‘They take some getting used to,’ he said, and held his hand towards her. ‘Do you want?—?’
She put her hand into his, feeling the soft warmth of his fingers as they closed around hers. Her mind helpfully pulled up a picture of Henri in the shower at this moment, just to ensure that she didn’t enjoy this simple offer of help but charged it instead with sexual tension.
Looking up at him smiling at her, she felt a shiver of pleasure. But of course, it was just the red wine and the fact that she hadn’t had sex for over a month, she decided, as they turned the corner onto more sensible paving and her hand was dropped.
She saw Odette looking at her, an eyebrow raised quizzically.
‘What?’
‘Henri is being quite the gentleman with you,’ her new friend said. ‘I think he would let me fall onto my face on these stones before he offered me his hand.’
‘Oh!’
Odette laughed. ‘You have gone quite red.’
Henri turned at this point and looked at them quizzically. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Bella was just telling me about life in England,’ Odette lied, giving Bella a small wink.
Finally home, Odette once again disappeared to her room, clicking the door shut behind her. Bella realised that she hadn’t asked her about last night – the crying she’d heard coming from somewhere in the house. But then, had she heard anything? Her head had been spinning, her mind, active; it had been late – and she’d had a bit to drink. Enough to cloud her judgement at least. Perhaps it had been nothing but her imagination. She looked at Henri. ‘Last night,’ she said, then realised her mistake. Because the most memorable thing about that to him would probably be the moment they’d shared.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, stepping towards her. He smelled of wine and expensive cologne, of shampoo and fabric conditioner. ‘You had had too much alcohol for me to…’ he trailed off, allowing a single finger to trace a line from her shoulder to her elbow.
‘Oh. No. Don’t worry,’ she gabbled. ‘I completely… I’m so embarrassed that I?—’
‘But you have not had so much tonight?’ he said, the last word raised in an inflexion.
‘No,’ she said, looking at him, feeling her skin tingle a little at his touch.
Before she could say anything more, he leant down and brushed his lips against hers. It was a gentle, inquisitive kiss; a question wrapped in an action.
There was a part of her which couldn’t believe that this young, ridiculously handsome man was kissing her. But another part of her that wanted to break off and confess that she was actually in the middle of a divorce, that she hadn’t exactly been honest with him.
‘Henri,’ she said, moving her head slightly. ‘There are things you don’t know. About me. I think you should?—’
‘Non,’ he said softly, smoothing back her hair. ‘I know everything that I need to know. I can feel you, your spirit. You don’t need to say anything.’
‘But—’
Then he leant in and kissed her again. And she felt suddenly swept up and desirable and, if she were honest, downright sexy. To be together with someone, even for one night, felt impossible to resist.
16
2012, ENGLAND
Their holiday to France had been, all in all, pretty perfect.
Her first trip away with Pete had been ten days in Spain, taken last October on a late deal. She’d enjoyed relaxing by the pool, cocktails and bingo at happy hour. She’d soaked up the last of the sun, topping up her reserves before the winter.
But this had been a different holiday altogether. Not least because he’d thought to book it himself. He was working now, learning and earning on the building site as well as doing quite a trade as an odd-job man around his estate.
When he’d surprised her with tickets to France, she’d wondered why she hadn’t thought to go there since her French school trip six years before. She’d closed her eyes and remembered the sunshine, the simplicity, the slow pace of life. First kisses and morning croissants and above all, the feeling she’d had when she was last there – a simple contentment. Before the clear water of her life had muddied irrevocably.
They’d driven early to the airport and were sitting at the café sipping the last of their coffees before their flight home. It was a sunny day and they’d chosen an outdoor table with a parasol that did nothing to shade them from the sun. But it was raining in England so they’d decided to make the most of their last hours on holiday, top up their tans while waiting for the queue to start forming.
‘I could live here, you know,’ she’d said.
Pete, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed against the bright morning sunshine, had opened a single eye. ‘Yeah?’
