French Kiss

by Faith Wolf

“Oh.” She removed the foil with a flourish and held a pasta bake under his nose. “Not the most elegant of meals, but I didn't have time to do a shop and what's important is lining your stomach.” She saw that the bottle was empty now, on the floor. “We need to absorb some of that alcohol you're drowning in.”

  “What I mean is, why did you cook for me?”

  “Because I … I want you to feel okay,” she said. “It's just as easy to cook for two as it is for one.”

  “Sometimes it's easier to cook for two,” he said.

  “It's more fun,” she said and began laying the table while the food was still warm. “I suppose it is easier.”

  “Did you study English?” Charlotte asked over dinner.

  He shook his head.

  “But you speak so well.”

  “I have some English friends,” he said.

  “That doesn't quite explain it,” she said. “Sometimes your English is better than mine.”

  “Only sometimes?” he said.

  “Oi.” She made as if to stab him with her fork.

  “'Oy' is French,” he said. “Occitan.”

  “Tell me. What did you study?”

  “The same thing that anyone learns at university. How to drink, how to sleep, how to waste time. How to flatter the lecturers and who to pay to write the best essays.”

  “I don't believe you,” Charlotte said, unphased, sticking another forkful in her mouth. As she ate, she realised that this was as relaxed as she had ever felt around him and she suddenly felt butterflies of panic in the pit of her stomach. She told herself not to be silly, but the feeling persisted, worsened.

  “The truth is that what I studied was very boring,” Gilou said. “I'm just trying to impress you.”

  “You're trying to impress me?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Is it working?” he asked.

  “I'm here,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “You are here.”

  “When's the last time you had a woman cook you a meal?”

  “Does my mother count?”

  “You tell me?”

  He didn't.

  “They say you can tell how a man will treat you by the way he treats his mother. I didn't know you had a mother until thirty seconds ago. What does that say about you?”

  “My mother is dead.”

  “I'm so sorry!”

  “It happens to everyone. It's the one thing we can all rely on not to change. Sometimes, I think I look forward to it.”

  “You mustn't say that. To be honest, you're the one thing that's kept me going these last few weeks. In your own way. If you hadn't been here, I would have had to go home.”

  “I'm glad that my money has been useful to you.”

  “I'm not talking about your money.”

  They ate in silence for a while. She felt that she'd paid him a complement and had hoped that he might respond in kind.

  “Is your mother really dead?” Charlotte said.

  “No,” he said.

  “You're evil.”

  “My mother and father are good people, but we don't really see eye to eye. I'm sure this surprises you.”

  “How can anyone not get along with you?”

  “My father was mayor of this village long before me, though we are opposite in many ways. He doesn't agree with the way I do things, or the way I refuse to do things. And my mother? I think she agrees with my politics, but she would never say so. She'll support my father to the end, even if that means that I no longer visit for Sunday dinner, even if that makes her incredibly unhappy.”

  “That's sad,” Charlotte said, but Gilou shook his head.

  “I respect my father. He stands for what he believes in. As do I. Without that, you're nothing. Those men who were here today ...” He sat back from the table as if it was polluted by the mention of them. “They believe in nothing. Principles are nothing to them. They speak only the language of money. That's why I can't reason with them. That's why they'll win.”

  “If you think like that then they've already won,” Charlotte said.

  “They have,” Gilou said.

  “Not if we don't let them,” Charlotte said.

  “We?” Gilou said. “Are you going to be my deputy?”

  “Sure.”

  “And we'll run them out of town?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I wish it was so simple,” he said.

  “And so much fun.”

  A new silence gathered itself about them and this time it looked like it would be Gilou who was considering reaching across the table and taking her hands in his. He drifted forward, lips parted and in response, Charlotte stood, almost knocking the chair over in her haste. Her heart was thumping as she grabbed their empty plates and crossed to the kitchen.

  She scraped the leftovers into Patrick's bowl, put the plates in the sink and would have left them there if Gilou's place hadn't felt so much like a museum. She felt that she ought to return everything to the exact position in which she found it and so she decided that it wouldn't take long to wash them, and even dry them, though it was something that she never did for herself.

  It was dark outside and attempting to look through the window only presented her with a mirror image of herself. She didn't have pepper on her teeth. In fact, she looked good. The sun had darkened her already tan skin and she looked healthy and youthful. She no longer had rings around her eyes from crying. Her smile came easily and lit up her face. Her dark hair was soft and luscious, though she'd done nothing to it.

