French Kissing: Season One

by Harper Bliss

  “Full marks for melodrama.” Margot shot her a half-smile. “I’ll be home tonight if you want to talk.”

  “I’ll be fine. Please, go be with Claire. I don’t want to stand in the way—”

  “Claire knows this and you know it as well.” Margot planted her palms on Nadia’s desk. “Heartache always comes first.” She leaned in a little closer. “And I don’t take no for an answer easily.” Her half-smile had transformed into a full-on grin.

  Nadia actually chuckled, an action she hadn’t thought she’d be partaking in today.

  “And when you see Inez, you can tell her that if she chose this hospital because I work here, she picked it for the wrong reason.” Margot pushed herself up from the desk. “Show her a picture of Claire while you’re at it.”

  “You can count on it.” Nadia scanned Margot’s face, unsure if it was a pokerface or if she genuinely didn’t care. She feared the former.

  “See you later.” Margot turned on her heels and exited Nadia’s office. Nadia sat staring at the résumé a while longer, at the xeroxed picture of the striking woman in the top right corner of it, and didn’t have a good feeling about it.

  CLAIRE

  “Can you meet for lunch?” Margot’s invitation startled Claire.

  “Depends, can we meet somewhere private?” She played it cool. And she hadn’t forgotten about the previous night’s coitus interruptus.

  “Can you come to the hospital, please? I need to tell you something and I’d rather do it face-to-face.”

  Claire sat upright in her chair, definitely startled now. “That sounds serious.”

  “It’s not, I just want to tell you as soon as possible. That’s all.” A strange urgency clung to Margot’s voice.

  “I’ll be there.” Claire checked her watch. “I’ll leave now. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “Thanks.” With a dry click, Margot hung up.

  A nervous curiosity settled in Claire’s stomach, but, truth be told, what with all that was going on at Barbier & Cyr of late—and she hadn’t forgotten about the argument she’d had with Juliette the day before, despite it being swept under the carpet because of Nadia’s revelation—she couldn’t wait to get out of the office for a bit. And seeing Margot was always a treat.

  “Hey boss.” Steph appeared in her doorframe, just as Claire was getting up to gather her affairs. “Fred told me you’re free for lunch. I’ll buy.” The way she stood there, leaning against the frame, one leg crossed over the other, oozing confidence no matter what had happened and how bad the consequences of her actions could have been, Claire could see why Dominique had made a pass at Steph. She was the kind of person emanating a magnetic attraction that could persuade a homophobic nun to give up her life-long beliefs, and all in the blink of a long-lashed eye.

  “My plans have just changed, so I’ll have to take a rain check.”

  “Oh, okay.” Steph straightened her posture a bit. “Can we talk later, please? It’s sort of urgent.”

  “Personal or business?” Claire cursed herself, and the way she ran the company lately, for even having to ask.

  “A bit of both, I guess.”

  The reply didn’t please Claire and she vowed to run a tighter ship, not that that would be possible as long as Steph was handling Laroche personally. “Set it up with Fred for this afternoon”

  * * *

  Claire’s heart beat a little faster when Margot sat down opposite her in the hospital cafeteria. She’d gotten them both a salad, but Claire was too worked-up to even pick at it. She didn’t want to come across as an impatient teenager either, so she sipped from her tea to hide her concerns.

  “Sorry for dragging you all the way out here,” Margot said. “And thanks for coming.”

  “Anything to get a glimpse of you.” Despite her nerves, Claire always seemed to go into automatic flirting mode when facing Margot.

  Margot smiled. “I know I owe you.”

  Claire wished they had agreed to meet somewhere privately. It wasn’t just the early stages of infatuation that diluted her blood with hormones. There was something so irresistible about Margot, an inner strength and beauty she’d rarely come across. It only made the frantic throbbing of her pulse descend all the way down to between her legs.

  “Is that what you wanted to tell me?” Claire’s curiosity won out in the end, despite the unflinching gaze Margot regarded her with, and the promises it held.

