by Fiona Gibson
Chapter Eighteen
By the time we’re back at the hotel – to check in properly, and so I can attend to Prep-Ash duties – I’m starting to think I overreacted a little there. I’m just not used to being around someone like Charlie, who’s clearly up for mischief. It’s not that I’m some buttoned-up trout who’s incapable of having fun; just that it’s been so long since I could entirely please myself that I’ve almost forgotten how.
‘D’you forgive me?’ Charlie asks, pulling me in for a hug as we set down our bags in our room.
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘I promise, if there are any more medical emergencies, I’ll be a gallant gentleman and handle it all.’
‘Sure, I know I’m completely safe in your hands,’ I say with a dry laugh.
‘But you are! Truly. You’re a gorgeous woman, you know that? And I’m sorry I poked fun at you …’ I grin as I untangle myself from his arms and pull out my phone from my bag.
How’s it going? reads Ingrid’s text.
Funny, sort of, I reply.
Eh? Good or bad funny? she responds in a blink. I’m about to reply Good, don’t worry when Charlie’s arms are around me again, and we’re kissing and kissing, standing up at first, then somehow tumbling on to the enormous bed. I pull back and smile, studying his flushed face.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, frowning.
‘Let’s go out. We’re only here for one day. Let’s do some exploring …’
‘Mmm, later,’ he says, gathering me into his arms again and going in for a wine-scented kiss.
‘And remember you’re meant to be reviewing this hotel …’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ He sniggers. ‘I picked up a leaflet about it at reception.’
‘That’s the sum total of your research?’ I tease him, at which he shrugs. ‘Oh, come on, Charlie. It’s a beautiful day, I really don’t want to miss it.’ He pulls away this time, lying on his side of the bed and regarding me with mild amusement. He looks lovely; relaxed and handsome, his dark eyes sparkling and hair saucily mussed from our cavortings. It’s not that I don’t want to go to bed with him; I really do. But I sort of want to save it till later because – I know Viv would despair of me here – I really would like to explore Paris.
‘You want to go up the sodding Eiffel Tower,’ he says with a wry smile.
‘No, not that. I’d just like to …’ I jump off the bed and smooth down my rumpled hair and dress in preparation for leaving.
‘Visit the Sacré-Coeur?’
‘Yes!’ I say, grabbing his hand. ‘Come on – I know you’re all blasé about travel but I’m not.’
‘Okay, okay,’ he says, laughing as he gathers himself up. ‘I can see you’ve got a whole itinerary worked out.’
‘Not quite, but there are places I’m dying to see. Let’s start with the Musée d’Orsay, then head over to Montmartre …’
As it turns out, Charlie responds well to a little gentle encouragement. He is hugely enthusiastic as we make our way through the gallery, partly, I suspect, due to the wine he knocked back at lunch, but also because he appears to be having a great time. Now and again, he grabs my hand or snakes an arm around my waist; it’s extremely giddying.
We head onwards to Sacré-Coeur, where he bounds up the seemingly never-ending steps (impressive, considering that he claims to be a stranger to exercise). Up there, the view over the city is breathtaking. For a brief moment, I almost wish Logan and Fergus were here so I could grab them and say, ‘Look – isn’t it amazing?’ But of course, they’d be all huffy from hiking up those steps and being made to look at a boring old church.
By now we’re all hungry again, so we drift towards the Marais, my attention momentarily diverted by the cluttered window of a toyshop. ‘Look,’ I yelp, indicating a cheap-looking soft toy.
‘What is it?’ Charlie asks.
‘It’s the same one! It’s Rex – my son’s dog that I took to the charity shop and need to replace. Come on.’ Grabbing his hand, I pull him into the shop, every inch of which is crammed with a crazy jumble of toys. Unlike Noah’s back in Edinburgh, this one has been filled with everything from the tackiest teddy to precious items costing hundreds of euros. There’s a hand-carved rocking horse with a real hair mane, and a family of fifty Russian dolls, all intricately painted in reds and golds.
‘This place is amazing,’ I breathe, unhooking a dangling Rex from the ceiling and making my way to the counter, while Charlie amuses himself by grabbing an old-fashioned jack-in-a-box – of a similar vintage to my Fuzzy Felts, I’d guess – and setting it off in my face.
