After Alicante, Tom had wanted to take Rachel away for a short break, to try and thaw out their icy relationship. Cornwall had been Janet’s idea, whilst the hotel had been recommended by Daniel, who’d taken great delight at expounding the delights of the establishment, only to twist the knife at the end by adding…
“The hotel’s expensive though Tom. It’s Padstow you know, all the top chefs have places there now. There are more second home owners in the town than actual Cornish people and certainly more Michelin stars than you’ll see in the night’s sky.”
He knew the weather wouldn’t be as good as Spain and there’d be less eye-candy to ogle around the hotel’s pool but then he’d guessed that was to be expected if you booked a holiday in England in October… but the hotel had offered him a great rate that was too good to miss.
Personally, he’d still thought it a rip off and he’d lost no time in telling the poor girl who’d answered the phone so, but he knew Rachel would be impressed by the style, the décor, the size of the bathtub and especially the fact that the expensive boutique hotel was normally the haunt of the super-rich. But if the hotel had been a recommendation borne out of sly one-upmanship, the restaurant had been a surprise find that had turned out to be the best part of the whole short-break.
The first time they’d set foot in the place had been more about finding somewhere to shelter from the terrible storm, which had moved in from the Atlantic during the morning and had lashed the rugged coast with gale force winds and one long continuous deluge, rather than indulging their love of great food.
After a sumptuous late breakfast, which they’d taken in their room, Tom had decided that instead of relaxing indoors with a good book from the hotel’s library or taking advantage of the spa’s facilities, the best way to spend their day would be for them to go for a bracing walk along the coastal footpath. It wasn’t that he’d craved the bracing fresh air of the North Atlantic, rather that he’d surfed the hotel’s website before they’d arrived and had seen how much of a dent a café latte would make in his finances and knew that if a milky coffee could force him into a life of penury, then letting Rachel loose in the spa would all but bankrupt him.
But they’d no sooner left the relative shelter of the town before the wind and rain had put paid to Tom’s miserly ways and had driven them back into the lea of the town’s cobbled side-streets. Of course food had been the last thing on their minds but as they huddled against the restaurant’s window with their backs to the driving rain, the inside had looked so welcoming. A huge log fire was blazing away in the grand stone hearth and the subdued lighting offered by the lamps and candles created an irresistibly warm welcoming ambience.
Taking a moment to look for a break in the clouds and a chance to make a dash for the hotel, Rachel had turned her back on Tom for no more than a couple of seconds before the sound of the restaurant’s door slamming shut had made her jump nervously. Hoping that Tom wouldn’t have abandoned her to the pouring rain but quickly realising that he had, Rachel had pushed her pathetic face against the rain lashed window and watched forlornly as Tom warmed his hands against the golden flames of the roaring log fire.
They’d sat in the two enormous armchairs that took stage either side of the fire and had tea followed by a couple of brandies… just to keep the chill out. There’d been a steady stream of customers for lunch and every time the door had creaked its welcome, they’d both looked up and glowered their warning to the latest new arrivals…
‘This is our fire, keep away… and shut the door!’
That first hour had turned into three and the single brandies into half a dozen different malt whiskies. Then before they’d realised that the rain had passed over the town and moved inland, it was four o’clock and the restaurant was closing to prepare for its evening clientele.
Henri, the owner and chef had pulled himself away from the kitchen to see for himself the couple who had so jealously protected the log fire, as they’d tried to drink their way around the Highlands and Islands of Scotland, lingering particularly in Speyside and Mull. There the malt whisky had proved to be the most effective at repelling the depressing weather and the miserable atmosphere that lingered outside. They’d chatted for another hour, during which time Henri had introduced them to another two distilleries and four whiskies, which had been ageing in their casks for nearly sixty years before Tom’s greedy palate had developed a taste for them.
