LOVE IS IN DISGUISE: Verne Estate Series, Book 3

6. LORAINE

The way I started my story, you might think I can’t seem to find a man who is interested in me. My physique is certainly far from the standards of beauty generally appreciated by men. Despite that, I still have a few admirers. Not enough to fill a concert hall, even a small one, but maybe a minivan?

The major problem isn’t so much their small number, but rather that none of them correspond to my ideal male, even without wanting to be too choosy.

The typical example is here, right in front of me: Anthony Terras, one of my fellow police officers.

“It’s good for the season tonight,” declares Anthony during our patrol on foot in the streets of the village.

“Mmh mmh,” I say without much conviction.

“Do you know what we should do if we don’t finish too late?”

Since he’s asking me a question I don’t have an answer to, I turn my face to see if his expression gives me a clue of what’s on his mind.

“No?”

“We should go for a drink, just to relax a bit. What do you think about that?”

“I…”

I don’t think of anything at all.

“Well, that’s okay then. We’ll go toast at the Café de la Place at the end of this damn patrol.”

“Eh?”

“Doesn’t that suit you, the Café de la Place? Because otherwise, we can go elsewhere. It’s just that there isn’t much open at this time of day.”

I realise with dismay that Anthony is inviting me to spend an hour or two one-on-one with him. No! This is more than I can take!

“I… We might not finish on time.” 

“Frankly, what can happen on a weekday evening in March in the heart of the old village?”

“It’s always when it’s too quiet that something happens.”

“What if nothing happens?”

Anthony looks at me hopefully from the height of his metre seventy-two (according to his file at work). That’s nine centimetres shorter than me. In truth, several points put Anthony out of competition in the race for my heart. First of all, his age: a good fifteen years older than me. A difference that I would be able to accept in another man (George Clooney), but which here, doesn’t excite me. Second point: his hygiene. A smell of sweat that never really seemed to leave him. I’m convinced that if I launched a small fundraiser within the station to buy him a basket filled with deodorants for Christmas, I would collect a tidy sum. Add to that a body sculpted in front of the TV rather than in a gym, and you have a pretty complete picture of the powerhouse. So, of course, most of these criteria are physical and we always say not to judge a book by its cover, but the few pages that I discovered don’t make me dream. Speaking of reading, Anthony loves magazines. He stores them in his locker at the station. He reads two types: one deals with cars and the other has another type of bodywork on the cover. I could list two or three more crippling arguments, but I don’t want to overwhelm the poor fellow either.

I’m going to have a hard time getting out of this ambush, so I lie:

“You know, Anthony, I don’t feel very well. I must have eaten something not so great earlier.”

I ate a big sandwich bought in Romy’s shop. I have nothing to fear in that regard. But it’s true that I’m a little nauseous, but who wouldn’t be in the face of this… in short, you understand.

He makes a little face which has the effect of making him squint.

“In that case, could we do it another night?”

My brain is running out of air. I’m unable to find a plausible excuse.

Fortunately, that’s when our radios crackle.

“Call to all units, call to all units,” Dylan’s nasal voice said.

I grab mine with the eagerness of a trader who is on a big hit.

“We’re listening, Dylan, what’s going on?”

“A fight was reported at the Café de la Place. Can you get there, or can I send a car?”

“We’re not far, we’re going,” I confirmed.

We’re only a few hundred metres from the place. We are hurrying. Arriving at the place, we see the commotion. I start running to cross the last few metres, Anthony is on my heels.

What’s hard at this time is to have a clear view of the situation. We make our way through the customers who, to better enjoy the show, have left their tables. As we progressed, I understood that the fight was taking place in the back of the restaurant. The sound of a piece of furniture breaking, probably a chair, confirms to me that it seems to be violent. I arrive first and see that there are only two people involved. Breathless, Anthony asks:

“What’s going on?”

I don’t bother to answer him. He may well see the situation on his own, and besides, I think his question wasn’t addressed to me. Two men in front of us are exchanging blows. Finally, I have the impression that there is mainly the one who strikes, and the other who tries to protect himself. The strongest of them pinned the second against a wall. I have trouble identifying them. The leaner emerges, he pushes his assailant, who bounces against a table. I signal our presence.

“Police! Stop it right now, gentlemen!”

At the same time, my eyes are drawn to a detail: tattoos. I know one of the two men. It’s Mark! Why is the chef beating up a guy in his restaurant?

Once again, Anthony asks them to stop, but I’m not sure they can hear us.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jenny, Mark’s girlfriend, her cell phone in hand. She looks panicked. It was certainly she who called us.

“Loraine! Do something, they’ll kill each other!”

So, I understand that there’s only one way to stop this c*****e. I move in their direction.

“Stay away from them, Loraine, you’re going to get hit!” Anthony shouts at me.

What he doesn’t understand is that it’ll always be less serious than letting them continue. Anyway, I don’t even listen to him anymore. I analyse the situation because I have two seconds to decide on the best angle of attack. Fortunately for me, my many years of judo have taught me a few tricks. I decide to deal with the guy I don’t know first. He doesn’t look very strong, but above all, given the way he fights, I think I could more easily get the upper hand.

As soon as I see an opening, I grab the skinny guy by the collar and pull him back with all my strength. I’m about to tip him over and hold him on the ground, but I have trouble anticipating his movements and don’t see his fist rising. The next second, it crashes into my face.

I’m unbalanced, thrown back, and I hit a wall. But to my astonishment, it slides under my weight. I fall to the ground, I gasp and it takes a few moments to recover. Strangely, the asphalt under my back, while stiff, isn’t as stiff as I would have bet. It’s only when a hand touches my side that I partially understand what’s going on. I’m slumped over someone! I straighten up suddenly, I have to get up as quickly as possible! I’m not sure the other guy won’t take the opportunity to attack me. He just hit me! It was surely not me he was aiming for, but you never know. I jump to my feet, but my movements are less coordinated than I would have liked, I hit in the process… Mark. Yes, because it’s indeed him, and if I have any doubt, the expletive of pain he emits confirms it to me. Not that I have often heard him scream, but I have already told you about my slight addiction to his velvet voice.

I turn to him, still on the ground, and find that he’s squirming while holding his crotch.

“Well, it looks like you neutralised him,” laughs Anthony, who managed to control the other assailant.

I remain frozen. What am I supposed to do? 

Finally, I decided that the only thing I can do right now is help him up. I walk over to him and hold out my hand. His eyelids are closed, but the moment he opens them his cerulean eyes fall on me. The expression I read there confirms something for me: I’m the last person in the world he wants to see at this moment.