‘You’re such a child,’ I laugh.
‘So are you,’ he shoots back. ‘Why are you buying that horrible dog? It’s ugly, Alice. Surely you can find him a nicer souvenir.’
‘It’s not a souvenir,’ I explain. ‘You see, I’m going to try and pass this off as the one he loved when he was little.’
Charlie looks baffled. ‘You’re gonna lie to him?’
‘Well, sort of, but sometimes it’s the best way.’ I smile at him. ‘D’you know much about kids?’
‘Hell, no. They’re confusing and unpredictable, like small, drunk people.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘I’ll be nice with yours, though. I won’t scare them.’
I grin as he takes my hand, and as we leave the shop I start thinking, could I introduce Charlie to Logan and Fergus? They’d like him, I think, and anyway, they’ll have to accept that I’ll meet someone one day. I can’t live my weird baking nun’s life forever.
Starving by now, we find a beautiful little Turkish restaurant where we feast on delicious charred lamb and even more wine. At least, I have two glasses and Charlie has more than I can keep track of, and when we leave the place he is reeling.
It’s nearly midnight by the time we’ve pottered back to the hotel. It was my idea to walk, in the hope that it would give him a chance to sober up a little. I have nothing against a drunk man, and he’s still excellent company, regaling me with tales of crazy commissions and his louche London life. But still, having hauled him out to do the whole touristy thing, I’m now rather eager to get him back to our room.
A shiver of excitement runs through me as we step into the hotel lift. As soon as its metal gate closes, we are kissing again. We tumble out at the third floor and into our room. Charlie totters off to the bathroom, giving me a few moments to gather myself; it’s been so long since I found myself in a situation like this – an about-to-go-to-bed situation, I mean. And I literally have forgotten what the etiquette is. Undress and leap into bed? That seems a little … hasty. What, then? Should I put the kettle on and make us a pot of tea, or would he think I’m a tragic old square?
The shower is on; he must have had a drunken urge to cleanse himself. Well, at least he’ll be lovely and fresh.
‘Alice,’ he shouts through the closed bathroom door, ‘come in with me.’
What – in the shower? Christ. I’m not entirely sure I could carry it off – the whole sex in the shower thing, I mean, with the potential for skidding and cracking my head on the tiles. The thought of normal, uncomplicated bed-sex is nerve-racking enough without the introduction of water and slippery porcelain surfaces.
‘Alice?’ he yells again.
‘Just getting a breath of air,’ I call back, like an old lady who’s become overheated at a wedding reception. I push open the tall glass doors which lead on to our balcony, and step out. We are on the top floor of this grand old building, and the sky is inky blue. It’s still bustling in the street below and, ridiculously, I find myself wishing the boys were with me again. It’s wrong, surely, to keep thinking about my kids when I should be plotting all kinds of things to get up to with Charlie.
I inhale deeply, smiling as I replay our day in my mind. The pile incident I could have done without, but that aside, I can’t remember having so much fun. I glance back into our room where Charlie has emerged from the bathroom. Without staring directly, I see him whip off his hotel gown with a flo
urish, throw it over the phone on the desk and tumble on to the bed. God, he’s pissed. While I’m not against a fun drunken encounter, it doesn’t seem quite as appealing when there’s a huge imbalance in inebriation levels – as there is right now. It strikes me as bizarre how brilliant sex can be when you’re both sloshed, and how uninviting it seems when you’re the relatively sober one. Winey breath, drunken fumblings … it’s not quite how I imagined ending my eighteen months of celibacy.
‘Alice, you coming to bed?’ Charlie drawls. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pat the pillow hopefully.
‘Yep, in a minute.’
‘What are you doing out there?’
‘Just taking some photos,’ I fib. I swallow hard, looking down to the street where a couple are striding along the pavement. He has choppy dark hair and is wearing a long black coat over a crew-necked sweater and jeans, and she is in a little figure-hugging red dress, with a black cardi thrown over her shoulders. She looks stunning. They both do. They are holding hands and laughing, and the sight of them makes me think, Get a grip, Alice: there’s a lovely, sexy man waiting for you in that bed, so why are you hiding out here on the balcony? I look back down at the couple. They seem so very Parisian, as if they’ve stepped out of that black-and-white Robert Doisneau photo, the one called The Kiss, where it looks as if he’s just grabbed her in the middle of a busy street. Right on cue, he does kiss her. I turn away and step back into our room where Charlie is lying in bed, head propped up on one hand, and covered from the waist down with the cream sheet.
