Four days later, I’ve hitched my sarong up high so I don’t get it wet. I’m kicking and splashing around like a kid who’s never seen the sea before. It’s been the most extraordinary day. For once I can’t wait to speak to my mother, or Amber or anyone, to share the secret. The sun’s getting lower on the horizon, like a huge orange balloon suspended at the back of the sky. Twilight is turning the Mediterranean into a deep indigo wash, a dazzle of sparkling crosses twinkling on the surface. I turn to face Hugo and slowly run backwards on the golden beach, shaking my tangle of auburn curls free from its ponytail.
“Oh, it’s so beautiful here,” I warble, before showing off my French. “Ça veut dire, si merveilleux.” It’s one of the few areas I can shine with Hugo. I know he hasn’t got a clue what I’m going on about. He can only speak ancient Greek and Latin. “Can we stay to watch the sunset?”
“Ariadne, your wish is my command.”
“Alright then, seeing as we’re now in France how about you call me Marie Antoinette instead of Ariadne?”
“And would Marie Antoinette like some cake to hand out to all those poor peasants on the beach?”
“Ha, bloody ha,” I say, flopping myself down to lying on the sand. “Let them all eat bread. Come to think of it, let them go buy it themselves from the local boulangerie.”
*****
Hugo plants himself next to me. He’s wearing a smug smile. It’s all gone brilliantly to plan, he’s quite right to pat himself on the back. Basically, he’d asked me to set aside today, telling me not to ask any questions, it was a surprise. When we headed for the motorway, I imagined we were going out for a pub lunch in the country or something. Then, when he took the Luton turn-off, I got a bit upset. No disrespect to Luton dwellers, but Luton’s hardly renowned for being one of England’s beauty spots. Then, when we took the airport turn-off I started to get a little bit nervous, because whilst surprises are a lovely concept in theory, in practice, for some reason they put me on edge. It’s the not knowing. It’s being at somebody else’s whim.
He refused to answer any of my trillion questions. Are we going to Paris? Is this a wind-up? Oh, I can see right through you, you’re getting me all excited over nothing. We’re going on an EasyJet daytrip to Liverpool, aren’t we?
I tried to pull his leg. “You do know my passport is out of date?”
“Really?”
He’d looked momentarily concerned, but chose not to rise to the bait. He parked in the long-term car park and then proceeded to take his and one of
my
bags out of the boot. Still he wouldn’t tell me where we were going. Instead, he kept our boarding passes hidden from view whilst we went through security and then blindfolded me on the way to the gate. It was only when they started boarding the plane and a lady at the desk announced via the speaker system that this plane’s destination was Nice, that he undid my blindfold and announced that he was taking me to Cannes in the south of France for a dirty weekend.
There were two reasons for the trip. The first, of course, was to get dirty. The second was to celebrate his new case and fat cat salary that went with it. So get this. The only budget bit of our holiday were the flights. We are staying at none other than the Carlton Hotel. The five star deluxe posh paradise where all the stars hang out during the Film Festival.
*****
The sunset is magnificent. I trickle fine grains of sand absent-mindedly through my fingers as I watch the perfect orange ball slip gracefully into a new day on the other side of the world. When that final thin line of orange is swallowed up by the sea, the sky turns the most glorious shade of pink. I could sit here for hours, mesmerised by the ever-changing palette of nature’s artistry, but Hugo’s got other plans.
“Marie Antoinette,” he interrupts, “j’ai faim.”
Okay, I know I said he didn’t speak French, but he’s so bloody clever it would appear he’s mastered basic survival vocabulary from just a cursory glance at his Berlitz dictionary. Now, wherever he goes in France, he need never go hungry.
“D’accord cherie. On y va.”
He raises his eyebrows, but I don’t bother giving him a translation. I get up and we wander hand in hand to our white palace on the seafront.
*****
We take an outside table at this bijou restaurant half-way up a steep cobbled pedestrian street in the old town. We both order the local specialty of bouillabaisse, a provençale fish stew, and Hugo orders a bottle of champagne. It takes ages for the meal to come, but it doesn’t matter. We knock back the bubbles, bask in the bustle and soak up the atmosphere, watching the well-heeled and glitzy as they mosey past.
“To us,” toasts Hugo, brandishing his Moët & Chandon-filled flute.
“To us and to you being an even more successful barrister with the sexiest wig ever.”
I give him a tipsy smile and we clink glasses.
“To us, to Cannes, to many more holidays like this to come. Together,” he says, putting his hand on mine. We’re clinking again as the waiter arrives.
“Santé,” he interrupts, with a twinkle in his eye. He places a steaming casserole overflowing with giant prawns and langoustines on the table, before bringing us bowls and a ladle to serve. “Bon appetit Madame, Monsieur.” He nods at me, then at Hugo, and then leaves us.
“He thinks we’re married,” I say, raising a spoonful of John Dory and soup to my lips.
“How do you know that?”
