When we set out on our little road trip I’m nowhere near as hungover as I’d like to be.
Firstly, because Max’s bachelor party was so tame we might as well not have bothered (yet more proof, if I needed it, that being royal is deadly dull), but more importantly because I’m sharing the back seat with Khara. And because she’s wearing another of those cropped tank tops that flashes tanned skin at me. My fingers itch to reach out and touch, to find out if her skin is as soft as it looks.
So I lounge in the rear of Max’s luxury SUV, pretending to sleep behind my sunglasses, but I’m aware of every movement she makes, aware of her subtle perfume, a light rose scent that reminds me of my mother’s garden on a summer evening, when the sun pricks out the fragile scents.
Max drives and Phoenix is seated beside him, turned in her seat to chat to her friend. If I didn’t know there was a car full of Max’s security people trailing behind us, this would almost feel like the road trip across Europe Charlie and I did the summer after we graduated. I try not to remember those times too often, but I allow myself a wry smile at the memory.
Khara flashes me a glance when I smile, as if she’s as in tune with my every move as I am with hers.
Once we’re clear of the city, the road winds along the Wester River, up into the southern hills of Westerwald, where the slopes are dotted with vines. Khara’s excitement as she gapes at the view through the windows is contagious. I give up my pretence of sleep and listen as Max, proud monarch that he is, tells us all about the landmarks and his country’s history. Perhaps that’s why we became good friends; it’s not just a shared love of polo and parties and fine Scotch, but the fact that we were both raised on folk tales and history. And we’re both pretty good at hiding that geekiness.
Mid-morning, we stop at our first vineyard. The farmhouse looks like a small chateau, a long low double-storey building with half-timbered architecture and a grey-tiled mansard roof. It’s too early in the day for wine, even for me, and it’s soon apparent that Max isn’t here to sample the produce but to talk shop with the winemaker. While he and Phoenix tour the cellar with the owner, Khara and I wait on the terrace that overlooks the steep-sided river valley and sip on strong German coffee.
“How was your spa day?” I ask in an attempt to make polite, civilised conversation.
“Weird.”
Not the answer I expected. I raise an eyebrow.
“You don’t really want to know, because any honest answer is probably going to be on the list of forbidden topics.”
I grin. “Now I really want to know.”
She sips her coffee, looking out at the view rather than at me. “They do this thing called a body exfoliation, where a complete stranger rubs body scrub all over you while you’re practically naked. After you shower the scrub off, the same person then rubs lotion all over your body. And I mean all.”
She’s just described every one of my fantasies, except that when I imagined her naked in a shower, I imagined my hands all over her.
She catches my eye and sends me a withering look, as if she can read my X-rated thoughts. “Where I come from, they have a word for that – and it comes with a jail sentence if you’re caught taking money for it.”
I laugh. “You Americans are such prudes about your bodies.”
She bristles, indignant. “That’s what the beauty therapist said when I didn’t want to strip off my bra.”
“I would have paid good money to see that.” My grin may be cheeky, but my voice comes out a little rough. She sends me another look that could cut through steel.
“But wasn’t it worth it?”
“I guess. The facial wasn’t bad. My skin does feel softer and fresher.”
“You sound surprised. Surely you’ve had facials before?” Even my workaholic sister has a facial every few weeks.
She shrugs. “I had one once when I was in my teens and my mother worked at a beauty shop. She got staff discount, but after she changed jobs it wasn’t worth it any more.”
The drive from Neustadt to the polo ground in Chantilly is only four hours, but it takes us the better part of the day as we stop in at another half dozen vineyards before we even cross the border from Westerwald into France. I listen in on some of Max’s conversations with the winemakers. Mostly, the discussions revolve around marketing Westerwald’s wine produce globally, but Max also encourages the winemakers to introduce new grape varietals rather than sticking to the usual Riesling grapes.
I wonder fleetingly if Erdély has any vineyards, and whether Uncle Lajos visits his farmers.
Once we’re across the border, we hit the Eastern autoroute and make up time. Max is still driving, but I’m in the shotgun seat now so the ladies can chatter in the back. I mess with Max’s GPS, changing the accent of the voice every few miles, but it’s just an excuse so I can eavesdrop on the conversation in the back seat. They talk about climate change, legislation affecting women’s rights, and the books they’ve read recently. For a barmaid, Khara is surprisingly well read. Or maybe a lot of barmaids are well read. Truth is, I’ve never stopped long enough to chat to any; I’ve always been rather preoccupied with other things. Like getting them into bed. That’s an uncomfortable realisation.
