Love From Paris Read online

  But now, I am part of a couple! I have a gorgeous American boyfriend and he’s flying over soon to whisk me away! And we’re going to lounge around in waffle bathrobes and raid the minibar and sleep in a four-poster bed and—

  ‘Hey, you know I’m only joking,’ he says, and I snap back from my fantasies. ‘We’re gonna have so much fun celebrating your birthday.’

  ‘I know.’ I nod, feeling a prickle of excitement. God, it’s been so long since . . . Well, put it this way, Skype sex only gets you so far.

  At the memory I feel a flush of embarrassment. Yes we have tried it. And no, I wasn’t very good at it. It’s not that I’m a prude. On the contrary I was the one who jumped on Jack the first night we spent together (not that he put up much of a fight, I might add). But for someone who doesn’t even like having their picture taken, seeing myself on screen while I’m—

  Well, let’s just say I was camera-shy and leave it at that.

  We’re interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing in the background. Jack picks up his iPhone and glances at the screen. He frowns. ‘Sorry babe, I need to get this, it’s work.’

  ‘But it’s Sunday . . . ’

  He pulls an apologetic face. Disappointment clunks. We’ve only spoken for a few minutes.

  ‘OK, never mind.’ I nod. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

  ‘In person,’ he grins and gives me a look that sends a shiver down my spine. ‘Oh, and Ruby—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You sure I can’t get one little look at that gorgeous ass of yours before I go? Just to remind me what I’m missing?’

  Oh crap! I feel a beat of panic. ‘Um – no – er . . . the best things in life are worth waiting for, remember?’ I gabble, forcing a flirty smile.

  ‘You’re a hard woman, Ruby Miller.’ He shakes his head, grinning, and with that, the window with his face disappears.

  As the screen goes blank I collapse with relief back into my chair. Phew, that was a close thing! Nobody ever told me this long-distance relationship stuff could be so stressful.

  Still, it’s not going to be long-distance for much longer, is it? I remind myself. Two more sleeps and Jack will be here. After all this time, waiting and missing each other, we’re going to get up close and personal.

  I feel a rush of excitement, swiftly followed by a clutch of anxiety. In the last three months the only male to see me naked has been Heathcliff.

  But there’s no need to worry, I tell myself firmly. Jack loves me for who I am. He won’t care about the bit of cellulite on the backs of my legs. Or the little roll above my jeans that refuses to budge. If you love someone you don’t care about that stuff. Love is blind, right? He won’t even notice if I haven’t exfoliated, or waxed my bikini line, or bleached that little moustache I sometimes get on my top lip—

  I catch myself. Oh my god, what am I thinking? Love isn’t that blind!

  And that’s not all. I sweep my eyes around my flat, suddenly seeing it afresh. Forget potential love nest. There’s not a vase of flowers or a scented candle in sight. Just dozens of empty coffee cups and mounds of discarded clothes. There’s not going to be a whole lot of loving going on in here if we can’t find the bed. Or even the floor!

  Anxiously I glance at the clock on the wall. I’ve got exactly forty-two hours and fifty-five minutes to get ready for love.

  I jump up from my chair.

  And the countdown starts now.

  LOVE LIST

  OK, so I’ve made a sort of checklist.

  1. Scented candles

  Though to be honest, I have no idea what the big deal is about scented candles. OK, they’re nice and smelly and all that, but have you seen the price of them? Plus why do magazines always suggest scented candles to ‘relax and get you in the mood’?

  Personally they do the opposite as I’m always terrified I’ll forget to blow them out and burn the house down. In fact I was having sex with a boyfriend once and I had to make him stop so I could check on the ones in the living room.

  The only mood was the right one he got in afterwards.

  But then that’s probably my mum’s fault. Like all good parents, she taught me as a child to stay away from danger – only the problem is my mum sees danger everywhere. You see a lovely vanilla-scented candle; Mum sees a house fire. You see a gorgeous swimming pool to dive into on holiday; Mum sees a broken neck. And it’s the same with:

  2. Champagne

  I have a confession that’s going to make me sound weird. Whereas a normal person sees a bottle of lovely, cold fizzy stuff, all I see is a cork that’s going to blind me. There’s going to be Jack tearing off the tinfoil all seductively, and there’s going to be me shrieking and diving for cover round the back of the sofa.

