Never Too Late

Chapter Fifteen

“Phone sex,” Laurent said with a slight raise of his eyebrow.

Saying a silent apology to the plate of perfectly cooked roti de chevreuil bordelaise that I’d previously devoted at least ninety-five percent of my attention to, I put my knife and fork down. “Video sex, actually. We decided we’d embrace all the twenty-first century has to offer.”

Unlike me, Laurent managed to multi-task with his plate of paupiette de porc, chewing his mouthful slowly and swallowing before responding. “It is all the same.”

“Not really. One’s just sound, which means you’ve got to rely on dirty talk and heavy breathing, and one has pictures and sound. And I’ve got to tell you that with something like that, pictures make all the difference. I mean, how do you know on the phone that it’s not like one of those sex lines where they sound like they’re giving it their all, but really they’re sitting there reading a book?” Laurent’s eyebrow hitched up another inch. “I saw a documentary on it. Maybe people put more effort into it here than they do in Wigan.”

“Wigan?”

I waved a dismissive hand. “Not on the tourist map if you visit the UK, so I wouldn’t worry too much about it. It was just the first place that came to mind. I can’t remember where the documentary was based.” I thought hard to recall it. “Maybe somewhere in Wales. I seem to remember one girl having a slight Welsh lilt when she spoke.” I picked up my glass and took a swig of the wine. “Now Wales is somewhere you should visit. Very beautiful.”

“You can take me to Wales,” Laurent said.

“Deal,” I agreed. “We can take our mythical bicycles.”

Laurent jerked his chin at my abandoned plate. “The venison is not to your liking? I can ask the waiter to take it back and bring something else.”

I picked my cutlery up again. “The venison is fine.” I resumed eating while Laurent studied me. “Spit it out.”

Laurent turned his wine glass round by the stem. “It is just that it has been a few weeks now, has it not?”

“You know it has. What’s your point?”

“He has not come here, and you have not gone there despite London and Paris not being a million miles away.” Which was true. We’d talked about it, but I still wasn’t in the right headspace to go back to London yet, and Cillian’d had obligations, both work and family-based. “I can’t help wondering what the future looks like for the two of you when you live in different cities. Does he think that if he waves his cock around enticingly for long enough that you will abandon everything here and move back to London?”

“’Waves his cock around enticingly’? You have a strange idea of virtual sex, if that’s what you think happens.” Laurent’s shrug said that I was getting hung up on semantics. “And he’s said nothing about me moving back to London.”

“But has he said anything about moving to Paris?”

“There are no expectations between us.”

“So… You just remain in limbo forever?”

I sighed. “I know what you’re saying.”

“Oh good, because I was beginning to feel like I must have talked in French, and we both know how poor your French is.”

“It’s getting better,” I stated defensively. The slight twitch of Laurent’s hand around his glass said that was my opinion, but that his was a little different. “It is.”

“Of course,” he lied.

“I ordered for myself today.” Laurent’s little smile was a giveaway, even as he tried to suppress it. “What? What did I say?”

“I presume your intention was to ask the waiter if your steak came with salad?”

“That’s what I asked.”

“What you actually asked was whether the deer ate salad. Very close,” he said with a smile.

I thought back over the conversation, remembering a moment where the waiter had seemed a little confused, and where Laurent had stepped in. “It’s important to know how well fed things are before they end up on my plate.” In truth, it made me want to become a vegetarian.

“Anyway, we were talking about the Irish man?” Laurent reminded me. “We should stay on track.”

“Cillian,” I corrected. And then after a pause, “You’re worse than Jiminy Cricket.”

“Who?”

“Pinocchio’s conscience.”

“I am just concerned. You are not getting any younger.”

I laughed. “You’re older than me, and I don’t see you dating anyone.” Not unless he’d kept it a secret, which, given how often he poked his nose in my business, would be incredibly galling, if so. “Are you seeing anyone? Woman? Man? Inanimate object?”

He rolled his eyes. “We are not talking about me. We are talking about you. I’ve said it before and I will keep saying it. Talk to the Irish man. Ask him what the future holds. If he does not give you the answers you need, then it will only be more painful in a year’s time. Do not spend years locked in some strange status quo where neither of you are truly happy, but cannot see another way of doing things. You are happier, but you are not happy. You can dress virtual sex up all you like, but at the end of the day, it is still your own hand giving you pleasure rather than someone else’s.”

As always, no matter how blunt Laurent’s words might be, there was a ring of truth to them. Enough that they stung, and I had to force myself not to react to them the way a rabid dog might and come out fighting. I settled for levity instead. “You just want to get going on the matching bicycles.”

Laurent smirked. “More like, Henri wants to get going on the rebound sex. He wanted to join us tonight, and I had to tell him we would talk about your feelings for most of the night and it would be incredibly boring. Which, if you think about it, is not that far from the truth.”

“Well, if that doesn’t put him off me, I don’t know what will.”

