Pack Up the Moon (19 page)

“Yeah.”

“Not so much for me as my sister.”

He was laughing again and I laughed too — his giggle was infectious. We sat in silence for a time and it was comfortable. I could feel his thigh resting against mine. The night sky was lit up with stars and it was like they had

been hung there especially for us. I hadn’t looked up into a dark sky in so long. I felt like I was in a Van Gogh painting. Things were beginning to look up. I had a moment of realisation. I was sitting on a VIP balcony with a French god. It was true that I’d never heard of him, but millions had. He was a celebrity.

What the hell was he doing hanging out with me?

“How many girls are wishing they were me right

now?” I asked out of nowhere.

He smiled, enjoying my honest questioning. “A lot,” he grinned, flashing a sexy little crocked tooth.

“So why are you wasting your time with me?” I said. -You are wasting your time, you know,” I added, putting

him straight. I wasn’t about to have sex with some French celebrity.

He wasn’t perturbed. “I never waste time,” he said brightly.

I laughed. He was sexy. I could see Clodagh through the glass door. It was obvious that she was the scout sent to report back to the others. She grinned and gave me the thumbs-up. He caught her and mimicked her gesture. She jumped back and pretended she was talking to someone

who gave her a dirty look before moving on. We laughed together as she made a hasty retreat.

“Your friend, does she think I’m wasting time?” “My friend doesn’t think.”

I didn’t mean it of course, but I was really enjoying our banter. A slow French song I didn’t recognise played inside. “We will dance now, yes?”

He was standing over me with his hand outstretched. I gave him my hand and he pulled me from the chair. I was standing in front of him waiting for him to make the

next move, but he was happy to let me stand against his chest for a moment before he took me in his arms. Suddenly we were dancing. He smelt good. He put his hands through my hair and cupped my face ensuring that

I had nowhere to look but his face. It was a pretty face and he knew it. The trick was not to get lost in his eyes. I focused on his mouth. That was a mistake. Suddenly his pouting French lips looked like a chilled Coke bar in the

desert.

Oh my God!

“I’m not planning on sleeping with you.” I said it more for my own sake then his.

“Why not?” he asked.

Good question. I hadn’t thought about that.

“You don’t like me?”

“If I didn’t like you I wouldn’t be dancing,” I said, glad

my series of blushes was hidden beneath the dark sky. He laughed. “I like you. You are different!’ “Everybody’s different — sometimes they just act the

same.”

He smiled and nodded his head. “You are smart.”

I was beginning to get bored with his observations.

“You like to point things out, don’t you, big man?” He laughed again.

I liked it when he laughed.

“Let’s go.” He was raising the stakes.

“Go where?” I was marking time.

“Let me take-you to my home.”

I snorted.

“Attractive,” he grinned.

“Cheers,” I smiled, remaining cool, although deep down I wished I hadn’t made a noise through my nose.

“Come,” he said and I found myself succumbing and following his lead.

He grabbed his jacket and my bag. I was impressed that he could so easily determine which bag was mine, seeing as there were at least four under the table. Sean and Frankie were staring at us. Anne and Richard were dancing. Clo approached from the rear.

“Are you leaving?” she asked, obviously excited by the prospect.

“Yes,” Pierre answered before winking at her. Sean sat back in his seat.

“See you Sean,” Pierre smiled warmly at his new friend. “Yeah, see you.”

Sean couldn’t seem to manage a smile. Frankie was horrified. I grinned at her and she pouted while staring back, ready to take a slice out of me. Pierre and I walked out together. I pretended not to notice the girls in the club staring and pointing and even ignored those who

attempted to touch and grab at him as he passed.

What’s that all about?

We were escorted out by nightclub security. A car and its sleepy driver were waiting outside.

“Rue Boissiere”

“Oui, Monsieur Dulac, tout droit.”

We settled into the back seat. He put his arm around me.

“Don’t worry. I won’t bite. Unless you ask.”

“I won’t ask.”

He grinned. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You’re sure of yourself.”

“And you are not.”