“This is one of my favourites.” Henri had said admiringly, placing the glasses down on the coffee table in front of his two guests, who if they weren’t exactly three sheets to the wind, had unfurled the first two mainsails and were hovering dangerously close to releasing the last one.
“It’s called Loch Dhu.” He’d extolled, as he passed the glasses around.
“But it’s black!” Rachel exclaimed, lifting the glass to the ceiling like some master distiller and twirling the liquid around the glass. “It looks more like liquorice.”
“That’s part of the experience, your eyes and brain give you one sensation and then when you taste it…ahhh… the taste, it’s so smooth and silky. Try it, go on you’ll be amazed… I guarantee it.” Henri took a sniff and then sipped the black liquid with his eyes shut.
“But why is it black?” Rachel asked still concerned by the malt’s unusual appearance.
“It’s aged in charred casks and the black comes from the burnt wood but it doesn’t taste burnt… just delicious.” Henri could see that Rachel still wasn’t convinced. “Look when malt whisky is first distilled it’s just clear neat alcohol. Its colour and most of its taste comes from the barrels in which it is matured. Some distilleries use old bourbon barrels, others mature their precious distillate in sherry barrels. Each one imparts a specific colour and piquancy that is unique to that whisky. Loch Dhu is matured in barrels that have a burnt surface, hence the black colour.” Henri downed the rest of his drink and stood up.
“Now my friends, I must close for an hour or two to prepare for this evening’s covers. Why don’t you come back later and try our food. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.”
But they had been disappointed, for after a day’s drinking and relaxing next to the open fire, they’d returned to the Atlantic View Hotel, found their rooms and then collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, waking only briefly around midnight when they couldn’t remember what had happened, where’d they been or even what time of the day… or night it was. With their heads pounding and their mouths feeling as though they’d feasted on bundles of rice paper, they’d pulled off their clothes, thought about making love but instead had just climbed back under the Egyptian cotton sheets and disappeared into the foggy world of their dreams and nightmares.
Waking late the following day and with hangovers reserved normally for the day after the office Christmas party or the aftermath of a good old-fashioned Irish wake, they’d walked straight round to Henri’s and apologised profusely for their rudeness the previous evening.
“That’s ok, please don’t worry about it… anyway I won my wager.” Henri had said stoically with a Gallic shrug of his shoulders. “I told everyone here that there was no way that either of you would be in a fit state to even think about returning. You were so pissed when you left that I even thought I might need to see you back to your hotel, just in case you decided to take a detour via the harbour.”
“But you didn’t? Tom had asked warily. He couldn’t remember leaving the restaurant, let alone the walk back to the hotel. His last foggy memory of their encounter with Henri had been the black malt whisky and then he remembered waking up in the middle of the night. But there the uncertainty had ended. After that he didn’t know whether he’d fucked Rachel or whether that particular memory had all been part of some sordid somnolent fantasy.
If there had been some doubt about his dream, he was more definite that he’d woken around six without a stitch on and after a quick visit to the bathroom, he’d climbed back under the warm bedsheets and had snuggled effortlessly
into the curve of Rachel’s naked body, where the close proximity of her soft warm skin had caused the blood to rush around his extremities, giving him such a hard on that whilst she was still asleep, he’d seamlessly slipped himself between her legs and begun to work himself inside her until just as he was about to explode with delight, Rachel had groaned, moved her hips in syncopation to his thrusting and murmured demurely…
“Oh Damien, please darling, we mustn’t. Oh Damien no, Tom will be home soon!” She’d wailed in her most alluring voice, which had reached a crescendo just as he’d been about to reach his own climactic surge.
Like a cat on the prowl, Rachel had slowly opened her eyes and glanced over her shoulder at Tom who’d frozen mid thrust and had become a hapless voyeur to his own act of unsolicited lovemaking.
“Bet that made your heart miss a beat or two… didn’t it.” She’d said slyly. “Well maybe that’ll teach you not to try and have a quick shag whilst I’m still asleep.”
