Chapter 5
Chapter Five
I continued my dash, peering between the palings, hoping to spy my clothing in one of these courtyards.
Halfway along, I just about squealed with joy.
There they were. My lacy pink bra had landed on a clothesline and was draped over a pair of skin-tone knickers big enough to double as a parachute.
The sirens abruptly stopped. I froze again. My heart pounded in my chest. I expected to see a squad of policemen sprinting toward me with riot gear and Tasers ready to fire.
But nothing happened. I let out a long, slow breath. All was clear.
Clothes located. Check.
Police evaded. Check.
Now I just had to figure out how to get into that courtyard.
Glancing around offered zero solutions.
I sized up the fence. It was at least six feet high. I was five feet tall. My vertical challenge was one problem. My top- heavy proportions were another. Leaping over the fence in a single bound was not an option.
I scanned my surroundings again, and in the distance, I spied a milk crate nestled into the grass.
Casting caution aside, I dashed across the grassy expanse, snatched up the milk crate, found a second crate, and with one in each hand, raced back to the fence.
With my heart about to explode, I searched the darkness.
My fugitive status was still intact.
I put the crates atop each other and checked their sturdiness. There was no delicate way to do the next bit. So, with my ass in the air and my tits between my knees, I climbed the wobbling crates. Anyone who happened to be walking past would be treated to a full view of what I had for breakfast.
Clutching the fence, I peeked over. In the courtyard was the cottage garden I’d seen over Pierre’s balcony the first time I’d visited. It overflowed with vegetable bushes, dozens of statues, and creepy little gnomes. A clothesline stretched along one side, heavily burdened with enormous underpants and bras that dwarfed my size-F lingerie.
Now I just had to figure out how to get over the timber palings without ripping myself a new vagina.
I glanced around. Still clear. It was impossible to believe I was in the middle of one of Europe’s most populated cities. People should be everywhere.
A rotten thought bounced through my head like a rubber bullet. What if the police had cordoned off the area and were preparing to send in the dogs?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Tightening the flimsy apron string around my waist, I leaned my body onto the palings and swung my right leg up onto the fence. My vagina was getting more air than it’d seen in its entire twenty-nine years of life .
If anyone approached me now, we’d both have a coronary.
Praying I didn’t get splinters in my flaps, I dragged my body up onto the fence and straddled it for the briefest of moments before tossing myself over the other side.
I face-planted into the vegetable garden—my fall broken by a healthy tomato bush. Scrambling to my feet, I plucked tomato flesh from my right breast and a squished cucumber from my hip.
Crouching down, I dashed beneath the cover of the hanging washing and rescued my bra and panties. With one eye on the back door, expecting it to spring open at any second, I grabbed my shirt from a faded flamingo statue and my pants from the mop leaning against the fence.
I had never dressed so fast in my life. By the time I was decent, I could barely breathe.
Time to get the fuck out of there.
But my heart shot to my throat at my new dilemma. There was no way to climb back over the fence. The vegetable patch was too low. I couldn’t even reach the top of the fence, let alone pull myself up onto it.
“Shit.”
The tiny courtyard began creeping in, inching closer. All at once, I was both hot and cold. My head spun as my eyes flicked from the fence to the door to the balcony above.
Pierre’s balcony.
Stepping back and glancing upward, I assessed whether that was a possible escape route. Nope. Not a chance.
I stared at the wooden door. It was my only escape.
What were the chances of it being unlocked?
Oh, God, am I really thinking about breaking into someone’s home?
I felt like life was trying to teach me a valuable lesson. Though I had no fucking idea what it could possibly be .
I crept forward in stealth mode, crouching down like some kind of out-of-shape ninja. At the door, I put my ear to the wood and listened. Nothing. With my breath trapped in my throat, I reached for the handle and turned.
The door popped open like it was spring-loaded and I sprinted to the clothesline and hid behind a massive pair of men’s Y-fronts.
I have totally lost my mind.
My blood pounded through my veins as I counted the seconds, expecting a man with a shotgun to come bolting through the door at any moment.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
At twenty, I decided no one was coming. It was time to do the unthinkable.
With clenched fists and trembling knees, I strode to the door like I owned the place. I crossed the threshold, sprinted across black and white checkered tiles through a kitchen, and entered the next room.
My heart stopped.
A man and woman were seated in overstuffed Lay-Z-Boys watching television. His belly spilled beneath his shirt and sat upon his lap. Her breasts spilled from her chest and sat between her parted knees. They both stared at me, eyes wide. Mouths open.
I waved. “Hi.”
Confident they couldn’t stand too quickly, I said, “You can blame your asshole neighbor, Pierre.” My French was a little rusty, so there was a chance I actually said something like, your peanut butter breasts look like Pierre . As long as they heard Pierre, that would be enough.
As they wrestled to free their massive bodies from the cushions, I took off.
