He paused. “In what way?”
“Well, he was clearly joking about the kidnapping thing. And I thought you were, I don’t know, a bit mean to him about it?”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure it went over his head.”
“I . . . I don’t think that makes it better.”
“Oh come on.” He smirked knowingly. “He probably thinks Idiom is an island a couple of miles south of Magaluf.”
“You’re not funny,” Rosaline told him, trying not to laugh. “He’s been very nice to me.”
“Of course he has. He clearly wants to get his spanner into your fuse box.”
“Actually, that might be useful. My fuse box is playing up a bit . . . ”
At this Alain gave her a wary look.
“I mean,” she went on quickly, “I mean my actual fuse box. In my actual house. Not, you know, my vagina. Which, I hasten to add, is in full working order.”
His brow flicked up. “Good to know.”
They were approaching the edge of one of the little woods that dotted the grounds, the evening haze settling in shades of pink and gold on the long grasses and the meadow flowers, and the butterflies that danced among them.
“You know,” she said, wishing she hadn’t brought up her vagina and its functionality or otherwise quite so explicitly. Or so recently. “I think I’ve changed my mind. I’m not sure I’m quite in the mood for a walk.”
Alain, for the barest of moments, looked disappointed. “Of course. It’s been a long day. Shall I take you back to your room?”
It had, in fact, been a long day. And a long week. And . . . fuck it. Fuck everything. She deserved a break. To feel good. To have something for herself.
“You could. And . . . if you wanted, you could come into my room?” Suave, Rosaline. Suave. “For . . . um. Sex?” With her functioning vagina.
He no longer looked disappointed. “Well well. Rosaline-um-Palmer. You really are a woman who knows how to get what she wants, aren’t you?”
She wasn’t. She was winging it incredibly hard.
But it would be nice to pretend for a while.
Reeling him in for a kiss, she left him breathless and tousled. “Shall we go?”
“At the risk of ruining the moment”—Alain had that not-quite bashful expression she saw all too rarely—“I didn’t actually come—how can I put this—loaded for bear.”
So much for being a wild sexual creature who followed her passions and bought condoms accordingly. “Ah. Neither did I. But there are still things we can”—wow, way to sell the Rosaline Palmer Experience—“ . . . um, do?”
“Don’t worry.” Alain had switched back to decisive at the drop of a prophylactic. “There’s a machine in the hotel toilet. I’ll meet you in your room.”
And before she could really say anything else, he was sprinting off. Which was flattering. In a way?
Sex with Alain was, well, it was fine. It was good. It kept her out of her head, and it gave her a brief, welcome sense of being in control of something—even if it was just her body. While he was no Harry, Alain had a refined sort of attractiveness, and gave every indication of finding her very hot indeed, running through the full repertoire of sexy attentiveness: kissing his way down her neck, lingering over her boobs, not that they’d ever been a particularly sensitive area for her, and grazing his mouth against the jut of her hip and the crease of her thighs.
Lauren might have teased Rosaline for not being relentlessly promiscuous, but she liked to think she had experience in her way. There were definitely a couple of people—like Lauren and Leo, one of her eight-month one-night stands—she’d had that raw chemistry with. The intense messy hunger that made sex effortlessly explosive. But she’d also been with enough people over enough time to know that sometimes it could take a while to get used to getting each other off. It meant you actually had to get to know someone and, as much she hated to admit Lauren had been right, Rosaline did like getting to know people.
With Alain, she was getting the strong impression it would be worth it. He was eager but didn’t rush her—or charge into her like she was a freshly opened till at a supermarket. And the moment their bodies came together, and he was braced on his forearms, gazing down into her face with a kind of wonder, made her feel wanted and special and cared for. Best of all, in being a little older—or perhaps confident he had nothing to prove—he seemed to have got past the stage of expecting sex to work like a movie, and was more than willing to make sure she came when—collapsing beside her—he realised she hadn’t yet.
Sliding his hand from between her legs, he gave her one of those smug “I just orgasmed you” grins. “You’re quite something, Rosaline-um-Palmer.”
“You might be overstating it a bit. But”—she was contentedly boneless and floaty—“I can live with that.”
“I say it because it’s true.” He skated a finger lightly over her breast. “And I’m very glad we did this.”
“Me too. I needed something nice to happen today.”
“I’m happy I could be that for you.”
That made her smirk. “Yeah, you really took one for the team.”
“I know you think you’re joking. But you need to stop putting yourself down.”
She thought she had been joking and wasn’t putting herself down. Still, he’d meant well. “You’re right. I’ll be more narcissistic in the future.”
There was a silence as they afterglowed gently together.
“You know what I don’t understand about you?” said Alain, rolling onto his side and propping himself on an elbow so he could look down at her. “You’re clearly driven and capable. You have a support network you can rely on. Your daughter’s at an age where she no longer needs you around all day. Why haven’t you gone back to university?”
Rosaline’s afterglow got a whole lot less glow and a whole lot more after. When Amelie was a baby it had been out of the question, whatever her parents might have thought. And from time to time down the years it had occurred to her that she could pick up medicine again. But it had always been a broken tooth of a thought, the kind you didn’t poke at too much in case it revealed something you didn’t like. “It’s been too long,” she said. “Surely?”
“Not at all. You’re only . . . what, twenty-seven? Lots of people retrain, and there’s a shortage of doctors in this country.”
“Yes, but that’s retraining. Which implies you’ve trained in something before and I haven’t.”
“If someone with a degree in law or literature can do it, you certainly can.”
Her heart squeezed like it had on A-level results day. “I guess . . . I could, couldn’t I?”
“You really could.” For once there was no mockery in his gaze or laughter in his eyes. “You’re far from out of chances.”
“I’m not that much of a mess, am I?”
“Of course not,” he said gently. “But we both know you’re not living the life you would have chosen.”
“I suppose, but—” But what could she say? That maybe she couldn’t perform a coronary bypass but her biscuits were on point? That she’d never spoken at the Royal Society of Medicine like both her parents, but when Amelie had wanted her bedroom painted green they’d done it together?