Laurent wasn’t listening to me anymore, his gaze focused on something on the far side of the restaurant. I twisted round in my seat, but when I couldn’t find anything that warranted that much focus, turned back. “You could just tell Henri that I’m not interested in him, and that I never will be.”

“I have told him that. He is not to be deterred. He is made of stronger stuff.” Laurent might have responded to me, but his gaze was still fixed elsewhere.

“Sounds like a stalker, if you ask me.”

“Hmm… maybe.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to agree that one of your closest friends is a stalker.”

“Yeah…”

I twisted round again to look behind me. There seemed to be some sort of kerfuffle happening in the area where Laurent’s attention focused, a few of the restaurant staff having drifted across to deal with it since the last time I’d looked.

As one of them moved aside, her hands raking through her hair in an obvious sign of growing agitation, I could see the source of the upset. A man, who I would have put in his mid to late fifties, was gesticulating wildly.

One such gesticulation had an empty glass careening off the table. It hit the floor with a crash, tiny fragments scattering in every direction. He was obviously drunk, his body language that of someone who’d had a drink or eight before coming out tonight. Alerted by the sound of breaking glass, more people turned to stare.

“We should go,” Laurent said. He showed how serious he was about the idea by standing, leaving me staring up at him open-mouthed.

“Or…” I said, gesturing at our still half full plates and wineglasses, “we could finish our meal first. Just a thought. And I hope you’re not suggesting we run out without paying, because I’m not ready for a life on the run in a country with a language I don’t speak. I could agree to anything in prison without knowing what I’ve agreed to.”

Laurent sank back into his seat, his body language oozing reluctance.

I eyed him with a frown, trying to work out what was going on here. Did Laurent just have a really low tolerance for drama? Or was it something else? “Do you know him?”

“Who?”

“The man you haven’t taken your eyes off for the last five minutes.” I turned to get another look. He’d shaken off the staff and was coming this way. “He seems to know you.”

“He’s my father.” Laurent’s expression said he really wished he didn’t have to admit that.

“Oh…” There wouldn’t have been a lot more to say to that revelation, even if it hadn’t coincided with the man reaching us. Up close, sweat glistened on the man’s brow, and his rumpled clothes hinted at him having slept in them. He leaned against the table, the wood groaning, but thankfully bearing the extra weight and staying upright. “Ssssson,” he slurred in an English accent that surprised me.

Laurent said nothing. His hands curled into fists, though, his knuckles going white.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Finn. Finn Prescott. I’m a friend of your son’s.” He turned my way, the movement almost throwing him off balance before he righted himself. A struggle to focus followed. One that I wasn’t entirely sure he was victorious in. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time to…” I stalled at that point, my understanding of the situation when I’d only known he was Laurent’s father for approximately three seconds, leaving me with no clear idea how to proceed. Why was he here? I assumed it wasn’t just a coincidence and that he’d been looking for Laurent. “Yeah…” I finished vaguely. “Perhaps not the best time.”

His head swung back round to his son, the table rocking. I automatically snatched my wine glass off it before it became the second casualty of the evening. “Yooou haven’t been answering my callsss.”

“No,” Laurent said, the single word laced with bitterness. “Take a hint from that.”

“I jussst wanna talk. That’sss all… jussst talk. Fathers to sson. The two of us. Like old… timesss… like before.”

“It can’t be like before,” Laurent said tartly. “Maman was still alive before and you were… Well, I won’t say completely sober, but you were sober more than you were drunk. Now you’re just…” He waved a hand, the gesture reeking of frustration and weariness. “I tried to help you, but you wouldn’t be helped.”

“So you… wasssshed your handsss of me, threw me away like I wassss nothing more than a piessse of rubbish, like I wassss sssshit on your ssshoe.”

“You see, this is why I can’t talk to you,” Laurent said. “Because as soon as I say something you don’t want to hear, you get nasty. And you never want to just talk. It’s always about money. I assume that’s why you’ve tracked me down?”

A struggle happened on the older man’s face that was easy to read. He wanted money, but he also wanted not to prove his son right. “I…”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Laurent said with a laugh. “When don’t you? But if I give you money, it will all go on whiskey. And I told you a while ago that I’m not contributing to your death fund any longer.”

A noise behind had me turning away from the unfolding drama to where two male uniformed officers were wending their way between the tables. I assumed the restaurant staff had called them when attempts to make their unwelcome guest leave of his own accord had met with failure.

Some customers were already getting up and leaving, clearly not up for the evening’s entertainment, while others had absolutely no shame in openly gawking in our direction. I was surprised they hadn’t pulled their chairs closer to avoid missing anything.

Laurent relaxed slightly when he saw the approaching police. “You should leave, Dad,” he said. “Before they arrest you. I’m not bailing you out, and you don’t have anyone else to do it.”

As soon as the two officers reached us, Laurent’s father threw up his arms. “Okay… Okay… I’m going. You don’t have to manhandle me. I jussst came to talk to my ssssson.” He backed off, narrowly avoiding crashing into several tables on his way out.