Damn. Game, set and match to Mr Dulac. I grinned. The driver sped through Paris at an alarming rate, so much so that at one point I felt like screaming, “Slow down, you lunatic!” I was getting edgy, but to Pierre it was just another night. I made myself relax. When the car stopped I sighed with relief.

“Let’s go.” He took my hand and helped me out of the car.

We were in his apartment block before I got time to

catch my breath. He was used to making fast exits. The lobby was like that of a 1920s hotel. Brass was the

predominant feature. It had dark red walls and bright modern art lined them. We got into the brass lift — again it was a tight fit.

What is it with the French and tiny lifts?

I looked at the floor, signalling that I had no ambition to make out in a confined space. He continued to grin like the cat that got the cream or, in Leonard’s case, the entire contents of an ice-cream van. Once inside his apartment, I began to wonder what I was playing at. It was getting a little intense. I had no idea where I was or what I was planning on doing. He took me to the sofa and sat me down. It was a chaise longue, red and dangerous-looking. He put on some music. I didn’t recognise it. It was French jazz. He poured drinks from a bar that filled the corner of the room. He handed me vodka with a splash of Coke. I could have done with more Coke, but I wasn’t complaining.

He moved in towards me, and my heart was racing. We were about to kiss and then the strangest thing happened. We talked. I mean really talked. He asked me about John and I told him. I told him things some of which even Clo wasn’t party to. He told me about the girl who had broken his heart by leaving for America. She had never returned. A few years after they split she had died in a fire. He didn’t compare our pain and it wasn’t a competition.

We laughed a lot. We had the same outlook, same sense of humour, same ideals. There were differences too. He was a hip-hop god while I was a teacher. He loved to sleep around while I wasn’t that way inclined. He was arrogant and I was selfconscious. But we had fun. He told me sexy stories and I pretended to be a little bit more

shocked than I was, purely because he enjoyed my horror

too much to let him down. We drank into the early hours and fell asleep together on top of his covers. I woke a couple of hours later and he was awake and staring at me.

“Hello,” he said smiling.

“Hey,” I mumbled, attempting to cover my mouth.

I could smell mint on his breath. He’d obviously washed his teeth while I slept.

“Where’s the loo?”

He pointed. I entered the en-suite and coated my finger with toothpaste. I cleaned out my mouth as best I could, splashed my face and re-entered. He was waiting, knowing that I had been preparing myself for something other than

merely going home. He was under the covers. I walked over and he held the sheet up to allow me in. I obliged and then we were kissing, French-kissing.

What followed? Well, all I can say is if he could sing as well as he could shag, he deserved his god-like status. Better again, when it was over I didn’t cry.

A few hours later he kissed me goodbye before giving

his driver orders to take me back to Sean’s apartment. “Will I see you again?” he asked.

“No,” I grinned.

He nodded. “Sad.” He smiled.

“Thanks,” I said and I meant it. I really had needed to get laid.

“You’re welcome.” He patted the roof of the car and the driver took off.

I didn’t look back. I knew he wasn’t watching.

*

Clo and Tom were still in bed. Anne and Richard had left

hours earlier to make the most of the day I was in the

kitchen fumbling for the coffee beans. I felt someone enter behind me. It was Sean, in a pyjama bottoms, nothing else. I grinned at him, but he was too angry to respond in kind.

“Where the hell were you?” He was pointing and his finger shook ever so slightly

“Excuse me?” I said defensively

“What the hell is this? I’ve been up half the night worrying about you?”

His finger fell to his side, but his face retained all of its anger.

“You know where I was. Stop being a fucking asshole!” I was matching his tone. “You’re not my father.”

“No, Emma, I know who you were with and judging by what I’ve seen this week, that could’ve meant anywhere or doing anything. How was I to know that he hadn’t got bored after an hour? You don’t know him!’

Every ounce of joy I had felt as I drove away from my

romantic evening was taken away The fleeting freedom

from guilt was gone. He was making it dirty and wrong. He was saying I was one in a long line of women, I was nothing and that I should feel bad.

