‘Mignonette!’
‘Well, fuck me sideways (that is actually a request – call me).’
‘J’aurais eu le sexe avec elle toute la nuit.’
Lila wasn’t one hundred per cent sure of the literal translations of the French comments but she got the gist. They loved her. Thought she was gorgeous. Wanted to make love to her. She felt her breasts swell and butterflies of sheer glee push every negative emotion out of the way. A bolt of realisation. The name of the person who had posted the clip was French. Jean Pascal. She quickly googled him. Twenty-seven years old. French team captain. Single. Gorgeous. Played for Paris St Germain. National hero. He was a modern day, Gallic equivalent of David Beckham and as soon as she saw his face she recognised him. He was the most gorgeous of them, the one she’d spoken to first, when she asked him to take a selfie with her. No wonder the thing had gone viral. He had over half a million followers, and many of them, it seemed, now adored her.
One hundred and eight thousand views now.
This was unbelievable! Incredible.
The champagne arrived and she knocked half of it back in one go.
More pings, and this time she saw that her Facebook personal messages were in treble figures, as were the DMs on her Twitter feed.
She scrolled through them, and saw that – be still her heart – there were messages from at least half a dozen newspapers, magazines, and media blogs, and the video had only been up for an hour and a half. Hang on, one of them was saying that he was… he was… she had to stop herself from punching the air. A producer onThis Morning! He wanted to talk to her. Aaaaaaaaaagh, she was going to be on a sofa with Holly and Phil!
She scrolled down some more, when another name caught her eye.
Jean Pascal.
With a shaking Shellac nail, she opened it.
Je te veux. Nous devrions parler, non?
She quickly plugged the sentence into Google translate.
I want you. We should talk, no?
Oh yes. Oh yes, yes, yes.
Ken Manson could piss right off. Clearly she didn’t need him.
Being the wife of an eminent heart surgeon had been her dream for so long. But you know what topped that?
Being the wife of an international football star, especially one who looked like Jean Pascal.
She clicked reply, then typed in the phrase she’d just acquired courtesy of Google translate.
Ne fais que parler?
Only talk?
A minute past midnight
33
Just a person. Lying on a bed. In a hospital room. Breathing.
There was no time to say goodbye. No time for regrets or recriminations. No time to wait until the loved ones had gathered by the bed to bid them farewell.
They didn’t know that somewhere out there a heart had just been crushed by the weight of broken promises. Or that someone else sighed with relief as they walked away from the past. Or that someone’s plans for a new life had turned to dust. Or that a very unexpected love was pulling two hearts together.
They didn’t know that the person they loved most in the world wouldn’t make it in time. Maybe wouldn’t make it at all.
They didn’t know that a love had died, that when it came right down to it, the only love that mattered was the one that endured, that stuck, that was meant to be.
Just a person. Lying on a bed. In a hospital room. Breathing.
