He said it in English. It was easier. The language was second nature for him. He’d lived there, studied there, and frequently visited London and New York.
The woman flinched, clearly embarrassed by her actions, worried he was right. She opened her mouth to protest and Rafael held up his hand to stop her.
‘Don’t. I’m fine.’
‘I really am sorry,’ she whispered. All the colour had drained from her skin, her blue eyes very wide. Such blue eyes. Like the sky overhead, the Breton sky. Copper hair, cut short at the back of her head, long strands framing her high cheekbones and delicate features, stuck there and darkened to bronze by sea water. For a moment, he couldn’t look away. A slim leather thong encircled her neck. The small pendant dangling from it looked like ivory or bone, intricately and delicately carved with the figure of a horse or a deer. ‘I just…’ Her gaze trailed down his chest to his abdomen and then shot back up to his face. A blush spread up her pale neck and blossomed across her cheeks.
Damn it, he was naked. He was standing here naked on the beach, with all the seagulls and the whole Atlantic Ocean laughing at him.
Rafael sighed and raked his hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face. It had been a long day, a gruelling journey and his great-aunt had been so difficult when he finally got there. He’d just wanted to relax, to spend some time alone, to unwind. Not this.
‘Excuse me,’ he said as politely as he could manage. She didn’t move at first, but when he took a step towards her, she backed up. He schooled his voice to patience. ‘Mademoiselle, my clothes are behind you.’
Flustered, she turned around and then back to him. She opened her mouth, presumably to apologise again, but didn’t. He wondered had she made all her apologies now, or was she just dumbstruck at the sight of him? No, he wasn’t so arrogant to think that.
But she was clearly uncomfortable and truly embarrassed.
His phone started to ring, making her turn once more, like a startled cat this time, and Rafael sighed, walking by her to grab it out of the pocket.
‘Where are you, Rafael?’ His great-aunt sounded irritated rather than concerned.
‘I’m on the way back, Mémé. I just went for a swim.’
‘You should be more careful, swimming here. It isn’t safe. The water is treacherous. Your father would not be so foolish.’
Oh, but he had been, Rafael thought. Didn’t she remember how he died? He couldn’t say it out loud. Sometimes he feared that Mémé didn’t even remember that his father was dead, and that was more worrying than anything else.
His would-be saviour walked back up the slip and sat down next to the memorial to the local World War Two resistance. She shoved her feet into the pair of hiking boots which she must have abandoned there before taking to the water. Then she bent forward, her head hanging low as she breathed slowly in and out, as if fighting off a panic attack. She didn’t look well. He ought to help her, probably.
His great-aunt’s voice went on in his ear, chiding him until he interrupted.
‘Mémé, I’ll be back there shortly. I promise.’
‘I’m going out. I’ll be back for dinner. I’ll see you then.’
She hung up before he could ask where she was going. Unbelievable. How could she just take off like that? Anything could happen to her. Cursing softly to himself, he pulled his clothes on as quickly as he could, chinos, and a T-shirt Jacqueline had bought for him in Paris, which had probably cost more than he cared to think about. She loved her obscenely expensive clothing lines. Rafael, not being one who needed to check such things, had constantly let her get away with it.
His supermodel ex would never be seen dead wearing shorts and a T-shirt like the woman who had launched herself into the ocean to save a stranger. Even if he didn’t need saving. Come to that, Jacqueline would never deign to enter a mundane and chilly expanse of sea like the Mer d’Iroise. She had never come here with him and definitely never would now.
A fleece jacket had been flung on the beach, presumably as the woman ran for the water. He picked it up, feeling the weight of keys and a phone. Not something she would want to lose then, for the sake of what was in it at least, even if it did come from a commercial, mass-produced supermarket line.
Oh how his ex-girlfriend would sneer. That wasn’t even her least-pleasant habit.
‘Is this yours?’ he called and she looked up. Her fingers played with the pendant on the leather thong around her throat again and she froze, as if caught doing something she shouldn’t have. Her face was wet, not with sea water but with tears. Her skin looked as pale as the piece of carved bone in her hands.
He knew that look. He had seen it on too many faces in this village in his life alone.
Something struck his chest like a blow, the look of grief and loss on her beautiful face making him want to take a step back, while, at the same time, something else, darker and determined, told him to comfort her, to wrap his arms around her and shelter her from the shadows.
It was a ridiculous thought.
She cleared her throat, and stood up, turning away from him for a moment while she wiped her face with her hands.
‘Yes,’ she said, turning back, and the haunted expression was gone. She wore a mask now. It might look like a calm, collected face, but he knew a mask when he saw one. ‘I apologise, for everything.’ She made her way to him and retrieved her jacket. She was still soaked, shivering now. She slipped the fleece on and huddled into it. But she didn’t make eye contact, eager to get away from him. ‘You’re clearly OK, so I’ll…I’ll go. Sorry.’
Rafael frowned as she retreated back towards the path leading up towards the point.
‘Wait, are you…’ He couldn’t say OK. It was a stupid question. She clearly was not OK. ‘Are you staying nearby?’