  Thankfully there’s nothing scary about:

  3. Massage oil

  For his’n’hers massages. After all, who doesn’t love a massage? Though the last time we gave each other massages, Jack went first and got to enjoy a lovely hour-long one. When it came to my turn it lasted less than five minutes. This time I’ll have to explain that a massage is like Christmas: it’s all in the giving.

  4. Chocolate

  I Googled ‘Top Ten Aphrodisiac Foods’ and it turns out pure chocolate is the king of aphrodisiacs. Apparently it’s packed with PEA, ‘the love chemical’ that peaks during orgasm. Though, quite frankly who needs an excuse to buy chocolate?

  5. Oysters

  Actually, scrap that. I was going to buy half a dozen as they’re supposed to increase the libido. But I’ve never had them before and what if I’m allergic and go into anaphylactic shock? (Thanks Mum.)

  6. Asparagus

  Much safer. Though considering that it makes your wee smell funny, I’m not sure how it can be much of an aphrodisiac.

  Unlike:

  7. Flowers ?

  Everyone loves flowers, right? Unless . . . what if he suffers from hayfever like my little sister Amy? On second thoughts, maybe I should get a house plant instead.

  8. Music ?

  This one’s a bit trickier. Jack listens to all these cool and trendy bands I’ve never even heard of. When he saw the music on my iPod he fell about laughing. Which was a bit mean. What’s so wrong with Abba and Taylor Swift? They’re great to dance around my bedroom to when I’m getting ready.

  Which of course is something I can never ever let him witness.

  9. Floss

  He’s American. Enough said.

  10. Jam & peanut butter

  Ditto.

  11. Game of Thrones DVD

  Love is all about sharing each other’s passions. Unfortunately for me, this is one of his.

  12. Me !!!

  Well, if I’m getting ready for love, I need more than scented candles and a few vases of flowers; I need to get myself ready for love. And, as any woman knows, it takes quite a bit of effort to go from normal pop-to-the-shops ready and hot-sex ready.

  13. Exfoliate

  No one wants to cuddle a crocodile, do they? So, I bought one of those spa-type salt scrubs in a jar and a loofah and spent last night scrubbing in the shower. According to the instructions my skin was supposed to be left ‘soft and glowing’ but I think I overdid it a bit as I ended up lobster-red and rubbed raw.

  Saying that, it probably wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been for:

  14. Moisturise

  Normally I’m strictly a Nivea girl, but I read this magazine article about how olive oil is supposed to be the best moisturiser, so after exfoliating I smothered myself in extra virgin. Only I didn’t look at the label and used one of those fancy flavoured oils instead. It was only when it started tingling in all the wrong places I realised it was ‘chilli-infused’.

  Please note: This is not what I had in mind by trying to get hot-sex ready.

  15. Fake tan

  I hate fake tan. It smells funny. And it gets all over your sheets. But I have such pale freckly skin, I want to be all bronzed limbs and sun-kissed for when Jack sees me again. />
  I did not, repeat, not want to be pumpkin orange. Still, maybe it will fade by the time I meet him at the airport. It has to.

  16. Bleach top lip

  I mean, hello? Do I really want to look like my old maths teacher? Next I’ll start wearing American tan tights and having hairy legs. Which leads me to:

  17. Wax everything

  What. Was. I. Thinking.

  Normally I’m simply a short back and sides girl, but yesterday my friend Milly in LA convinced me to go Hollywood and take it all off. ‘He’s American, he’ll love it!’ she’d enthused in her email, which is why I made an appointment at Splitz.

  In hindsight, I should have been worried by the name of the salon, but it wasn’t until I met the Russian woman who was doing my bikini wax that I got scared. ‘You Do Yoga!’ she’d barked, grabbing my legs and yanking them into positions only an Olympic gymnast should have their legs yanked into, while pouring boiling oil on my nether regions.

  Seriously, hundreds of years into the future, women will read about Hollywood bikini waxes like we read about medieval torture museums today, while gasping in disbelief that we could do this to ourselves. And pay for it!

