Take Mum Out (22 page)

‘Hang on,’ I mutter, pulling my phone from my pocket.

‘Who are you calling?’ he asks. ‘Arse-busters?’

‘I’m texting Fergus,’ I say huffily, typing,
Hi love
,
got your translator with you? If so could you ask it the French for ointment?

He pings back a reply –
pomade
– with a smiley emoticon. Hmm.

‘Sounds like a hair product,’ I murmur, making my way to the till. I’m feeling bolder now, determined to show Charlie what I’m made of. But as soon as I’m face to face with one of the assistants, who’s a dead ringer for how I imagine Gwyneth Paltrow will look in her sixties, my glimmer of courage melts away. I clear my throat. ‘
Je voudrais du pomade …
’

The woman frowns at me.

‘De la pomade
,’ I continue, ‘
pour ma
, uh …’ I glance at a silently hysterical Charlie, then back at mature-Gwynnie with her peachy lips and perfectly arched brows. She is still studying me with mild interest, as if I might possibly produce a live rabbit from my bag. ‘
J’ai une probleme
,’ I hiss,
‘dans ma …
’ I grimace and point to my rear end, aware of Charlie convulsing by the hair conditioners.

The woman frowns and says something that I don’t understand.

‘Er …
les piles
.
J’ai les piles dans ma derrière
…’

I’m not sure whether I’m failing to communicate properly, or if the woman knows perfectly well what I need but is feigning ignorance so as to maximise my humiliation. I’m sweating now, my underarms prickling, no doubt staining the pale blue spotty dress I chose so carefully for this trip. A small queue has formed, and the woman beside me is clearing her throat. I look around in desperation, and all I can think of is to snatch two nail polishes from the little wicker basket on the counter – one pink, the other pale mint, which are going to be a
fat
lot of use in soothing my tender backside. As I hand over ten euros, Charlie appears at my side, having blithely jumped the queue to point at a shelf behind the counter.

‘
Preparation-ash, s’il vous plaît
,’ he says, his accent perfect.

I blink at him.
Preparation-ash?
And it dawns on me that he knew all along that the French use exactly the same stuff as we do – Preparation H – and that all the silent sniggering was actually his idea of a bloody
joke.

‘
C’est tout?
’ the woman asks pleasantly, extracting the box from the shelf and ringing it through the till.

‘
Oui, merci
,’ Charlie says.

Bastard.

‘Here you go,’ he says with a grin as we leave the shop.

I take the paper bag from him. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’

He widens his eyes, all innocence. ‘Did what?’

‘Stood there watching while I made a complete fool of myself buying nail polishes!’

‘But I thought you spoke French—’

‘Like I said, I don’t really, and even if I did …’ I tail off, frowning. ‘Oh, never mind.’ We are marching briskly past a row of smart boutiques. ‘It’s just, you knew what to ask for all along.’

‘Well, yeah.’ He grins ruefully, causing my irritation to subside a little.

‘How did you know?’

‘Um, Becky had the same problem …’ Ah, how heartening to discover that I have something in common with one of those all-eyes-and-teeth models. ‘Also,’ he adds, ‘piles actually means batteries in French. So when you said, “
J’ai les piles dans ma derrière
”, you were actually telling that woman you have batteries up your arse.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I stop abruptly. ‘Is that why she was looking at me that way?’

Charlie smirks, his brown eyes gleaming playfully. ‘Yeah, I’d imagine it was.’

I gawp at him, lost for words for a moment. And for the first time, a rogue thought darts into my mind:
What on earth are you doing here, Alice Sweet?

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 flourish, 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.