I also discover that Khara is very fond of her brother, who she mentions at least three times, and not so fond of her mother who, according to an overexcited text she receives while we’re circling around Soissons, has just started a new job as a receptionist in a GP’s office. I gather her mother frequently starts new jobs.
The downside of getting to understand her better is that it’s hard to think of her as just another woman to shag. This is why I prefer not to talk to women. It’s easier to walk away in the morning when you don’t know anything about them beyond their bra size. Another uncomfortable thought.
No wonder Khara looks at me like she doesn’t much like what she sees. I’m starting to not much like what I see either. And that niggling fear is back.
Less than an hour north of Paris lies the elegant old town of Chantilly. Though it’s better known for its horse racing and its imposing, heavily renovated chateau, on a large farm carved out of the ancient royal forest is the polo club. Max and I drop the ladies at the hotel on the edge of town, then drive on to the club to check on our ponies. They’re already settled in their stables by the time we get there and I make a fuss of Bonney, feeding her carrots and even sneaking her a sugar lump when the groom’s back is turned. We take the ponies out for a quick run and the exhilaration of being back in the saddle, with the wind in my face, wipes away all my disturbing thoughts. It’s hard to think too much when Bonney and I are flying.
Max is smiling too when we return to the stables, though for him that’s a default expression. I bet he’s never had to face the unwelcome realisation that he’s a much shittier person than he thought he was.
I only see Khara again that evening at the informal cocktail party in the hotel’s main salon.
I’m late to the party, as usual, though not for any of my usual reasons. I actually started reading Erdély’s constitution and lost track of the time. And now I know that Erdély does have a handful of vineyards, though they only supply domestically.
Max and Phoenix are already mobbed by arse-kissers and attention-seekers, so I grab a Champagne cocktail from a waiter and go in search of my protégée. I find her when I step through the French doors into the hotel courtyard. It’s a warm evening but gooseflesh rises on my arms as I look at her.
She is seated at one of the wrought iron tables dotted around the deserted courtyard. Her hair is tied up, pulled back into a bun so only the barest hint of blue is visible. I miss its wild abandon. Her make-up is still a little more nightclub than cocktail party and she’s wearing a plain black dress which hugs her breasts and waist, and black knee-high boots. Not standard cocktail party wear, but she looks more attractive than any other woman at this party. She looks unique. Something tugs in my chest, which is certainly unusual. That tug is usually far lower down in my anatomy.
“Have we tempted you over to the wild side?” I indicate the bright pink, cherry-decorated Cosmopolitan she’s holding.
She laughs. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s a virgin cocktail.”
That’s my sister’s trick. She can drink all night and still be sober at the end of it.
Khara frowns. “I should be wearing that pink floral dress from the stylist. I stick out in there like a lump of coal in a box of jewels.” She nods back towards the salon.
“You look gorgeous,” I assure her, and I mean it. “And it’s better to save that dress for tomorrow, when there are cameras around.”
She stiffens, and I reach out and lay a reassuring hand over hers. “Don’t worry – those cameras will be pointed at Phoenix, not at you.”
“That only makes me feel marginally better.”
I laugh. “Are you ready to go mix and practice your new conversation skills?”
She sucks in a breath and squares her shoulders. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”
I hold her gaze. “Remember: poise is, more than anything else, a result of self-confidence. All you need is to have faith in yourself. You can do this.”
For nearly an hour we circulate the room, and I introduce Khara to some of the other guests. She makes me proud. She stands the way I taught her, looking assured and at ease, and I think I’m the only one who can tell she’s faking it. She makes polite small talk, without mentioning money or politics or religion, and listens carefully, her whole attention focused on the person she’s talking to. I know she’s so focused because she’s concentrating hard, but the other guests are flattered by her interest. She’s a hit.
“Do you know everyone here?” she asks when we get a moment alone.
“Pretty much. Everyone knows everyone else.”
“Geez, it sounds like high school all over again, just on a bigger scale, and impossible to fit in unless you were born into it.”
