Chapter Three
The sound of singing faded into the distance, and now there was only the gentle rustle of leaves in the chewing gum tree, and the faraway hum of Paris traffic.
Chloe leaned back against the rough bark, hoping gum wouldn’t stick to her shirt. Most of it looked ancient and solid. She shifted a little, so her bottom rested in a dip between the tree roots. Already she was uncomfortable.
The silence stretched out. Surely those morons wouldn’t leave their friend here, practically comatose? They’d send a security guard to release him, or would persuade one to leave a gate open for an extra half hour and come back for him themselves?
Probably not that second option. She imagined them explaining their prank in slurred English, looking like that . The guard would probably lock them in too.
Chloe’s eyes lit on her vomit-splattered feet and flowers. Thank goodness that nasty piece of work had dropped her on the sick-free side of the cling-filmed lump.
That lump groaned, and then there was a muffled ‘Fuck’.
She ignored it. She’d just sit here until help arrived. It surely would.
‘Sorry.’
Still she didn’t respond.
‘About being sick. And Rohan.’ He’d lifted his head and was speaking more clearly. ‘You’re right. He’s a wanker.’
She shook her head. She wouldn’t engage.
‘Wha’s your name?’
Silence.
‘K. Fair enough. Don’t think they’ll be back, though. We’ll probably be here all night.’
Now she paid attention. ‘What?’
‘They’ll head to a strip club, and at some point one of them will remember – duh – I’m not there, and then they’ll try and break back in and probably impale themselves on those spikes on the wall.’
Chloe blew out a breath. ‘How could they be so irresponsible? You could’ve choked on your own vomit, or suffocated or something, left here alone, wrapped in plastic like that.’ She paused. ‘How come you’re suddenly coherent?’
‘I haven’t actually drunk that much. Alcohol disagrees with me. They poured that French stuff down me. Whassit called? Like the Cornish things. Pasties. I should be okay now I’ve thrown up.’
Jesus.
‘You know, you can just say no,’ she snapped. ‘Or pace yourself or whatever. It’s not compulsory to get paralytic on your stag do.’
‘Tis.’
‘Male groupthink. Gotta be one of the lads, can’t have them calling you a lightweight, oh no. Your stag do needs to go down in lad history. Wey hey!’ she said, and the chain clinked as she raised a clenched fist. ‘Should’a seen the state of ’im, should’a seen what he got up to with that stripper. Legend . You know what? It’s pathetic .’
‘I’m–
‘And why are you even here, in a cemetery? Shouldn’t you be at Pigalle, harassing sex workers instead of dead bodies?’
‘S’why my mates are pissed off. I wanted to come here, and it’s my stag, so … but they made us do the pasties thing first.’
‘ Pastis! You’re in Paris, not Penzance.’
He laughed.
‘Do I look like I’m being funny?’
She felt him attempt to move. ‘No idea. I can’t see you.’
Finally, she deigned to look at him. Her face was inches from his, which was still half-covered by the black beret. Much of the rest was obscured by the enormous fake moustache.
‘For god’s sake ,’ she said, and with her left hand she reached across and ripped off the moustache. It had been stuck on a lot more efficiently than she’d expected.
‘Ow! FUCK! That hurt.’
Good.
He shook his head from side to side, and the beret fell off, revealing a head of spiky fair hair.
And … oh. Those eyes .
They were quiet for a moment as they took stock of each other, shackled together as dusk began to descend over Paris.
‘Joel,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I’m Joel. Who are you?’
‘Chloe.’
‘Practically an anagram.’
‘What?’
‘Pleased to meet you, Chloe. Probably a lot more pleased than you are to meet me. Like I said, I’m sorry about them.’ He cocked his head in the direction in which the lads had left. ‘Knew something like this was gonna happen. I heard them talking about a prank. They wanted to go to Amsterdam–’
Amsterdam. The word rekindled Chloe’s anger which, since she’d looked into those eyes, had been paused.
‘Of course they did,’ she snarled. ‘God, men are so lame . Let’s organise a sleaze-fest, so poor Joel can make the most of his few remaining days of freedom. Get him plastered, facilitate one last free fuck with a hot stripper – if he’s capable – before he’s shackled to the person he’s going to have to spend the rest of his life with.’
Joel blinked, then looked down at their chained-together wrists. ‘Or he could spend that time shackled to someone with zero fuckin’ sense of humour.’
