Page 42 of You Had Me at Chateau
‘And to think, I thought a group of romance writers could be boring,’ he jokes. ‘Do I need to wash this off?’
He nods down at his bizarrely well-oiled, toned (can’t help but notice) body. I want to crawl under a rock.
‘It’s just massage oil,’ I explain weakly.
Henri’s eyes gleam mischievously.
‘Oh, do I need someone to rub it in?’ he asks, with a wink.
I’m so red I’m doing everything I can to avoid catching my reflection in the steamy mirror, because I probably look so embarrassed, and realising that will probably only make me feel worse.
I glance down at my feet awkwardly, only to realise that my lingerie is absolutely saturated in oil, in a way that only washing it can fix.
‘Do you have a washing machine here?’ I ask, trying to move this shitshow along.
‘We have a laundry room,’ Henri replies, still smiling. ‘We have someone who does the washing twice a week. She’s not here today, but guests are welcome to use the facilities.’
‘I’ll do that, thanks,’ I mumble. ‘Actually, I’ll go do it now and leave you to clean up.’
Before Henri can say anything else, I dash out of his bathroom and back down the hallway, praying no one else sees me in this state. Thankfully, the other bathroom is now free – I’m guessing Mandy was in there before, which is how she heard me scream, and the reason I’m going to need to do some damage control later.
I rush into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, lock it, and start cleaning myself up, dropping my oil-soaked lingerie into the bath where it can hopefully do no more damage.
I mean, I was just then the most intimate I’ve been with a man for a long time, wearing lingerie, covered in massage oil. But is this what Jen wants? Somehow, I don’t think so.
19
I’m starting to settle a little now but I’ve been letting my imagination play tricks on me, down here in the laundry room.
I made my way down the narrow steps, after asking a member of the kitchen staff for directions, and with each creaky step I took I started to paint a picture of what I might find down here. It’s dimly lit, with exposed pipes running along the low ceiling and walls painted a drab grey that looks even more dismal under the flickering fluorescent light – not very château-y at all. Then again, it’s too cold to be outside with a washboard, as my brain is imagining it back in the day.
The whole place reminds me of that scene inHome Alonewhere Kevin is scared of the basement – dark, slightly musty, and eerily quiet apart from the hum of the washing machine churning away in the corner.
I stare at my underwear, through the little washing machine door, trying not to dwell on what just happened. I think that’s why I’m letting my imagination run away with me, because it’s easier to entertain the idea of a ghost stuffing me into the tumble dryer than it is replaying my most recent bathroom interactionwith Henri. Because of effing course there is more than one bathroom interaction to choose from.
Trying to scare myself out of an existential crisis is all well and good, until the door swings open and Henri walks in.
I jump about a foot in the air.
‘Henri! You scared me!’ I blurt.
‘Did I?’ he asks, clearly unable to think of a logical reason why.
Probably best I keep my imagination to myself.
‘I didn’t recognise you,’ I tell him with a smile. ‘I’ve never seen you not soaking wet.’
‘That’s because you keep looking for me in the bathroom,’ he teases. ‘Which reminds me, thank you for the moisturiser. My skin has never felt softer.’
I laugh, because if you can’t laugh…
‘You’re welcome,’ I reply. ‘It was technically massage oil, so hopefully the essential oils calmed you enough to take the edge off the shock. I can explain what happened, all of it, by the way. There’s a perfec— erm, a logical explanation.’
I have to walk that back a little, because it’s definitely not a perfectly logical explanation, but I can explain it.
Henri waves a hand dismissively.
‘No need to explain. Though I am a bit disappointed,’ he says. ‘I thought all the sneaking around was in aid of me.’