The police watched him go, the taller of the pair saying something into his radio once Laurent’s father had left the restaurant. A brief discussion in French followed between the officers and Laurent, which involved a lot of head shaking on Laurent’s part, and a lot of nodding in response from them. I understood almost none of it. There was still a long way to go on my French.

Their departure left Laurent and me staring at our cold plates of food. After a few seconds, Laurent shoved his plate away from him. “Sorry about that,” he said, his cheeks suffused with color. “That was my father, and in case you couldn’t tell, he’s a drunk. He always liked a drink, but when my mother died of cancer a few years ago, it seemed to push him over the edge. I have no brothers and sisters, so it was basically just me and him. Before you ask, yes, I have tried rehab. He’s been three times, and he’s always back drinking within a few weeks, so it’s akin to throwing money down the drain.” He took a long swig of his wine. “So there you have it.”

“He’s English,” I said.

Laurent laughed. “You seem more surprised about that than him being a drunk. He is English. My mother was French. Born in Paris. Died in Paris. Lived here all her life.” He held up his glass in a mock toast. “But… she had that one fateful trip to London where she met a man and fell in love. He moved here within a couple of months, because… and I’m directly quoting my mother here, ‘long-distance relationships never work. If you can bear to be away from them for that long, then you’re settling for crumbs, or you just don’t want it enough.’”

I would have gotten the double meaning in his words even without the slight raise of his eyebrow. At least, it shed light on where his insistence that Cillian and I needed to sort things out for once and for all came from.

Laurent waved an arm at the waiter, who came over immediately. “Plus de vin!” he requested. The waiter nodded and scurried off. “More wine,” Laurent translated for me. “Which I know is quite the ironic reaction to our evening being ruined by my drunken father, but…” He shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” I said, because it was all I could think of to say.

One corner of his mouth pulled up in a crooked smile. “It should be me saying that.” He waved a hand at my half eaten venison. “You didn’t even get to finish your meal.”

“It’s not like you asked him to come here.”

“No. I certainly did not.” Laurent nodded his thanks as the waiter deposited another bottle of wine and agreed when he offered to take our plates.

“You know what the good thing about not having finished the main course is,” I said.

Laurent propped his chin on his hand and shook his head. After the confrontation with his father, he wore weariness like a shroud.

“Dessert without guilt,” I announced with a smile. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to order the most sugar-laden, fattening thing I can find, and I’m going to eat every single last speck of it.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Laurent said, leaning across the table to fill my wineglass to the brim. Once they were both full, he raised his glass in a toast and I mirrored the movement. “Here’s to…” He thought for a minute, his gaze distant. “Let’s toast to people we are better off without.”

I hoped he wasn’t referring to Cillian as I echoed the toast.

We had three desserts over the next hour. One each and one to share. We washed them down with a great deal of wine, more than I would usually have drunk. I couldn’t offer Laurent much, but I could offer solidarity. Laurent’s family and Cillian were both off the table as topics of discussion.

By the time we left the restaurant, neither of us walked that steadily, Laurent leaning heavily against my shoulder. “I am so glad,” he said as the cold air hit us, “that I am not remotely attracted to you.”

“Thanks,” I said with a laugh.

“No, no, no,” he insisted. “It is a good thing. Romantic partners are easy to find. They’re everywhere…” He gestured wildly at a streetlight and I half expected to see some young beau hanging from it. Of course, there wasn’t; it was just a streetlight. “Everywhere,” he repeated.

“For you, maybe.”

“Henri,” he said, as if that proved his point without further argument. “You only have to crook your finger and he’d come running. I think it’s the accent,” he mused. “ But … you’re missing my point.” He seized hold of my shoulders to bring us both to a stop. “Friends. Good friends are much harder to find.”

“Right. You’re…” I stopped myself before I added the word drunk. The last thing he needed was to be reminded of tonight’s incident, or to be made to feel like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. “You’re feeling sentimental.”

We reached the point where we’d normally go our separate ways, Laurent stumbling slightly. “Come on,” I said, “I’ll take you home.”

Laurent raised his wrist to unearth his watch from his sleeve in a gesture that took far more effort than the simple action warranted. “And miss your hot video date. I am not being blamed for that.”

“He’ll wait. It might even do him good to be on the opposite side of how it feels for a change.”

Laurent shook his head and backed off a few steps. “I’m fine. I live four streets away. What do you think is going to happen?”

“I don’t mind,” I insisted.

“Not necessary.” He backed off a few more steps and made a shooing motion. “Be gone. Have your video sex.”

Judging by the smirk of the person who’d passed us at that exact moment, their understanding of English was perfectly fine.

“Laurent…”

“You’re still here,” he said, taking another couple of steps.

“Fine. Night Laurent. You know where I am if you need to talk. Lord knows you’ve been a great sounding board for me since we met, so it’s about time I returned the favor.”

Laurent gave me a two-fingered salute before turning away. Once he’d disappeared around the corner, I turned for home, shooting Cillian a quick text to say I’d be late getting online.