Chapter 18
18
I can’t quite believe I’m saying this but I’m in my room, with the contents of my romance hamper spread out in front of me, and I’m taking Gina’s advice.
Well, I’m taking part of her advice. I’ve set a romantic scene for myself, but the only thing I’ll be doing with my hands is writing – well, hopefully. So far it’s not so good.
I’m in my room, perched on the edge of my bed, wearing the ridiculously lacy, barely there lingerie from the hamper. I feel like I look like I’m about to shoot a low-budget porno, or the person on an Only Fans-type site who can’t even get people to subscribe to her free stuff.
With a glass of wine in one hand (yep, apparently I need to get drunk even just to woo myself, and yes, I know it’s not even lunchtime but cut me some slack, I’m trying to create a mood here) and my laptop balanced precariously on my knees, I’m trying my best to think spicy thoughts but really I’m thinking about everything else – did I turn off everything I needed to turn off in my flat, an argument I had in 2009, what time lunch is, who played the male lead in the movie Jeepers Creepers …
Blah. No, stop it, think sexy thoughts, think sexy thoughts. I really can’t imagine this working for me but maybe that’s why it isn’t working. I just need to believe.
I’m doing my best. The room is dimly lit, with candles flickering softly on the bedside table. I have some romantic music playing quietly. The ambience is perfect, or at least it should be. The only thing I’m missing is a man – which is nothing new – but to be honest I’m not even sure that would help.
Oh, come on, Amber, you can do this. I take a big sip of wine – yes, I know it’s only lunchtime, but it’s for my art .
I flick (poor choice of words) to a point in my manuscript where the main character and the love interest finally get together. This should be the perfect place for a spicy scene, right? I take a deep breath and try to channel my sex goddess.
He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear as he whispered…
Nope, too romantic, too soft, right? I delete the line and try again.
Our lips met in a passionate kiss, his hands roaming down to my…
No.
I grab his…
No! Ergh. I’m starting to think half the battle with this is knowing what to call things. Penis is too formal, willy is too silly, dick feels a little aggressive – I could just go for an absolute wild-card word, like, I don’t know… dong?
He whipped out his dong.
Okay, now I just sound like I’m taking the piss. I let out a frustrated sigh and take another swig of wine. This is hopeless.
Determined to give it another go, I start typing again. I’m not going to stop, even if I think what I’m writing is shit, because you know what they say: you can’t edit an empty page.
As our lips meet, I feel a shiver run down my spine. His hands find their way to my chest tits boobies hips, and he pulls me close. He runs them up my body, slowly, eventually settling on my neck. His grip tightens and it takes my breath away. Actually, I can’t breathe. The look in his eyes changes, from wanting to needing – needing to kill me!
Nope, I need to stop it, I’m not allowed to write about murders. I just can’t help it, my creativity wants me to kill people and crack jokes. I can’t explain it. Perhaps it’s because my love life isn’t exactly popping, so I’m just not feeling inspired to go down that route, instead I have some sort of literary bloodlust that I need to satisfy.
Jen doesn’t want people choking each other – actually, if it was a sex thing, she probably would – so I need to focus, to get back on track.
Hmm, what else can I do? What else can I do?
I’m bombarding my senses with all things romantic – candles, wine, lingerie – but it’s just not enough. Maybe I need to kick it up a notch. Perhaps if I could smell something romantic, it might jump-start my brain. Aromatherapy is a thing, right? I rummage through the hamper and grab a bottle of scented massage oil. It’s made with lavender and jasmine, and according to the label it promises pure relaxation and romance. Perfect, because I feel neither of those things right now. I’ll take either at this point.
As I unscrew the cap it’s hard to imagine this doing the trick, but I can smell it already and it does smell nice at least. The bottle has one of those little nozzles designed to dispense just a few drops at a time. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I aim it at my chest and give it a gentle squeeze. I figure like you rub menthol there when you have a cold, perhaps this could work in a similar way?
Of course, because it’s me in this scenario, instead of a few delicate drops hitting my skin, the entire nozzle pops off. Oil gushes out like a burst water main, drenching me from my collarbone down. I stare down in horror as the slick, floral-scented liquid pools on my skin, and it’s heading for the floor.