‘Shut up. Just … shut up .’ She heard the wobble in her voice.
‘Jesus, girl. It’s just a fun weekend with my mates. Haven’t you ever wanted to do something wild before life pulls you down?’
She carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘When did it all change? In my parents’ day you just went to the pub for a few more pints than normal, woke up the next day with a hangover and got married on the Saturday. Now, there’s a compulsory weekend of depravity–’
‘Yup, it’s mandatory. They’ll be right into it again now. Like I say, they’re not coming back any time soon.’
‘But what’s the point, if the bloody groom’s not with them!’
‘Because believe it or not, the bloody groom doesn’t want a bar of it. They’ll have more fun without him.’
She made a pft sound.
‘I thought you didn’t approve of stereotyping.’
‘What?’
‘Stereotypical lad-on-a-stag behaviour. Maybe we’re not all like that?’
She shook her head.
‘Look. The dress-ups were Gaz’s idea. We made a deal. They let me have Paris instead of Amsterdam, and a visit to this cemetery instead of the topless boat trip, on the condition we dressed up.’
‘The word is No ,’ said Chloe. ‘Just No, I do not want a sleazy weekend stag do, I do not want to dress up like a twat, I just want a few pints in the pub with my mates . Where’s your backbone?’
‘Chloe?’
She met his gaze again, and it clicked, who those eyes reminded her of. Less intense, less focused, but … they were dead ringers for Jim Morrison’s big, beautiful, soulful eyes.
‘Well, it’s a moot point, anyway’ he said. ‘Take it from me – they’re not coming back any time soon. And I need to get free of this stuff, I’m sweating like a pig here.’ He looked down at the cling film and tried to move. The plastic cocoon creaked. ‘You’ve got a free hand. Can you try and get me out?’
Instead, she lifted her right hand, pulling his left up with it, examining the chain and the padlock.
‘Is it hurting you?’ he asked.
‘No. But …’ She yanked it quickly upwards, shook it. The metal rattled and the padlock and chain held fast. It was the real deal, security grade, and it had been applied properly, with intent.
‘Shit.’
‘Please, Chloe, can you get this off me? It’s bloody uncomfortable. And I need a wazz.’ The cling film squeaked again as he wriggled.
A wazz. Chrissakes. Was he now going to add wee to the vomit? Could this get any more sordid?
She looked at the glistening plastic on his torso and arms, searching for an edge, a way in. He peered down at himself, doing the same. She reached over and prodded him a few times, to get a feel for how thick the layers were.
‘That’s not helping.’
‘I’m just looking for a weak point.’
He grinned. ‘That’s a bit lower.’
Her head shot up. ‘Don’t even–’
‘Sorry.’ He grimaced. ‘Just trying to lighten the mood.’
He was like her ex, Dan. And every other good-looking bloke, with their cocky assumption you found their flirty banter appealing. Well, she didn’t. And never would again.
She sat back against the tree and wrapped her free arm across her body.
He glanced at her. ‘I said sorry.’
‘We’ll just wait.’
‘They’re not coming. Honestly, Chloe –’ he screwed up his face, ‘I really need a wee.’
Her own bladder squeezed in response. She needed to go, too, dammit.
She twisted away from him, as far to her left as she was able, and groped the tree behind her with her unshackled hand. She knew it was futile; her range of movement was constricted and she couldn’t see what she was doing, but the alternative would involve getting touchy. Her fingers skidded across the slippery surface, unable to find purchase.
She dropped her hand back into her lap. ‘I can’t, with one hand. And I can’t see what I’m doing. Can’t you just do, like, an Incredible Hulk. Burst out of it?’
He chuckled and flexed his arms, puffed out his chest. The cling film didn’t give an inch, never mind split. ‘Nope. Apologies for my lack of buff.’ He turned those eyes on her again – so close – and gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I think …’ he said, cocking his head to his right, ‘I remember, the cling film ran out when Gaz was on this side of me. Reckon the end’s somewhere on the tree trunk.’
It seemed she didn’t have a choice. ‘Right. I’ll have a look.’ She turned side on to him, then leaned across his body until her fingers touched the plastic where it met the tree. Her chest was pressed against his arm; she felt the warmth generated by all that alcohol and cling wrap. He was indeed hot.
