And so very lovely.
A thought slid into his head. A thought that had been building for some time now. Ever since she’d walked out of the beauty salon and blown him away with the transformation in her looks. A thought that, once there, he could not banish. Found he did not want to banish. Wanted, instead, to savour...
Because why not? Why not do what he suddenly realised he very, very much wanted to do?
Why not, indeed?
He strode onward. Life seemed very good.
* * *
‘What would you like to order for dinner?’ Anatole enquired solicitously, strolling into the kitchen where Lyn was warming Georgy’s bedtime milk.
‘To be honest,’ she said, ‘I’d prefer something light. That cream tea we tucked into was very filling!’
They’d found an olde-worlde teashop in an olde-worlde Sussex village to round off the day before setting off back to London, and Anatole found himself remembering the way she’d licked a tiny smear of cream from her lip with the tip of her tongue. He’d found it very engaging.
She was speaking again, and he made himself focus.
‘If you want,’ she ventured, her tone tentative, ‘I could just knock up something simple for us both. Pasta or an omelette—something like that.’
His eyes smiled. ‘Pasta sounds good. But I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘No trouble,’ she assured him.
‘In exchange, I’ll get Georgy off to sleep,’ he volunteered.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled too.
He took the bottle from her and headed off.
She watched him go. It was so...contradictory. That was the only word she could find. On the one hand she felt so much easier now in his company. So much more relaxed. Yet on the other hand, since her makeover, ‘relaxed’ was the last thing she felt!
She felt as if a current of electricity were buzzing through her all the time—a current that soared whenever she saw him or he came near to her.
She took a breath. Well, hopefully, once they’d both got used to her new look it would dissipate—just as her initial stiltedness had.
It had better...
She gave her head a little shake and determinedly yanked open the door of the huge double fridge that occupied a sizeable space in the palatial kitchen. There were several bags of fresh pasta, as well as cream, eggs, butter and smoked salmon. A pot of fresh basil graced the windowsill by the sink, and she busied herself snipping at the fragrant leaves. By the time she had measured out the pasta, whisked some eggs, beaten cream in and chopped up the salmon, Anatole strolled back into the kitchen.
‘Out like a light,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We clearly exhausted him today!’ He crossed over to stand beside Lyn. ‘Mmm...’ he inspected her handiwork. ‘Looking good.’ He wandered across to the temperature controlled wine cabinet and extracted a bottle. ‘I think this should wash it down nicely,’ he said.
His mood was good. Very good. They’d had a good day out, Georgy had had fun, and he’d repaid their efforts by falling swiftly and soundly asleep. That left the evening to him and Lyn.
Yes, definitely a good day.
‘You OK with eating in here?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, of course,’ she assured him.
The breakfast bar was huge—plenty of room to dine at it. She heard him open the wine and got on with boiling a kettle of water to cook the pasta. Outside, the night sky was dark, but in the kitchen it felt cosy and companionable, warm and friendly.
Happiness filled her.
I didn’t realise how lonely I’ve been since Lindy died...
But she was not lonely now. She had Anatole to be with.
Yet even as she thought that she felt a pang go through her. How long would they be together? This time next year it might very well all be over. His grandfather might have succumbed to his cancer, Georgy’s adoption might be finally approved, and she and Anatole might have their mutually agreed divorce underway.
Somehow the thought chilled her.
‘Why so sad?’ Anatole’s voice was kindly. ‘Are you thinking of your sister?’
‘Yes,’ she lied. She poured boiling water into the pasta pan and fed in the spaghetti as it came back to the boil. She did not want to look at Anatole. Did not want to let her eyes feast on him.
He isn’t mine—he never will be. That’s what I have to remember. The only thing I must remember.
Not the way her eyes followed him wherever he went. Not the way her breath caught when he smiled at her. Not the way she felt her pulse quicken when he came near her.
Not the way his face was imprinted on her mind, day and night...
‘Then let us drink to her—and to my cousin, too.’
