grin at him, and he grins back. Oh, perfect sexy smile.
We put the wine bottles down and start kissing properly. Fucking hell, I keep thinking, fucking, fucking hell, this is amazing . . . My body is a tangled mess of electrical wires. He’s not too tall, so even in flats I can kiss him perfectly.
With one hand on my neck and one around my back, Dave walks me back a couple of steps till my back is up against the side of someone’s house, his whole body pressed against mine. Good thing downtown Autignac is basically asleep at 11 pm on a Saturday night I reflect, then I get lost in the kissing again.
‘I couldn’t take the way you were looking at me any longer,’ he says at one point.
‘Me?’ I gasp back a few seconds later. ‘You were the one staring at me all day.’
‘Let’s leave the wine in the kitchen, and take this upstairs,’ he says.
‘Won’t they miss us?’ I say.
‘Of course they will,’ he says. ‘But I couldn’t give a shit. Let’s go.’
‘Hello.’
I open my eyes. It’s a second before I remember where I am.
I am in my bed in my parents’ house in Autignac. Very naked. With Dave next to me. Also very naked.
‘Hello,’ I whisper.
We’re lying side by side, facing each other, in my little bedroom. The house is totally quiet: no one else is up yet. My chin feels hot and chafed – damn thee, stubble rash – and my breath is, I suspect, kittenesque. But I can’t bear to move. I’ll just breathe through my nose.
‘I was magnificent last night, wasn’t I?’ he whispers.
I start to laugh. Hell of a way to break the morning-after ice.
‘Come here,’ he murmurs, and pulls me towards him for a kiss.
‘Gently,’ I say. ‘My lips are swollen from all the snogging.’
‘I’ll kiss them better,’ he whispers, moving me underneath him and placing his hands on either side of my face.
And now, I must briefly draw a veil over your eyes, or perhaps cut to a scene of a rocket launching, a flower coming into bloom in fast-forward, or train pistons shunting back and forth. We all know how great sex is (unless you haven’t had sex yet, in which case: don’t rush, the first time sucks, and remember to play it safe). So just imagine it with a smooth-skinned, flat-stomached, very enthusiastic man who you fancy so much that you want to grab and paw and bite every inch of him. That’s what this is.
My God, sex is amazing. To think that I used to actively try to avoid it when I was living with – no, no. Don’t think his name. Just think about Dave. Concentrate on the now. (How zen I am.)
‘Ahh, la belle France,’ says Dave, an hour later, as we lie on the seriously rumpled sheets.
‘My poor childhood books, seeing this sort of activity. They’ve led such sheltered lives,’ I say. ‘What time is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Dave.
I grab his watch from the bedside table. ‘It’s 10 am. I’ll go to the bakery,’ I say. ‘I wonder if everyone is awake. I hope Sophie and Luke made up. I’ve never seen them fight . . .’
‘Of course they made up, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Do you think everyone drinks coffee? Maybe I should get some orange juice, too . . .’
‘Who cares what they drink? Come here, angel. I’m not done with you yet.’
‘No,’ I say, wriggling out of his grasp.
‘Abigail. I said come here,’ he says.
‘I’m not steak. You can’t just order me,’ I say. It’s a quote from Working Girl. I wonder if he got it. I shuffle off to the tiny en suite off my room and try to ignore the inevitable ‘he’s-looking-at-my-naked-arse’ thought.
Remain in control of this situation, Abigail, I think, turning on the shower.
‘Do you have any soap to drop?’ says Dave, stepping into the shower with me, and the next second he’s kissing me against the shower wall and well, again I must draw a veil over your eyes.
When I finally get downstairs, leaving Dave upstairs ‘to make some calls’, only Sophie and Luke are awake. They’re draped over each other on the sofa, watching French cartoons on TV.
‘Morning,’ I singsong. Looks like they’ve made up.
They both look over and smile. ‘Morning, sweetie,’ says Sophie.
‘Sorry about all the drama, Abigail,’ says Luke. He leans over to kiss Sophie’s head. ‘I was a brute. Your sister has forgiven me.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ says Bella, coming into the kitchen. ‘It’s all my fault.’ She walks straight over to Sophie and Luke. ‘I really am sorry, Sophie. I was so rude and I didn’t mean any of it. I was premenstrual and drunk and Ollie and I were fighting . . .’ Bella seems genuinely contrite. ‘Please forgive me?’
‘Of course!’ says Sophie, brightening. She is clinically unable to hold a grudge. ‘Are you and Ollie OK?’
‘Ha, sort of,’ grins Bella ruefully. ‘He ordered a taxi at 7 am and took the early flight home.’
‘Ah,’ says Sophie. Bella shrugs. I can’t read her face – is she upset or relieved? She’s so self-controlled.
‘Well, I’m going to get bread and croissants for breakfast,’ I say. ‘It’s lovely and sunny. We can eat in the courtyard. Back in 20 minutes.’
I’m so giddy with happiness, I have to fight the urge to skip up to the bakery. Just 24 hours ago, I hadn’t kissed Dave yet. Now I have. Our first kiss was right there, against that wall. And it was amazing. It was sparktastic. I can’t wait to do it again. I feel all hot and tingly at the thought.
But what if that was just one night for him? I feel a strange flutter of panic: I want him, and I desperately want him to want me . . .
Hang on. Did I just use the d-word? Desperate.
Fuck.
Stay in control, Abigail. Remember Robert’s tips. I can be cool and detached. And anyway, it can’t be just one night for him. Not the way he was looking at me, and the, frankly, utterly incredible sex . . .
‘Bonjour!’ I exclaim, walking into the boulangerie with a huge smile. Ten croissants, ten pain au chocolats, three baguettes and some brioches should do it. I also pick up some orange juice and some flowers for my mum.
When I get back to the house, Bella is lounging on the other couch, and Dave is lying on top of Luke and a shrieking
