by Jan Ellis
“Okay,” said Rachel. “So that’s nul points for Michael who always claimed to be allergic to them and made them sleep outside, didn’t he pusskins?”
“Cats are more of a tie-breaker, if you will,” said Margot, clearly keen to get down to the nitty-gritty. “Let’s start with the basics.”
“Okay – I’m ready!”
“Points for who’s actually available?”
Rachel frowned. “Two for Michael, 3 for Paul – because he still has a wife – and 5 for Josh.”
Margot marked the scores. “Right. Attraction?”
“Michael 0, Paul 5, Josh 4.”
“I thought you said Josh was cute?”
Rachel shrugged. “Beard.”
“Okay. Intellectual stimulation.”
Rachel guffawed.
“We’ll get on to the other kind of stimulation in a minute,” said Margot, trying to stay serious. “Who would be your best match when it comes to things of the mind?”
Rachel relit the spliff and took a long puff.
“That’s a hard one,” she said, blowing the smoke over her shoulder and trying not to cough. “I guess Michael gets a 5 because he knows me so well, the bastard.”
“Yes, but does that count as ‘stimulation’? Rachel, try and be serious.”
Rachel had her hand over her mouth and was giggling again.
“Sorry, sorry! Okay, right. Well, I suppose top points for intellectual stimulation should go to The Prof, because he tells me things I never knew about.”
Margot marked a 5 under Michael and Josh. “What about Paul?”
“Who cares! He’s just sex on a stick.”
Margot sighed and took what was left of the spliff back from her friend. “I really don’t know why I bother sometimes.”
Rachel stood up and came round to the other side of the table to give her friend a hug. “Because,” she said, making a big effort to sound serious, “it’s fun, but it’s only men and they don’t really matter. So what’s the score so far?”
Margot sniffed. “Can’t say because you haven’t scored Paul on ‘intellectual stimulation’.”
“Okay,” said Rachel, perching on the tabletop. “Let’s say 4, because he appreciates my art but his skills lie elsewhere.”
Margot gave her a sideways look before totting up the scores. “Woo,” she said, in a whistle. “This is interesting.”
Rachel slid down off the table and lent over the note pad. “And?”
“The scores are in, Mesdames et Messieurs. In reverse order: third is Michael the Love Rat. Second is Sex on a Stick Paul, but our winner this evening is . . .” Margot beat a drum roll on the table – “The Professor, with an unbeatable 14 points.”
“Wow,” said Rachel, retreating to the sofa.
“Wow, indeed.”
The women were silent for a moment, each lost in thought.
“Is there any of that cheese left, Rachel? I feel a bit peckish.”
“Sure, I’ll bring some out. Crackers?”
“Yes please.”
Rachel mulled over the results as she fetched the goat’s cheese and biscuits. Who would have thought that Josh would come out the winner? The women were sitting deep in contemplation in front of the fire with mugs of coffee and empty plates when Alice came in.
Kissing her mother, she sniffed suspiciously. “It smells funny in here.”
“Really love?” said Rachel, trying to look innocent.
“I hope you’re not smoking dope again. I could be taken into care, you know.”
“Don’t worry darling, it’s only a little herbal relief for my bad back,” said Margot. “The doctor said it was good for me, and the occasional puff won’t do your mother any harm either.”
Alice looked unconvinced but gave Margot a New Year’s hug, kissed her mother and went off to bed leaving the women to ponder the results of their highly scientific survey.
“Well,” said Rachel, when her daughter had gone. “I need to think about our research a little bit more.”
“And I need to go home,” said Margot, rising a little unsteadily to her feet and looking at her watch. “Claude will be here to whisk me off any moment.”
At the sound of Claude pulling up outside the house, Rachel hugged her friend and smiled. “Thanks Margot. This has been a very interesting and informative evening,” she said, giggling again.
“Any time my darling,” said Margot, as she tottered off towards the taxi and home.
