You Had Me at Chateau, page 12
‘No. No, I’m not,’ I insist, shaking my head so vigorously it gives me a headache. ‘In fact, I was hoping I could speak to you ladies about it.’
‘About your sex life?’ Mandy exclaims, her fork hovering in front of her mouth like she’s suspended in time.
‘No, about my book,’ I reply quickly, feeling my cheeks flush – or flush more, I guess, because I’m still bright red from showcasing a dildo on the breakfast table.
‘What are you having trouble with?’ Gina asks.
‘Jen wants me to write spicy scenes,’ I tell them. ‘I’ve never done it before. In fact, I always tend to favour the com over the rom. But Jen thinks it’s important, and she wants me to try, but I just don’t know where to begin.’
‘Do you have anything I can read?’ Gina asks. ‘I could give you some pointers?’
‘I can’t even get anything on the page,’ I confess. ‘Or, if I do, I delete it. Everything I write is just so cringey. It feels like spice for the sake of it, I don’t know how to do it authentically. Does that make sense?’
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ Gina says with a confident smile. ‘Spice is my thing. First, you need to connect with the feelings yourself. If you can’t feel the love, neither can your characters.’
‘So, what do you suggest?’ I ask, feeling a bit desperate. Presumably she isn’t going to tell me to get a boyfriend because, believe me, sis, I would if I could.
‘Take one of my books upstairs and woo yourself,’ Gina says, her eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘Get in touch with your own feelings, and your own body. If you can’t turn on yourself, how are you going to turn on your readers?’
I wince. I think that pretty much sums up the problem I’m having. How am I going to turn anyone on?
‘So your homework is to turn yourself on,’ Gina tells me.
I blink at her, unsure if I’ve heard correctly.
‘You mean…?’
‘Yes, exactly,’ Gina says, completely unfazed. ‘Take this box of goodies up to your room, light some candles, run a bath, read some steamy scenes, and just let yourself go. Woo yourself.’
Sorry, it’s just that it sounds a bit like she’s telling me to go upstairs and have a wank. She’s not telling me to do that, is she? Oh, she is. Oh, boy, I feel awkward. I’d rather go back to looking at the dildo together.
‘Trust me,’ Gina insists.
‘You won’t know until you try,’ Bette chimes in. ‘It’s all in the name of research. Gina’s advice worked wonderfully for me.’
Bette has Gina levels of spice in her Summer at the Seaside books? I’ve read Gina’s spicy scenes, and it’s hard to imagine any of Bette’s characters getting their back blown out behind a beach hut.
‘Right,’ I say slowly. ‘Research.’
‘Just spare us the details,’ Mandy insists, which is funny, because that’s the opposite of what I’m supposed to do in the book.
‘Maybe I’ll give it a go,’ I tell them, almost certain that I won’t. I mean, I guess I could set the scene, and hope that it inspires me, but… oh, I don’t know.
‘That’s the spirit,’ Gina says, clapping her hands. ‘Trust me, if you can tap into those naughty thoughts, your writing will be so much stronger. And who knows, you might even learn a bit more about yourself along the way.’
Bette leans in, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
‘So, guess who I saw on my way to bed last night,’ she starts, her voice low and breathy.
‘Go on,’ Mandy prompts her.
‘Henri,’ she announces triumphantly. ‘And I decided to conduct a little experiment.’
‘Oh, do tell,’ Mandy says, her interest piqued.
Bette grins, clearly relishing the opportunity to share her story.
‘Well, I may have… pretended to trip and fall, to see if he would rush to my aid,’ she tells us. ‘I thought that, if he likes to be a knight in shining armour, then I would throw myself at his mercy.’
‘And did he?’ I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
Bette’s grin fades slightly.
‘Not exactly,’ she admits. ‘There I am, sprawled out on the floor, waiting for Henri to come rushing over with his charming smile to gallantly offer his big strong arms in assistance. But instead, he looks down at me and says, “Oh, my grandmother falls all the time. I’ll get a couple of the female staff to help you” – his grandmother, can you believe that?’
I can’t help but laugh at the image of Bette sprawled on the ground, only for Henri to be kind and caring, rather than taking advantage of her while she’s on the floor. She’s old enough to be his mum, at least. Did she really think that would work? He was probably just worried she had broken her hip, rather than instantly horny.
‘So I suppose I’m going to have to change strategy again,’ Bette concludes.
‘Do you think he’s grumpy or sunshine?’ Mandy wonders out loud. ‘I can’t tell, because he’s French, I think, but if I can work out which, I’ll play the other. That’s what I’m going to try first.’
‘I’m going for a combination of holiday romance and forbidden love,’ Gina announces with a sly smile. ‘I’m going to make him think he can’t have me, then that he can’t have me for long…’
‘And Amber is going for seduction, it turns out,’ Mandy adds.
I laugh, shaking my head.
‘No, no, no seduction,’ I protest. ‘The only person I’m planning on seducing here is myself, it turns out.’
Right on cue, a server walks into the room to check on us, overhearing what I just said. Her cheeks flush bright red, and she quickly mumbles an apology before darting out of the room again.
Awkward. So awkward.
Gosh, this whole thing has put me right off my second breakfast. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still eat it, but it won’t taste the same.
Is Gina right? Will setting the scene for seduction really work? Is the only way to find out to give it a go? I suppose it is, but how?
Wow, I guess I really am out of practice, if I don’t even know how to seduce myself.
18
I can’t quite believe I’m saying this but I’m in my room, with the contents of my romance hamper spread out in front of me, and I’m taking Gina’s advice.
Well, I’m taking part of her advice. I’ve set a romantic scene for myself, but the only thing I’ll be doing with my hands is writing – well, hopefully. So far it’s not so good.
I’m in my room, perched on the edge of my bed, wearing the ridiculously lacy, barely there lingerie from the hamper. I feel like I look like I’m about to shoot a low-budget porno, or the person on an Only Fans-type site who can’t even get people to subscribe to her free stuff.
With a glass of wine in one hand (yep, apparently I need to get drunk even just to woo myself, and yes, I know it’s not even lunchtime but cut me some slack, I’m trying to create a mood here) and my laptop balanced precariously on my knees, I’m trying my best to think spicy thoughts but really I’m thinking about everything else – did I turn off everything I needed to turn off in my flat, an argument I had in 2009, what time lunch is, who played the male lead in the movie Jeepers Creepers…
Blah. No, stop it, think sexy thoughts, think sexy thoughts. I really can’t imagine this working for me but maybe that’s why it isn’t working. I just need to believe.
I’m doing my best. The room is dimly lit, with candles flickering softly on the bedside table. I have some romantic music playing quietly. The ambience is perfect, or at least it should be. The only thing I’m missing is a man – which is nothing new – but to be honest I’m not even sure that would help.
Oh, come on, Amber, you can do this. I take a big sip of wine – yes, I know it’s only lunchtime, but it’s for my art.
I flick (poor choice of words) to a point in my manuscript where the main character and the love interest finally get together. This should be the perfect place for a spicy scene, right? I take a deep breath and try to channel my sex goddess.
He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear as he whispered…
Nope, too romantic, too soft, right? I delete the line and try again.
Our lips met in a passionate kiss, his hands roaming down to my…
No.
I grab his…
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 my chest tits boobies hips, 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 scented massage 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.
‘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 in Home Alone where 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 interaction with 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.’