Distracted, she glanced up at his face. He was staring ahead. His cheeks were flushed, his square jawline was faintly shadowed by stubble, and his mouth … that was a bit like Jim’s, too. Full lips, slightly pouty … She swallowed, and with an effort conjured the image of him vomiting from that mouth, so she could focus on the task at hand.
‘I can’t …’ She ran her fingers down the plastic, but found no loose end, no edge. She dug her nails in, trying to make a hole. How many layers thick was it? Five, six, seven – more? But at this angle she wasn’t strong enough, and her nails were short and stubby. Manicures were part of her past life.
‘Maybe the end’s further round,’ he said. ‘You might have to–’
‘No!’ she said, reading his mind. ‘If you want a lap dance you can piss off to Pigalle with your sleazoid friends.’
He chuckled, then screwed up his face again. ‘Chloe, I’m in trouble here. I really need a wee. I’m not exaggerating.’
She met his gaze.
‘Please?’
Shit . She was caught in the tractor beam of those eyes. She was having trouble looking away. But … dammit. Why would she want to? They were incredible. In fact, she had to concede, everything north of the cling film was absolutely gorgeous.
With the exception of his brain.
‘Keep still, then.’
‘Like I have options.’
Chloe shifted round, bending her right leg beneath her, then slid her left leg across him until they were face to face. She bent her left leg so she was on her knees, his legs between hers, then shuffled her bottom onto his lower thighs. Leaning around him, she fingered the plastic.
Still she couldn’t locate an end, or anything to unpeel; still she couldn’t pierce the layers.
She inched further up his thighs, stretching out her arm as far as she could. Her stomach touched his. Again she scraped, pulled and prodded the cling film.
Still no luck. This stuff was impenetrable.
But it was possible that she wasn’t fully concentrating.
‘Hang on, I need to …’ Gazing into the middle distance, she shifted closer. Now she was sitting on his crotch. He tilted his head so she could see over his shoulder. Her chest was pressed against his, and through the cling film and his stripy T-shirt she felt his heartbeat. It was thumping hard, racing.
She stretched out her arm again, ran her nails down the plastic and … success! A piece came free. She gently pulled it, and it started to unravel.
‘I found the end!’
‘Halle-bloody-lujah.’
‘Wait …’ She tugged it again, and a few more inches came away. Then it snapped off. ‘Bugger.’ She let her hand drop. ‘Damn.’
‘Try again. Run your nails–’
‘I’m doing that! Don’t bloody mansplain!’
He was quiet for a moment. ‘Why’re you so angry with men, Chloe?’
She pulled back, looking at him in surprise. She was still straddling his thighs, and the movement caused friction. Their eyes locked again, and his breathing quickened.
Oh no. Not that. Please not that. Chloe inhaled sharply as he grew hard beneath her and her blood rushed south, to the warm spot between her legs. She had an overwhelming impulse to push herself against him.
Well, it had been a long time. Almost exactly a year.
He looked up at her, and the pink in his cheeks intensified. ‘Sorry. I don’t usually … I mean, I’m not … You should probably get off. We need to think of a plan B.’
Now she was throbbing. Although maybe the ache was this insistent because she too needed a wee.
She slid off him and resumed her original position, sitting by his side, willing her body to calm down.
Her eyes lit on her backpack, still lying where she’d dropped it earlier. ‘Plan B,’ she said, grateful for the distraction. ‘What about … my keys.’
She managed to hook the backpack with a foot and pulled it towards her, scowling as she spotted the splatters of vomit on its leather. After struggling to unzip it with one hand, she fished around until she found them. Then, putting all the energy she had strangely acquired into her task, she set about attacking the cling wrap, starting between Joel’s torso and his left arm. The keys made a satisfying crack each time they pierced the plastic.
‘Go girl,’ he said, grinning.
She flung all her emotion from today into the assault, all that hurt and anger, stabbing and tearing at the plastic again and again, and when she’d made a large hole she pulled at it some more with her free hand until finally it split open, and Joel’s arm emerged, like a butterfly’s wing.
He gave it a good shake, then they set about ripping off the rest of the cling wrap. The moment his other arm came free he grabbed Chloe in a one-armed hug, saying, ‘You beauty!’ He got to his feet, shucking off the last of the plastic. ‘And now I really need to … ah,’ he said, as the chain tightened, preventing him from straightening. ‘You’ll have to look away.’
He held out his free hand and helped her up.