  Did I mention that this getting-ready-for-love business also costs an absolute fortune? Seriously, I’m not sure I can afford to have sex! Because then of course there’s the:

  18. Lingerie

  Usually I’m strictly an M&S girl: good value, comfy, machine washable. None of which can be said for my newly purchased scraps of frothy lace wrapped in blush pink tissue paper. But they’re not meant for wearing, they’re meant for taking off.

  By Jack. Tomorrow.

  Oh god, I can’t believe he’s going to arrive tomorrow! Finally. After all this missing and waiting and effort. It’s all going to be so worth it.

  19. Set alarm clock

  One more sleep and he’s here!

  2

  Beep beep be—

  The alarm doesn’t even get to its third beep before my arm shoots out from underneath the duvet to turn it off. As it falls silent I jump – nay, leap – out of bed.

  This, quite frankly, is akin to the kind of miracles you read about in newspapers. Actually, finding Jesus’s face in a slice of toast, or someone rising from the dead, is nothing compared to me rising from underneath my duvet without hitting the snooze button about a million times.

  But today you couldn’t keep me in bed. Finally, after all this time, today’s the day Jack arrives!

  Pulling on my dressing gown, I dash excitedly into the living room. It’s unrecognisable. Last night, I stayed up into the early hours getting everything prepared for Jack’s arrival and my little flat has been completely transformed. Seriously, I feel as if I’ve stepped into one of those house makeover shows.

  Hurrying into my gleaming kitchen I fill my espresso pot, pop it on the stove, then go to wake Heathcliff, who’s still fast asleep in his basket. ‘Morning buddy,’ I coo, squatting down to stroke his little silky body, curled up tight like a croissant. Reluctantly he raises one sleepy eyelid and looks at me as if to say ‘What on earth are you doing up at this ungodly hour?’

  ‘Jack’s coming!’ I announce, as if in answer to his question. ‘Isn’t that exciting? You’ll see Jack today!’

  At the mention of Jack’s name, he jumps out of his basket and starts wagging his tail excitedly. Normally Heathcliff can be very grumpy around men – it’s the classic male competition complex – but for some reason he loves Jack. Like his owner, I think happily. Scooping him up, I bury my nose in his fur and we do a sort of celebratory dance around the kitchen. The coffee pot bubbles on the hob, mirroring the excitement bubbling inside me, and I twirl Heathcliff around, grinning from ear to ear as he barks delightedly.

  I haven’t been this excited for ages. I feel like a kid at Christmas. Last night I barely slept for thinking about today. I’ve been playing out the scene of meeting Jack at the airport over and over. Of coming back here to the flat with him. Talking, smiling, kissing . . . My stomach flips over as I imagine running my fingers through his messy shock of dark hair, inhaling his familiar scent, falling asleep with him curled up next to me, my face buried in that small dip in the middle of his chest.

  Putting Heathcliff down before we both get dizzy, I feed him his breakfast then pour myself a coffee and, flinging open the French windows, gaze up into the expanse of freshly laundered blue sky. Just think, Jack’s up there somewhere. Right at this moment, he’s in a metal bird winging his way towards me. I try to imagine what he’s doing. He’s probably snoozing in his seat, or watching the end of a bad movie, or maybe he’s looking out of the window, at the patchwork of English countryside below.

  Actually no, he won’t be over England yet, I realise, glancing at my watch. There’s still a couple of hours until he lands. At least I think so, unless of course his flight’s been delayed. Feeling a prickle of doubt, I pad over to my desk and open my laptop. I’d better check the status of his flight, just to make sure everything’s OK.

  I quickly type in the web address, but instead of the American Airlines page popping up, I get a grey screen and the message:

  You are not connected to the Internet.

  This page could not be displayed as you are currently offline.

  I frown. How can that be? I check the Wi-Fi symbol at the top of my screen, only instead of the comforting four bars there’s a scary little exclamation mark telling me there is no Wi-Fi.

  Damn.

  Dropping to my knees, I begin scrambling around under my desk among the jumble of cables and wires. What a day for my Internet to go on the blink. I find the modem and turn it off and on again. It’s been acting up lately. Something to do with updating broadband speeds or something—

  I wait expectantly for the flashing lights to turn green.

