Chapter Ten
‘What sort of a lift do you call this?’ said Joel as they squeezed into the tiny elevator. ‘Good job I don’t suffer from claustrophobia.’
‘We call it an ascenseur . I’m lucky to have one; a lot of apartments don’t.’
‘Five,’ he read out, as she pressed the button and the lift began to ascend. ‘Which at this speed gives me time to take advantage of this cosy space.’
‘Yes, it’s a very slow li–’
He silenced her with a kiss. There was no clashing of teeth or sharing of tongues. It was sweet and gentle, and she wanted it to last forever.
But all too soon the lift halted with its customary bone-rattling thunk . It was a ramshackle thing. Chloe enjoyed the quirks of this old, quintessentially Parisian apartment block, but wished the lift was a little less quirky. She wondered what manner of ancient cable mechanism stopped it from plummeting to the ground. It was probably just as well she didn’t know.
She slid open the metal concertina gate and ushered Joel out.
As soon as Chloe opened the tall, old, midnight-blue door to her apartment, the cat jumped down off the sofa, stopping dead when he spotted Joel.
‘This is Patapouf. He takes a while to warm to people,’ she said, switching on the lights. ‘Come on in.’
‘Shoes off?’ said Joel, eyeing the pale rugs on the wooden floor.
‘Better had,’ said Chloe. ‘Everything here belongs to Madame Lol, my absent landlady.’
‘Madame Lol? Seriously?’
‘Yes, and she won’t be lol-ing if we get dried vomit on her carpets.’
They bent over, side by side, Chloe gingerly pulling the ends of her laces, avoiding the remaining patches of regurgitated food on her trainers.
‘I’ll buy you some new ones,’ he said, as they straightened. ‘Top of the range, whatever you want. I promise.’
And I will keep this pair forever. Maybe even uncleaned. Gross but true.
The apartment was messy, but it was still charmant . She loved this place. It had originally been two garrets; now there was one small bedroom and a living area with a kitchen. The most-compact-ever bathroom was hidden away in a corner. The roof sloped, and outside each room was a balcony with just enough space for plants, but not enough for a seat. She’d threaded strings of fairy lights in among her dwarf trees and pots of flowers, and after filling Patapouf’s bowl, she opened the French doors and switched on those little twinkling lights. The full moon was illuminating the grey rooftops, and Paris looked like a dream.
‘Wow,’ said Joel. ‘That’s your view. It’s amazing.’
‘I know.’ How had she not properly appreciated it before, all caught up in her broken-heartedness.
‘So many flowers. Very pretty,’ he said. They were crammed into jars and pots on every surface, and the smell when you walked through the door … ‘It’s like walking into the perfume department at Selfridges.’
‘Perk of the job. Perque ,’ she added, in a French accent.
Then she remembered her manners, and his hunger. ‘Would you like something to eat? Or a cup of tea? I expect you’d like both?’
‘Both would be awesome, thanks. Can I use your bathroom first?’ He looked around him. ‘Where is it?’
‘Kind of tucked away,’ she said. ‘And–’
‘You’ll have to come with me, I know.’
A wee had been one thing, but …
‘Just a wee,’ he said, reading her mind. ‘For now.’ He pulled a face.
She led him over, opened the door, and he let out a you’re kidding me laugh. ‘Jesus, that’s … bijou. How on earth do you manage in here?’
There was no window, just the loo, a tiny shower with a curtain, a basin barely larger than a cereal bowl, and her toiletries squashed onto a corner shelf. No space for a cupboard.
‘It’s an incredible design achievement, really,’ she said defensively, turning her back as he flipped up the toilet lid and unzipped his jeans. She stood beside the open door, and now there was only the sound of …
Washing hands was going to be fun.
‘Chloe,’ he said, after a moment. ‘How would you feel about … I mean, I’m feeling quite ick, given all the alcohol and the whole vomiting episode. I’d really love a shower.’
She turned to him, raising her eyebrows.
‘Okay,’ he said, running his eye over the tiny space, ‘if I pull the curtain for modesty and waterproofing reasons, that will represent a serious washing challenge. If I don’t pull it, there’ll be a flood and you’ll have to see me butt naked.’
She paused (it was a very brief pause) as that image swam in front of her.