‘Hey,’ he says with an unsteady smile.
‘Lovely night out there,’ I say.
‘Must be,’ he teases, ‘you’ve been ages. How many pictures did you take?’
‘Hundreds,’ I reply.
‘Are you happy?’ he asks squiffily.
‘Of course I am. It’s been a lovely day. Amazing food and wine, and a fake-Rex …’
‘What more could a girl ask for?’ he asks. I study him for a moment: this funny, sexy man who I can imagine shaking me out of my domestic doldrums. He is fun and attentive, and undeniably handsome – even more so lying there in bed, his lightly tanned body displayed to fine effect against the sheets. His shoulders are nicely shaped, his whole upper body muscled in a way that would appear to be his natural physique. He is, I notice, slowly tugging down the upper sheet with his foot, an impressively dexterous move considering how drunk he is.
Down and down the sheet goes, his gaze remaining fixed on mine. I watch it with interest, wondering if this is some kind of party trick. Maybe, when it gets to a certain crucial point, something will pop out – like that jack-in-a-box in the toyshop. I glimpse Fake-Rex parked there on the dressing table and am seized by an urge to shield him from this naked man.
For now he has disposed of the sheet with one final, dramatic flick of his foot, and is lying there, dead still, as if in a gallery.
A smile teases his lips. I try to smile back, in a way that shows I am appreciating the vision of beauty before me. But I can’t because my lips are starting to quiver with mirth, so I have to clamp them together instead.
‘C’mon, Alice,’ Charlie murmurs.
It’s no good. Hysterical laughter is bubbling up inside me, about to burst out.
‘Just a minute,’ I say, diving into the bathroom and shutting the door behind me. Breathe, I command myself. Breathe, think of serious things. Like, er, library fines and stern letters from the Inland Revenue … But my shoulders are bobbing with mirth and, try as I might, I can’t shift the image of that slowly descending sheet from my mind – a sort of horizontal striptease, involving bed linen. Oh, God. I am now laughing so hard, tears have sprung into my eyes, and when I glimpse my reflection there are patches of wet mascara beneath my eyes.
I sit on the loo, trying to steady my breathing. Think of sad things, I command myself silently. I picture the inside of Mum’s fridge, and the time she gathered up Dad’s ratty old jumpers and made a fire of them in her back garden. I imagine Tom and Patsy smugly gathering kale in their cottage garden – Tom even has a trug, I saw it in that magazine – but even that doesn’t work, because it doesn’t make me feel sad at all. It just makes me laugh even harder.
I pour myself a glass of water at the wash basin and gulp it down. Ripping off a square of loo roll, I blot my eyes, then pull off my clothes and drape them over the side of the bath. There. I am naked, ready for anything. I glance down at my pubes and think, maybe I should have had a Brazilian to haul me into the modern age, but too late now. Maybe he’ll find me pleasingly retro. I try to remember the last time I had sex, and the unsettling vision of a long-ago one-night stand shimmers into my mind – of a sweaty policeman I met at Kirsty’s sister’s wedding, and slept with when Logan and Fergus were staying at Tom’s. And it was hideous: loud nasal breathing and clammy hands, if I recall. Hairy back and fungal toenails which he proudly informed me he hoped to cure with some kind of light therapy. And of course, tonight will be nothing like that. Charlie has been incredibly sweet – apart from the pharmacy incident, but I’ve forgiven him for that – and the sex will be amazing.
I take a huge deep breath, mustering every ounce of courage, and stride naked out of the bathroom. Soft snores are coming from our queen-sized bed, and on my pillow lies a tiny puddle of drool.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Uuuuurrrrrrggghh …’ Charlie emits a groan as he flips over on to his back in bed. I am up already, wrapped up in a hotel robe that’s so soft, I can barely feel it against my skin. I have opened the shutters, and the door which leads onto the balcony. Pale, milky light is streaming in, giving our beautiful room a dreamy quality. ‘Alice?’ Charlie croaks, managing to separate upper and lower eyelids with some difficulty.
