Christophe stirs in his sleep, his thick black hair still pulled into tufts. My hands sticky with his hair gel. And all I feel is disconnected.
I blame Vicky and her hip flask. God, please don’t let her find out; I’ve made enough mess with my DIY haircut. ‘Like a lutin, a . . .’ Christophe snapping his fingers, ‘. . . fairy, you know, the pixie. Very Parisienne.’
Flattering, considering what I really look like is a recovering chemotherapy patient. But, yes, très flattering from this handsome Frenchman. Better looking than Henry? Peut-être; peut- être pas.But not nearly as good a lover. Nothing wrong with his . . . technique, shall we say, and he certainly wasn’t short on stamina, but . . . something to do with fit, perhaps. With rhythm and synchronicity.
For some reason I’m crying.
Nothing dramatic; pre-tears, really, a weight behind the flesh of my cheeks, and a sensation of rising moisture behind my eyelids. Quite refreshing, in this tired dehydrated doze. It’s funny in a dark shade, but this infidelity – if that’s what it is – it reminds me of Alex. It’s something I try not to dwell on, but the thought presents itself sometimes without invitation. Alex wasn’t himself in the weeks before he died . . . he was . . . off is how it felt, although the memory is fading now, just like the image of his face without a visual prompt. I remember worrying that he was cheating on me, but looking back the idea seems . . . not implausible, but paranoid, maybe. Or unkind. More an expression of my insecurity or unhappiness than Alex’s behaviour. But I’ll never know, and what does it matter or change?
Like fucking this Frenchman.
What does that matter?
Last night I told myself it didn’t matter at all, but sober Zoe (albeit très hungover Zoe) doesn’t find it so trivial. Cheap is how it feels. I have no problem with casual sex, although I do think you can have too much of a good thing. But this, this sweaty collision with a stranger, it’s not casual; it’s soulless and joyless and maybe even a little bit vindictive. But, I’m beyond beating myself up about it. It’s not like I’m cheating on anyone.
I slip out of bed and go to the bathroom to wash Christophe’s hair gel from my hands, brush my teeth, clean my face, scrub my body and wash what’s left of my hair. I’m disappointed with myself, but at the same time I feel calm – as if all the conflict is over now. Deciding to travel is the first good decision I can remember making in a very long time, and in under a month I’ll put that plan into effect.
It’s close to nine when I step out of the shower, but I’m not required to be anywhere for another two hours. Beyond the hotel grounds lie acres of forests and vines, and more than food, water or aspirin, I need a big dose of solitude.
First, however, I need to remove a certain Monsieur from my room, preferably unobserved. He’s sitting up in bed, smoking an e-cigarette, which is both disappointing and ridiculous and pretty much sums up the whole fiasco. He holds the plastic fag towards me, and I laugh out loud.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing, sorry, still a bit . . .’ I wobble my head, ‘. . . woozy.’
‘Woozy?’
‘Boozy. Tipsy, turvy, sorry . . .’ and I’m laughing like a lush. Laughing until I snort, in fact.
Christophe, it is clear, does not find my laughter endearing. But he’s not going to let it get in the way of one more roll in the hotel sheets.
‘You ’ave an osser hour,’ he says, folding back a corner of the blanket.
I shake my head. Sorry.
‘Sirty minutes?’
Nope. ‘I have to find someone.’
Who?
‘She’s called Zoe.’
Christophe raises one eyebrow. Very Bond. ‘Zoe?’ he says. ‘Like you?’
‘A little,’ I say.
Christophe does that shrug that little French boys must be taught in primary school. ‘A bientôt.’
I do my best to return his nonchalant shrug, but I ruin it by laughing all over again.