“He called me Madame. That means he’s either sure that I’m married or he’s hedging his bets, because it’s really impolite to call a ‘Mrs’ a ‘Miss’ in France. I empty the spoons’ contents into my mouth. “Ooh, this is sensational.”
“What should he have called you?” asks Hugo, before sampling the stew.
“He should have called me Mademoiselle.”
“Do you mind being referred to as Madame?”
I grunt in reply, but the truth is yes, I
do
mind. I’m not sure it’s the waiter’s assumption I’m married to Hugo that I mind, or the concept itself. Hugo’s made it quite clear that if he thought I’d say yes, he’d ask me to marry him yesterday. He changes the subject, shaking his empty spoon excitedly above the bowl.
“This is sensational,” he concurs. “Can you taste the saffron and garlic?”
*****
We’re both naked in bed in our beautiful €750 a night room. Hugo couldn’t believe I’d dared to ask the Concierge if anyone famous had stayed in Room 201 before us. I can’t be sure that he wasn’t making it up, but apparently Tom and Nicole (when they were still together), Hugh and Elizabeth (when they were still together) and Brad and Jennifer (when they were still together) all slept in this very same room. As Hugo makes his first advances towards sex, stroking my breasts matter-of-factly, it crosses my mind that perhaps Room 201 is cursed. As his hand flutters down from my chest to between my legs I wonder if maybe there’s a connection between their stay in Room 201 and the breakdown of their relationships. As his fingers gently circle my clitoris, awakening my desire, I banish all morbid thoughts from my mind. I turn to face him side-on and we start to kiss. Nice kissing, familiar kissing. We both start to run our hands teasingly across each other’s bodies, enjoying the soft touch of skin on skin. I’ve always liked his body. He’s tall, naturally lean and compact. It’s always felt like quite a nice fit, not that I’ve much to compare him to.
In no time at all he’s pushed me onto my back, in basic missionary position, nudging his penis at that spot between my legs. I’ve not really had enough foreplay, I’m not really ready yet, but I’m tired, so it doesn’t matter, he might as well continue. I open my legs wider and guide him inside, hoping his gentle thrusting movements will excite me enough to moisten me. The slow rocking does start to turn me on, opening me up so he can get in deeper. I clasp his body in mine, like a Venus flytrap, winding my arms and legs tightly round him. I love the sensation of being filled so completely and start squeezing him with my vaginal muscles, making him even bigger and harder.
“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” he moans. “Keep doing it.”
I do keep doing it, but not for that much longer because it’s got him so excited that I can tell by the quickness of his breath that he’s close to coming and then with one big shudder it’s all over.
“Mm,” he sighs. “That was lovely Danni.” He slides his hands under my back, turning me onto my side to hug me. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I reply.
We stay hugging a little while longer, then he says goodnight, rolls over and falls fast asleep. Normally, I too would doze off immediately, but not tonight. For the first time I’m lying here thinking ‘what about me?’ I mean, Jesus, even Amber’s had an orgasm. It must be possible. I wonder though, if you’ve been in an orgasm-free relationship for this long, if it’s possible to work through it. Maybe Hugo and I are past the point of no return. I wouldn’t know how to even broach the subject. For some reason, as I lie tossing and turning, I can’t get the pub quiz out of my head. It’s not so much the actual quiz. It’s everything that happened around it.
*****
We needed to join a table to take part and as luck would have it, when we came out the toilets, Amber bumped into two old school friends that I vaguely knew. I’d nicknamed them Beauty and the Beast. Analise was the tall, leggy beauteous blonde. Nicki was her brunette less attractive pal. Anyway, they were up for it. We bought some drinks and each paid the £1 entry fee. Bang on time, Simon Shufflebottom started proceedings.
“Right, before we get going I want you to know that there are two basic rules. Rule Number One, the Quizmaster is always right. Rule Number Two, in the unlikely event that Quizmaster is wrong, Rule Number One applies.”
There was a polite snigger and then he began with the General Knowledge round.
“Starters for ten,” he bellowed. “What ‘N’ was the ancient Greek goddess of victory?”
“Oh, I know that,” said Amber, scribbling the answer. “It’s Nike.”
She must have been taking lessons from Hugo.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I thought Nike was a make of trainers.”
“Question number two,” said Simon. “What letter would you see on a hot water tap in France?”
We all huddled in.
“It’s ‘C’ for chaud,” I whispered.
The questions were straightforward enough, so we started lapsing into chitchat. Analise and Nicki told us about this brilliant gig they’d gone to in Brick Lane, called ‘Talkaoke’. I thought it sounded like a hideous karaoke offspring, but Beauty and the Beast assured us it was the latest ‘it’ craze, where punters wanting to take part sit round this giant doughnut table. The MC sits in the middle (where the jam would be if it were a
real
doughnut) and provokes heated, topical conversation, handing the microphone to anyone wanting to make a point.
“Question Number Five. What were crushed to simulate the sound of spiders underfoot in the film
Arachnophobia
?”
“Crisps,” says Analise.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“One hundred per cent - my stepmother was the make-up artist on the film.”