Mason pours us the wine and, as it disappears too rapidly, the rain gets worse and worse. You could say it’s raining chats and chiens. I know. I’ll get my coat.
I study Mason as he talks to the waiter. His French sounds pretty good to me and he has the confidence that I so badly lack. There’s a lot that I do like about him. He has loads of potential as partner material and has some great points. Despite the little erm … interlude … with Valerie, he’s pretty hot in bed. So much to offer and yet, even though he’s not that much younger than me in actual years it somehow seems like a vast age difference. He might be running a successful business, yet he still seems quite immature in so many ways.
If there’s one thing that this weekend has taught me – apart from the fact that I don’t particularly like kissing other ladies – it’s that I want to be in a settled and secure relationship. I want to be part of a couple again. Not straight away, but I need to look for someone solid and dependable. Mason is too fickle, smooth and fly-by-night. All the things that Charlie warned me about. I’d probably like a family one day and, while time is running out for me, Mason seems to be a million miles away from that kind of commitment. He said he just wanted fun and he’s certainly proved that.
As people soaked through to the skin rush in and a few brave souls dash out into the deluge, Mason and I stay hunkered down. We mainly talk about Mason’s business plans for the future. He tells me a bit more about his family who sound like a totally fucked-up bunch despite their privileged lifestyle.
‘My dad was never around when I was growing up. He was always at work, building his empire.’ Mason gives a cynical snort. ‘My mother spent her time at charity lunches and Doing Good. We were all packed off to boarding school. The minute I hit the age of eight, I was shipped out. We weren’t even at the same school. As a result, we don’t have what you’d call a close relationship.’
Fancy sending your kids off to school at eight. Why would you bother having them, if you’re just going to farm them out to someone else to look after? Perhaps this is why he struggles with close relationships. I’m not trying to analyse him. It’s just a thought.
‘Didn’t you miss them?’
‘Yeah. I suppose. But I didn’t know any different. Boarding school messes with your head. It did with mine anyway.’
I think of my nice little school that was just down the end of our road. The friends who all lived a short walk away and how there’d always be half a dozen of them at my house for tea at least one night of the week. It couldn’t have been more different. I know that money doesn’t buy you everything and Mason’s living proof of that. Despite all his wealth, it makes me feel a bit sorry for him.
‘You get on with them now?’
‘Not that you’d notice,’ he says, then brushes away further interrogation by adding, ‘More wine?’
I nod and he fills my glass again. The wine brings a warm flush to my cheeks and I try to content myself by thinking that this is probably a very French way to spend a Sunday morning. If I’m being straight with you, I really like this side of Mason when he’s been sincere and not showing off.
As he sits back in his chair, he catches me looking at him. ‘You’re not disappointed that we’ve been rained off? It wasn’t a total washout? You’ve still had a good time?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I have.’ Parts of it have been lovely. Some bits less so. ‘Thank you for bringing me. Though I don’t think we did a lot of research for your café chain.’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘Ah,’ he says, acknowledging that I’ve seen though his bull. ‘There’s always another time. We could do this again and pray for better weather.’
‘Yes,’ I say. Yet, in my heart, I know that this will be my one and only weekend away with Mason. A small part of me feels sad about that. Would I feel differently about him if it had just been me and Mason and sunshine? ‘Should we brave the rain and head back to the hotel then?’
‘Good idea.’
I do feel a little upset that I’ve barely grazed the surface of Paris – one look at the Eiffel Tower doesn’t really count for much – and, yet, too soon it will be time to leave. There’s no doubt that I’d like to come back here one day. Preferably with someone I love.
We finish up the last dregs of our bottle of wine. Then, conversation and alcohol exhausted, Mason asks the restaurant to phone a cab for us. They get no joy and tell us that the Metro is shut due to flooding. We decide to head out anyway and hesitate in the door before we plunge out into the street. It’s lashing it down. Sheltering under the striped canopy, we look vainly up and down the street for a glimpse of a cab. No such luck. The road is like a river and there’s nothing moving along here at all.
‘This is showing no sign of letting up,’ Mason says. ‘Shall we make a run for it?’
‘I think we have no option.’
So he peels off his jacket and, in his usual gentlemanly manner, holds it above my head as we dash out into the rain together. We run along the pavements which are awash with water, as fast as we can. Thunder rumbles across the sky and lightning illuminates the torrent of water running down the road. A lone car trundles past, water up to the sills. Mason’s jacket proves to be an ineffectual umbrella and within minutes we’re saturated, our hair and clothes plastered to our skin.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Not a moment too soon, we reach the hotel and stumble inside dripping wet, breathless and laughing. Valerie, as Mason had said, is thankfully nowhere in sight as we head to the lift. As we go up to the room, I start to shiver and Mason pulls me to him, rubbing my back to warm me up. I nestle against him, gratefully. Then his lips find mine and, before I know it, we’re locked in a passionate embrace.
I’ve no idea how we get to the room, but as soon as the door is closed, we’re stripping off each other’s sodden clothes and Mason’s chill, damp skin is against mine. He lowers me tenderly to the bed, and we make love again. Except there’s no love involved at all, is there? I can’t begin to pretend that after what happened last night. Yet, to my surprise, this time it’s slower, sadder, more intense and neither of us says a word until Mason whispers my name against my neck as he comes inside me. It’s the best sex since we arrived and, even better, there’s no knock on the door from a third party. I feel as if I get another tiny glimpse of the real Mason Soames. Yet I feel oddly disengaged from it too, as if I’m observing rather than taking part and I’m left feeling weirdly hollow. Sorry, but that’s the only way I can explain it. If I thought that fabulous sex was the way to fill a hole in my life, then I have to say that I’m sadly disappointed.