Million Love Songs(38)

We make it out of the hotel for dinner. You’ll be pleased to know that. I’m pleased to know that. We eventually get out of bed and into clothes without another false start. Honestly, I’ve already had more sex in a day than I had in a year of married life. Mason is insatiable. I wonder if this is what it was like when my ex-husband went off with her of the jewelled vajayjay? Could he simply not keep his hands off her and, thereby, our marriage was doomed? But I won’t think of Simon today, not while I’m living it up in Paris.

I should be present in the here and now. I confess that I’m liking the glint in Mason’s eye, the sheer lust of his need. It’s quite a heady feeling to be the object of so much desire. Was it like that with the women who came here before me? I should stop thinking about that, really, shouldn’t I? It feels good to be wanted, even if it’s for a fleeting moment.

‘I’ve booked a table just down the road,’ Mason says into my reverie. ‘It’s one of my favourite places. Good, traditional French cooking. You won’t be disappointed.’

So we head out of the hotel and the pretty girl is still on reception.

‘Have a nice dinner,’ she shouts out to us in her sexy accent. ‘à plus tard.’

She and Mason exchange a glance, I’m sure. I’m no mug. What was that about? There’s definitely history there, if you ask me.

The street is busy with people heading out for the evening and it’s so very French that I could cry out with glee. The road is cobbled, pretty awnings cover pavement tables, couples share a bottle of red wine or sip at tiny cups of espresso – the sort of scene you see in every clichéd drawing of Paris. I love it. Mason takes my hand as we walk together down to the restaurant which, I have to admit, feels good too. Isn’t it weird that, in this day and age, you can have had enthusiastic sex with someone – a number of times – yet never have held hands with them?

‘You’re quiet,’ Mason says.

‘Just thinking.’

‘We can walk over to the Eiffel Tower after dinner,’ he says. ‘If you want to.’

‘I’d like that.’ As much as I’ve enjoyed our bedroom gymnastics, it would be great to see some of actual France while I’m here.

We’re shown to a table in the window complete with candle in a bottle and a red and white gingham cloth. I feel as if I’m in heaven. Mason orders for us and we share a delicious bottle of red wine with pan-fried mussels from the bay of Locquémeau for me – which Mason assures me is a good thing – and steak tartare for him. Frankly, he looks like the type of man who would enjoy raw meat. Perhaps that’s where he gets all his … ahem … energy from. Would a vegetarian bloke be able to go at it like that? It’s not a study that I’ve ever undertaken. Is that a bit vegetarianist?

We both have duck leg confit for main course with black cherry sauce, dauphinoise potatoes, pot-roasted carrots and French beans. The chocolate mousse for dessert is smooth and rich – quite like Mason. We get on well and laugh a lot. His leg rests against mine beneath the table. The wines goes down too easily. As we have coffee – milky and frothy for me, dark and strong for Mason – we watch as rain sweeps in, runs down the windows, turns the pavements slick with water.

Mason waves away my offer to pay for dinner and, when I see the bill, I’m relieved that Mason is settling it. Traditional French cooking, but at thoroughly contemporary prices. While Mason is paying, Charlie texts me. Have you shagged him yet? xx

Many, many times, I ping back.

Tart! comes straight back and several emoticons of a pie which I guess is the closest she could find to a tart. No doubt Charlie is going to want the whole chapter and verse the minute I get back.

How are you getting on with Gary? I ask. She was going to see the opening night of Gary Barlow’s new musical tonight with the fan club.

Fab. Going to wait at the stage door afterwards to see if I can get a cheeky cuddle. xx

For all Mason’s faults, I still think I’d rather be here with a flesh and blood man than waiting for a glimpse of an unattainable celebrity. Never tell Charlie I said that.

When it’s time to leave, the rain is hammering down and we don’t have an umbrella. We hover at the door of the restaurant looking at the gutters running with water and the rain bouncing back from the pavement.

‘It’s too wet for sightseeing,’ Mason says. ‘We still have all day tomorrow. Let’s go back to the hotel for a nightcap.’

So he takes off his jacket and, very chivalrously, holds it above my head as we run back to the hotel in the pouring rain, laughing. In the small bar, we drink French brandy and play footsie on the bar stools.

Then, in the bedroom, fuelled with brandy and chocolate mousse, we rev it up again and are soon in the throes of passion. We’re naked and Mason is doing pleasurable things to my nether regions when there’s a knock at the door.

‘Room service?’ I quip with a laugh.

‘Kind of.’ Mason sits up. ‘Just say if you’re not into this, but I thought it would be fun. You said you wanted a bit of adventure.’

I give him a puzzled look.

‘I’ve asked Valerie if she’d like to join us.’

‘What?’

He holds up a hand. ‘If you don’t want to, that’s cool. It’s nothing heavy, just a little playtime.’