‘Or, we could help each other undress and then shower together,’ she said. ‘I think we could both just about fit in.’
She got the distinct impression that was the answer he’d been hoping for.
‘I need a shower too,’ she said in response to his smile. ‘Busy day at work.’ Her tone was matter of fact, but her heart was thumping. ‘Would you like to shower before or after food and tea?’
He chuckled. ‘You’re so polite. I’d like to shower right now, please and thank you Chloe.’ He began undoing her jeans.
Soon their lower halves were naked, their jeans and underwear in a heap on the living room floor. But there was no way to completely remove his T-shirt and her shirt, both of which were now hanging from their shackled wrists.
‘Scissors,’ she said, leaning into the bathroom to retrieve a pair from the sponge bag on her shelf. They were only nail scissors, but her enthusiasm for the task soon saw his stripy T-shirt fall to the floor. She kicked it away saying, ‘Good riddance to that. Although I have to admit, you did look pretty good in it.’
Patapouf sauntered over and sniffed it, then fixed Joel with an amber-eyed stare.
Chloe laughed. ‘Look at his face – he most certainly doesn’t approve of stereotyping Frenchmen.’
Her shirt was soon added to the pile, and then her bra with a severed strap. Two destroyed items of clothing were surely a price worth paying for whatever was to follow.
What would follow? And what about–
What did we say about living in the moment, Chloe?
She squeezed into the bathroom, pulled the door closed and turned on the shower. When the water was warm she stepped under it; he shuffled in next to her, facing her, and she pulled the curtain round them.
‘Okay if I …’ he said, adjusting the shower so he could fit beneath it.
Then they were pressed together, and hot water was coursing over them. She turned her face upwards, closing her eyes so it flowed over her head, taking with it the city dust, smoothing her hair into a long, dark slick down her back.
She didn’t need to open her eyes to know what was going on with Joel. It was like a rod of steel pressing into her stomach. Reinforced steel. It was clear to Chloe, as it had been on three occasions now, that, whether or not Joel strongly identified with Oscar Wilde, he was also very much attracted to women. So – bi, then. Glad that’s all cleared up.
‘Would you like me to wash your hair?’ she said, opening her eyes.
‘That’d be nice.’ He dipped his head under the shower.
She bent down to pick up the shampoo and came face to face with his erection. It was unequivocal in its appreciation of her wet, naked body. Surely he’d like her to do something about it this time?
She straightened, and squeezed a blob of shampoo onto his hair. He bent his head, closing his eyes, and she lathered it up, then began to massage his head.
She heard his sigh of pleasure above the hiss and splash of the shower. ‘That feels so great.’
She gazed at his beautiful face, the rivulets of water trickling over his high cheekbones and on down his square jawline; his long eyelashes wet and spiky, his full lips glistening with moisture.
This time yesterday, I didn’t even know you existed. And now …
She tried again to stop the thoughts, which were beginning to hurt.
‘Rinse,’ she said, and he put his head back under the shower.
‘Shall I do you?’ he said.
‘Oh, yes please.’ She flashed him a cheeky grin. ‘But could you wash me first?’
‘Down girl. Pass the shampoo.’
Hers took a lot longer than his; when her curls were wet, they reached to her waist.
The sensation of his strong fingers massaging her scalp was exquisite . ‘That is bliss . Can you blow-dry me too, after?’
‘Totally,’ he said. ‘I’ll lie you down on the bed and blow on every last little bit of you, if you want.’
‘Let me wash you,’ she said, as her knees threatened to let her down again.
She picked up the shower gel, flipped open the bottle with her thumb and upended it, then passed it over and took her flannel from the hook on the wall. ‘Squeeze,’ she said, holding out the flannel.
He did as she asked, then dropped the bottle and moved his hand behind her, gently kneading a buttock. ‘I’m squeezing.’
‘That was low.’ She ran the flannel over his shoulders, chest and arms, appreciating his firm, toned pecs and well-rounded biceps, then reached round to his back and on down past his slim waist to the top of his buttocks. Back to his hard stomach and then lower, washing down one side of the V that pointed to the promise of heaven, and then the other.
‘Does this need a wash?’ she said, skimming the flannel along his erection.
‘Spruce him up; he needs to look his absolute best.’
