‘Thought you said you couldn’t even cook eggs.’
‘I said I couldn’t cook them apart from frying them.’
So, you remembered too, she thought, but said, ‘Well, it smells wonderful.’
‘Take a pew, mademoiselle. Here, catch,’ and he threw a box of matches and pointed at the table where four fresh candles stood in their holders.
She lit the wicks while he busied himself with the food.
‘Do we have wine?’ she asked.
‘Coming up. Red, already uncorked and breathing. I know it’s traditionally white with chicken but I’m a red wine man.’
‘I love red wine too and I don’t give a fig for tradition.’
‘That’s my girl.’
‘Hardly a girl any more.’
He faced the room to look at her, narrowed his eyes just a fraction and something passed between them she desperately needed to understand. Then she had it. Recognition. The way his lips parted – as if he were a little surprised – told her he was properly seeing her for the first time. ‘No,’ he said very softly and more to himself than to her. ‘You’re not.’
‘What?’
‘A girl.’
He has noticed, she thought as her heart thumped. He has noticed.
Then he dished up the roast potatoes and vegetables and brought the chicken to the table. He carved some for her and then handed her a plate piled high with food.
‘Crikey, I can’t eat all that.’
They clinked glasses once he’d poured the wine, the candles flickered, and Florence was content. He seemed to be too, and she didn’t want to ruin it, but after the way he had just looked at her … she knew she needed to ask him about Hélène. Couldn’t avoid facing it any longer.
As they finished the meal, she stifled her nerves and said, ‘There’s something I need to discuss with you.’
‘I thought there might be.’ There was a flat tone to his voice and a moment’s silence as he looked at her with a serious, unwavering expression. ‘Fire away.’
She felt herself blushing, the heat rising in her cheeks. ‘I have to ask how you feel about Hélène.’
He nodded.
‘Well?’
There was a long uncomfortable silence. All Florence could hear was the wind outside.
‘I’ve seen the question in your eyes,’ he said. ‘But I have been too cowardly, or … I don’t know … In any case I’ve been resisting it.’
‘Resisting?’
‘You know my relationship history is complicated.’
‘Belinda?’
It took a moment before he spoke again. ‘I was very … I suppose, fond of Hélène. She’s a terrific person and I admired her strength of character, but I wasn’t ready. And I wasn’t in love with her, not then and not now.’
Florence nodded, feeling relieved but knowing there was more. ‘You slept with her though?’ she said softly, trying not to sound accusing.
‘Once.’ He paused for a moment and shook his head. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. It was wrong, and I blame myself, but she was so upset … Anyway, on my last night in France I stayed away.’