Chapter 21: Decision Time
The next day Rachel kept taking the sheet of paper with Margot’s lists out of her pocket and looking at it. She knew it was silly, but the exercise had got her thinking about what she wanted – and what she could and couldn’t have.
Margot was right. Until baby Olivier had arrived, Rachel had secretly hoped that she and Michael might one day get back together. Now that Michael had the baby, Rachel knew that he wouldn’t desert Amelie. At least not for a while, she thought sourly.
She was back in the studio, leafing through some of her reference books in search of inspiration for a new range of birthday cards. She looked up as the alarm clock clanked: Claude would be depositing Josh at her door very soon and she had no idea what to say to him.
At the sound of an engine, she sank to her knees and crawled over to the window. Peeking out over the sill she could just see the taxi snaking its way up the road towards the house. There was nothing for it: she was going to have to hide.
“Oh buggeration,” she muttered, running down the stairs and into the laundry room where her housekeeper was extracting sheets from the dryer. “Irina,” she hissed, “tell him he can’t stay and that I’m not here, will you?”
Irina drew herself up to her full height and looked fierce. “I make Mr Claude take him away, Madame.”
“Thank you,” said Rachel, dashing into the pantry and closing the door. Although she referred to the place as a pantry, it was actually more like a large broom cupboard. Once inside, Rachel managed to wriggle in between the Hoover and the ironing board, resting her bum on a shelf.
She sat there for what seemed like ages, unable to hear what was going on because of the noise from the washing machine. Eventually, the cupboard door was pulled open and Irina stood there triumphantly.
“All safe now, Rachel. I tell him to ‘bugger off’ – no room here. He looked very sad, but I make him go back to town.” Irina actually chuckled. “Mr Claude is happy because he has double taxi fare!”
Poor Josh. Rachel did feel guilty as she dusted herself off and thanked Irina. She knew that hiding in a cupboard was a cowardly thing to do, but she really couldn’t face him. Sitting in the dark surrounded by spiders and tins of cat food she had made a decision: she wanted to be with Paul Callot.
Irina tried to look cool but had clearly enjoyed her role as defender. “Not a problem, Rachel.”
“Could you feed the kids later?” asked Rachel. “I have to finish off some work then I need to go into town for a couple of hours. There’s someone I have to see.” With that, she bounded back upstairs to her studio.
After an hour or so she decided that she couldn’t wait any longer. Having made her decision, she wanted to see Paul right away. She was going to go into town just as she was but, catching sight of herself in a mirror, decided that the cobwebs in her hair were not attractive.
“Okay. Shower, clean clothes, then I’m off.”
She was in a bathrobe drying her hair when her son came into the bedroom. “Hi love. What is it?”
“There’s a man downstairs asking for a room.”
“Damn, is there?” Rachel was hoping not to have any guests until later in the week. “Can you tell him I’ll be right down?”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and did he say where he was from?”
Charlie shrugged. “America, I think he said last time.”
Rachel put down her hair dryer. “What do you mean by ‘last time’, love?”
Her son rolled his eyes. “What I sa
id – when he was here last time. You know, just before Christmas.”
Rachel’s heart sank like a stone. “You don’t mean it’s Josh, do you?”
“Oh, yeh. That was his name.” Charlie grinned. “Forgot.”
The sympathy she had felt for Josh when she was sitting in the pantry now turned into indignation: the cheek of the man coming back when he had been told quite categorically that there was no room. Fuming, Rachel threw on her clothes and marched downstairs.
As she got to the last step, Josh scooped her up and swung her around. “Hey, I’m back. Isn’t it great that I got the job? It means that we can go on lots more hikes together!”
When she was down on the ground, Rachel unpeeled herself from Josh’s embrace and stepped back with her arms folded over her chest. “Well,” she said, “I’m very surprised to see you here again when Irina made it quite clear that there wasn’t any room.”
At this point Irina came in from the kitchen. “Plenty of room, Madame,” she said with a smile.
“That’s my girl!” said Josh, with a wink at Irina who blushed girlishly.