Without waiting for a reply, she’d slid from the bed and headed for the bathroom. Pausing momentarily at the door, she’d glanced round like a prostitute on her wedding night and pointed at her befuddled husband…
“I’ll be two minutes, if you’re not rock hard by the time I get back there…”
She’d let the words trail away, as the sheet covering Tom erupted like a rocket leaving the launch pad.
“But we’d like to come back tonight if that’s alright?” Rachel had added without seeking Tom’s approval. For some reason there’d been a moment when she’d wondered or maybe she’d wished that it had been Henri that had had come back to the hotel with her and stayed there… how would she have felt if it had been Henri and not Tom that she’d slept with? She’d thrown out the idea as quickly as it had appeared in her head… but even so, she was still unable to shake the thought that the restaurateur was a dish and French with it, and she’d read all about Frenchmen.
“So what do you say, can we book a table?” She added hurriedly, taking Henri and Tom a little by surprise.
“Of course, we have a few tables left I think, but even if we don’t I’ll squeeze you in.” Henri’s reply had sounded so inviting that Rachel couldn’t help but blush bright red. Stealing a quick glance in the Frenchman’s direction she knew, as their eyes locked together, that he was slowly, one by one, removing her blouse, her skirt, her bra, her… The shiver of ecstasy ran all the way from her toes to her heart and then lapped the rest of her body a second time for good measure.
“Let’s say seven thirty then.” Henri added, as Rachel mentally slipped from her lace briefs. But if she wished to linger a moment longer and have Henri run his hands all over her naked body, Tom had other ideas. The day was beautiful and he didn’t want to waste another second sat indoors and especially didn’t want to risk another afternoon dipping into their limited finances, especially now that Rachel had so injudiciously booked a table without asking him or with no regard to the cost of Henri’s à la carte menu.
“Until tonight then.” Henri had said, walking to the door with Rachel.
“Yes, until tonight…”
She’d wanted to say more but felt duty bound to follow Tom who’d walked off without so much as a by your leave, but just before they’d disappeared around the corner by the quintessentially local tea shop, which reputably served the best scones and clotted cream in Cornwall, she’d stolen a quick look back over her shoulder… she hadn’t planned to, but a voice inside her head urged her on.
Henri raised his hand and waved. It was the sexiest, most come back here and get your clothes off wave that she could ever have imagined and as she trotted after Tom, all she could really think about was making some lame excuse to return to their room, where with Henri’s swarthy good looks and his accent still firmly imprinted in her memory she’d slowly and deliberately pleasure herself with Anita’s birthday present. She’d packed the gift, which her friend had bought at a neighbour’s Anne Summers party for a joke, at the last minute… just in case Tom’s promises of a weekend never to be forgotten, had been as disappointing as all his other promises.
They’d eaten at Henri’s each night after that. The routine had never varied, just the food and the wine had differed and on each occasion Henri’s generosity had exceeded the previous nights’. If Tom had suspected he might have had an ulterior motive, he hadn’t been about to kill the goose that was laying their delicious food and wine.
Three nights, three meals, three after-dinner drinks with the chef and three lots of handshakes and kisses goodnight at the end of each one. And with each evening’s kiss goodnight, Henri’s lips had lingered a moment longer on Rachel’s cheek and each night she’d wanted to turn and accidentally meet his lips with her own… but she hadn’t. Instead she’d simply kept topping Tom’s glass up with whisky and watched intently, as he’d slowly but surely drank himself into oblivion and had fallen asleep in one of the two armchairs standing guard by the fire.
“Ah.” Henri had said, as he returned from the kitchens after bidding the last of his staff goodnight. “I see Tom has drunk a little too much again… that’s a pity, isn’t it?” He’d made the question sound more important than it normally would have.
“It never takes much to get him senseless and I can guarantee he’ll not remember anything in the morning, he never does.” Rachel replied hesitantly. She felt pulled between her somewhat lapsed fidelity to her husband, the guilt of betrayal and the strange urge coursing through her body that cried out for Henri’s sensuous touch.
