Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“Yes. Many times. Your body, your choice,” he adds in French.
“Exactly.”
“Their body, their choice, also. No means no. And then Emmy insisted on my watching a YouTube video about thé.”
“Tea?”
He nods. “If you make a cup of tea for someone, and they want it, bon. They drink the tea, and maybe you both enjoy it. If they change their mind after you’ve already made tea—boiled the kettle, added milk or honey—that does not mean you can force them to drink it.”
“That’s a good way to explain it.” And this is a conversation I can have with Emmy. And she’ll tell me to inform his father. Ack! “I need to watch this tea video for myself. It sounds very sensible. And interesting,” I say, dropping my leg so both feet touch the floor. “But porn is, I think, a bad example of how sex between two people can really be.” I push up to stand, hoping that only vanilla two-ways are the worst that shows up in his internet history. Because someone will have to check. “If you have any other questions…” Save them for Emmy. Please!
“Thank you again, Primrose.” His attention dips to his lap where he unravels the twisted fabric from his forefinger.
“I hear you like CoD,” I say, beginning to turn. “Maybe we can have a game sometime.”
“You like CoD?”
“Yeah, ’course. Fishing isn’t only just for boys, you know.”
“Fish—” He shakes his head. “Primrose, I do have one more question.”
My shoulders rise with a deep, fortifying breath. I paste on a smile and swing back around. “Yes?”
“I know you said porn is not like real life.”
“It really isn’t.” I eye the blue seat wondering if this is a question I should sit for.
“Well, I was wondering, does that mean ladies don’t really put the penis in their mouth?”
Kill me. Kill me now.
18
LUC
“You had another call from Marchand.”
Ignoring Jacque’s announcement, I tilt back my head as I continue to blow cigarette smoke circles into the warm night air. The door clicks closed behind him, his footsteps echoing against the tile until he’s standing by my side.
“I thought you’d given up,” he adds.
“I have.” I don’t look his way or stop.
“Sure. Let’s go with that. Did you hear what I said about Marchand?”
I make a gesture that’s not quite a shrug despite the tension that curls in my gut at his name. Lifting the cigarette to my lips once more, I sigh. “He can call. He has called. That does not mean I must answer.”
“Okay, Confucius. What other nuggets of wisdom do you have for me, one-third of a bottle of cognac deep?” Glass clinks and I realise he’s holding a couple of bottles of local beer. “I was going to offer you one of these, but…”
“I’ll stick to the Armagnac. But help yourself.”
“The Darroze 1924.” He whistles as he reaches down, grasping the bottle by its long neck. “That the bottle Marchand sent you? And you’re downing it like cheap liquor.”
I slide him a look that says careful. Then return to blowing circles out to the darkened mountain range, satisfied when the smoke blends with shadowed clouds.
Jacques sighs, the sound loud and long suffering, as he cracks the cap of his beer. He swallows, then makes a noise of satisfaction. “What do you want me to tell him?” he asks, lowering his long frame into the adjacent seat. “You know, when he calls next. Once or a dozen times. Your phone, your office line, my phone.”
“He likes the chase.” My words sound lazy. Soporific. I haven’t drunk that much, surely.
“You sure about that?”
“Very.”
“Because he sure has a hard-on to for you.”
“That’s not a compliment.” Given how well he seemed to be known at Ardeo, the club in Paris. A select clientele… titans of industry, European royals.
Networking, Marchand had tried to explain after setting his worried eyes on me. He’d been selling me a lie, telling me his hotel chain was a family legacy, built on loyalty and trust. The man even introduced me to his wife. I can forgive many things, but hypocrisy isn’t one of them.
Ridicule. I sit suddenly forward and stub out the cancer stick. It’s a habit I promised my son I would give up months ago after he suffered through a particularly gruesome health education lesson at school. And I did give it up. I have. Tonight is just a tiny bump in my seat from the wagon of abstinence. Not a fall from it.
I throw the rest of my drink back and reach for the bottle to top my glass. I should never have gone to the fucking club, because then I wouldn’t be in this predicament. In these predicaments—I’ve allowed problems to arise and fester in two areas in my life.
Nils Marchand and Primrose Whittington. One a thorn and one not quite a rose. By name, at least. Two parties enmeshed in my life and causing me problems. If I hadn’t been there…