Million Love Songs

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, taking the seat on the other side of the table. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d do a little bit of sightseeing. The Eiffel Tower is very beautiful at dawn.’ I sound forced and too cheerful.

  He orders me coffee, which I’m grateful for. I bury my nose in the menu so I don’t have to look at him. I’m not feeling in the slightest bit hungry even though it feels as if rather a lot has happened since my chocolate mousse at dinner.

  ‘About last night.’ He lowers his voice as he speaks, though I don’t think anyone else here is paying us any attention. ‘You’re OK about it?’

  ‘Fine,’ I bluster. ‘God, yes. Fine.’ I don’t really want to talk about it at all. The less said about it the better in my book.

  ‘I was concerned when I woke up and you were gone.’

  I probably should be glad that he even noticed. ‘Hangover,’ I say with a tinkling laugh. Which is, of course, absolutely the truth. ‘Needed some fresh air.’

  ‘I thought you might find it fun,’ he adds. ‘A bit of naughtiness away from anyone who knows us.’

  It just highlights that Mason really doesn’t know who I am and, to be honest, it makes me consider if I know myself. I thought I could be modern, liberated, enjoy a bit of X-rated sex with a new man, but I don’t think this is for me. I’d rather be in Paris with someone who loves me, wants to be with me – and only me. This trip could have been so very different.

  ‘It’s not really your thing, is it?’ Mason says.

  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘I kind of like it the usual way.’

  He laughs at that. ‘I’m sorry, Ruby. It won’t happen again. Will you forgive me?’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ I tell him. And I sort of mean it. ‘I went along with it.’

  ‘It’s not something I do often. Just when I’m in Paris. Valerie’s a nice girl,’ he offers when I don’t reply. ‘There’ll be no awkwardness.’

  I wonder why, if he thinks she’s a nice girl, he brings other women for their playtime? Why doesn’t he just come here to see her? Why drag someone else in the equation? But I don’t ask any of these questions. What Mason does is his own business. As long as he doesn’t involve me again.

  ‘She’s not working today,’ he adds. ‘Not at the hotel.’

  Then the penny drops. Perhaps it’s a business arrangement between them? Does he pay her for services rendered or does she do it for free, for the fun? I can’t bring myself to ask him that either.

  Instead, I try to quell the lurching feeling in my stomach by ordering Eggs Benedict and some freshly squeezed orange juice. I figure that some extra vitamin C will get me back on track again. While I wait, I pick at the basket of butter croissants that Mason has previously requested.

  ‘We can do whatever you like today,’ Mason says.

  He’s trying so hard to be nice, but both he knows and I know that a line has been crossed. All I have to do is get through today then I can run back home and be boring Ruby Brown instead of trying to be someone I’m not.

  ‘There’s a flea market in Montmartre, if that’s your kind of thing,’ he continues. ‘Or we can take a trip in a bateau up the Seine. It’s up to you.’ His hand covers mine when he says, ‘I’m at your service, Ruby. I want you to have a good time.’

  One that involves just the two of us, I gather from that. His concern is touching and I feel my disappointment recede. When Mason is like this, he’s good company and the silly mistakes of last night start to fade away.

  Taking a deep breath, I reason that there’s no cause for this to continue to be difficult. We’re both grown-ups. What happened, happened. I was a willing – if slightly inebriated – participant. I could have said no and didn’t. I blame my own insecurities for agreeing to do it. I can’t change what’s happened, but I can simply brush it under the carpet, think of it as a life experience that I hadn’t necessarily anticipated and set about enjoying what’s left of the day. That perks me up considerably and, with a renewed lift to my spirits, I say, ‘A boat would be nice.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  So we finish our brunch but, by the time we do, the rain has swept in once more and high winds are batting over the pavement tables and chairs, sending the staff scurrying out to retrieve them. Instantly, the pavements turn to rivers and the gutters are ankle-deep with water.

  ‘We might as well stay put and have another coffee,’ Mason says. ‘Paris in the rain is appalling.’