They burst into a torrent of angry French words that I had no hope of translating and crockery shattered behind me.
Praying that the front door was in the opposite direction of the back door, I dashed for the hallway. It was crammed full of fake flowers and knitted doilies and a floor runner that was well past its use-by-date. I yanked open the front door and with a wave of relief, I sprinted onto the cobblestone laneway.
I was free.
I raced up the alley for the second time that night, except now I was fully clothed. I reached the main street, still bumper to bumper with congested traffic, and was sucking in air so fierce it was a wonder I didn’t explode.
I slowed to a crawl. With each step, the adrenalin that’d powered me since Pierre’s wife appeared seeped out more and more. I became so exhausted, just moving my legs was an effort.
Promises of a long hot shower dragged me toward the hostel. But then it hit me. I didn’t have my room key. Or my phone. Or my fucking passport.
The universe hadn’t finished torturing me yet.
I still had to get my handbag.
“Oh, shit.” The thought of seeing Pierre again had my chin quivering and tears stinging my eyes. I flicked them away, furious that I was crying. And then I smelled him. Pierre. On my hands.
Anger barreled through me like a marauding bull.
I needed to shower—to scrub off every last ounce of that rotten man.
Then I’d get a plan.
It was nearly midnight by the time I’d walked back to the hostel. Fortunately, Estelle was behind the reception counter and she gave me a replacement door card without any questions .
In my room, I turned the shower faucet to full and stripped off. I didn’t even wait for it to get hot before I stepped in. I scrubbed every single inch of my body. Three times.
I washed my hair twice.
But the floral-scented soap did nothing to eradicate one horrifying fact.
I’d had sex with a married man.
Dripping wet, I strode across the room. Just six steps. I turned and strode back again.
How did I let this happen?
Easy! I was blinded by the sex. I didn’t really know him. I turned and strode across the room again.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Tears stung my eyes, and I flicked them away.
Searching through my suitcase for tissues, I spied the visa letter that’d turned my world upside down. On the back was where I’d started writing my list of firsts.
My heart lurched. After dragging myself to the table, I plonked onto the chair. Running my hand over the crumpled paper, I spread it out. I read the first one on the list . . . the one that had brought me so much joy.
First orgasm in a shower.
“Fuck you, Pierre.” The words wobbled through my tears that I tried to force down.
I grabbed a pen and stabbed the paper. I did it again, over and over, shredding the letter to dozens of tiny pieces. When there was nothing left, I flopped forward and cried.
I couldn’t breathe. Sucking in air hurt my chest.
Sitting back, I stared at the pile of shredded strips, and a bolt of memory slammed into my head.
Only it was my mother sitting in front of a pile of shredded paper with tears streaming down her face. It was the day after my fourteenth birthday. The day after my father had walked out our door for the last time. The note Mother had shredded was from him. It’d had just eight words. I’m outta here, you slut. Don’t bother calling.
My mother was a slut. She had sex with anyone who’d flop into bed with her.
Acid curled deep in my belly, sharp and painful.
I’d had sex with men I didn’t really know too. And I’d liked it.
Oh fuck. A throb started at the base of my neck and pounded behind my eyes.
I’d just slept with a married man.
I was a slut. A dirty rotten slut.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I was like my mother.
A wave of bile shot up my throat. I scrambled off the chair and raced to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. I heaved again. And again. With nothing left in my belly, I crumbled onto the cold tiles and cried my eyes out.
It was an eternity before I dragged myself upright.
Every time I squeezed my eyes shut, I saw Pierre fucking his wife, and that stupid smile on his face when he spied me watching.
I wished I’d slapped him harder. And kicked him in the nuts.
I needed Zali.
Ahhh shit . I didn’t have my phone.
A sob burst from my throat, but I fought it.
I had to get my phone. I couldn’t leave Paris without it.
I yanked on clothes and before I knew it, I was outside again. The air was weird—hot and prickly, matching my emotions. Pumping my fists back and forward, I strode up the street, heading toward the man who’d taken my newfound sexual freedom and turned it into something disgusting .
I am just like my mother.
Oh, God. My whole life I’d been telling myself a lie.
And just like her, I’m a liar too.
Rain began to fall. Not tiny little raindrops—giant fat ones that splattered on my cheeks and nose and drenched my hair. But I didn’t care.
I kept walking. At the traffic lights, I stopped with other people, all clutching umbrellas. I knew I looked weird. I wanted to scream that I was weird.
I’m a freak.
A dirty slut. A liar. And a freak.
My tears mingled with my rain-drenched face. But I didn’t wipe them away.
The lump in my throat was massive.
I reached Parc du Champ de Mars, the beautiful park showcasing the Eiffel Tower, and started running. My stupid tits pounded against my chest, forcing me to slow down.
Every breath was agony.
People were looking at me.
But nobody asked if I was okay. Nobody cared. Not a single person cared.
I had never been so alone in my life.