Oh, for God’s sake. I look like I’ve been gunged. No, I look like I’ve doused myself in lube. There’s spicy and there’s… whatever the hell this is.
Panicking, I glance around the room. If I don’t clean this up fast, I’m going to destroy the antique furniture or the pristine probably original wood floors. My mind races, and there’s only one solution: I need to get to a bathroom, ASAP, without getting this oil on anything.
I’m a slippery mess, and it’s only getting worse, and unsurprisingly holding my hands on my body isn’t doing much to hold the oil in place, because of course it isn’t.
I make a bolt for the bathroom, slipping and sliding on the polished wooden floor – possibly aided by rogue drips of massage oil. But as luck (specifically my luck) would have it, someone’s in there. Seriously? Again?
I have no choice. I’m going to have to use Henri’s bathroom. I race down the hallway, still holding my hands to my chest, as though that’s going to stop the massage oil from dripping everywhere. My feet slap against the floor, leaving a shiny trail of evidence in my wake.
I’m turning the place into one big slip-and-slide.
Please be free, please be free.
I reach Henri’s door, twist the handle, and – oh, hallelujah – it swings open. I barrel through, only to slam head first into something solid.
Not just solid. Warm, wet, and almost entirely naked. And my also warm, wet, almost entirely naked body has just clapped with theirs. I know who it is before I even fully understand what the hell just happened.
I stumble back, my eyes wide, my breath held. Henri stands there, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around his hips. His eyes are just as wide as mine, and now he’s covered in oil too.
I let out a scream, a mix of shock, collision, and sheer embarrassment.
‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry,’ I babble, trying to find something, anything to cover myself with. A towel is the best I can do, and it’s probably ruined now. ‘I can explain.’
‘Can you?’ Henri’s smile is cheeky, his eyes dancing with amusement. ‘I think this is a story I would love to hear.’
Before I can say something, anything, to make this better, Mandy bursts into the room, her eyes darting from Henri’s towel-clad body to my oil-slicked, lingerie-wearing one. Her mouth drops open, and her face goes through a range of emotions: confusion, realisation, and finally, horror.
‘Oh,’ Mandy says, her voice flat. Then, more horrified, ‘Ohhh.’
‘It’s not what it looks like,’ I insist.
I mean, it is exactly what it looks like, but it’s not what she thinks it looks like.
‘No, that’s okay,’ Mandy says, backing out of the room. ‘I shall leave you to it.’
Henri just laughs and his laugh is so warm and charming, this whole thing is almost worth it… but not quite.
‘And to think, I thought a group of romance writers could be boring,’ he jokes. ‘Do I need to wash this off?’
He nods down at his bizarrely well-oiled, toned (can’t help but notice) body. I want to crawl under a rock.
‘It’s just massage oil,’ I explain weakly.
Henri’s eyes gleam mischievously.
‘Oh, do I need someone to rub it in?’ he asks, with a wink.
I’m so red I’m doing everything I can to avoid catching my reflection in the steamy mirror, because I probably look so embarrassed, and realising that will probably only make me feel worse.
I glance down at my feet awkwardly, only to realise that my lingerie is absolutely saturated in oil, in a way that only washing it can fix.
‘Do you have a washing machine here?’ I ask, trying to move this shitshow along.
‘We have a laundry room,’ Henri replies, still smiling. ‘We have someone who does the washing twice a week. She’s not here today, but guests are welcome to use the facilities.’
‘I’ll do that, thanks,’ I mumble. ‘Actually, I’ll go do it now and leave you to clean up.’
Before Henri can say anything else, I dash out of his bathroom and back down the hallway, praying no one else sees me in this state. Thankfully, the other bathroom is now free – I’m guessing Mandy was in there before, which is how she heard me scream, and the reason I’m going to need to do some damage control later.
I rush into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, lock it, and start cleaning myself up, dropping my oil-soaked lingerie into the bath where it can hopefully do no more damage.
I mean, I was just then the most intimate I’ve been with a man for a long time, wearing lingerie, covered in massage oil. But is this what Jen wants? Somehow, I don’t think so.