French Kisses by Jan Ellis Page A

throwing a mug at him, she didn’t know. She sat down at the table and they sipped their drinks together.
    “You go to bed, Rach. I can let myself out.”
    “No chance! I don’t want the kids to come down here in the morning and find you crashed out on the sofa.”
    A wistful half smile came over Michael’s haggard face and she almost felt sorry for him. She stood and released the empty mug from his hands. “Now go. Go home.”
    He pulled himself heavily to his feet and rubbed his scalp, nodding. “Thanks Rachel. Goodnight.”
    She watched him lumber down the drive and into Di-Di, not closing the door until she was sure he had left. The encounter had totally shattered her peace, she thought as she washed the tea things. It was nearly midnight, but there was no way she could settle after Michael’s ridiculous performance. She decided to read for a while, hoping that that would calm her down before going to bed.
    She was stretched out on the sofa flicking crossly through one of the TV magazines – who were all those so-called ‘celebs’ anyway? – when there was the unmistakeable sound of a car on the drive followed by a timid knock at the door. She raised her head and listened for a moment.
    “No, it can’t be . . . .” The knock came again, more insistently this time. “I’m going to kill him,” she muttered under her breath, chucking the magazine down on the sofa and stomping over to the door just as the knock came again.
    “For heaven’s sake,” she said, pulling back the heavy latch and throwing the door open. “Bloody well go home!”
    “Sorry. I mean, er, pardonez moi . I was looking for the Tournesol Guest House.”
    The dark bearded man on the doorstep, who was obviously not Michael, held out a piece of paper in front of him like a mediaeval beggar asking for alms. Behind him, Claude le Taxi gave Rachel a cheery wave, turned and crunched back down the road at speed.
    “Oh! Sorry. No, I mean, yes. That’s us.” She racked her brains for who this person could be, but nothing came. “I’m sorry, but you are?”
    “I’m Josh Perry. I have a reservation,” he peered over his glasses at the paper. “Or at least, I thought I had a reservation.”
    “Perry?” The cogs whirred and clicked into place in Rachel’s brain. “Professor Perry? Yes! Please come in.” Rachel saw the register in her mind’s eye and stepped back to let him in. “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else. I mean, we were expecting you, of course, but not until tomorrow. And you’re so young, for a professor I mean.”
    Professor Perry looked longingly over his shoulder at the empty space left by the taxi, then at his watch, which showed just after midnight. “Well I guess it is tomorrow. Kind of,” he added doubtfully. “If it’s a problem, I can always stay somewhere else tonight.”
    Rachel couldn’t help a snort escaping from her mouth. “I’m afraid this is your only option in Pelette!” Realising that she was not making the best of impressions on her new guest, she pulled herself together. “Look, let’s start again. I’m Rachel,” she shook his hand. “Welcome to the Tournesol Guest House! Let me show you to your room.”
    She offered to take the smaller of her guest’s two bags, but as this was still slung over his shoulder it proved rather impractical, so she led the way as he banged along the narrow staircase to the top bedroom.
    She switched on the standard lamp just inside the door. “ Et voilà , as they say in these parts!” She wafted a hand around the room, indicating the rough stone wall, the heavy armoire, the armchair and the bed with its ornate headboard. “There’s no en suite, but you have your own private bathroom at the end of the corridor.”
    As she opened the door, Josh Perry frowned slightly, but was evidently too tired to argue about the absence of facilities. He grunted – favourably Rachel hoped – as he saw the big bath and the pile of fresh towels and caught the