He pushed her full wineglass towards her.
‘Your English is so good. How did you… did you take lessons?’
‘I studied a little… after you left.’
‘You were always very good but now you’re… magnifique,’ Emma said, smiling.
‘And your French? Did you learn more?’ he inquired.
‘No. Well… with Dominic here I didn’t have much time,’ Emma admitted.
‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course. To be a mother so young, it must have been hard,’ he said.
How did she handle this? She’d had far too much alcohol to deal with this how she wanted to. If he made her dwell on how hard it had been she would probably cry again.
‘I admire how you have raised him. He is a wonderful boy,’ Guy told her.
‘Could we have some coffee?’ she asked, clearing her throat.
*
He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her close. She looked so fragile sat opposite him, her slender fingers toying with the tablecloth. What had really happened to her since they’d been apart? He’d thought about her often, but in most of those daydreams she’d been happy and content. Like she’d been in France. She didn’t look that way now. She seemed troubled, concerned, like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Was that his doing? Had he made her life complicated by turning up in it? Or was it something else? Something that was nothing to do with him. He wanted to know. He needed to know. Because he wanted to be back in her life. Right now he wanted that more than anything.
Chapter Twenty-Five
August 2005
She watched him as he pulled his clothes back on. They’d lain together for over an hour until time ticked closer to her curfew. She didn’t want to go but she also didn’t want her dad coming to look for her. How embarrassing would that be? And it would spoil it. This had been such a special night. She didn’t want it ending like that, being dragged back to her too-small tent by her dad.
‘Guy,’ she said. He fastened his trousers and turned to look at her.
‘I have to go,’ she said. She’d pulled on her dress and was hugging her knees to her chest.
As the dark fell the temperature dropped.
He slipped his shirt over his arms and began to fasten the buttons as he came back to her. He sat down on the blanket and when the buttons were all done up he took her hand and brought it to his lips. His soft kiss shot a shiver through her.
‘I do not… Je ne veux pas que tu partis.’
She traced a line down his face, stopping at his chin and drawing him towards her. This gorgeous boy was hers. Even if it was just for the summer, he was hers. He wasn’t a counsellor or a teacher. He didn’t bang on about the grieving process. Here, with him, that part of her life didn’t exist anymore.
‘Guy… have you… have you been with many girls?’
She didn’t know why she’d asked that. Was it because this night had been too perfect? Had he done all this before for someone else? Why would that matter? Everyone Ally had been with already had a history.
‘Quoi?’
‘Have you… I don’t know the words… amour with other girls… like this?’ She indicated the blanket.
For a moment, when he didn’t immediately respond, she thought she’d ruined everything. She didn’t really know what she wanted him to say. She was more or less certain it hadn’t been his first time. He seemed to know what to do. He hadn’t appeared nervous at all. And what he’d done had been more than agréable.
‘I do not know… the words,’ he began. He tamed a section of hair behind her ear. She brushed her lips against his hand.
‘Please try. In French?’
He shook his head.
‘It doesn’t matter if you’ve been with other girls. I mean you’re eighteen. You work here and…’
‘Non. It is… I have. But it was pas le même. Pas comme nous,’ he said.
‘Not… not like us,’ Emma translated.
‘I want to say so much but… je ne sais pas les mots,’ he continued.
He rubbed his thumb over her hand, back and forth.
‘You don’t have the words?’ Emma guessed.
He nodded.
‘You are different. We are… spécial,’ he continued.
His answer made her heart swell. He had felt it too. Although she had tried to put everything she felt down to it being her first time, her first time with someone she cared so much for, it wasn’t just her own romanticism. It had meant something to