‘Just— After what happened… I suppose it made me realise that we’re not… not on the same page?’
‘But when we make love…’
‘Well, yeah.’ She looked at him. ‘But it’s not enough, really. Not enough to— for a relationship.’
He made a face, perhaps considering this. ‘Perhaps. But does it have to be a relationship? Can it not be two friends having fun?’
She shook her head. ‘Maybe that’s what you need right now,’ she said softly. ‘But I’m looking for something more than that. I’m—’ She paused, looked at him. And thought,if not now, when?‘Like I said before, I’m a little bit older than you think I am.’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
She looked at her hands, there was a little chocolate powder wedged under her thumbnail and she brushed it against her jeans to try to dislodge it. ‘Look, when I came, when I first arrived, I just wanted you guys to like me…’
She paused, looked up, saw his eyes were fixed on her, looked down again.
‘I didn’t— I didn’t actually lie. I— but I let you believe that I was twenty-something and single when I’m actually— I’m thirty-four. And I’m sort of married.’
‘You are married!’ Henri looked horrified. ‘And old!’
‘Separated. And not old. Old-ER.’
‘How old did you say again?’ he said, looking her up and down as if suspecting she might whip out a walking stick or bus pass and admit to being his grandmother’s age.
‘Oh. Only thirty-four!’
‘Bon Dieu,’ Henri looked quite pale. ‘I have been having an affair with a married woman. Anolderwoman.’
‘I just wanted?—’
‘But I do not understand how you could lie. How you could let me believe you were someone different?’
‘It wasn’t like that, it just sort of… happened. I did try to tell you. And Odette. You thought I was joking.’
‘Still,’ he shrugged huffily. ‘I feel you could have tried harder.’
‘Sorry.’
He sighed, shook his head. ‘It is OK. I have had my heart broken before. I will survive.’ He put his hand to his chest:
When you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.
She looked at him. ‘Isn’t that?—’
‘What?’
‘Well, a teeny bit dramatic.’
He coloured. ‘It was Shakespeare.’
‘Oh.’
‘Perhaps a little bit dramatic,’ he admitted. ‘But I think I could have loved you – maybe I did a little.’
‘I know. Me too. But, I suppose, as they say, if you love someone, set them free.’
‘Shakespeare?’ he asked.
‘Sting.’
