Weekend in Paris by Robyn Sisman

Author:Robyn Sisman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

15

Préservatifs: that’s what the garlic-guzzlers called them. But where were they? This place was supposed to be a chemist’s (Pharmacie in Frog-speak), although it looked more like a cross between a beauty salon and a giant medicine cabinet, with a refined, reverential atmosphere that made him feel he should be tiptoeing. The staff was all female, intimidatingly young and well groomed in white lab coats, very different from the hatchet-faced harpies and gormless school-leavers at his local Boots. They reminded him of those masseuses in old James Bond films, who turned out to be wearing no more than a suspender belt and a suntan under their uniforms. Strict but sexy: just what he liked. But he couldn’t ask them for condoms, could he?

Avoiding their inquiring gaze, Malcolm skulked up and down the aisles, scrutinizing the unfamiliar products. One thing was for sure: the French were a bunch of raving hypochondriacs. You didn’t need to be a linguist to understand the words tonique, vitamine, hygiénique, dynamisme, that shouted to him from the shelves. He’d never seen so many different types of bandage, and freaky surgical aids involving rubber tubes and suction bulbs. The graphic packaging of bottles, capsules and powders betrayed a nation paranoid about ricked backs, dodgy kidneys, dicky digestive systems and something mysteriously called la grippe. What was more, he got the nasty feeling that some of the remedies were not to be swallowed but shoved up your you-know-where. Barbarians. How lucky he was to be English.

Things improved in the female section, thanks to the posters of naked girls languishing in bubble bath, or rubbing their perfect thighs with something that looked like a giant Brillopad. There was a lot of kinky stuff about régimes and le corps gymnastique . One cheeky brunette wore nothing but a tape-measure strategically twined round her body: “85, 60, 89!” boasted the caption. Blimey, she was a big girl—or was that centimeters?

Ah, this was more like it. Malcolm examined a display of small Cellophane-wrapped packets, disappointed to see that they weren’t all that different from what you’d find in England. He even saw one advertising itself as “sensible ”; there couldn’t be many takers for that. Alicia would expect something very unsensible, judging by the sound of her. Would unusual colors impress her? Or flavors? Or the ones with “extra features” sometimes advertised in the back of his men’s magazines?

He was just reaching for something called superglissage when he became aware of the tippety-tap of approaching heels. Quickly he snatched away his hand, scuttled back down the aisle and tried to hide behind the cardboard cut-out of a svelte blonde placing electrodes on her pertly presented bottom. But it was too late. There was the soft rustle of stockings, and a frighteningly attractive woman of about thirty bore down on him with a pink, glossy smile. Her skin was dewy with perfectly applied makeup, her dark hair swept up into some complex bun affair. A spotless white coat skimmed her figure from cleavage to knees.

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