“Even better.” Henri’s reply was short but to the point. Rachel excitedly grabbed his hand and with a willingness, which she could never have imagined before that moment, followed him out of the restaurant and up the rear stairs to Henri’s personal living quarters.
“You know we’re going home tomorrow, don’t you Henri?” Rachel said almost giving them a way out… an excuse not to step beyond the boundary that marked the edge of reason and decency.
“Let’s not think about tomorrow just now.”
~~~~~
‘Yes.’ Tom thought as he’d downed the rest of his drink before making his way to the gate. ‘As soon as we land I’ll phone the hotel and make the booking, then I’ll call Henri and see if we can’t reserve the same table as before. It’ll be perfect and whatever else Rachel might or might not have expected for her birthday… a romantic break in the Atlantic View Hotel with dinner at Henri’s wouldn’t have been anywhere near the top of her list.’
Forty minutes later, after levelling out at thirty thousand feet, just after he’d polished off his second gin and tonic, which had been quickly followed by a third and just after Tom’s eyes had followed the stewardess’s legs as they’d sashayed back down the aisle to the front of the plane and she’d sensually turned her head so that their eyes had locked together and Tom’s well-practised smile had been about to work its usual magic charm… at that moment, the slightly disturbing thought occurred to him that Rachel hadn’t phoned to thank him for the flowers and chocolates.
Like a sudden attack of flatulence that was quickly followed by a warm wet feeling in his trousers, the thought temporarily wiped the prowling smile from Tom’s face and caused the miffed stewardess to warn her colleagues about the slime ball sat in seat 7B.
But Tom had been so wound up in his own selfish world that he hadn’t noticed the sudden drop in the cabin’s temperature. His unrequited thoughtfulness at having Janet arrange and pay for the surprise birthday present, had been callously thrown back in his face. Why he wondered, had he gone to such extremes of generosity when the money, which he’d spent on the bouquet and the box of Dairy Milk might have been better spent at the local garage. The carnations were never that fresh and the miserable sod who ran the place, didn’t stock small boxes of Dairy Milk, but had he bought a bunch of wilted flowers and a carton of out of date Celebrations, at least he’d have felt better.
If he’d been disappointed by Rachel’s lack of gratitude for his special surprise,
he’d been completely flummoxed when he’d finally pushed open the door of the house two hours later, called out her name and received only his own lonely echo by way of a reply.
“Rachel! Rachel… I’m home.” Obviously he was stating the obvious and he hadn’t really expected a fanfare on his arrival. Nor if he was honest, had he expected to see the bunting streaming across the front of the house… however, a simple hello and a hot meal would have been nice after all the thought he’d put into arranging her present.
It was then that the proverbial bolt of lightning stuck two fingers up at convention and struck again.
Tom suddenly forget Rachel’s ingratitude and instead ran around the house, like a demented burglar, looking for the flowers and the box of Dairy Milk, which after ten minutes of frantic searching had still eluded his desperate eyes. But worse was the fact that he could find no sign of the bouquet’s crumpled cellophane wrapping or the empty chocolate box in the kitchen’s bin, which in Tom’s distraught state of mind, could only mean one thing… the present and flowers had never been delivered and Rachel, in some fit of selfish pique, had gone back to Anita’s, leaving him alone and hungry.
Walking aimlessly round the kitchen cursing Janet and swearing bitter revenge for her ineptitude, whilst at the same time wondering what the ‘Special of the Day’ was down at the Dog and Duck, he noticed the small note tucked in between the salt and pepper pots on the table.
Tom,
Please thank Janet for sending Mrs Wilberforce the flowers and chocolates. She loved the red roses and had never eaten such expensive Belgian chocolates before… although between you and me I think Dairy Milk would have been better for her false teeth.
Stranger at the Wedding Page 5