  “Sadly, no.” Margot looked away. “My ex is coming back. Nadia just told me she’ll be joining our hospital in two weeks. We won’t be able to avoid each other.”

  “What? Nadia? Uh—” Claire didn’t know what to say. “Inez? The one we talked about?”

  Margot nodded. “Look.” She briefly reached out her hand over the table, giving Claire’s fingers a quick squeeze. “This doesn’t change anything. Once I’m through with someone, I really am done with them, but I’m all for complete and total honesty and I wanted you to know.”

  Alarm bells rang in Claire’s head, although she couldn’t immediately tell why. Maybe because, despite claiming it was no big deal, Margot had called her over to give her the news immediately and in person. Or, perhaps, because of how Margot’s voice had cracked slightly when she’d first told Claire about Inez. “Okay.” Ultimately, Claire was not afraid of a ghost from Margot’s past. She knew what she had to offer and what was blooming between her and Margot was going in the right direction. “I appreciate your candour.”

  “I’m not someone who looks back often. You have nothing to worry about.” Margot served her the same smile she’d greeted Claire with after surprising her at Le Comptoir—that debonair got-you smirk Claire adored.

  “Okay,” Claire repeated, realising she was at a loss for words. But who was convincing who?

  JULIETTE

  “Just because I’m working late, doesn’t mean you have to stay.” Juliette addressed Sybille, who was toying with her phone behind her desk outside of Juliette’s office. It was after eight. Sybille had been in the office before eight that morning—before Juliette had arrived herself—getting an earful from Steph. “Trust me, you don’t want to follow my example. It will wreak havoc on your relationship.”

  “That bad?” Sybille looked up at her.

  Juliette just nodded. Something shimmered in Sybille’s glance and Juliette didn’t know if it was just compassion or something else.

  “Do you want to go for a drink?” Sybille gave her that unwavering stare—the one so assured of itself, it didn’t take no for an answer.

  “Don’t you have a partner to go home to?” And talk to about all the dramatic shenanigans going on at your work place. They really didn’t pay Sybille enough to keep their secrets.

  “She’s away, staying at her aunt’s place in the south.” Sybille pocketed her phone and rose. “Come on, boss. Just the one.”

  Shy of better offers, Juliette acquiesced. “Why not?”

  Ten minutes later, they faced each other across a high table outside of Le Comptoir, a bottle of chilled white wine between them.

  “What’s new on the rumour mill today? Any chatter about your tired old boss?”

  “You’re hardly old, Madame—”

  Juliette held up her hands. “If we’re drinking together, you’ll have to call me Juliette.”

  “Gladly.” Sybille sipped from her wine without taking her eyes off Juliette.

  “So? Spill,” Juliette urged. “Is the news out yet?”

  “What news?” Sybille genuinely looked as if she didn’t know.

  Juliette sighed, reminded of the utter hopelessness of the situation again. “It’s hardly official yet, but Nadia’s moving out.” Juliette’s phone beeped and she looked at the screen. “Speak of the devil.”

  Can we talk, please?

  No, Juliette said to herself, not ready for a new confrontation by a long shot, put her mobile on silent mode and slid it into her bag, out of view.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Sybille appea
red to have dug up her best therapeutic voice. Juliette couldn’t remember that clichéd phrase ever sounding so inviting.

  She shook her head. “No. I’m done talking about it. Let’s talk about you. Tell me something funny. And that’s an order.” She looked straight into Sybille’s face and smiled. Her eyes were wide and dark brown, like Nadia’s, giving her features that inexplicably deep but caring vibe. Sybille appeared so young and innocent next to the thought of Nadia, so unspoiled.

  “You’re putting me on the spot, boss.” A playfulness had crept into Sybille’s voice.

  “I think you’re up to it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have hired you.” Juliette was surprised that smile stayed so plastered on her lips.

  “All right.” It seemed as if, like in a cartoon, a little twinkling star appeared in the corner of Sybille’s left eye. “Why can’t blondes eat bananas?” she asked.

  Juliette shrugged, well aware of the colour of her hair—more a reddish high blonde than platinum, but still, unlike Claire’s, it was her natural colour. The nerve this girl had.