He slipped onto one of the high stools that flanked the kitchen bar. One of the ceiling spotlights caught the glint of pale gold in his glass as he lifted it, proffering the other one to Lyn as she took her place opposite him. They toasted their lost ones silently, each thinking their own thoughts about those they had loved who had died so tragically young.
‘He wasn’t all bad, you know—Marcos,’ Anatole found himself saying. ‘I know he treated your sister badly, but—well, I’ve come up with an explanation. It won’t make you forgive him, but maybe you’ll think of him a little less harshly.’
He looked across at Lyn.
‘I think the reason he ignored your sister when she wrote to him is that he thought Timon would insist on him marrying her once he knew your sister was carrying his great-grandchild. Marcos was only twenty-five—and a young twenty-five at that. He wanted fun and no responsibilities. Timon encouraged him in that. He’d spent ten years trying to compensate Marcos for losing his parents at sixteen. A bad age to lose them. I think that learning that your sister was pregnant scared Marcos. Made him hide from it—hope it would all just go away.’
He looked at Lyn.
‘I think that, had he not been killed, he would have faced up to his responsibilities. He’d have come to me and told me first, I’m sure, and I would have helped him deal with it. Got him to make contact with Lindy. I believe,’ he finished slowly, ‘had your sister not died, he would have asked her to marry him. Made a family with her and Georgy just as she dreamed he would.’ He paused again. ‘He was a decent kid inside.’
Lyn heard him speak, felt her sympathy rising.
‘It’s all so sad,’ she said. She was feeling choked. ‘Just so sad.’
She felt her hand being taken, gently squeezed. ‘Yes, it is. Sad and tragic and dreadful, and a hideous waste of young lives, their future stolen from them.’
She felt tears spring in her eyes. Felt Anatole’s finger graze across her cheekbone, brushing them away. Felt his sympathy towards her.
‘I hope they’re happy together now, somehow. In that mysterious realm beyond mortal life. I hope,’ he said, ‘they’re looking down at us and knowing their child is safe, his future assured.’
She nodded, blinking away her tears. He patted her hand and then, glancing at the stove, got up to drain the cooked pasta. She got to her feet as well, and busied herself stirring in the creamy concoction she’d prepared. She heaped it into wide pasta bowls and placed them on the bar. Her tears were gone now. Lindy was at peace and so, she hoped, was the man she’d fallen in love with. Who might one day, had they lived, have come to love her back.
Who knew? Who knew the mysteries of the heart? Who knew what life and fate and circumstance could do?
As she took her place opposite Anatole, letting her eyes savour him as they always did, she felt her heart swell.
Not with hope, for that would be impossible, but with a yearning that she could not still.
Anatole broke the moment and got to his feet. ‘You forgot the parmesan,’ he said, and went to fetch it from the fridge.
It was such a simple meal, Lyn knew, but it was the most enjoyable she’d yet shared with Anatole. Despite her assurance that she was not very hungry she put away a good portion of pasta, and when Anatole extracted a tub of American ice cream from the freezer she did not disdain that either.
‘Let’s go next door,’ he said, and led the way with the ice cream, leaving her to bring through the coffee tray.
She felt more relaxed than she had ever felt with him. The wine she’d drunk had helped, and it seemed to be giving her a very pleasant buzz in her veins. Carefully she set down the coffee tray and lowered herself onto the sofa beside Anatole as he indicated she should, taking one of the two long spoons he was holding out. He’d wrapped the ice cream carton in a teatowel, to make it easier to hold.
Sharing ice cream, Lyn swiftly discovered, meant getting a lot more up close and personal with Anatole than she’d initially realised. Digging into frozen ice cream was also, she discovered, enormously good fun when done in the right spirit.
‘That lump of cookie dough is definitely mine!’ Anatole informed her with mock severity. ‘You had the last one!’
A giggle escaped her, and she made herself busy to focus on a hunk of chocolate in the icy mix.