  I’ll have to take his word for it. Though I’m up for Paris in any weather. I’m more than a little disappointed as I was hoping to get out and about today.

  ‘We could go to the Louvre?’

  ‘The world and his wife will be there,’ Mason dismisses my suggestion. ‘It will be hell.’

  ‘Any other museums?’

  ‘Yes, but not really my bag.’

  ‘I suppose the boat’s out of the question?’

  He shrugs to indicate his lack of enthusiasm for the joys of the Seine dans la pluie. I think that’s right – it’s a long time since the French language and I were associated. ‘You won’t see Paris at its best.’

  I won’t see Paris at all at this rate, but I say nothing. I could go off on my own to explore, but that seems unfair. Mason has funded everything so far and I feel in his debt. It hardly seems right to leave him by himself and head out. So I’ll do what he wants to do. Plus, it’s still pouring down heavens hard and I have no umbrella. Or rain jacket. Or suitable footwear. In my attempt to pack light, I did not pack for all climatic occasions. I thought Paris would be hot and sunny. I thought I’d be strolling round all day under a cloudless sky. I was wrong on both counts.

  ‘We could get a bottle of wine,’ I suggest when all other options seem to be off limits. My hangover has just about abated enough to cope with more alcoholic input. ‘Stay put for a while. Maybe the rain will pass.’

  ‘A decent red sounds very appealing,’ he agrees.

  So while Mason orders us a decent red, I abandon any plans or hopes I had to see Paris in any kind of weather and settle in, trying to content myself with absorbing the atmosphere in this very traditional café. Perhaps I should just be happy to enjoy this time with Mason and get to know him better – or at least in a way that doesn’t involve his gentleman’s playthings. We had a nice dinner last night and I could try to recapture some of that mood.

  Mason pours us the wine and, as it disappears too rapidly, the rain gets worse and worse. You could say it’s raining chats and chiens. I know. I’ll get my coat.

  I study Mason as he talks to the waiter. His French sounds pretty good to me and he has the confidence that I so badly lack. There’s a lot that I do like about him. He has loads of potential as partner material and has some great points. Despite the little erm … interlude … with Valerie, he’s pretty hot in bed. So much to offer and yet, even though he’s not that much younger than me in actual years it somehow seems like a vast age difference. He might be running a successful business, yet he still seems quite immature in so many ways.

  If there’s one thing that this weekend has taught me – apart from the fact that I don’t particularly like kissing other ladies – it’s that I want to be in a settled and secure relationship. I want to be part of a couple again. Not straight away, but I need to look for someone solid and dependable. Mason is too fickle, smooth and fly-by-night. All the things that Charlie warned me about. I’d probably like a family one day and, while time is running out for me, Mason seems to be a million miles away from that kind of commitment. He said he just wanted fun and he’s certainly proved that.

  As people soaked through to the skin rush in and a few brave souls dash out into the deluge, Mason and I stay hunkered down. We mainly talk about Mason’s business plans for the future. He tells me a bit more about his family who sound like a totally fucked-up bunch despite their privileged lifestyle.

  ‘My dad was never around when I was growing up. He was always at work, building
his empire.’ Mason gives a cynical snort. ‘My mother spent her time at charity lunches and Doing Good. We were all packed off to boarding school. The minute I hit the age of eight, I was shipped out. We weren’t even at the same school. As a result, we don’t have what you’d call a close relationship.’

  Fancy sending your kids off to school at eight. Why would you bother having them, if you’re just going to farm them out to someone else to look after? Perhaps this is why he struggles with close relationships. I’m not trying to analyse him. It’s just a thought.

  ‘Didn’t you miss them?’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose. But I didn’t know any different. Boarding school messes with your head. It did with mine anyway.’

  I think of my nice little school that was just down the end of our road. The friends who all lived a short walk away and how there’d always be half a dozen of them at my house for tea at least one night of the week. It couldn’t have been more different. I know that money doesn’t buy you everything and Mason’s living proof of that. Despite all his wealth, it makes me feel a bit sorry for him.

  ‘You get on with them now?’