I’m not going to cry.

Tears stung my eyes but I refused to let them fall. Anger was filling my throat, my voice battling to get past it. “You are a hypocritical bastard! It’s all right for you to fuck everything that moves, but it’s not OK for me to have one night. Your French tart sucks on your fucking ear all through dinner and that’s fine. After all, you’re a stud — but me, well I’m just a sad old slapper. Don’t waste your time worrying about me, Sean. I don’t flicking need you!”

He blanched. I’d never actually seen anyone do that before. His whole face lost its colour instantly like I’d turned off the switch.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean that you … I’m sorry. I was just worried.” His overreaction didn’t make sense.

Liar. He had ruined everything. “What did you mean then?” I yelled.

“We’re friends,” he mumbled.

“Oh, so are all my other friends going to come in here and scream at me?”

“No.” He was shaking his head, looking for an answer. “So what is it then, Sean?” My voice had grown weary. It was getting harder to hold off the tears.

“I …” He stopped and looked around for nothing in

particular.

I waited.

“I …” He stopped again.

What the hell is wrong with him?

“I’m sorry,” he said and he walked out, leaving me standing alone with a half-open bag of coffee beans and I

was crying.

Damn it.

I was still crying and hunched over my espresso when

Clo emerged from her room. I had my back to her when she entered. She was clapping. I felt her arms around my shoulders.

“You are such a dark horse. Pierre Dulac! I mean I know we’ve never heard of him, but who the hell are we? By God, when you do it, you do it in style!” Her voice was full of excitement.

I looked up at her and her smile dissipated.

“What happened? Did he hurt you?”

My tear-stained face belied the truth about my romantic

evening.

“No,” I sighed. “Last night was perfect and so was this morning — that is, until I got here.”

She put her hands on her hips, something she often did when confused. “I’m not with you.”

“Sean,” I mumbled.

“Sean?” she probed.

“Sean seems to think I did something wrong last

night.”

“He what? What do you mean?” She pulled up a stool and sat beside me, her cheek resting on her arm resting on the counter.

I looked down at her and shrugged my shoulders, signalling my bewilderment.

“He was roaring at me.” I was crying again. I couldn’t believe how crappy I was feeling. It was so unfair.

“Don’t mind him. He’s being a dick. You have a shower and change your clothes. We’ll get out of here, do a bit of sightseeing and then we can have lunch and you

can tell me all about last night.”

She was smiling again. I felt a little better. I had an amazing night and I could either let Sean take that away

or not. I chose not.

Sean was locked away in his room with Frankie when

we left. We didn’t leave a note. Tom went to meet Anne and Richard, honouring our pre-existing commitment to meet them for a trip down the Seine. Clodagh had explained that we needed some time alone and he was happy to

oblige. We picked up a Metro map and we were off. First stop Hotel de Ville for a coffee. We were sitting in the bar downstairs drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes even

though it was only ten in the morning and I usually don’t

smoke until after one, but when in Rome …

Clodagh had ordered croissants, which I was devouring having suddenly realised that I was starving. She was smiling patiently, waiting for me to tell her about celebrity sex, but not wanting to push it. Suddenly she brightened like a little bulb had come on inside her head.

“I know! Let’s play a game. I’ll tell you something personal if you tell me.”

I laughed — she was so obvious. “OK. You first.”

She nodded her head, preparing herself. “OK. Torn is divorced.”

My face fell. I’d expected her to say something stupid just to get me talking. “I thought he wasn’t married?” “He isn’t, he’s divorced.”

“Oh my God! When did he tell you? Was he married long?”

“Emma, this isn’t about me. It’s your turn,” she sighed,

signalling that discussion was not part of the game. “OK. I didn’t have sex with Pierre last night.” “What?” she almost roared.

An old man looked over and grunted.

“What?” she whispered. “You didn’t have sex? Oh my God, Emma, I’m so fucking disappointed. Why not?”

Her face was a picture and I was beginning to forget

Sean.

“Clo, this is not about me. It’s your turn,” I smiled.

Two can play at this game.