More Than A Dream

‘OK, I’ll be back well before that. See you later.’ And, with that, he was gone.

Abandoning her attempt to eat, she leaned back and gave an unhappy sigh. Oh, Charles. It was getting harder and harder to appear relaxed, friendly—for him, too, she suspected—but if any intensity was to creep into her voice, any hint of how she felt, she would drive him away. He would feel threatened, and he would leave. She had always known that; she just had not known how desperately hard it would be—or had not wanted to admit it, yet she must have suspected how doomed it would be, with both of them pretending to be something they weren’t.

Clenching her hands tight on the napkin, she took slow, deep breaths to let out the tension that his mood had brought. Self-destruction... He would do the craziest things on a seeming whim: race his yacht; ski down routes that were marked hazardous; stake a fortune on the turn of a card... And she did not know why, why he had this need to push himself to the limits, punish himself. It wasn’t because of Laurent’s death, or for making her pregnant; his course of destruction had started long before those two events. Was it because of his upbringing? Because of Beckford? They both had their share of secrets. She didn’t know his, and, hopefully, he would never find out hers, for, although he suspected that their meeting wasn’t one of those odd coincidences that occurred from time to time, he didn’t know. Not for certain, not that she had known he was here, and that her desire to visit her grandfather’s grave had just been an excuse. A reason for being in the same place as Charles.

Throwing down her napkin, she got awkwardly to her feet and wandered out on to the small terrace. Settling herself in the cushioned chair that Jean-Marc always put out for her, she gazed out over the town spread below.

Charles. He’d coloured her life, given it magic, and every other man paled into insignificance beside him. He was her fantasy, her dream come true. And he had no idea—at least, she hoped he didn’t, hoped that he thought she regarded him, as he did her, as an old and valued childhood friend. So, always there must be this need to keep the reins loose, never give him reason to feel trapped, because, without him, life quite simply would not be worth living. She needed him near, and he needed to be free, like a wild horse, but if she was careful, and clever, perhaps he would always come back.

Her eyes unfocused, she thought back to that day over six months before when they had met near the harbour. Correction: when she had engineered the meeting. Although, as in all things, fate had played its part. Had, on that one occasion, played into her hands. And if he found out? No, she thought with a little shudder, he must never find out. He would never understand obsession.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE had been grey skies, a fine drizzle, the day Melly had arrived in France. The overnight ferry had been crowded and she had been glad to reach the relative freedom of the roads. The drive to the Hotel du Golf in Deauville had been without incident, and after unpacking she had wasted no time in gaining directions to the Military Cemetery from the desk clerk. First things first. Set up the alibi.

It was only a five-minute drive from the hotel. A winding road, empty of traffic, then along a small unmarked track, tucked away behind some trees. Isolated. Forgotten? No, not forgotten. All the war graves had been carefully tended. The grass cut.

Shrugging into her slicker, pulling the hood over her dark hair, she climbed from the car. A fitting day for visiting a grave, she thought, with the heavens crying, and guilt was her companion that day, because grandfather’s grave was only an excuse. Her father had drawn her a little map, which she had memorised, and, with that in mind, she walked straight to his grave.

Huddling more warmly into her slicker, she gazed before her. Yet, even with her eyes on the grey stone cross, she saw only Charles. Or, said the French way, ‘Sharle’. With a small smile, she savoured the name on her tongue. Sharle. No, not here, now; that was a betrayal of them all.

Focusing once more on the memorial stone, she conjured up an image of her grandfather. A face seen only in photographs. A black and white image of a young man that bore a striking resemblance to herself. Mid-brown curly hair, amber eyes with the same wistful expression. And he deserved far more of her attention than she was giving him. He had died for king and country, died so that future generations could be free, and here she was, over forty years later, giving him barely one tenth of her attention.

Captain David Morland. Aged thirty-two. Liberator.

June 6, 1944

Simple, poignant—and said nothing. How had it really been? Had death come swiftly, on silent wings? Or had it been resisted? Had he known? Or been unaware? There was no one to tell her now. Above the simple inscription was a carving of his regimental badge and his number. Not much as a testament to thirty-two years of life. And yet it was more than some had. Looking round her, at the bleak little cemetery, she shivered and began to move slowly along the row. So young, so little of life had been lived, and she began to silently mouth the names, as though it was important that someone, somewhere, remembered them. Not as a mass, but as individuals.

Most were from the First World War, only a few from the Second. Some were unknown. And in the corner, isolated, were the German war graves. No poignant little messages on these, no soft remembered phrase, just the name and date of death. Feeling depressed, she turned to go back through the little gate. Duty done. The reason for her trip to France. Liar. With a long sigh, she went back to the car.

Where was Charles now? Still in Deauville? And did she really expect to see him? Yes; the answer had to be yes. Not only expected, but needed. Needed to cure herself of this ridiculous infatuation, because surely that must be what it was? All these years of loving him, wanting him, unable to have a relationship with any other man because it was not him. Yet she had tried. Lord knew, she had tried. Accepted invitations from other boys, men, but none of them had had his smile, his warmth, that underlying streak of ruthlessness that sometimes showed in his grey eyes. The strength that could never be disguised. So foolish, irrational—and shaming. Like a schoolgirl languishing after a pop star, an idol. A man who probably rarely gave her a thought, and, if he did, would have been astonished—no, incredulous—had he known of her obsession. Her fantasy.

Putting the car in gear, she drove carefully along the bumpy track and down into the centre of town. People with obsessions always planned well in advance. She had carefully scrutinised the town map and therefore knew exactly where the harbour was. Knew, or at least had been told, that that was where Charles moored his yacht.

