Emma Richmond - A Husband For Christmas

Feeling sad and lost, unprepared for this, Gellis asked emptily, ‘So it was just coincidence that you came to Portsmouth?’

‘Not entirely. Do you live here?’

Hesitating for a moment, she tried to think rationally, sensibly. But her mind was a whirl of conjecture, speculation, worry, and so she nodded, because it seemed best not to tell him the truth.

‘So I would have known the town? Would have been here?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then I was right I’ve been here several times, looking, waiting, hoping. When I was found after the accident I was wearing a brown leather belt. Stamped on the inside was the name and address of a shop in Portsmouth. Presumably where it was made and bought. Unfortunately, the shop has since closed down.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘You know it?’

She nodded.

‘You bought it for me?’

‘No,’ she denied quietly. ‘My mother. She bought it for you for Christmas.’ And this Christmas, in a few weeks’ time, there would be no presents for Sébastien. Not from her parents. Not from herself. No presents from Sébastien to his—family. With a hard, painful ache inside, she asked listlessly, ‘Will it come back? Your memory?’

‘Who knows?’ he shrugged.

‘You’ve seen doctors?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed mockingly.

‘What will you do now?’

‘Go to France. With you.’

Shocked, utterly panicked, she just stared at him. ‘I can’t go to France!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I can’t!’ Couldn’t go anywhere with this man! And you couldn’t go back, could you? Yet she had loved him. No—she had loved the man he had been. And getting to know him again would be—dangerous. Hardening her heart and her mind, she shook her head. ‘No. I have a new life now. I’m sorry you’ve lost your memory, I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. I’ll give you the addresses I know in France that might help, but—’

‘No,’ he put in softly.

‘What?’

‘No,’ he repeated. ‘You are the only person I’ve found in four months who knew me. The only person who can tell me what I was like. Are there others in Collioure who would know me?’

‘Yes, you have a rented apartment there.’

‘Have?’ he frowned.

‘Yes. The bank automatically pays the rent each month. At least, I assume they’re still doing so.’

‘And we lived there together?’

‘Yes.’

‘As lovers?’

‘Yes!’ she agreed tightly.

‘And then I, what? Got bored with you? Met someone else?’

Yes! her mind screamed. You met Nathalie. Nathalie who was beautiful and blonde and French. ‘You went out one day,’ she stated flatly, ‘and didn’t come back.’

‘And you didn’t look for me?’ he asked with that hatefully mocking smile.

Slamming to her feet, she glared down at him. ‘Yes, I looked for you! Looked and looked and looked! And even though—’ Biting off what she had been going to say, she grabbed up her bag and ran away.

Wrenching open the café door, she hurried out onto the crowded pavement. She was shaking. Badly. Why? she wondered in despair. Why? And it hurt. Dear God, how it hurt. But she had survived four months without him, and so she could survive more. And, lost memory or no, there was no getting away from what he had done.

Shutting off her mind, her emotions, she strode quickly down the street, turned off towards where her car was parked—and he grabbed her arm.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she gritted. ‘Don’t ever touch me!’

Swinging round, she glared at him. She wasn’t a vengeful girl, or malicious, but she’d been through too much. Had suppressed the pain and anger, the despair, but now there was a focus for it. Someone to blame. ‘Just don’t touch me,’ she repeated heavily.

Shaking, she turned away, and he stopped her, held her firm.

‘I said...’

‘I know.’ Gently turning her, he leaned her against the wall. Examined her exquisite face. The defiance in her eyes. ‘But do you have any idea what it’s like not to know? To have no memories of self?’

Looking away, she shook her head. ‘I can imagine...’

‘No, Gellis, you can’t. No one can. Your life is shaped by what you are, how you live, loved. All I have is—nothing. A blank canvas. Your name echoes in an empty space. All names echo in an empty space.’ Dropping his bag and jacket, he lifted his hands, held them out. ‘Were my hands like this when you knew me?’

Still angry, still stiff, she stared at the calluses, the scars, then shook her head again.

‘No. Four months,’ he murmured, ‘of hell. Rough work, rough places, even rougher people. But I survived. And now I have the chance to find out who I really am, and you’re the only one who can help me. Two weeks, that’s all I ask. Two weeks to help me find out who I am.’

Still staring at his hands, she gave a bitter smile. ‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t you? And if the positions were reversed, if you were the one with no memory, wouldn’t you fight tooth and nail to make the one person who could help you help?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed helplessly. ‘But I can’t do it.’ Looking up at him, she repeated flatly, ‘I can’t. Don’t ask it of me.’

Touching his fingers gently to her cheek, he frowned when she flinched away. ‘I hurt you so much?’ he asked sombrely.

‘Yes.’

‘Then tell me. Make me understand.’

Tears filling her lovely eyes, she shook her head.

‘Then look on it as a job,’ he murmured with twisted mockery. ‘I’ll pay you.’

‘I don’t want paying,’ she denied in distress. ‘And don’t mock me. Don’t ever mock me! You don’t have the right.’

‘Obviously not. Ten days.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. How long will it take you to pack? An hour?’

‘No! I can’t go with you! Do you have any idea...? No,’ she conceded wearily, ‘of course you don’t But take my word for it, Sébastien, I can’t go with you.’

‘Won’t go with me,’ he corrected her grimly.

‘Yes. Won’t go with you.’ And if he had remembered what he had done to her he would never have asked. Or would he?

Leaning towards her, hands flat on the wall behind her, his voice low, he stated urgently, ‘This is my life, Gellis! It’s not some Women’s Institute meeting where we’re discussing the price of jam! I’ve had four lost months. Not days, not weeks, but months! And, without you, I might lose years. Whatever I did, I don’t remember, I wish to God I did! I’m sorry if I hurt you! Sorry if I caused you pain, but you’re my only hope, Gellis.’

‘I can’t,’ she denied desperately.

‘You can! For God’s sake, I’m not asking you to go to the ends of the earth! Just across the damned Channel. I need to know, Gellis! Can’t you understand that? I need to know.’

So do I, she thought bleakly. So do I.

‘Please!’

And this was not a man who begged.

‘Please,’ he repeated.

Holding his eyes for endless moments, she finally slumped, looked down, shuddered. Oh, God. It was still there—the feeling, the want, the need—and if she went with him...

And if she didn’t? If she ran away now, spent the rest of her life hiding, she would never find out the truth. And she did need to know the truth. Needed to know why he had done what he had. But she didn’t know if she could bear to be in his company—not because of what he had done, but because of the way he could make her feel.

Because she so desperately wanted him back. After all that had happened, she still wanted him. At first, in the café, when he had seemed so unfamiliar, so harsh and grating, there had been only shock, disbelief, panic. But now...

‘Just take me there,’ he urged. ‘Show me where we lived.’