Page 41 of You Had Me at Chateau
No! Ergh. I’m starting to think half the battle with this is knowing what to call things. Penis is too formal, willy is too silly,dick feels a little aggressive – I could just go for an absolute wild-card word, like, I don’t know… dong?
He whipped out his dong.
Okay, now I just sound like I’m taking the piss. I let out a frustrated sigh and take another swig of wine. This is hopeless.
Determined to give it another go, I start typing again. I’m not going to stop, even if I think what I’m writing is shit, because you know what they say: you can’t edit an empty page.
As our lips meet, I feel a shiver run down my spine. His hands find their way to mychesttitsboobieships, and he pulls me close. He runs them up my body, slowly, eventually settling on my neck. His grip tightens and it takes my breath away. Actually, I can’t breathe. The look in his eyes changes, from wanting to needing – needing to kill me!
Nope, I need to stop it, I’m not allowed to write about murders. I just can’t help it, my creativity wants me to kill people and crack jokes. I can’t explain it. Perhaps it’s because my love life isn’t exactly popping, so I’m just not feeling inspired to go down that route, instead I have some sort of literary bloodlust that I need to satisfy.
Jen doesn’t want people choking each other – actually, if it was a sex thing, she probably would – so I need to focus, to get back on track.
Hmm, what else can I do? What else can I do?
I’m bombarding my senses with all things romantic – candles, wine, lingerie – but it’s just not enough. Maybe I need to kick it up a notch. Perhaps if I could smell something romantic, it might jump-start my brain. Aromatherapy is a thing, right? I rummage through the hamper and grab a bottle of scentedmassage oil. It’s made with lavender and jasmine, and according to the label it promises pure relaxation and romance. Perfect, because I feel neither of those things right now. I’ll take either at this point.
As I unscrew the cap it’s hard to imagine this doing the trick, but I can smell it already and it does smell nice at least. The bottle has one of those little nozzles designed to dispense just a few drops at a time. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I aim it at my chest and give it a gentle squeeze. I figure like you rub menthol there when you have a cold, perhaps this could work in a similar way?
Of course, because it’s me in this scenario, instead of a few delicate drops hitting my skin, the entire nozzle pops off. Oil gushes out like a burst water main, drenching me from my collarbone down. I stare down in horror as the slick, floral-scented liquid pools on my skin, and it’s heading for the floor.
Oh, for God’s sake. I look like I’ve been gunged. No, I look like I’ve doused myself in lube. There’s spicy and there’s… whatever the hell this is.
Panicking, I glance around the room. If I don’t clean this up fast, I’m going to destroy the antique furniture or the pristine probably original wood floors. My mind races, and there’s only one solution: I need to get to a bathroom, ASAP, without getting this oil on anything.
I’m a slippery mess, and it’s only getting worse, and unsurprisingly holding my hands on my body isn’t doing much to hold the oil in place, because of course it isn’t.
I make a bolt for the bathroom, slipping and sliding on the polished wooden floor – possibly aided by rogue drips of massage oil. But as luck (specifically my luck) would have it, someone’s in there. Seriously? Again?
I have no choice. I’m going to have to use Henri’s bathroom. I race down the hallway, still holding my hands to my chest,as though that’s going to stop the massage oil from dripping everywhere. My feet slap against the floor, leaving a shiny trail of evidence in my wake.
I’m turning the place into one big slip-and-slide.
Please be free, please be free.
I reach Henri’s door, twist the handle, and – oh, hallelujah – it swings open. I barrel through, only to slam head first into something solid.
Not just solid. Warm, wet, and almost entirely naked. And my also warm, wet, almost entirely naked body has just clapped with theirs. I know who it is before I even fully understand what the hell just happened.
I stumble back, my eyes wide, my breath held. Henri stands there, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around his hips. His eyes are just as wide as mine, and now he’s covered in oil too.
I let out a scream, a mix of shock, collision, and sheer embarrassment.
‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry,’ I babble, trying to find something, anything to cover myself with. A towel is the best I can do, and it’s probably ruined now. ‘I can explain.’
‘Can you?’ Henri’s smile is cheeky, his eyes dancing with amusement. ‘I think this is a story I would love to hear.’
Before I can say something, anything, to make this better, Mandy bursts into the room, her eyes darting from Henri’s towel-clad body to my oil-slicked, lingerie-wearing one. Her mouth drops open, and her face goes through a range of emotions: confusion, realisation, and finally, horror.
‘Oh,’ Mandy says, her voice flat. Then, more horrified, ‘Ohhh.’
‘It’s not what it looks like,’ I insist.
I mean, it is exactly what it looks like, but it’s not what she thinks it looks like.
‘No, that’s okay,’ Mandy says, backing out of the room. ‘I shall leave you to it.’
Henri just laughs and his laugh is so warm and charming, this whole thing is almost worth it… but not quite.