  ‘Not that you’d notice,’ he says, then brushes away further interrogation by adding, ‘More wine?’

  I nod and he fills my glass again. The wine brings a warm flush to my cheeks and I try to content myself by thinking that this is probably a very French way to spend a Sunday morning. If I’m being straight with you, I really like this side of Mason when he’s been sincere and not showing off.

  As he sits back in his chair, he catches me looking at him. ‘You’re not disappointed that we’ve been rained off? It wasn’t a total washout? You’ve still had a good time?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I have.’ Parts of it have been lovely. Some bits less so. ‘Thank you for bringing me. Though I don’t think we did a lot of research for your café chain.’ I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Ah,’ he says, acknowledging that I’ve seen though his bull. ‘There’s always another time. We could do this again and pray for better weather.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. Yet, in my heart, I know that this will be my one and only weekend away with Mason. A small part of me feels sad about that. Would I feel differently about him if it had just been me and Mason and sunshine? ‘Should we brave the rain and head back to the hotel then?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  I do feel a little upset that I’ve barely grazed the surface of Paris – one look at the Eiffel Tower doesn’t really count for much – and, yet, too soon it will be time to leave. There’s no doubt that I’d like to come back here one day. Preferably with someone I love.

  We finish up the last dregs of our bottle of wine. Then, conversation and alcohol exhausted, Mason asks the restaurant to phone a cab for us. They get no joy and tell us that the Metro is shut due to flooding. We decide to head out anyway and hesitate in the door before we plunge out into the street. It’s lashing it down. Sheltering under the striped canopy, we look vainly up and down the street for a glimpse of a cab. No such luck. The road is like a river and there’s nothing moving along here at all.

  ‘This is showing no sign of letting up,’ Mason says. ‘Shall we make a run for it?’

  ‘I think we have no option.’

  So he peels off his jacket and, in his usual gentlemanly manner, holds it above my head as we dash out into the rain together. We run along the pavements which are awash with water, as fast as we can. Thunder rumbles across the sky and lightning illuminates the torrent of water running down the road. A lone car trundles past, water up to the sills. Mason’s jacket proves to be an ineffectual umbrella and within minutes we’re saturated, our hair and clothes plastered to our skin.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Not a moment too soon, we reach the hotel and stumble inside dripping wet, breathless and laughing. Valerie, as Mason had said, is thankfully nowhere in sight as we head to the lift. As we go up to the room, I start to shiver and Mason pulls me to him, rubbing my back to warm me up. I nestle against him, gratefully. Then his lips find mine and, before I know it, we’re locked in a passionate embrace.

  I’ve no idea how we get to the room, but as soon as the door is closed, we’re stripping off each other’s sodden clothes and Mason’s chill, damp skin is against mine. He lowers me tenderly to the bed, and we make love again. Except there’s no love involved at all, is there? I can’t begin to pretend that after what happened last night. Yet, to my surprise, this time it’s slower, sadder, more intense and neither of us says a word until Mason whispers my name against my neck as he comes inside me. It’s the best sex since we arrived and, even better, there’s no knock on the door from a third party. I feel as if I get another tiny glimpse of the real Mason Soames. Yet I feel oddly disengaged from it too, as if I’m observing rather than taking part and I’m left feeling weirdly hollow. Sorry, but that’s the only way I can explain it. If I thought that fabulous sex was the way to fill a hole in my life, then I have to say that I’m sadly disappointed.

  When we’re finished we lie together, entwined, in the huge bed and Mason is quiet, thoughtful. Even though I’m tempted, I don’t ask what’s on his mind. Instead, I leave his side to take a hot shower before we have to catch our train. I wonder whether he might follow me into the bathroom, but he doesn’t – even though some traitorous part of me wants to feel his hands on me again.

  We pack and head to the station for our early evening train. Maybe part of the deal with Mason’s receptionist friend is that we have a late checkout from the room or perhaps he paid extra for us to say longer – I don’t know. The Eurostar whizzes us back to London and, while Mason busies himself with his phone, I doze on and off. The lack of sleep last night is now catching up with me.