Finding the marina without difficulty, she parked, and then quickly scanned the line of expensive toys as they bobbed gently, swayed, curtsied, as if in mockery. And there it was, exactly like the photograph she had seen in the magazine at home. The Wanderer. Elegant, racy, exciting—like the man who stood on deck. An unexpected bonus, and she felt the familiar warmth course through her as she stared at dark hair ruffled by the breeze; at strong, tanned arms that were raised as he fiddled with something on the mast; at jeans-clad legs, astride to keep his balance. Slim, elegant, exciting. Charles Revington.

She stared at him for a long time, felt the jolt she always felt; felt her heart race, swell, and she wanted to do something incredibly juvenile, such as walk past him in the hope that he might see her.

Wrenching her eyes away, she was disgusted by her stupidity. And it was stupid, and childish, and hopeless. Climbing from the car, she quickly locked it, and, resolutely turning her back, she began to walk along the wooden promenade that divided the long sandy beach from the bathing huts.

‘Hey! Melly! Hang on!’

If you wanted something badly enough you would get it. Closing her eyes tight for a moment, she quickened her step, pretended she had not heard the urgent shout. Staring blindly at the wooden boards before her, she fought for composure. Fool. Stop, be casual. I can’t. The longing to see him and the need to escape were equally powerful. She should never have come. And yet, if it was he who chased after her, it would look, wouldn’t it, as though their meeting was accidental?

The sound of footsteps behind her did not diminish, and it was almost a relief when her arm was caught and she was brought to a halt. Swinging round in feigned surprise, she stared up into the face of the man she had loved since she was a child.

Laughing grey eyes looked back. A wide smile stretched the firm tanned skin of his face. ‘I would have felt the most awful fool if it hadn’t been you! What on earth is my innocent little friend doing in this den of iniquity?’ he asked with that engaging grin that had been haunting her for most of her twenty-five years.

‘Oh, this and that,’ she managed simply. Surprised, after all, at how easy it was, she smiled. Her heart might be racing, her pulse erratic, but, to her intense relief, she sounded ordinary, normal. ‘Hello, Charles.’

‘”Hello, Charles,”’ he mimicked lightly. ‘So casual, Melly? You don’t even sound surprised.’

Cursing herself for not at least pretending, she fabricated. ‘Not surprised, no; more—disbelieving, I think. I certainly didn’t expect to see anyone I knew.’

‘No,’ he agreed gently, ‘that’s what’s so nice about travelling. One never knows who one will bump into.’ And, sounding as though he really meant it, he added, ‘It’s really good to see you.’ His eyes full of devilish laughter, he grasped her shoulders and kissed her smoothly on each cheek, then before she could register the feel of him, the warmth, he steered her towards the only nearby café that was open. In the summer, she guessed, the wide glass panels would be pushed back, and tables and chairs would be placed outside, but today, in early April, and with a cold east wind blowing, they were mostly all closed and shuttered.

Hooking a chair out with his foot, he pushed her gently into the seat before taking the chair opposite. Summoning the waiter with an ease that she envied, he quirked an eyebrow in query. ‘Coffee?’

‘Please, white.’

‘Deux cafés-crème, s’il vous plaît.’

‘Grands? Petits?’ the waiter asked smoothly.

‘Grands, merci.’

As soon as the waiter had departed to execute their order, he continued, ‘So what brings you to Deauville? Not the racing,’ he teased, ‘that doesn’t start till August. The golf? The sailing? The casino?’

Settling back in her chair, not quite sure she believed this was happening, and that Charles was actually sitting opposite her, a quizzical expression on his strong face, she toyed idly with a sugar wrapper someone had left on the table. Even though hope had been warring with expectancy, she still found it hard to believe that her fantasising, her irrational hopes, were being realised. Glancing up at him, she felt faint. ‘Not the casino, no. The war graves.’

‘The war... Oh.’ With a nod of understanding, he slapped the table. ‘Of course, your grandfather. You’re looking for his grave?’ Noting her astonishment, he smiled. ‘I remember your father once telling me that his father had fought and died in Normandy during the D-Day landings. Any luck?’

‘Yes. I knew, of course, that it was the Military Cemetery at Tourgeville; it was just a question of finding it. The authorities were very helpful when I contacted them in England—they even offered to take me there.’

‘But you wanted to go alone,’ he put in understandingly.

‘Yes. I’ve just come from there.’

‘Which is why you’re looking so pensive,’ he exclaimed softly, ‘and insensitive Charles Revington has just trampled all over your feelings with his size-nine boots. I’m sorry.’

With a renewed stab of guilt, because she hadn’t been feeling any of the emotions he expected of her, she protested softly, ‘No need to be sorry, and insensitive is the last thing I’d call you. I was just feeling a little sad, and thoughtful, I suppose.’

With a gentle hand he removed the wrapper from her fingers, then lifted them to his mouth and kissed the tips. ‘Triste. That’s what the French would say. Have you been to look at the landing beaches? Sword, Juno, Gold, Omaha?’

‘No, not yet.’ No need to tell him that she had only arrived that morning.

‘You should make the time. They’re worth seeing, and the American Cemetery in Saint Laurent. It will bring a lump to your throat. So many crosses, so many dead.’

‘Yes, I will.’ With a little smile for the waiter, and a hesitant, ‘Merci,’ she gratefully turned her attention to putting sugar in her coffee and stirring it. He was too near, too charming, too much the man, and she could think of nothing to say, nothing that would interest him. From longing for the chance to see him, talk to him, now that the moment was here she felt gauche, shy, uninteresting.

‘You’re on your own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the least I can do is buy you dinner...’

‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed in sudden panic. ‘Truly, you don’t need to do that.’