Chapter eight
“There’s the Vets, Mom,” Connor announced, pointing to a sign off to the right.
Darcy, who’d seen the clinic’s sign for herself, indicated, crossed the road and pulled into a small parking area in front of the building.
Most of the limited parking space was already taken up by a big shiny black SUV. She was glad she hadn’t met that behemoth on the lane the other day or she’d have been in the ditch for sure, she thought.
“You want to stay here or come in and help?” she asked, looking hopefully at Connor in the rear vision mirror while undoing her seat belt and trying not to sound overly needy. Connor’s French was so much better than hers and she was hoping for some back-up.
“You go, I’ll stay.” Was the reply from behind. She turned her head to see Connor already reaching for his gaming console.
“Fine,” she sighed. She wasn’t looking forward to this, but she might as well get it over with. Time she learned to fly solo. She opened the car door as far as the vehicle next to her would allow and squeezed out, mentally rehearsing the lines, in French, that she’d need to explain to whoever was inside the Vets that their cat had fleas and she needed something to kill the little blighters.
“Pour tuer les petites buggers,” she said quietly under her breath as she opened the door into the clinic…giving the ‘buggers’ a French intonation. That would not help …well, here goes nothing…she approached the counter, focusing on her task. The vet’s reception area looked much like any she’d ever visited, lots of posters with impossibly well groomed dogs and cats and shelves full of food, bowls and all the other paraphernalia for pampered pets that was on offer, to be sold at a premium price. There had to be somewhere else cheaper to buy most of this stuff but she was here on a mission,…those fleas had to die, and soon, otherwise the cottage would be rife with blood-sucking parasites.
Darcy stood at the counter, waiting with increasing impatience for two young women in too-tight tops, uplifted breasts straining to escape from the low-cut thin fabrics, who continued chatting animatedly, to eventually decide to stop their conversation and attend the desk.
The first had long blonde hair falling in a smooth sweep across her face while the second touched a hand to a black bob that accentuated her perfect cheek and jawbones. Both were immaculately styled and made-up, and stared at her from the other side of the counter as if she’d interrupted something important. The looks they gave Darcy told her, loud and clear, that her casual attire of blue jeans, teamed with Converse high-tops and an old much-washed white tee with the bright orange University of Tennessee logo on its front did not come up to their exacting standards of dress and appearance.
“Bonjour Madame,” the blonde flipped her hair back from her face and gave the standard polite French greeting, but her eyes were focused beyond Darcy as if there was something far more interesting on the wall behind her.
“Bonjour,” Darcy responded, a little put out at the receptionist’s lack of manners but doing her best to ignore the slight. So far so good …that was the easy bit, she continued, thinking it was worth checking first, “Ah, parlez-vous Anglais?”
The blond shook her head, “Non,” she replied shortly as if speaking English was the last thing she’d ever want to do.
Oh well, Darcy thought, it had been worth checking. No ‘easy way out’ then. She took a deep breath before launching into her carefully prepared speech. “Um, J’ai un nouveau chatton.”
The girl nodded as if to say, so you’ve got a kitten, well big deal, you’re in the right place. She turned to smile across at her friend as if sharing a joke. “Bonne.” Yippee.
Darcy didn’t like that smile, it had a spiteful undertone that spoke of condescension and reminded her of a class bully she’d once had a nasty run-in with, but she carried on regardless. “Il a les puces. Beaucoup des puces.” Fleas,…and lots of them. Teeming, in fact, as she’d seen when she’d rechecked Napoleon’s coat this morning. Standing room only. So many that it was a wonder the tiny kitten still had any blood left. Darcy had looked up the French word for fleas in an online dictionary as it wasn’t one she’d ever needed to use before. She didn’t recall ever having talked about fleas in her French language class …funny that, and yet, here she was, about to have a conversation about the little blighters.
The receptionist looked blankly at Darcy for a moment, and then smiled beatifically. She moved from behind the counter and teetered across the tiled floor on impossibly high heels to shelves laden with cat and dog food and lifted a small bag off the shelf, offering it to Darcy.
“Ca, c’est bon pour les chattons.” As if to prove it there was a picture of a cute cuddly kitten on the front of the pack.
Bet it didn’t have a trillion blood-sucking fleas like ours does, Darcy thought sourly. But she didn’t want cat food …What on earth had the girl thought she’d said?
“Non, merci,” she shook her head, waving away the food and trying again. “Il a les puces.” Perhaps if she put a heavier emphasis on the ‘puces’ the girl might get it. Fleas, lady, fleas, fleas, fleas…
“Pousse?” the second girl said. To Darcy’s ears it sounded exactly the same as what had just come out of her own mouth.
“Oui, Puces,” Darcy repeated, hoping they were getting somewhere this time. Perhaps a visual aid might help? She made jumping motions with her hand along the countertop, her head bobbing in time with her hand, until she could feel Rosie’s Dora the Explorer hair scrunchy that she’d used to tie her unruly hair back off her face, falling out.
The blond turned to her companion, shrugging and making a face that plainly said ‘foreigners, why do we have to put up with them?’
Darcy pushed her hair from her eyes. She could feel herself starting to fume but did her best to keep her annoyance in check. Was she going to have to draw a picture? She’d practiced this repeatedly …how could they not understand?
She was about to ask for a pen and paper ...that was “stylo,” wasn’t it? and “papier,” when a deep male voice spoke from directly behind her.
