Emma Richmond - A Husband For Christmas

‘So I assumed.’ Turning a mocking glance on her, he added softly, ‘Loss of memory doesn’t make me stupid.’

‘I didn’t say it did.’

‘Was I stupid before?’

‘No,’ she denied stiffly. Neither were you so hatefully mocking.

They waited ten minutes, and then drove onto the train. The journey was smooth, silent, efficient, and, thirty-five minutes later, they were in France. Fortunately for her peace of mind, he hadn’t stayed in the car with her. That would have been too much to bear. Whilst she was driving, concentrating, she could shut him from her mind. But, once she stopped, awareness stole back, cramped her muscles, filled her mind with memories.

‘Impressive,’ he murmured.

‘Yes. I told you it was brilliant.’

‘So you did.’ Consulting the map, he ordered, ‘Take the autoroute; it will be quicker.’

‘I was intending to. I’ll drive until it gets dark and then we’ll find somewhere to stop for the night.’

‘I’ll need to stop for petrol...’

‘And something to eat.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know the way? Which turn-offs to take?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly. ‘I know the way.’ She’d been this way so many times she could do it in her sleep. Looking for him. Always looking for him. And now she’d found him and didn’t know him at all.

CHAPTER THREE

THEY spent the night in a small motel, in separate rooms, and, in the morning, they breakfasted together—as strangers. The last time they had driven this route, stopped overnight, there had been laughter and teasing. Love. Now there was just tension.

‘Ready?’

Sébastien nodded.

‘Over halfway,’ Gellis added inanely as they made their way to the car.

‘Yes.’

Climbing behind the wheel, she waited until he was settled, then pulled onto the road that would take them back to the autoroute.

Hours passed. Silent hours, tense hours, and the further they drove, the tenser it became. Stops for petrol or meals weren’t much of a relief, and when they did speak conversation was stilted, unnatural. He, presumably, because he was nearing his goal and so much was riding on it. She because of the close proximity, the realisation of what she was actually doing.

And then there was only one last stop to make.

‘Not much further,’ she murmured as she stood beside him whilst he filled the car with petrol.

‘No. I expect you’re tired.’

‘Yes, a bit.’

‘Your French is very good.’

‘Thank you. You taught me.’

‘Did I? I wonder I had the patience,’ he retorted a trifle bitterly.

Glancing at him, she saw that he was frowning, fingering the white stripe of hair.

‘You cut your head in the accident?’

‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Fourteen stitches,’ he added absently. Removing the nozzle, he fitted it back in its slot, looked at her, then away.

With a little sigh, she walked to the booth to pay, and when she returned to the car she delayed a moment before climbing in, to stare round her. She loved France. Loved the people, the language. And now she was back. Briefly.

It was late afternoon when they reached the turn-off for Collioure, and she glanced at him. He’d been silent since they’d left the service station. Grimly so as he stared out at places he obviously didn’t recognise, and she wondered what was going through his mind. Hope? Despair? It must be so frightening not to know who you were. What you had been. Done. And she was tired, worried about what the next few days would bring.

‘Nearly there.’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes, just down the hill.’ Slowing so that he could see the town spread out below them, the little red roofs, the sparkling sea, she glanced at his stern profile and saw that he was rubbing his fingers across his forehead. ‘Does your head ache?’

‘No.’

Her sigh muffled, she probed hesitantly, ‘Does any of it seem familiar?’

‘No.’

Probably best not to question him, prompt—but how could she not? How could she stay silent in the face of his pain? In the face of her own?

Feeling bewildered and inadequate, wishing now that she had not come, she turned into the little private car park that served the apartments. ‘We have to walk from here,’ she stated quietly.

He nodded, unlatched his door and got out. Collecting their bags from the boot, face grim, he hovered indecisively until Gellis had locked the car. ‘This way. It’s not far. I brought the key. I also rang the agent, told her we were coming, made sure it hadn’t been relet.’

‘Thank you.’

They didn’t see anyone they knew as she led the way along the cobbled alley, for which she was thankful. She didn’t think she could have coped with questions, curiosity. As the lane widened out to a small square, she felt a lump rise in her throat as she saw the planted tubs on everyone’s wrought-iron balconies. No riot of colour at this time of year, but there were little shrubs, some white and mauve flowers. Someone had obviously replanted her own tubs—what had been her own tubs, she mentally corrected—because they were as pretty as everyone else’s.

Halting outside their apartment, she tried to see it through his eyes, feel it through his confusion. Grey stone, leaded casement windows. Not large, not fancy, just—home.

Turning her head, she watched him, saw the complete absence of recognition. With a gesture that hurt her more than she could ever articulate, he unlatched the gate and stood like a stranger, the white streak at his left temple a flag of unfamiliarity. The hair across the scar tissue would never grow back dark. Always there would be that white streak as a reminder.

He turned to look at her, gave a wry smile, but his eyes were bleak. As bleak as her own. Taking out her key, she opened the door and led the way into a pretty apartment that suddenly felt cold, empty, unlived-in. Should she leave him? she wondered. Let him find his own way? Come to terms with it on his own?

‘Would you prefer to be alone?’ she asked quietly, and he shook his head.

‘Then I’ll make some coffee, shall I? The agent said she would stock up for us.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed absently, and pushed into the lounge.

Hands shaking, a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she went into the kitchen, felt the memories rush back and hastily banished them. She had to be hard. Distance herself.

A packet of coffee stood on the counter with sugar and a fresh loaf. The fridge had been switched on and inside were milk and butter, a few vegetables, fiuit. With a deep sigh, she filled the percolator, switched it on, then opened the back door that led onto another little balcony. She saw that these plants too had been looked after. A cool wind blew off the sea, but it wasn’t as cold as in England. Not as bleak. Only in her heart, she thought That was bleak. Very bleak indeed.

And the last time they had driven from England to Collioure she had done exactly the same things. Switched on the percolator, come to check on her plants whilst he unloaded the luggage. And then he had come up behind her, slid his arms round her waist, held her against him, touched his mouth to her temple.

‘Bed?’ he had suggested with that devilish twinkle in his eyes. And then he had swept her up in his arms, carried her along to their room. His eyes had been laughing, his mouth curved in that wicked smile that had always been her undoing, and they’d lain on their wide bed and made love. So much passion there had been. Always so much passion. And now they were strangers, and she suddenly felt frightened. Frightened of a future that stretched bleak and empty.

Wrenching her mind away, she returned to the kitchen, got out their cups. Thick, heavy coffee-cups they’d bought in the market together. And she felt her eyes fill with tears for what might have been. What she had thought would be. Perhaps she should have worn his favourite outfit in the hope that it might jog his memory, she thought bitterly—should have worn his favourite perfume, left her dark hair loose, just as he’d liked it... And perhaps the eyes that had always been filled with laughter and love would flicker with memory.