Rachel stood there with her mouth open thinking that everyone had gone mad. “No there isn’t Irina. Remember?”
Claude, who was standing in the doorway, cleared his throat. “Does it mean that I have to take this one back as well?”
“As well as what?” asked Rachel crossly.
“As well as the gentleman from the picture shop.”
Irina smiled. “The one I told to ‘bugger off’.”
Rachel put her hands to her face and whimpered. “Oh no. What have I done?”
Irina put on her fierce expression again. “Rachel, you ask me to tell Mr Claude to take the other man away.”
Claude opened his hands in a gesture of defeat. “What Irina tells me to do, I do.”
Josh was sitting on the staircase looking perplexed. “I have no idea what is going on here, but can I have a room or not?”
Rachel went over to him and took his hands. “Okay Josh, you can have a room,” she said gently. “But you can’t have me.”
“Not even as a friend?”
“Friends yes, of course. But not . . .” she could see Irina, Claude and her son straining to hear what she said. “Not in a bed sock kind of way, if you get my drift.”
“Sure thing,” said Josh. “That’s fine by me.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks Josh. I’ll let Irina sort you out.”
Irina smiled and went to fetch a key.
Rachel went over to Claude. “I’m so sorry about the muddle.”
The taxi man just shrugged. “That’s okay. I’ve had some good fares today.”
She gave him a kiss. “Can you take me back into town?”
“Of course.”
“Hold on a minute though,” she said, dashing into the kitchen and returning with a bottle of champagne. “Right. Let’s go!”
* * *
There’s nothing a cab driver likes more in the world than a chase, and this was a chase. As they left Tournesol, Claude told Rachel that Paul Callot was planning to catch a Paris train that evening.
They went first to the shop, only to find it locked and dark. They’d missed him. Jumping back into the taxi, Rachel felt desperate. What would she do if Paul changed his mind and decided not to settle in Dreste after all? Having decided that he was the man for her, she wasn’t sure she could bear it.
Claude screeched across town, swung his taxi onto the station forecourt and slammed on his brakes. “Try Platform 6, Rachel,” he advised, as she jumped out of the car. “I’ll wait here.”
“Thanks Claude. Wish me luck!” She dashed into the station, scanning the Departure board. It was only a small station, but Platform 6 was at the far end. Claude had been right: that was the place for the Paris trains. Rachel couldn’t help a sob escaping from her throat as she dodged around the commuters, desperate to find Paul.
It wasn’t long until she caught sight of him, sitting on a bench gazing up at the board.
“Paul, don’t go!” she cried, throwing herself at him.
Paul swept her up in his arms, laughing as he hugged her tightly against his chest. “My goodness, what’s all this?”
Rachel was crying now. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to send you away. It was all a mistake.” She stepped back, gulping. “Please don’t go.” She held up the bottle. “I brought champagne.”
Paul laughed and kissed her. “Rachel, I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re not?” She looked at him, surprised. “But Claude said you were going back to Paris. After Irina told you to, er, leave.”
He caught her by the shoulders and kissed her firmly on the lips. “I think Claude misunderstood. What I meant was that I was meeting a Paris train.” Just at that moment, the train slowly entered the station and slid towards them. “My uncle went to Paris for New Year and I said that I would meet him and carry his case back to the shop. He’s not allowed to strain that shoulder of his.”
“Oh.” Rachel stood in silence, looking stunned. “Have I just made a complete fool of myself?”
Paul smiled and brushed strands of hair away from her face. “No, but you have made me very happy.”
“Have I?”
“Yes,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Now let’s find my uncle.”
* * *
Back at Tournesol, Rachel smiled as she held her glass of champagne up to the light and watched the bubbles ricochet through the pale amber liquid.
Next to her sat Paul. Around the table were Charlie, Alice, Monsieur Claude, Irina and Josh, all with their glasses raised in a toast.
“Let’s drink to health, happiness, new and old friends,” said Rachel.
