Weak at the Knees Read Online Free
only budget bit of our holiday were the flights. We are staying at none other than the Carlton Hotel. The five star deluxe posh paradise where all the stars hang out during the Film Festival.
*****
The sunset is magnificent. I trickle fine grains of sand absent-mindedly through my fingers as I watch the perfect orange ball slip gracefully into a new day on the other side of the world. When that final thin line of orange is swallowed up by the sea, the sky turns the most glorious shade of pink. I could sit here for hours, mesmerised by the ever-changing palette of nature’s artistry, but Hugo’s got other plans.
“Marie Antoinette,” he interrupts, “j’ai faim.”
Okay, I know I said he didn’t speak French, but he’s so bloody clever it would appear he’s mastered basic survival vocabulary from just a cursory glance at his Berlitz dictionary. Now, wherever he goes in France, he need never go hungry.
“D’accord cherie. On y va.”
He raises his eyebrows, but I don’t bother giving him a translation. I get up and we wander hand in hand to our white palace on the seafront.
*****
We take an outside table at this bijou restaurant half-way up a steep cobbled pedestrian street in the old town. We both order the local specialty of bouillabaisse, a provençale fish stew, and Hugo orders a bottle of champagne. It takes ages for the meal to come, but it doesn’t matter. We knock back the bubbles, bask in the bustle and soak up the atmosphere, watching the well-heeled and glitzy as they mosey past.
“To us,” toasts Hugo, brandishing his Moët & Chandon-filled flute.
“To us and to you being an even more successful barrister with the sexiest wig ever.”
I give him a tipsy smile and we clink glasses.
“To us, to Cannes, to many more holidays like this to come. Together,” he says, putting his hand on mine. We’re clinking again as the waiter arrives.
“Santé,” he interrupts, with a twinkle in his eye. He places a steaming casserole overflowing with giant prawns and langoustines on the table, before bringing us bowls and a ladle to serve. “Bon appetit Madame, Monsieur.” He nods at me, then at Hugo, and then leaves us.
“He thinks we’re married,” I say, raising a spoonful of John Dory and soup to my lips.
“How do you know that?”
“He called me Madame. That means he’s either sure that I’m married or he’s hedging his bets, because it’s really impolite to call a ‘Mrs’ a ‘Miss’ in France. I empty the spoons’ contents into my mouth. “Ooh, this is sensational.”
“What should he have called you?” asks Hugo, before sampling the stew.
“He should have called me Mademoiselle.”
“Do you mind being referred to as Madame?”
I grunt in reply, but the truth is yes, I do mind. I’m not sure it’s the waiter’s assumption I’m married to Hugo that I mind, or the concept itself. Hugo’s made it quite clear that if he thought I’d say yes, he’d ask me to marry him yesterday. He changes the subject, shaking his empty spoon excitedly above the bowl.
“This is sensational,” he concurs. “Can you taste the saffron and garlic?”
*****
We’re both naked in bed in our beautiful €750 a night room. Hugo couldn’t believe I’d dared to ask the Concierge if anyone famous had stayed in Room 201 before us. I can’t be sure that he wasn’t making it up, but apparently Tom and Nicole (when they were still together), Hugh and Elizabeth (when they were still together) and Brad and Jennifer (when they were still together) all slept in this very same room. As Hugo makes his first advances towards sex, stroking my breasts matter-of-factly, it crosses my mind that perhaps Room 201 is cursed. As his hand flutters down from my chest to between my legs I wonder if maybe there’s a connection between their stay in Room 201 and the breakdown of their relationships. As his fingers
*****
The sunset is magnificent. I trickle fine grains of sand absent-mindedly through my fingers as I watch the perfect orange ball slip gracefully into a new day on the other side of the world. When that final thin line of orange is swallowed up by the sea, the sky turns the most glorious shade of pink. I could sit here for hours, mesmerised by the ever-changing palette of nature’s artistry, but Hugo’s got other plans.
“Marie Antoinette,” he interrupts, “j’ai faim.”
Okay, I know I said he didn’t speak French, but he’s so bloody clever it would appear he’s mastered basic survival vocabulary from just a cursory glance at his Berlitz dictionary. Now, wherever he goes in France, he need never go hungry.
“D’accord cherie. On y va.”
He raises his eyebrows, but I don’t bother giving him a translation. I get up and we wander hand in hand to our white palace on the seafront.
*****
We take an outside table at this bijou restaurant half-way up a steep cobbled pedestrian street in the old town. We both order the local specialty of bouillabaisse, a provençale fish stew, and Hugo orders a bottle of champagne. It takes ages for the meal to come, but it doesn’t matter. We knock back the bubbles, bask in the bustle and soak up the atmosphere, watching the well-heeled and glitzy as they mosey past.
“To us,” toasts Hugo, brandishing his Moët & Chandon-filled flute.
“To us and to you being an even more successful barrister with the sexiest wig ever.”
I give him a tipsy smile and we clink glasses.
“To us, to Cannes, to many more holidays like this to come. Together,” he says, putting his hand on mine. We’re clinking again as the waiter arrives.
“Santé,” he interrupts, with a twinkle in his eye. He places a steaming casserole overflowing with giant prawns and langoustines on the table, before bringing us bowls and a ladle to serve. “Bon appetit Madame, Monsieur.” He nods at me, then at Hugo, and then leaves us.
“He thinks we’re married,” I say, raising a spoonful of John Dory and soup to my lips.
“How do you know that?”
“He called me Madame. That means he’s either sure that I’m married or he’s hedging his bets, because it’s really impolite to call a ‘Mrs’ a ‘Miss’ in France. I empty the spoons’ contents into my mouth. “Ooh, this is sensational.”
“What should he have called you?” asks Hugo, before sampling the stew.
“He should have called me Mademoiselle.”
“Do you mind being referred to as Madame?”
I grunt in reply, but the truth is yes, I do mind. I’m not sure it’s the waiter’s assumption I’m married to Hugo that I mind, or the concept itself. Hugo’s made it quite clear that if he thought I’d say yes, he’d ask me to marry him yesterday. He changes the subject, shaking his empty spoon excitedly above the bowl.
“This is sensational,” he concurs. “Can you taste the saffron and garlic?”
*****
We’re both naked in bed in our beautiful €750 a night room. Hugo couldn’t believe I’d dared to ask the Concierge if anyone famous had stayed in Room 201 before us. I can’t be sure that he wasn’t making it up, but apparently Tom and Nicole (when they were still together), Hugh and Elizabeth (when they were still together) and Brad and Jennifer (when they were still together) all slept in this very same room. As Hugo makes his first advances towards sex, stroking my breasts matter-of-factly, it crosses my mind that perhaps Room 201 is cursed. As his hand flutters down from my chest to between my legs I wonder if maybe there’s a connection between their stay in Room 201 and the breakdown of their relationships. As his fingers
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