  When we finally hit Milton Keynes, it’s getting late and Mason drives me home. We say little on the journey, but he turns to me as he parks up outside my place.

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t go quite the way I’d planned,’ he says softly. ‘I’ve really enjoyed your company, Ruby. I hope you feel the same.’

  ‘It was great,’ I agree, but even I don’t hear that conveyed in my voice.

  ‘I’d like to see you again.’

  ‘I’ll see you at work, I guess. I’m on the early shift tomorrow.’ Mason rarely comes in until late evening and I’ll be long gone by then.

  ‘Don’t be obtuse, Brown,’ he tuts. ‘You know what I mean. I’ll call you.’

  Yet I imagine that he won’t. Though I hope we can, somehow, maintain a civil, professional relationship now that he knows what colour my pants are and the sex noises I make. Ugh. I sigh at my own stupidity.

  ‘Right then,’ I say brightly. ‘Best be off.’ Now we’re awkward with each other. I lean over and kiss him chastely on the cheek – this, the man whose mouth knows all my intimate places.

  He gets my scruffy little weekend case out of the boot for me and I let myself into my flat as he drives off. The granny annexe feels empty, unloved – much like me. In the bedroom, cardboard cut-out Gary Barlow is standing guard. I throw my bag down onto my bed.

  ‘Have I got some stories to tell you, Gazza,’ I sigh at him. ‘And I bet that you and the boys must have seen some things in your day.’ I’ll swear that he rolls his eyes at me. That’s nothing compared to what Charlie will do. ‘Your number one fangirl is going to be sooo cross with me.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Charlie is already there when I get to work the next morning. I get the strongest of strong coffees, load it up with sugar and we take up our usual place at the back of the pub near the bins on the rickety bench that still hasn’t made it to the tidy tip. It’s not all that warm out here and I’m glad I’ve still got my coat on. The sky is grey and low, brooding. It matches my mood perfectly. I’m knackered and feeling very flat.

  ‘Right,’ Charlie says, charging up to vape. ‘Tell Auntie Charlie all there is to tell.’

  ‘You first. I’m knackered this morning and need a bit to regroup.’

  ‘Is this
entirely due to excess shaggage?’

  ‘Yep. Pretty much.’

  Charlie sucks on her e-cig. ‘When he went there with Leanne – she worked here about six months ago – she said she never managed to get out of the hotel room.’

  My heart plummets. Sounds all too familiar. To deflect attention from my extreme foolishness, I ask, ‘So how was Gary?’

  ‘Gorgeous.’ She gives herself a cuddle and goes all dreamy. ‘Oh, he’s lovely. The musical was fantastic and all the boys were there. Well, except Robbie, obvs. And Jason.’

  ‘Did your Nice Paul go too?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says still wistful. ‘He loved it too. We went to a burger place afterwards and then I got the Train of Shame back to the Keynes at some ungodly hour.’ Then she glares at me. ‘But he’s not my Paul.’

  Of course not. ‘What did you do yesterday?’

  ‘Worked.’ She grimaces. ‘I was knackered. I think every table got their order cocked up. It’s a good job Mason wasn’t in. I’d have been sacked. I bet you two lovebirds didn’t even give me a thought while you were swanning around Paris.’

  ‘We’re hardly lovebirds. And I didn’t really do a lot of swanning either,’ I confess.

  ‘But you did see some of it,’ she says. ‘The Louvre, La Tour Eiffel, all that Fronch stuff?’

  Making an evasive-sounding noise, I say, ‘It was great. Loved it.’

  However, Charlie is not so easily deflected. ‘That’s not what your face is saying.’

  Remind me never to take up poker.

  She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Tell Auntie Charlie all there is to tell,’ she repeats more forcefully, ‘and I won’t have to hurt you.’

  I sigh all my disappointment out. ‘To be honest, Charls, we might as well have been at the Premier Inn down the road for fifty quid a night,’ I tell her, frankly. ‘The first day we didn’t get out of the hotel at all – like the other girl you mentioned.’ And probably many others whose names he’s forgotten. ‘That man is insatiable.’