“Oh, and you,” I added nonchalantly. I placed my wine glass on the windowsill.
“I wondered if you noticed I was here.” I looked into his eyes and pulled my foot from his hands. Carefully, so we didn’t lose any bathwater, I crawled up his body until I was lying on top of him.
“Oh, I’ve noticed.” I kissed him, my tongue teasing his. “Ready for round two, Monsieur Caron?” His right hand trailed down my back, lingered on the curve of my bum, then cupped it firmly.
“Mais oui, ma chérie.” His mouth took mine hungrily, and neither of us cared that the water sloshed over the sides of the bath.
***
Some time later, I didn’t want to leave the bath, to break contact with Jean-Luc, but the water was getting cold. He must have been thinking the same thing, because he pulled me closer, then pushed the hot water tap into action with his toe.
I nestled into the crook of his arm, my fingers tracing a path over the features of his face. His thick black lashes resting on his cheeks, that proud French nose, the wide cheekbones, those full, soft lips, his brows, the line of his chin.
He is without a doubt the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And the best lover I’ve ever had, I thought. I wonder how he feels about friends with benefits.
He murmured softly with pleasure at my delicate caresses, and his eyes opened to stare into mine. He landed a soft kiss on my lips. “We should get out of this bath, chérie.” He held up his wrinkly fingertips. “We are like the prune, non?”
I sighed, resigned to leave our watery love nest, then climbed out and reached for a towel, wrapping it tautly around me. I shivered a little in the cool air, then turned to watch the magnificent man emerge from the water, his long limbs swathed in that smooth olive skin, slick with water. Before reaching for a towel, he self-consciously fixed his hair, which was such a sweet gesture, my heart leapt a little.
He briskly dried himself, then wrapped a towel around his waist, while I stood, transfixed, dripping onto the sodden bathmat. His hand ran through his damp hair again, and he fixed his eyes on mine. Without speaking, he knelt before me, and prised the towel from its loose knot above my breasts. He took two corners in his hands then ran the towel down the length of my left leg, drying me.
His face was a picture of concentration as he dried each leg in turn, then the crevice between them, my stomach, my back, the fabric soft against my skin as he slowly stood, following the curves and lines of my body with the towel, drying every part of me.
My face tipped to his and he finally met my eyes as he wrapped the towel around my shoulders and pulled me close to him.
“Catherine, tu es si belle,” he said quietly. There was something in his voice, the way it caught slightly, that tugged at my heart and I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. No. Stop it. This is sex, amazing sex—that’s all.
I wanted to believe that. I had to believe that. I was not going to fall in love with Jean-Luc.
But whatever I believed in that moment, I wanted him. My arms reached up and fastened behind his neck and I pulled him into a kiss. I didn’t even feel the towel drop to the floor as he scooped me up and carried me out of the bathroom.
It’s probably not surprising that we didn’t use the second bedroom.
***
There are times in your life when you’re so awestruck you run out of words and your heart leaps about in your chest with glee. I got to experience that with Jean-Luc the following day on our journey up—and down—the mountain.
Our plan was reasonably simple: catch a train to Kleine Scheidegg and hike back down to Lauterbrunnen. What I didn’t know, as I booked our train tickets online, was how incredible the excursion would be. Had I known beforehand, it would have zipped straight to the top of my bucket list.
The train that went to Kleine Scheidegg was possibly the cutest train in the world—boxy, red with yellow stripes, and giant picture windows. If she was in the cast of Thomas the Tank Engine, she (I was sure she was a she) would have been called “Inge”.
Jean-Luc gave me the window seat, chalking up another point for how good a friend he was. Just friends, just friends, just friends with benefits.
The slate-grey mountains surrounding us were craggy and pointed and, in many places, we could see the striations of the earth’s crust. They wore patchy blankets of white—in some places the snow seemed dense and deep, and in others the rock asserted itself, the snow just a dusting.
The mountains seemed to have been placed just so, a design to their haphazardness, as though they were modelled on the Toblerone and not the other way around. Quite honestly, I wouldn’t have put it past the Swiss. They are master engineers, and I knew that in some of those mountains were bunkers, stocked and ready for whatever apocalyptic antics the world’s politicians came up with.
In our foreground, was Swiss-green grass so vibrant it didn’t look real as it swathed the rolling foothills. Their roundness contrasted starkly with the mountains, as though someone had painted a giant incongruous backdrop behind them. There were dense pockets and loose smatterings of wildflowers, throw-rugs of white, with dots of blue, yellow and pink.
Not quite Richard Attenborough, but this English teacher does have a few descriptive words up her sleeve.
A little way into our journey, the couple in front of us opened their window, sliding the bottom half up, and the wash of fresh air was invigorating. It smelled like sunshine and grass and had a slightly sweet smell, perhaps the wildflowers.
“Well, this is lovely,” I said.
“It’s incredible.”
“You haven’t been here before, right? I didn’t ask you.”
“Here? No. I’ve been to Bern and to Zurich—for work. But, when you are interviewing and writing, there are not many opportunities to sightsee.”
“So, the travelling journalist’s glamorous life is not always so glamorous.”
He chuckled. “It is almost never glamorous. It is hotel rooms—often cheap ones, because half the time I pay for them myself—and trains and airports and me alone in my apartment.”
“What’s your apartment like?”
“It is … an apartment. Nice, I think.”
“‘Nice’? Really? From the writer?”
He shrugged. “It was once the, uh, attic (nearly a ‘look-up word’, I noted) and the floor below, and the building is old—nineteenth century—so there have been some adaptations (knowing he meant ‘renovations’, I didn’t correct him). I spent the first few months hitting my head on the rafters. The edges of the bedroom are quite low. But it has good light and large windows and I like it.”
I pictured him in his attic flat, typing away at a small desk under a gable window, and I longed to see it.
“And, you know, it is mine, so …”
“You own it?”
“Well, me and the bank, non?”
“Wow. I rent. With two other people.” I wasn’t sure why I’d volunteered information about my flatmates as it was very close to dangerous territory and I didn’t want to discuss Alex with him. So, my lover before you is the guy who lives in my flat.
I steered the conversation away from Jane and Alex. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to buy in London—a schoolteacher’s salary and all that.”