Paul kissed her and smiled. “And to a very happy New Year.”
If you enjoyed French Kisses you might like An Unexpected Affair by Jan Ellis, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from An Unexpected Affair by Jan Ellis
Chapter 1: The Bookshop
SHE CAREFULLY SLIPPED THE BLADE of the knife under the tape and cut. Peeling back the flaps, she lowered her face to the contents and inhaled deeply. Erika, her assistant, smiled conspiratorially.
“You’ve gone over to the dark side. You’re definitely one of us now.”
“You’re right,” said Eleanor as she lifted the pile of paperbacks from the box, sniffed them and set them on the counter. “My name is Eleanor Mace and I am addicted to books.”
It was three years since Eleanor had bought the bookshop. Three years since she’d left her boring office job and caused her friends’ collective jaws to drop by announcing that she was leaving London and moving to Devon. She might as well have said she’d got a new career as a yak herder for the consternation this had caused. They clearly thought she was deranged, though only her sister Jenna had told her so to her face.
“Just because you’re divorced from Alan doesn’t mean that you have to lock yourself away from the world.”
“Jen, I’m moving to the English countryside, not entering a convent.”
“I can see it now,” said Jenna, ignoring her. “In six months’ time you’ll have stopped shaving your legs, embraced tweed and discovered jam-making.”
“Now you’re being silly,” said Eleanor, thinking that it had already been some time since her pins had seen a Gillette disposable. “It’s not the end of the earth, Jen. There’s a train station and you and Keith can come and stay any time you wish.”
“I’d rather come on my own,” said Jenna, wrinkling her nose as she tipped the last of the Chardonnay into Eleanor’s glass. “You finish it. They probably don’t run to white wine where you’re heading. And what on earth will you do down there?”
That had been easy to answer: with the money from her divorce Eleanor could afford to buy a slightly crumbly bookshop with an adjoining cottage in a small, unfashionable seaside town. It had been a huge leap and scary at times, but running the shop made her happy, and her enthusiasm f
or what she sold and her knowledge about the books and their authors was undoubtedly behind the small success that she had managed to build for herself. She’d made sure the shop was a welcoming place with comfy sofas to sit on and coffee and homemade biscuits on offer. With help from her son Joe, she had built a kind of den at the back of the shop where children could read, and there was always an eclectic selection of new and second-hand books to browse through.
“Don’t forget that you’ve got that house clearance to go to this afternoon,” said Erika, bearing coffee and biscuits.
“Nope, it’s in the diary,” said Eleanor, eyeing up a chocolate cookie. “Do you think you can control the rampaging hordes for an hour or two while I’m over there?” she asked, looking at her watch.
‘Oh, I think we’ll cope, won’t we Bella?” said Erika addressing the Spaniel who was stretched out in a patch of sunshine, wagging its tail. The dog was one of the draws of the shop, and local school children would often drag their parents in off the street on their way home just to see her.
“I’ll be back in time to lock up,” said Eleanor as she patted the dog, grabbed her bag and walked up the road to her van. It looked rather gaudy in the afternoon sun and she smiled at the recollection of that supper with her sister when she had laid out her plans for what would become The Reading Room. It hadn’t been until they were mid-way through the second bottle that Eleanor had admitted to swapping her sensible black Volvo for a lime-green campervan, or a ‘hippy wagon’ as Jenna had described it. Okay, it wasn’t the easiest vehicle to manoeuvre around the vertiginous roads and narrow lanes of her new home, but the Combi had lots of room for boxes and she could also use it when she went to book fairs and local events, as she told herself. Aside from the practical considerations, it was fun and she loved driving it. She found the throaty rumble of its engine strangely comforting and every time she started it up she had the feeling that an adventure could be just around the corner. Driving it gave her a sense of freedom, although she suspected that people thought it was an inappropriate vehicle for a woman who was rapidly hurtling towards fifty. She might still have been a few years away from the big ‘Five O’, but she was technically middle-aged.