  Nothing. Bollocks.

  Of course, the simplest solution to all this would be to ring the airport and check it on my shiny new iPhone instead. After being nagged relentlessly by Jack I’d recently given up my ancient Nokia and entered the twenty-first century. So now I’m never without email or the Internet. There’s just one tiny problem.

  Grabbing the phone from my desk, I march into my tiny garden in my pyjamas. That’s one of the downsides of living in a basement flat. Absolutely no phone reception whatsoever.

  ‘You all right there, sweetheart?’

  In the middle of futilely waving my phone around I glance over the garden fence to see my neighbour, Mrs Flannegan. She’s standing at her back door with her walking stick, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Oh hi, I didn’t see you there.’ I smile.

  ‘Doing your exercises?’ She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Er no.’ I blush slightly. ‘I’m trying to get reception on my iPhone.’ I waggle it as evidence to show I haven’t completely lost the plot.

  ‘Oooh, don’t be showing me that newfangled nonsense.’ She clicks her tongue and puffs heartily on her cigarette. ‘I like the old-fashioned ones you plug into the wall. You can borrow it if you need to make a phone call.’

  ‘No, thanks, I was just trying to get online—’

  ‘You youngsters and the interweb,’ she tuts, shaking her head. ‘My granddaughter’s forever telling me to get on it so I can “surf”.’ She pulls a face.

  ‘You should.’

  ‘What do I want to be surfing for at my age?’ she protests indignantly. ‘Never mind that, I can’t even swim!’

  I stifle a smile and decide against explaining.

  ‘I shall tell her that as well, when I see her,’ she continues, shaking her head.

  ‘Is she still coming to visit?’ Her granddaughter, Linda, lives in New Zealand after her mother, Mrs Flannegan’s daughter, emigrated there with her husband some years ago. So she was thrilled when her Linda announced she was taking a gap year and her first stop was London.

  ‘Yes, she’s due to fly in today.’ She smiles, her face flushing with excitement.

  ‘Wow, that’s great.’ I b
eam. ‘So’s Jack.’

  Mrs Flannegan clamps one of her bony hands to her chest, ‘GI Jack?’ she swoons girlishly. That’s her nickname for him. Apparently he reminded her of the Americans who came over during the war and used to give her chewing gum. ‘You’re lucky I’m not ten years younger, otherwise you’d have trouble on your hands!’ She laughs her hacking smoker’s laugh.

  I laugh too. I don’t doubt it. Mrs Flannegan’s a widow and must be in her mid-eighties if she’s a day, but she’d flirted around Jack as if she was a young girl again.

  ‘You must be looking forward to seeing him, eh?’

  ‘Yes, very much,’ I nod, feeling a familiar ache as I think about the last ten weeks.

  ‘When my Bert went away for National Service, I missed him like you wouldn’t believe. I remember the day he came home like yesterday, I was so excited . . .’ She trails off, suddenly going all misty-eyed. ‘Sometimes I still look out of that window and I can see him, walking up the path, all smart in his uniform . . .’

  ‘You must miss him,’ I say softly.

  ‘Aye, I do. But I’m not getting any younger, so I’ll see him soon enough,’ she laughs and I smile at her characteristic candour.

  ‘What time’s Jack arriving?’ she goes on.

  ‘His plane is due to land at one. I’m going to Heathrow to meet him.’

  ‘That’s the same time as my granddaughter,’ she replies. ‘If you see her, give a wave for me. Her name’s Linda Gledhill, maybe you can hold up one of those signs.’

  ‘You’re not going to meet her?’

  ‘I wanted to, but I can’t really manage it.’ Her smile slips and she gestures to her walking stick. ‘I might feel twenty-one sometimes but my hips have got other ideas.’

  I hesitate. I was planning on getting ready and jumping on the tube. I glance at my watch. And it’s already getting late. I should really hurry.

  And yet—

  I look at Mrs Flannegan. I know how much she’d love to meet her granddaughter at the airport, how much she’s missed her. It really wouldn’t hurt, would it?