If I could, I’d go straight to the station now and run away from this. Also, I have the motherfucker of all hangovers. My head throbs. I think it was the brandies that finished me off. I’m never touching the stuff again. I always thought that I got a bit reckless on gin, but brandy has taken me to a whole new level.
As quietly as I possibly can, I get out of bed and tiptoe to the bathroom, collecting last night’s clothes from the floor as I do. I don’t even want to pee in case I wake them, but needs must. Afterwards, I splash cold water onto my face which hurts – everything hurts. Deciding a shower will be too noisy, I wash my important little places, dress quickly and, pulling on my jacket still damp from last night’s rain, creep out of the room into the grey Paris dawn.
I thank God for Google Maps as I head out into the unfamiliar streets and make my way towards the Eiffel Tower. There are very few people on the streets, a handful of delivery vans unloading, someone sleeping in a doorway. A couple of streets away, there’s a lone café open so I get myself a coffee – a latte, hot and milky – then sit at one of the metal tables on the street while I drink it. In reality, it’s too cold to be sitting outside, but doing just this was on my Wish List for Paris, so I’m damn well going to. The trees are out in blossom and Paris in the springtime looks just as lovely as it’s supposed to.
When my bones are starting to seize up with the cold and I’ve finished my coffee, I push on. Soon, I’ve negotiated the building traffic and am standing beneath the edifice of the Eiffel Tower, which is magnificently impressive. The delicate ironwork legs that stretch skywards do a good job of dwarfing every other building. Even at this hour, there are plenty of people here. There’s a photographer doing
a photo-shoot with a handsome couple posing with a red balloon. Bit clichéd, I suppose, but it reminds me to take out my phone and snap a few selfies. Despite not being the biggest fan of heights I’d love to go to the top. It has to be done, no? But it doesn’t open for another three hours and you’d probably be better to buy tickets in advance. Maybe I can come back another time. I’m sure Mason would know what was the best thing to do but, of course, he’s otherwise engaged. I check my watch again. I’m sort of putting off going back to the hotel. What if Valerie’s still there and they expect me to get down to it again? Shudder. Don’t think I could do that in the cold light of day. That’s definitely an activity best undertaken after too much champagne, red wine and brandy. That thought makes me feel slightly queasy.
I meander round the adjoining park and stroll down to take a look at the murky brown ribbon of the Seine. The sun is slowing rising higher now, warming my face. Then my phone pings and it’s Mason. Where are you? I’m worried.
Just walking, I text in return.
Come back. Let’s get breakfast.
While I’m hesitating over my reply, another one comes in.
Valerie’s gone now.
The coast is, therefore, clear. On my way, I tap.
I’ll see you here. Their croissants are the best in Paris. An address pings in too and, once again, I let Google Maps steer me to the right street.
Mason is already waiting inside the busy café when I get there. As I make my way towards him, he stands and fusses with his napkin. His face is the very picture of concern.
Million Love Songs Page 12