Emma Richmond - A Husband For Christmas

And then what? An explanation for his behaviour? But supposing there wasn’t an explanation? Supposing he just hadn’t loved her any more? Or their son.

Leaving the coffee to percolate, she went to find him because she couldn’t do anything else. The compulsion was coming back. The need. And that had always been the danger.

He was in their bedroom, wardrobe door open, staring at the few clothes hanging tidily inside. Standing quietly in the doorway, she watched him with an aching intensity, a hopeless yearning for it all to be different, all to be right. For him to turn, smile, say he remembered, that everything was all right. But he didn‘t—just continued to stare into the wardrobe with bitter hopelessness. Staring at him, at this bitter stranger, she tried to hate him. And couldn’t.

He lifted out a jacket, tried it on, then gave a grim smile as it strained across his back. ‘I’ve put on weight.’

‘Muscle,’ she corrected him quietly. ‘You’ve put on muscle.’ And she didn’t want to feel pity for him, compassion, but she did. He’d once been so dear, so loved, and was now so impossibly distant.

He removed the jacket, hung it back on the hanger and turned to look at her. ‘Help me,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me what I was like. I feel as though I don’t exist. That I never existed. My only memories are of a dirty cargo ship, of rough men in rough places. I look at you and I don’t know you. We presumably kissed, made love...’

Turning away, she forced herself to sound flat, uninterested. ‘Yes.’ But her heart wasn’t uninterested, or her mind.

‘But I don’t remember it!’ Rubbing a hand across his forehead, he gave a tired sigh.

‘Don’t try to force it.’

‘Why?’ he demanded raggedly. ‘An expert on head injuries, are you? Know about amnesia? Sorry,’ he apologised wearily.

‘It’s all right. But did you really expect it all to come rushing back when you walked through the door?’

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I rather thought I did.’

‘Then I’m sorry. I’ll tell you all I can, do all I can, but—’

‘But it won’t mean anything, will it? The last doctor I saw said something about a mental block I’d put up. For why? Why would I put up a block? What happened, Gellis?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you’re weary of me, aren’t you?’

‘Trying to hate you,’ she said, almost too softly for him to hear. Walking to the window, she stared out over the sea. It was easier if she didn’t look at him. ‘For fourteen months we were—everything to each other. Or so I thought. I loved you. Heart and soul. I thought you felt the same way about me.’

‘And I didn’t?’

‘Obviously not,’ she said slowly.

‘But there was no hint of it? I just left one day? Sent you a note? Which said what?’

‘That you wouldn’t be back.’

‘Nothing else? Nothing happened? Was said? Done?’ Moving across to her, he slowly turned her, stared down into her lovely face. ‘There must be something else! Must be! You said you looked for me...’

‘Yes. I couldn’t believe it, you see. And I needed to know what was going on. And then...’

‘Then?’ he prompted.

She shook her head. What was the point in telling him about Nathalie? It would only confuse the issue. ‘And then I went back to England,’ she improvised. Days, weeks of worry, not knowing where he was, what had happened to him. And, in the end, she had tried to resign herself to not ever knowing what had happened, why he had done what he had. She’d got on with her life, because there wasn’t only herself to think of, was there? And she couldn’t tell him about his son, could she? Not now.

And so, for the moment, until she came to terms with this new Sébastien, she would keep quiet, tell him only about their life together, how it had been before he’d left. Glancing up at him, she saw that he was frowning—not really seeing her, she thought, only trying to part a veil that would not part.

‘You said I was kind, humorous...’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me how. Instances, something. Help me, Gellis! What was I like? What did I do? How did I behave? I look at you, and I can’t believe I would have forgotten you.’ As though unaware of what he was doing, he reached out, gently touched his fingers to her face, looked deep into her eyes. And she held herself stiff, determinedly refused to feel anything. ‘You’re exquisitely beautiful, and I have a yearning to—kiss you. May I?’ he asked huskily.

Her heart suddenly jerked and, with fear and panic inside, a shortness of breath she could do nothing about, she whispered, distressedly, ‘Oh, Sébastien...’

‘Was that a yes or a no?’ he asked with throaty humour. Eyes hypnotically fixed on hers, he dropped his hand to her plait, slowly let it slide down to the bottom. ‘You’re shaking.’

‘Don’t do this,’ she whispered.

‘Beautiful hair,’ he continued as though he hadn’t heard. ‘I have a desire to wind it round your long neck, hold you close...’

‘No!’ She wrenched free, and he hauled her back, kissed her. Not brutally, not harshly, but like a man who was so very hungry. With a little sound in the back of his throat, he continued to explore her mouth, gently taste the sweetness. And she could do nothing, only stand there, heart beating furiously, throat dry as the warmth of his kiss set up that familiar shudder inside, that spiralling ache that turned her bones to water, her knees to jelly.

She closed her eyes, fought not to react, and felt her mind slowing, her body begin to melt... ‘No!’ Thrusting him away, she quickly turned her back. ‘You mustn’t,’ she declared shakily. But it was too late, wasn’t it? He already had.

‘I’m sorry, but—Was that how it was, Gellis? Between us? That—magnetism?’

Wrapping her arms round herself for warmth, comfort, she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she admitted painfully.

‘Then talk to me. Put it into words. Let me see how it was. Please.’

Distraught, embarrassed, frightened of feelings she’d thought she had shut away, she murmured huskily, ‘We didn’t like to be apart for long. If you missed me...’

‘And wouldn’t you have missed me?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered thickly. ‘I always missed you. Still miss you.’

‘And if I hadn’t lost my memory? Hadn’t left you? What would we be doing now? Making love?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted rustily, her whole body aching with the sudden need of it. The memory. ‘You would have swept me up when we came through the front door, carried me in here...’

‘And made love to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was I a good lover, Gellis?’

‘Yes.’ Eyes blurring with tears, she choked huskily, ‘Oh, Sébastien, you were gentle, funny...’

‘Funny? Dear God, I don’t think I would know how to be funny even if you gave me a manual. Go on, tell me how it was. Make me see it. Set the scene. Pretend it’s a play. You’ve been out shopping, you come back, I’m here—then what? What would I say? Do? Help me, Gellis!’

Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a deep breath. ‘You would smile—Oh, Sébastien, you had such a wicked smile.’

‘Did I?’ he asked bleakly.

‘Yes.’

‘Then what?’

‘Oh, you would take my shopping, dump it somewhere, and then you would...’ Taking a deep, painful breath, she continued huskily, ‘You would take me in your arms. Your eyes would be alight with laughter, and then you would kiss me as though you hadn’t seen me in weeks, and—’

‘How?’ he interrupted. ‘Gently? Passionately? How?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes! How?’

Face still averted, she whispered sadly, ‘You would start at the corner of my mouth, all the time whispering...’ Whispering and urging, his voice at variance with the devilish laughter in his eyes. And always in French; he’d only ever made love to her in French. Fresh tears in her eyes, she whispered in anguish, ‘Oh, Sébastien, I can’t!’