‘Morn-ing,’ I sing-song (hugely irritating, I know, to display one’s lack of hangover, but I can’t resist).
‘Urrr … what time is it?’ He rubs at an eye with a fist.
‘Almost eight.’
‘Jesus – I thought it must be much later. Why have you opened that door?’
‘To let the day in,’ I laugh. And your booze breath out …
He pats the vacant side of bed. ‘Come back in. It’s far too early to be bounding about.’
‘I’m not bounding,’ I point out.
‘Yes you are. You’re being all energetic like … like a little foal. A very cute one, by the way. You look very pure in that gown. What happened last night anyway?’ He is sitting up now, squinting at me as if having difficulty bringing me into focus. ‘Oh God, I didn’t fall asleep, did I?’
I nod. ‘Out like a light.’
He rubs his face with his hands. ‘Fuck, I’m so sorry. Jesus.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say lightly. ‘You were very sweet, all tucked up like a baby.’
‘Stop it.’ He laughs throatily, which morphs into an urgent cough. ‘God, you look far fresher than I feel. How have you managed that?’
‘Well, I didn’t drink quite as much as you yesterday …’
He grins rakishly. ‘Nah, it’s that cream, isn’t it? That bum lotion. It’s giving you an all-over glow.’
‘I really think your vision’s gone funny,’ I tease him.
‘No – you do. You look so … lovely.’ Once again, he pats the space beside him. I grit my teeth, concerned that he’s planning to try the moving-sheet trick again. But no; it remains pulled up to his chest. ‘Come back to bed,’ he murmurs with a dozy smile.
‘Let’s get some breakfast, Charlie.’
‘Uhhh, no, I can’t eat anything yet.’ He checks the watch which he omitted to take off last night.
‘I think they stop serving at half-eight,’ I fib.
‘No, it’ll be ten at the latest. Come on – we’ve got loads of time.’ He makes a beckoning motion and I pull my bathrobe cord a little tighter.
‘I’m really hungry,’ I add, ‘and if we leave it much longer all the best stuff’ll be gone.’
He emits a raspy laugh. ‘For Go
d’s sake, Alice – it’s a hotel, not a jumble sale. Hotels never run out of breakfast.’
‘I know but …’ I tail off, wondering how to explain that I’m just eager to get out of this room, lovely though it is, and on with the day. After all, we have only a few hours left in Paris.
‘You’re all antsy,’ he observes.
‘It’s just, I’ve been awake for ages …’
‘Since when?’ he frowns.
‘About half-six.’
‘Half-six?’ Charlie exclaims. ‘Who wakes up at half-six in a hotel?’
‘Well, I did.’
He shakes his head in wonderment. ‘I wasn’t snoring, was I?’
‘No … I just woke up.’ I don’t add that it felt so weird, sharing a bed with a man, that I barely slept a wink all night. Will I ever be capable of sleeping with anyone ever again?
He is out of bed now, naked and rubbing his eyes with one hand, while clutching the bedside table for support with the other. Very nice body; long legs, finely-shaped butt, not a hint of chubbiness around the stomach.
‘Oh, you’re probably right,’ he concedes. ‘Maybe I could do with something to eat. S’pose you’ve had a shower already?’
‘Yes.’
‘’Course you have,’ he says with a fond laugh. ‘You’ve probably been out for a bloody five-mile jog as well.’ He grabs the other bathrobe from the hook on the door and shrugs it on.
‘No, I was waiting for you so we can do that together. I thought we could go back to the Sacré-Coeur and run up all those steps.’
‘Fuck off,’ he chuckles, taking my hands in his and kissing me lightly on the lips. ‘Are you pissed off with me? Sorry if I behaved like a drunken arse last night …’
‘You didn’t,’ I say firmly. ‘I told you – it was a wonderful day. I’m just hungry, okay?’ I shrug off the robe and quickly pull on my skirt and top, aware of him watching me intently. While he showers, I wait on the balcony, and this time I do take photos: the whole of Paris shimmers before me on this crisp, cool morning.