Take Mum Out (23 page)

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.

‘
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 God’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.

He emerges from the bathroom, dressed in a crumpled cream linen shirt and yesterday’s jeans. ‘Are you sure everything’s all right?’ he asks, rubbing at his hair with a towel.

Ah, a touch of hangover fear. ‘Yes, of course it is.’

‘It’s just …’ He fixes me with a quizzical look. ‘You’ve changed.’

‘Well, I did bring two outfits with me …’ I look down. ‘I thought this would be best for sightseeing, as it’s not so warm today.’

‘
More
sightseeing?’ Charlie scowls. ‘Didn’t we do enough of that yesterday?’ I prickle slightly, his petulance reminding me of Tom, whenever I’d gently suggest that he might consider applying for jobs instead of lying about the flat all day.

‘Our flight’s not until three,’ I say with a smile, ‘so we have all morning.’

He sighs. ‘Okay. Let’s have a think over breakfast – that is, if there’s any left.’ He pulls on his jacket as we leave the room.

‘Will you need that?’ I ask.

‘Need what?’

I laugh. ‘Your jacket. It’s just, we’re only going down for breakfast …’ I stop abruptly under his bemused gaze. ‘God, take no notice of me. I’m so used to trying to cajole my boys into wearing the right kind of clothes—’

‘I
am
thirty-seven years old, Alice,’ he says hotly. ‘I’m capable of dressing appropriately.’

‘Yes, of course you are.’ I grit my teeth. This time, we don’t kiss in the lift. It’s filled with his breath, sour from yesterday’s wine, and we ride to the ground floor in silence. In the hotel’s dining room, which overlooks a leafy courtyard, breakfast is laid out buffet-style. The room is half-filled with middle-aged couples and a couple of lone businessmen installed behind newspapers, and the atmosphere is muted as we peruse the goodies on offer.
Why did you mention his jacket?
I ask myself, cheeks blazing as I pour myself a glass of orange juice.
You’re not his mother.
Y
ou’re a fully fledged adult woman in Paris and you’re one small step away from screwing this up.

I blink at the enormous selection of pastries on offer: dainty tarts decorated with fresh berries, and every kind of croissant imaginable. There are oozing pains aux chocolat, and tiny pastry twists dusted with cinnamon and sugar. I select a couple of mini croissants, plus some fruit, and glance over at Charlie just in time to see him drop two pains aux raisins into his jacket pocket.

No, I must have imagined that.

A man with a neatly clipped silvery moustache peers over his newspaper and narrows his eyes at him. Charlie’s hand hovers over the chilled buffet selection. Calmly, and making no attempt to conceal his actions, he drops two yoghurts, plus a handful of individual cheeses, into his other pocket. He then glances around, frowning slightly, and stuffs in a handful of croissants too.

Horrified, I step away, wishing to distance myself from his antics. I’ve always considered myself a tolerant person; fisherman porn I could handle, that didn’t faze me at all. If anything, it boosted his appeal – interesting past, up for anything. I like that in a man. But not this. Not breakfast thievery. I can’t bear it. He’s over at the fresh fruit now, nicking a banana and two apples and stuffing them into what I now suspect are special thieving pockets, leading to pillowcase-sized pouches stitched to the inside of his jacket. He scans the room before plucking a bunch of dried flowers from a vase, and slips the now-empty vessel into his pocket. It’s a small white porcelain vase with fluted edges. What the hell does he want that for? There’s more food, too: several packets of muesli, plus a small bunch of grapes, which are bound to get squashed in his pocket. Or maybe that’s his intention and he’s hoping they’ll turn into wine? What is he
thinking
? Just as well it’s not a cooked breakfast buffet or he’d be shoving sausages and handfuls of scrambled egg in there as well.

I have stomped back to our table where a bored young waiter pours our coffees from a silver pot. ‘Thank you,’ I mutter.

He gives me a sly smile, then turns to look pointedly over at Charlie who’s still prowling around the buffet like a child at a pick ’n’ mix counter. The waiter clears his throat ostentatiously. I force a big, bright smile which I hope conveys the message:
Yes, I am fully aware of what my companion is doing. But let me also make it clear that it is nothing to do with me
.

‘That’s all you’re having?’ Charlie is back at our table now, setting down his own generously loaded plate.

‘Yes,’ I say curtly.

He frowns. ‘Thought you said you were starving.’ He takes a big swig of coffee and chomps into a pastry.

‘Why were you filling your pockets, Charlie?’ I hiss.

‘Huh?’

‘You were nicking food,
and
a vase, I saw you …’

‘Oh, everyone does that.’ He pats a bulging pocket and grins.

‘
That’s
why you put your jacket on.’ Charlie nods and tops up his mug from the coffee pot. ‘But … why d’you do it?’

‘For lunch,’ he says simply.

‘What about the vase?’

He shrugs. ‘It’s got the hotel emblem on.’

‘So what? You travel all the time, surely you don’t feel the need to steal souvenirs …’

He tries to reach for my hand across the table but I snatch mine away. ‘Don’t you ever take the mini shampoos and stuff?’ he asks. ‘Or the shower cap or the little shoe shining thing?’

‘Yes, sometimes, but that’s different …’

‘No, it’s not,’ he cuts in. ‘Sounds like you’ve got a packed itinerary worked out for us today so we’ll need some sustenance.’

‘But we could go to a cafe,’ I insist, aware of the moustache man casting amused glances in our direction. ‘We could stop off for coffee and a baguette. Isn’t that what Paris is all about?’

He chuckles softly. ‘As far as you’re concerned it’s all about galleries and churches …’

‘That was Sacré-Coeur! Not just a
church
. God, Charlie. You sound like my sixteen-year-old son …’

‘Hey …’ He smiles and tries again to reach for my hand.

‘I just don’t feel comfortable about stealing from a hotel buffet,’ I growl.

‘I told you, everyone does it.’

‘No, they don’t. I never met anyone who does.’

‘Oh, come on,’ he goads me, ‘you must’ve been tempted …’

‘No!’ It comes out far louder than I intended.

Charlie shoots me a bemused grin. ‘Goody-two-shoes.’

I glare at him. ‘Because I haven’t crammed my pockets with pastries? Because I haven’t grabbed the coffee pot and stuffed it down my knickers?’

‘Don’t do that, you could scorch yourself …’

‘God, Charlie.’ I exhale loudly. ‘I just think it’s so
cheap
, and anyway, do you really want to be sitting on a park bench eating a flattened croissant five hours from now?’