  “Because they—"

  “This looks cozy." Seemingly out of nowhere—Juliette hadn’t really been paying attention to her surroundings—Claire appeared on the sidewalk. She eyed Juliette. “I’ve been calling you.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Juliette reached for her bag. “I’ve been avoiding my phone.”

  “I thought you could use some company.”

  “Great minds and all that,” Sybille interjected, clearing her belongings off the chair next to hers. “Would you like to sit? I’ll get you a glass.”

  Tony, the bartender, had already clocked Claire, one of his most loyal customers, and was on his way out with an extra wine glass. Claire sat down. The setting reminded Juliette of last week’s, when she’d occupied this same table with Nadia, Claire and Steph. It felt like months ago.

  “No hot date tonight?” Juliette teased.

  “Not tonight.” Claire’s reply was curt. Obviously, she had objections to Juliette enjoying after-work drinks with her assistant.

  “Please excuse me.” Sybille rose. “I’ll be right back.” She headed for the washrooms inside, head held high, gait steady, hips swaying like they always did—not too much but enough to invite a sideways glance nonetheless. She was smart, ballsy and could read an awkward situation and respond to it gracefully. Juliette was impressed.

  “Does she know?” Claire asked.

  “I just told her Nadia’s moving out. She’s my assistant, she was bound to find out sooner rather than later.”

  Claire scanned the rest of the terrace. “Steph voiced some suspicions about Sybille. Just, you know, be careful.”

  Juliette shook her head. “Well, what did you expect? That Sybille would be her favourite person? Frankly, I’m disappointed in Steph, the way she’s going after her. And all the while Sybille hasn’t said a word out of turn.”

  “She did bring you the picture.”

  “Exactly.” Juliette eyed the door to make sure Sybille wasn’t on her way back to the table. “I don’t expect Steph to share my judgement, but I have a really good feeling about Sybille. I trust her.”

  “Just keep an eye out, that’s all I’m asking.” Claire poured herself a glass of wine and topped up Juliette’s. “Have you heard from Nadia?”

  “She keeps texting me, which is why I’ve hidden my phone.”

  Claire hesitated before speaking again. “Are there any messages you’d like me to pass on.”

  “Yeah.” Juliette nodded, a small movement of the head that in no way reflected the utter turmoil in her soul. “Tell her the holiday is off.”

  STEPH

  There was no way in hell Steph could go home after a day like that, sit in her sofa with Pierrot and wait for a message from Dominique. Instead, she enjoyed the summer weather and walked through le Jardin de Tuileries to Le Marais, where she was fairly certain to find the degree of distraction she was looking for.

  She understood Juliette’s reluctance to cast suspicion on Sybille and she regretted flying off the handle the way she had in front of her. At least Claire had been more susceptible to her doubts about Juliette’s new assistant. Steph scanned the people around her, abruptly turning around, just to make sure she wasn’t being followed—and felt like a total idiot for doing so.

  If anyone was after dirt on Dominique Laroche, they wouldn’t find it tonight anyway. And Steph was about ready to stop thinking about the députée every waking moment. Having a crush, a condition she had determined she suffered from—against her better judgement—was so exhausting and complicated, especially in this case. She needed something to take the edge off, and she wasn’t thinking about a gin and tonic. Not even a batch of lemon drops would do. Tonight, Steph was looking for that other means of distraction, the one she’d turned to for years after that first, devastating bout of heartbreak, and she knew exactly where to find it.

  She was sober tonight, her clarity of mind not compromised by too much alcohol. She wasn’t pining for Dominique the way she was at Les Pêches last Saturday, a weakness which had, in Steph’s very strong-minded opinion, only been caused by having been exposed to one too many lovey-dovey couples and, quite simply, too much booze. She didn’t really get people who drank to forget because, in her case, it only ever seemed to make matters worse.

  Steph picked up the pace and made her way out of the park and followed the Rue de Rivoli with a decided spring in her step, until she took a side street, and another, and, on the outskirts of Le Marais, reached Paris’ best kept secret.