She giggled. It was already a thing of incredible beauty, she thought, admiring its length and style. She wrapped the cloth around it, moving her hand up and down.
‘My god, Chloe,’ he breathed. ‘That feels …’
He dipped his head and kissed her; she opened her mouth and moaned as warm water poured over them. This was the most erotic thing ever. She dropped the flannel and moved as close as she could, standing on tiptoes, opening her legs, trying get his erection between her thighs, but he was too tall. ‘Lift me up,’ she begged. All she could think about was getting that beautiful, clean cock deep inside her.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We haven’t washed you yet.’ His voice was low, and even sexier than a Frenchman’s.
‘You’re a hard man, Joel,’ she breathed.
‘Isn’t that the truth,’ he said. ‘Pass the soap.’
She picked it up and squeezed a big blob onto his palm, and off he went, starting with her shoulders, taking his time on her chest, round and round, paying special attention to her nipples, which hardened to bullets, then moving down, slowly soaping her stomach.
This was like nothing else. At least, she thought it was until he reached the next level down, and began washing between her legs, cupping her with his hand, rubbing her with his thumb … sliding a finger inside, then out again.
‘I missed a bit,’ he said, pushing two fingers in as far as he could.
‘Oh my god,’ she whispered, bearing down on his hand, feeling it all quickly building again.
Then she grabbed that hand with her free one, stopping him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s your turn.’ She flicked her eyes downwards. ‘Your choice – it’s only fair. What would you like to do?’
‘Eat,’ he said.
His reply confused her.
‘Food? Or …’
‘Where’s the cake?’ he said, with a wicked smile. ‘I’ve been a good boy.’
The look in those deep blue eyes saw her teetering on the edge again. Could words do that?
‘Cake,’ she repeated. ‘Well yes, I suppose you have been quite a good boy, since I took you in hand.’
He shook his head, smiling.
And suddenly the prospect of spreading herself out on the bed, on her snowy white sheets – all that space – was even more tempting than having him deep inside her in the shower.
‘Where’s the towels?’ he asked.
Ah. She’d forgotten about those. She grabbed the hand towel and set about roughly drying them both, before opening the bathroom door and leading him over to the small airing cupboard.
Before long they were dry and wrapped in fluffy towels, his tucked in at the waist, hers beneath her arms. She gave his hair a rub with another towel, then her own curls, leaving them spiralling down her back.
‘Let’s see what’s in the fridge,’ she said. Luckily she’d stocked up yesterday, buying comfort food in anticipation of the second-saddest evening of her life so far.
Well, that didn’t turn out as expected!
The local food shops – the boulangerie, the patisserie, the chocolaterie, and all the other -eries that helped make this part of Paris so special – offered plenty of top-notch sad-girl options.
She passed him French cheeses, butter, a pot of paté, then a baguette, bought only this morning. He laid everything on the blue wooden table which, together with its two matching chairs, the sofa and a small coffee table, took up all the space in the living area.
He eyed the wine in the fridge door.
‘No more alcohol,’ she said. ‘We’ll make tea.’
‘But not now,’ he said. ‘Tea later. Where’s the cake?’
‘Here,’ she said, passing over a white cardboard box containing two mille-feuilles . Two, because one was never enough when there was a broken heart to be soothed.
He put the box down on the table and opened the lid. ‘Cream slices,’ he said, looking her in the eye. ‘Perfect.’
‘ Mille-feuilles ,’ she said, as a shiver ran through her. ‘It means a thousand leaves. As in the thinnest, most delicate layers of pastry on the planet. Isn’t French so much lovelier than English? I mean, mille-feuilles …’ (the words slid out softly and smoothly, like a length of silk), ‘or cream slice ,’ (she fired the words out in a London accent).
‘ Gaat- eaux ,’ he said in a sexy French accent. ‘Or cake .’
‘See?’ she said. Everything sounds so much better en Francais .’
‘Bollocks. Boll- eaux .’
She laughed. ‘Shouldn’t we have the baguette and fromage first?’
‘I don’t remember cheese being part of the deal,’ he said, picking up the box of cakes. ‘And in fact, camembert is best served at room temperature, so we should let it rest a while. Cream, on the other hand, should be eaten straight from the fridge.’
‘Do we need a plate?’ she asked.
‘No. Now for chrissakes, Chloe, take me to bed.’