“Je crois que vous comprenez très bien que Madame a dit ‘les puces’, pas ‘la pousse’. Elle a besoin de l’insecticide, pas la nourriture.”
Darcy didn’t need to understand the words -the deliberate reproof in the tone was apparent in any language. The blond responded by looking chastened, instantly turning to select a small bottle of liquid from a shelf behind the counter lined with treatments. Lips pursed tightly, she set it on the countertop and returned the bag of cat food to its shelf.
Darcy turned, embarrassed that she’d been performing unawares for an audience for the second time in less than two days. She felt a blush start at her neck and climb rapidly over her entire face. Oh great, she thought, glancing at the man who had spoken …now her misery was complete.
The owner of the voice didn’t appear perturbed in the least. Quite the opposite. He gave the impression that he was supremely relaxed lounging on an upholstered bench that ran along the wall alongside the door Darcy had come through. He leaned back, long legs encased in black chinos stretched comfortably in front of him, his feet in loafers crossed at the ankles. He wore an open necked white cotton shirt under an expensive-looking black leather jacket. In the hand that lay across his lap he loosely held a leash that was attached at the other end to what appeared on first inspection to be a large black shaggy rug lying at his feet. Hearing his master’s voice the ‘rug’ yawned massively, showing off a huge pink tongue and an impressive mouth-full of white teeth, including ice-pick sharp canines. If Darcy hadn’t had the counter at her back she’d have taken a step backwards. As it was, she moved a little sideways, away from the animal.
“You were saying that your newly acquired kitten has fleas. Yes?” he spoke to Darcy, eyebrows raised in polite enquiry. It wasn’t so much a question as a statement. As he spoke, he leant down to lay a hand on the dog’s head, stroking it as if to show Darcy the animal was no threat.
Darcy noted
that though he’d spoken French like a native his English had a slight American drawl. It was an unexpected combination.
Deep set dark eyes surveyed her from a face that more than justified the description ‘strong’. Heavy black brows, long strong patrician nose, pronounced cheekbones and a jaw line so sharp it had Darcy picturing an icebreaker effortlessly cutting its way through Arctic floes. His thick black hair was saved from being cut almost military-short by being allowed to grow slightly longer at the front, creating not so much a fringe as short tufts of hair of the kind that just asked for fingers to be run through them. Aged mid to early thirties she estimated, close enough to her own thirty-one years.
Unbidden, the thought slid into her mind that if she hadn’t sworn off men for the rest of her life she’d have thought he was drop-dead gorgeous. No wonder the reception girls had been acting out when she’d walked in. They’d been playing to a rather spectacular gallery of one. She now understood the motivation, though she didn’t think much of their methods.
And, she reminded herself, Patrick had been no slouch in the looks department, though somewhat less favoured when it came to hair follicles –a subject he had become increasingly touchy about in the last couple of years. He could be charming, too, when it suited him; and look where that had got her, ergo, charming good-looking men were not to be trusted. It seemed a perfectly logical progression that she should dislike this man on first sight on those grounds alone.
He, on the other hand, had been enjoying the show so much he was loathe to speak up, knowing it would end his leisurely perusal of her rear end…and the view from where he been sitting had been quite lovely. Well-fitting jeans on a woman with a generous backside were a thing of beauty and it been a pleasant change to have time and opportunity for a leisurely viewing.
He wondered if she knew how sexy she’d looked when she’d started bouncing up and down doing her flea impression. He imagined she would have looked just as good from the front but the rear view hadn’t been bad at all …and that mass of curly copper hair, escaping in all directions from its childish band added to the appeal.
He schooled his face so that his thoughts wouldn’t show …she had sounded English,-though there were undertones of another older accent he couldn’t quite place- …and English women were renowned for not handling compliments about their appearance or their sexuality well. Plus, she was embarrassed quite enough already if the hue of her face was anything to go by.
Now that she was turned towards him he could appreciate the front view …for a woman of average height she was beautifully proportioned. Small waist, good breasts, -ample but not too large-, delicate face with a full lower lip … unpainted but still a rather luscious shade of red, possibly because she was gnawing at it in consternation.
All the better to kiss you with, he thought, as he continued his scrutiny. A decently sized nose ...-he wasn’t fond of females with tiny pert noses-, preferring women that looked like women, not little children…and large green-grey eyes with flecks of hazel which went perfectly with strong straight brows and that mass of hair. Verrry nice.
“Ye-,” the word wouldn’t come out. She tried again, “Yes. I was.” Darcy answered as shortly as possible, then, remembering her manners, added, “Thanks,” before turning abruptly away. She just wanted this to be over. She paid for the treatment grabbed the small bottle before it could be put in a dispensary bag and made a swift escape outside and back to her car. It wasn’t ‘til she had closed the driver’s door that she became aware that she’d been holding her breath. She let it out and took a deep cleansing breath in, as if to flush the last few minutes from her life.
“Oh good, you got it,” Connor said perkily, as she dumped the bottle of insecticide in the well between the seats. “Any hassle?”
“Nah, none at all, it was a total breeze.” Darcy replied in a forced but determinedly nonchalant tone, not willing to run through her experiences of the past five minutes with anyone just yet, if ever. Total balls-up, more like, she thought.
“Great,” Connor replied. “I knew you could do it. That’s why I didn’t go with you.”
“Gee whizz pal, thanks a bunch. Remind me to help you out that way sometime buddy,” his mother retorted through tightly gritted teeth, as she started the engine and backed from the car park.