The Critic

III

The balmy warm of the evening had given way to a slight autumn chill. It was carried in the humidity condensing on the grass as dew and gathering along the river to form a mist that would obscure the early sun of tomorrow morning. Enzo drew his 2CV alongside Michelle’s rental car where she had parked it that afternoon. There was condensation forming on the windscreen.

They stepped into the wash of moonlight. She shivered and insinuated herself under his arm, running a hand across his chest in search of warmth. He felt her own warmth through her tee-shirt and her breasts pressing into his side. Almost instinctively he put an arm around her shoulder. She turned her face upwards and pushed herself up on tip-toes to brush her lips against his in the lightest of kisses. ‘Are you going to invite me in for a nightcap?’

‘I only have whisky.’

‘I love whisky. I love it on a man’s breath when I kiss him. Sweet and smoky and sexy. But I’ve never tasted it on the lips of a real Scotsman before.’

Enzo felt blood rushing to that place between his legs that would steal away all reason.

They walked past the other cars parked there, and almost subliminally Enzo heard the tick, tick of a cooling radiator. A vehicle not long arrived. There were still lights on in the castle, and he assumed that the Lefevres were recently returned from an evening out.

At the foot of the stairs, Michelle slipped out from under his arm and jumped on to the first step to turn and face him. Their eyes were on a level now. The green of hers almost glowed like a cat’s in the moonlight. She took his face in both her hands and kissed him. A long, searching kiss that made his legs nearly fold beneath him. She broke away and smiled. ‘Just wanted the before and after effect.’

Enzo was not sure he could restrain himself long enough for an after effect. He fumbled for the keys in his pocket and climbed the stairs ahead of her to search in the dark for the keyhole. When, finally, he found it, the key wouldn’t turn. He had a moment of confusion. He was certain he could remember locking the door when they left. Then fear stole in to displace the desire that had occupied him only moments before. He pushed the door open and felt for the light switch, blinking in the sudden flood of light that it brought.

She was sitting in the rocker facing the door, legs crossed beneath a long, flowing black skirt, revealing black leather boots with pointed toes. A black, cotton top dipped from her long, ivory neck to the swell of her full breasts. A black lace shawl was draped across shoulders nearly obscured by the cascade of dark, curling hair. She was rocking very gently back and forth, and her dark, dark eyes regarded Enzo and the young woman at his shoulder with what appeared to be dispassionate interest.

‘Charlotte!’ Enzo was startled. ‘How did…’

‘The Lefevres let me in. I think they thought I was your lover.’ Her eyes flickered towards Michelle. ‘Obviously they were wrong.’

Enzo glanced at Michelle, self-conscious and embarrassed. ‘We were just going to have a nightcap.’

‘Don’t let me stop you.’

Michelle cleared her throat. ‘Actually, it’s late. I should really be going.’ She looked at Charlotte. ‘We only came back to get my car.’

‘Of course.’

‘This is Gil Petty’s daughter, Michelle,’ Enzo said.

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Charlotte’s a forensic psychologist. From Paris. I’m not quite sure what she’s…’ He turned to Charlotte, ‘what you’re doing here.’

‘I had no patients for a few days. I thought maybe I could help. But you seem to have things very well in hand.’

The tension in the room nearly crackled. Embarrassment flushed Michelle’s face. ‘Well, anyway. I should be getting back to the hotel.’ And to Enzo. ‘I’ll come and get my father’s things tomorrow.’

He nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘Good night.’

‘Good night,’ Charlotte called after her as she hurried down the steps, and Enzo closed the door.

He turned to face her and remembered why he found her so bewitching. She was a beautiful woman, a good ten years older than Michelle, smart and full of wit and barbed humour. A slight, quizzical smile played around her full lips, and the desire he had felt earlier returned, though now it had a different focus. One without guilt or apprehension. But, still, it was fighting for a place in his emotions with a spear of anger.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said.

‘You didn’t.’

She smiled. Enzo had never been a convincing liar. ‘No, of course not.’

‘You have no right to be jealous, Charlotte. We have no relationship, remember? You’re the one who’s always made that clear to me.’

‘Why on earth would you think I was jealous?’

He gave her a long, hard stare. Desire, frustration, anger, all in conflict. ‘How long are you staying?’

‘I think I should probably leave in the morning. There’s nothing worse than being superfluous to requirements.’

‘For God’s sake, Charlotte…’

But she didn’t want to hear it. She stood up and waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ll take the bed, if that’s alright. I see the clic-clac’s already made up. You can have that.’ And she went through to the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

Enzo remained standing for some moments in the harsh electric light, looking at the clic-clac, wondering how a night which had begun so promisingly, could have ended so bleakly. And he wondered, too, if he would ever get to sleep in the bed he was paying for.