I shrug. “You don’t have to be born into this world. Marry a title or earn a fortune, and you’re welcomed with open arms. It worked for Phoenix.” I smile to show I’m teasing. I don’t want her to take offence again.
Khara wrinkles her nose. “Thanks, but I think I’ll skip it. It takes money to make money, and I don’t happen to know any eligible single guys with titles.”
Her tone is sarcastic, so I suppress the laugh that wants to bubble up. If she only knew.
“So who is that?” She nods towards a tall, lean man with salt-and-pepper hair.
“The Count of Amiens. He runs a stud farm that breeds highly sought after polo ponies.”
“And her?”
A rather buxom woman in a purple dress that probably cost a fortune but makes her look like a giant aubergine. “Marielle Desmarais. She inherited an international supermarket chain, and her husband is a former professional polo player. He’s refereeing tomorrow’s tournament.”
She points out a few more people, and I tell her who they are. I’m rather enjoying this game. It seems I do know everyone in the room.
She indicates a man across the room. “And McSteamy over there?”
Maybe this isn’t as much fun as I thought. “My team-mate, Mateo.”
“Any chance of an introduction?”
At that moment Mateo looks up and spots us. He excuses himself from the leggy brunette who’s trying to wrap herself around him and strides towards us. Mateo is not only tall and fit for his age, but he’s got that silver fox thing going for him – and I haven’t yet met a woman who can resist his Argentinian accent. It’s never bothered me until now.
“You’re new,” he says to Khara, holding out his hand to her while he gives her a head-to-toe scan, lingering a moment too long on her chest. I flex my fingers to avoid curling them into fists. From his slow, heated smile it seems he likes what he sees. And it’s clear the interest is mutual.
“I’m Khara Thomas.” Her voice is breathless as she places her hand in his.
Mateo bows over her hand in a way I never could. I’m too English to get it right.
“Mateo Alvear de Villegas. Do you need to be rescued from this English rascal?”
“Only half English,” I mutter, but they both ignore me.
Khara smiles up at him. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
I blink. Mateo seems unsure whether that was intended as a brush-off or not. But he smiles again, with that smooth Latin charm that’s as natural to him as breathing. “Not necessary, maybe, but it would be my pleasure.” He’s still holding her hand.
“Actually, Khara and I were about to head out to dinner,” I say brightly. “So if you’ll excuse us?”
“We are?” She looks at me blankly, and I frown meaningfully at her.
“There’s still at least two hours of sunlight left. I thought you might want to go out and explore a little of the town before dinner.”
“You have not been to Chantilly before?” Mateo asks.
She laughs, extricating her hand from his. “I haven’t been anywhere before. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
I place my hand in the hollow of her back and guide her through the crowd towards the hotel reception, eager to leave the party and the stifling conversations and sideways glances.
“Very few women say no to Mateo.” I keep my tone conversational.
Khara darts me an amused glance. “Very few women say no to you too, yet somehow I manage it.”
I forbear to point out that I’m the one she’s leaving the party with. Nor did she refuse to have dinner with me. “I thought you were attracted to him?” I ignore the swift tug of an emotion I can only imagine is jealousy. It’s not something I’ve ever felt before.
She shrugs. “I was. Until he bowed.”
“You don’t like men who bow. I’ll add that to the list of things you don’t like.”
“I don’t trust smooth-talking men, that’s all,” she corrects. “I grew up in Vegas, where smooth-talkers are a dime a dozen. They come in all shapes and sizes, from all walks of life, but they all have one thing in common.”
“Oh?” The doorman opens the hotel’s front door and we step out of the air-conditioned foyer into the warm evening.
“Men like that leave.”
Her father took off before she was born, I remember.
A stone’s throw from the hotel entrance is the grand stone archway that leads to the famous Chantilly chateau. I guide her in the opposite direction, into the town, and we wander down the main street, taking in the sights. It’s a Friday evening and even though it’s late summer, and soon the leaves will be turning, the air is balmy and the sky is still blue as the sun dips down towards the horizon. The pubs and restaurants are full, music and laughter spilling out onto the pavement. We explore the town, making easy conversation as we stroll through the lengthening shadows. Away from the room full of strangers in elegant clothes, Khara relaxes, loses the tension from her face and her shoulders, smiles more. She has the prettiest smile, rare enough to be magical when it finally emerges. It makes her eyes sparkle.