  It wasn’t exactly a dark room for women, which was a bit too much of a contradiction, but it came close enough. It offered the kind of nameless, faceless and, more than anything, brainless relief Steph was after. From the outside, it looked like a private members club, but you definitely didn’t need to be a member to enter. Unadvertised and too intimidating for most women to inquire, you had to have heard about it through word of mouth to know of its existence, and Steph had been made privy to Le Noir by one of its owners herself, a woman in her sixties with a three hundred euro haircut and a feminist past.

  She rang the bell and was buzzed in. Inside, she paid the fee with the smell of chlorine in her nose—a bit like going to the swimming pool, really—and was handed a large white towel. She noticed the bulky bouncer skulking in a dark corner and gave her a small nod. The woman didn’t show any signs of recognising her, keeping her features even and unmoved. Steph progressed to the changing area and, tension coiling in her tummy, undressed quickly and methodically. The thrill of this moment, before anything happened, was unrivalled, but, of course, it didn’t exist without what was to follow.

  Wrapped in the towel, her bare feet slapping on the cold tiles, she made her way from the still sufficiently lit changing rooms to the ever darkening area beyond. Soft instrumental jazzy music played from small speakers in the ceiling.

  Steph had been here on week nights before, but never so early, and never so in need to just get it over with—to quench that thirst that Dominique, being so physically unavailable, couldn’t. Nevertheless, this wasn’t about needing it so badly she couldn’t wait until Dominique granted her the privilege of her time. It was about taking control, about not being chained to anyone for matters like this, about supreme independence and not belonging to anyone—ever. And maybe also, a little bit, about forgetting that hunger gnawing at her core, that desire to walk in le Jardin des Tuileries hand in hand with her lover like she’d just seen countless couples do, and not having to hide in the bathroom on a Sunday morning.

  “Hey,” a low voice whispered. “Ici.” Here.

  Steph squinted against the darkness, her eyes getting used to it now, and entered a room dressed entirely in burgundy velvet. This was not a poor woman’s club and the decor reflected that. The entrance fee was steep, but it assured anonymity and other priceless things, like no questions asked, security and the highest level of hygiene one could expect in a place like this.

  A woma
n lay with her head tossed back on a bench, her legs spread wide, her fingers where it mattered. Another woman, short cropped hair, eyes on fire, looked directly at Steph. “Venez.”

  It happened that, in daily life, Steph crossed paths with a woman who looked vaguely familiar. But the way people were in here, undressed, free of everything that shackled them on the outside, was so far removed from their every day persona, that it was never more than an inkling of recognition that passed as soon as they exited each other’s field of vision. People didn’t come to Le Noir to fall in love. On the contrary.

  The woman held out her hand. Steph took it and allowed herself to be pulled closer. The arrival of a new person in the room didn’t seem to deter the other woman from her actions, by which Steph was already quite mesmerised. With one hand she pulled her pussy lips apart while stroking her clit with the index finger of the other. Her moans easily eclipsed the jazz notes coming from the speakers and Steph felt the familiar throb between her legs, that rush of blood away from her brain, down to her pussy. And that was all she was then. A pulsing cunt with its own one-track mind.

  The woman who’d pulled her close took position behind Steph, pushing her hard nipples into the towel in which Steph was still wrapped. She relaxed her grip on it and let it drop to the floor, not caring where it landed or if she’d find it again later. If you couldn’t deal with things like that, this wasn’t the place for you.

  “Qu’est-ce que tu veux?” the woman whispered in her ear, her voice sounding as moist as Steph’s pussy felt.

  “Fuck me,” Steph said without taking her eyes off the masturbating woman—something she never said outside of these walls.

  “Mais oui,” the woman softly said, her fingers already travelling along Steph’s skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Steph could feel her bush against the cheeks of her bottom, coarse and soft at the same time. And it wasn’t as if she wasn’t thinking of Dominique while all of this was happening, it wasn’t as if she was so easy to forget about—even for a few minutes—but this moment was hers and hers alone.