  “What are you doing?” Gilou demanded.

  She was startled.

  “I was just thinking that it would be nice if all mirrors were this kind,” she said.

  “No,” Gilou said. “I mean with the plates.”

  “I'm washing up,” she said.

  “Stop.”

  “It won't take a minute,” she said.

  “You're not at work. You don't have to clean. Sit down.”

  “I've nearly finished,” she said.

  Gilou stood and swept the remaining objects from the table to the floor. The wine glasses, the empty bottle, the pasta bowl and pretty, white coffee cups all hit the tiled floor with a calamitous crash.

  Charlotte yelped and went to Gilou immediately. She put a hand on his arm and felt that he was shaking.

  “What's wrong?” she said.

  “I don't want to see you like this. I don't want you serving me. You're better than this.”

  “You started it.”

  “Not tonight,” he said.

  She still hadn't let go of his arm and he hadn't moved away. She slid her warm fingers along his forearm.

  “If you don't want to see me like this,” she asked, “then how?”

  Now his hands were on her arms, gentle but firm, and she thought that he was going to push her away, but instead he pulled her towards him and she barely had time to draw a breath before his mouth was on hers, gently for a moment to consider her reaction and then, when she did not immediately pull away, he kissed her hard, exploring her with his tongue. He seemed to consider withdrawing for a moment, but she put her fingers through the hair at the back of his head and held him close.

  He responded by lifting her and sitting her on the now clear table where she allowed her cardigan to fall from her shoulders. He kissed her neck, breathing the light scent of perfume on her skin, and at once his hands were on her body, gripping her waist, almost painful with the strength of his desire for her, sliding over her hips, her cotton dress riding up over her thighs.

  She slid the hem towards her waist, all the while her eyes on his. She saw his need for her. His smouldering eyes flicked from her face to her breasts to her naked thighs. Everywhere he looked was at once aflame, but there was nothing better when his eyes settled on hers, his open mouth suggesting that though he had lost a battle, but was about to give himself over to another.

  Her fingers began working on the clear buttons of h
is shirt, but he pulled it over his head and discarded it on the floor among the broken cups and shards of glass. She let her fingers trace the contours of his chest. He was toned, but real. Solid. He was not like the men she'd seen in the gym – the ones that never gave her a second look as they moved from machine to machine, mirror to mirror. Although she had sometimes thought of their bodies, while Mark was asleep or making paltry attempts to arouse her, she knew that Gilou's body was carved from a substance that was entirely different.

  She removed the straps from her shoulders and lowered herself to the cold, shining wood of the table. She offered herself to him.

  In the time it took for him to undress, she had time to have a kind of sexual flashback, thinking of the partners she'd had up unto now. There hadn't been many and she'd been with Mark, her only serious boyfriend, for two years. There were memories of college boys she had fancied and who might have fancied her, only she hadn't had the guts to find out then. Either that, or she hadn't believed that they could possibly have desired her.

  Gilou's body was heavy and warm to the touch, a delicious contrast to the goosebumps that had risen all over her body.

  He seemed to have a moment's hesitation himself as he supported himself above her. He even looked away, across the room.

  “Don't go,” she said. “Be here now.”

  Speaking French, he told her that she was beautiful.