“I think I’ve died and gone to dessert heaven.” Khara sighs. “So far I’ve counted at least two bakeries, a pancake shop, an ice cream shop, and four chocolate shops.”
When it’s nearly dark, we choose a pub-like bistro with an outdoor seating area. The place is packed, but we find a small table for two outside on the pavement. I order – in French – but this time Khara doesn’t roll her eyes. Maybe because it sounds less pretentious when you’re shouting to be heard over a babble of voices. We order burgers and fries, and the meal is surprisingly good.
The sexual tension still simmers between us, but it no longer burns. Maybe forced proximity is the cure for what I’ve been feeling. Or maybe it’s because this feels like a date, and I know where dates usually end. In bed. Or in the shower. Or up against a wall. And when that happens I’ll stop obsessing over her and be able to get my head back on straight. Get back to what I’m supposed to be doing, which is figuring out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. But thinking of that gives me a headache, so I top up my wine glass.
Despite the noise, we manage to converse, talking about everything and nothing, about movies and books, polo and international politics, swapping stories about our lives. When she tells me she grew up in a trailer park, I’m careful not to let my shock appear on my face. Khara is nothing like the stereotypes I’ve seen on TV.
The stories she tells, of a tight-knit community, of eccentric neighbours and good friends, changes everything I thought I knew about people who live in trailer parks. Her childhood sounds just as happy as mine was. And her high school years sound every bit as awful.
She cups her chin in her palm. “I was ‘lucky enough’ to attend a private charter school. It had an excellent academic record, but didn’t score high on diversity, and no one wanted to be friends with the charity case from the trailer park.”
She doesn’t sound bitter when she says it, but I’m starting to see where she got that chip on her shoulder. I can only imagine how lonely she must have felt. But there has to be something more … Surely she didn’t develop such a deep mistrust of people with money just because she felt like an outsider in school?
“But look who I’m talking to!” She laughs. “Your school would probably have been even worse.”
I laugh. “Socially, my posh public school might have been more diverse than yours. Since it was a boarding school, we had boys from Africa, China, Russia, the Middle East. And a massive bursary programme to attract the best kids from all walks of life. But it was a very rigid school. Hundreds of years of tradition and discipline.” I grin. “Needless to say, I was never very good at doing what other people expected of me.”
As we talk, the strange funk I’ve been in for nearly a year disappears. I don’t usually talk this much with the women I date. Perhaps because most of the women I’ve dated aren’t this interesting. Or this interested.
I’m surprised when I look round and notice that the restaurant has slowly emptied around us. It’s later than I realised.
The crowning glory of the meal makes Khara’s eyes light up. A verrine with layers of chocolate mousse alternating with the local delicacy, thick, vanilla-flavoured crème Chantilly and topped with fresh strawberries.
“This is the best whipped cream I’ve ever tasted,” she moans. “This definitely doesn’t come out of a can.”
“This is the original whipped cream.” I lean across the table to wipe a small dollop from the side of her mouth. Her pupils go large and she holds herself still at my touch, but doesn’t shift away. I sense victory as I lick the cream from my fingers.
We walk back to the hotel in the dark, not touching, though our hands occasionally brush as we walk. The streets are quiet, and the temperature has dipped. I give her my jacket to keep warm as we walk. I certainly don’t need it, not with the desire heating my blood.
The hotel lobby is empty, the cocktail party long over. I walk her to her room, wishing I had more of that Chantilly cream so I can lick it off her when I get her naked.
She opens the door, but doesn’t step inside. Instead, she turns to face me, shrugging out of my jacket and handing it to me. Still lost in that vision of creamy skin, a great deal more of which is now visible, I take the jacket from her.
“Thank you for the lovely dinner.” She smiles, that too-sweet smile that sets off warning bells in my head. “But this waitress is still not on the menu.”
She steps through the door and, while I’m still trying to puzzle out the smile and the words, I find the door shut in my face.
I stare at the closed door and do a double-take.
Not a victory after all. Instead, her words set off an echo in my head, like a distant memory I can’t quite catch hold of. I shake my head to clear the nagging thought.
I could do what I usually do – head to the hotel bar either to see if some other woman is up for a little fun or to drown my sorrows. But I do neither. I head to my own room, to a cold shower and an empty bed, wondering where the hell this date went wrong, and whether I’m losing my touch.