Page 99 of Hot to Go

She grins. ‘But what is the problem with this Charlie?’ she asks.

Lots. His eyes are almost too blue, he’s almost too bloody nice. Trust me, I’m trying to find things, Henriette, so it’ll be easier to untangle myself from him.

‘Idon’t know what he wants, I don’t know what I want,’ I tell her. ‘It’s not been a smooth ride.’

‘Because he does not take care of his man areas?’ she asks, bluntly.

I laugh again. ‘No, his man areas were fine. I just mean…’ I smile to think of his man areas but also my favourite French phrase. ‘C’est comme les montagnes russes.’ She smiles. It’s one of those sayings that isn’t literal,it’s like being on a rollercoaster, but it feels perfect here. How Charlie and I just keep going up and down but in our case, also left, right, upside down and just circling back. It has sometimes all felt completely insurmountable. I don’t think I understand it at all.

‘Aah. Is it more heaven or more hell though?’ she asks. ‘Men are not perfect but you are looking for that person who can take you to both, back and forth, that can make you feel everything all at once.’

She says the back and forth a little cheekily to let me know what she really means. ‘That sounds like someone speaking from experience.’

She holds up a hand with a wedding ring firmly planted on her ring finger. ‘Clement but, alas, he passed two years ago.’

I cock my head to one side to see her eyes fade a little at disclosing this. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘Oh, he was magnifique…’

I pause to hear her say that word. ‘We met later in life. I guess the universe is funny that way. The timing was strange but sometimes you know in your heart when it makes sense. I was thirty-five, he was forty. He was the most beautiful soul. Also, très bien monté…’

I try and sustain my laughter as this wonderful old lady tells me how well-hung her husband was.

‘What is Charlie’s penis like? Tell me…’ I fear the alcohol may have taken my new friend to a point of indiscretion but I’m not sure I mind too much. I sit back in my comfortable chair ready to tell her all. ‘Hold on, before you start. Let me get you a brandy. Garçon!’

By the time I finish talking to Henriette in that swanky hotel bar, I am three brandies down. For her, this hasn’t touched the sides, but for me, I swear you could light me up and put me on a Christmas pudding. It’s a gorgeously warm drunk feeling, the sort that reminds me a little too much of sangria-soaked rooftops in Seville, but also has helped set me up for an evening of Parisian partying. Henriette is my new heroine. My favourite part of the evening was when she told me in detail about her husband’s cock. It was very refined, girthy but quite hirsute. Oh, the images I had in my head.

I reach my room now looking for texts from Lucy. Maybe now is the time to just have a bath, wrap myself in towels, and see where French television takes me while I wait and get ready for whatever Paris has to offer. Room 912. I enter the room, seeing my bag and belongings exactly where I left them but someone has been in to switch on the cute tasselled lamps at the bedside, turn down the beds and leave some chocolates on our pillows. It’s all very sophisticated. I head to the window and gaze out over the city. I don’t mind this view at all. Paris. The city of lights. It’s like standing in the middle of a Christmas tree, all lit up, the rows of lights running through the buildings and darkness, like arteries, giving the city life, heart. And at the very edge, tiny like a small pylon on the periphery, the Eiffel Tower in the distance. I’m supposed to feel big waves of overwhelming romance now, aren’t I? But tonight I feel differently. I feel calm, entranced, neither in heaven or hell but just floating above this glorious city. I turn back to the room and open up my bag. I smile at the first thing I see. I should have given this back maybe, there was opportunity and chance, but it’s Charlie’s T-shirt. The one he lent me the first time I met him on thoserocks in Mallorca. I kinda held on to it and possibly packed it subconsciously. It’s one of those T-shirts that have been through the wash so many times that the cotton is aged and super soft. You can’t buy T-shirts like this. And it’s become my favourite thing to sleep in. I can’t tell if that is sweet or desperately sad. I’ll hold on to the former sentiment. I get out the T-shirt and some toiletries before I notice a text on my phone.

Can you order me some room service? I need a snack before we head out or I’ll drink and just snog random French men.

Anything in particular?

Cheese, bread. Frites? And extra frites?

Done.

I pick up the room service menu, scanning the choices and dial the number on the hotel phone by the bedside.

‘Bonsoir, le service de chambre.’

‘Bonsoir. Je voudrais un croque-monsieur et des frites, s’il vous plait.’

‘Bien sûr, Madame Callaghan.’

I smile. You know the hotel is posh when they say your name and make you feel important. That calls for more frites. ‘Actuellement, beaucoup de frites?’

‘Beaucoup? D’accord, et à boire? Il y a un menu à prix fixe?’

‘Oh, a set menu,’ I blurt out in English, a little merry, forgetting where I am and who I’m speaking to.

‘Sept?’

‘Oui. Un coca.’ The line goes a bit fuzzy.

‘OK, that will be with you in about half the hour,’ the staff member says in broken English.

‘Merci beaucoup.’

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