  His naked chest pressed against hers and she sighed into his shoulder, biting playfully, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist as he eased himself into her, rocking gently, kissing.

  ~~~

  The only heat came from an electric radiator next to the table and so she snuggled against him, her back deliciously naked against his chest. She tried not to look at the unlit fire, because that only made her feel cold. Gilou offered to pick up her dress or fetch something for her to wear, but she refused to let him leave her, wanting the moment to last. It may have been cold, but she felt as though she was sunning herself in the glow of having something that she had wanted badly, before meeting Gilou and before coming to France. She'd always wanted to feel like this: as if she could do and be anything.

  She was listening to him breathe, feeling his breath tickle the back of her neck and enjoying the rise and fall of his chest. He had one arm draped over her waist and she was holding his hand tight with one hand while tracing the grain of the table with the other. Her fingers made a light scratching sound on the wood, which was amplified because her ear was to the surface. She thought that she could hear their hearts beating, unable to separate them.

  “I think I love this table,” Charlotte said.

  “I think you love it more than me,” Gilou said and she stopped scratching. She felt his arm tense and she didn't know how to stop him withdrawing his hand from hers.

  He was sitting up, surveying the mess.

  “I'll take you home,” he said and slid from the table.

  She watched him pull his trousers over his beautiful, bare bum, then throw his shirt over his back.

  Her eyes found her dress, lying happily among the litter. It could have stayed there all night if it hadn't been for him.

  “That's really not necessary,” Charlotte said stiffly. “You may remember that I live next door. We're neighbours. My name's Charlotte.”

  “Wait here,” he said, put on his hat and boots and went outside, closing the door behind him. She heard his footsteps descending the steps.

  Patrick waddled over to the table and looked up at Charlotte with what looked like a frown.

  Charlotte shrugged.

  “You tell me,” she said. “He's crazier than you are.”

  She slid her knickers on, stepped over broken glass and got into her dress.

  The house was surrounded by darkness and she felt trapped, a prisoner within four beautiful walls.

  She felt as if somebody was watching her and she wondered if the house could be haunted, but, since Gilou had made it himself not so many years ago, it was more likely that Le Pech Noir was haunted.

  “God, why did I think that?”

  Still, she had to admit that it was the same feeling she felt in both dwellings. There was a sense of unfinished business in the atmosphere, a sense that she was neither entirely alone nor entirely welcome.

  She shuddered and managed to spook herself so well that she yelped when Gilou finally beckoned for her to follow him outside.

  “You don't have to walk me home,” she said, amazed that they had slept together and that he still wanted her out. She still wasn't going to get to see the bedroom.

  “I'm not going to walk you home,” Gilou said and beckoned her again.

  They walked across the garden. He led her by the hand, because her night vision was not so good as his. The palms of his hands were rough, not the hands of someone who spent all day signing documents. At heart he was a creator.

  She was disappointed when he let go of her, but then elated when she saw what he had done.

  “I've never ridden a horse before,” she said.

  “You surprise me,” he said and she lowered her head, momentarily embarrassed.

  “A pony,” she said. “When I was a kid. But not a horse. This is a horse.”

  Gilou shrugged. “There are many things you have never done before. This is just another one.”

  “But … what if ...”

  “If you've never ridden before,” he said, “then you've never been thrown. That is an excellent track record.”

  “You're not inspiring confidence.”

  “We'll ride together. He is a strong horse.”

  “Charming.”

  “And you are as light as a feather.”

  “Better.”

  “I won't let anything happen to you.”

  He held out his hand and she took it automatically, just wanting to be touched again, but before she knew it he was leading her up to the horse and then making a platform with his hands in order to give her a bunk up.

  “I think you've forgotten something,” she said.

  “We don't need a saddle,” he said. “All three of us will be more comfortable without it. I've ridden many times before. Don't worry.”

  “You're drunk.”

  “I'm relaxed,” he said. “Use my hands as a step.”

  She did as she was told.

  “Now stand,” he said.

  Gitane was a big horse and despite all of Charlotte's physical work she hadn't had to do anything that required this much flexibility since she had arrived. She put all of her body into the movement, not wanting to look silly, and a moment later she was sort of draped over the horse's back and Gilou's hands were on her backside, shoving her up and on.

  “Now swing your leg over,” Gilou said.

  She did so and Gitane stood calmly as Charlotte positioned herself and repositioned herself.

  “I'm so high right now,” she said and burst out laughing. Maybe she'd had a little too much to drink as well.

  Gilou then produced a large stool and used it to clamber onto Gitane's back, causing her to give a snort of protest.

  “How come you didn't give me the step?” Charlotte said when he was finally on and settled in front of her.

  “You really have to ask?”

  He took the reins.

  “Scenic route?” he asked.

  “Okay,” she said, intrigued and delighted.

  He told her to put her arms around him.

  “For safety,” he said.

  “Of course,” she replied.

  Gitane walked out of her pen and Gilou steered her towards the road.

  He made a clicking noise with his tongue and Gilou the second raised his head and plodded after them.

  “He wants to come,” Gilou said, “but he needs some encouragement. We love you too, Gilou the second.”

  “Yes, we do,” Charlotte said.

  The night air was cool, but warmer than his house had been. The breeze was a contrast to the warmth coming
from Gilou's body. She held him tightly. When she began to get used to the rocking motion of Gitane's gait, she was still loathe to let go. For safety, he had said. She certainly felt safe with him. It was as if she were balancing on his shoulders and reaching for the stars.