A Husband For Christmas

‘Not this woman!’ Gellis said fervently.

‘True.’ Closing his bag with a snap, the doctor looked at her, smiled. ‘And I could have wished you had not done it at four o’clock in the morning. However, an easy birth,’ he informed her. ‘No complications, no stitches, no tears. Do you want to go to the hospital?’

A bit bemused, she shook her head.

‘Then I’ll cancel the ambulance. And I’m quite sure that monsieur is capable of changing the bedding, doing all that needs to be done. Congratulations,’ he added belatedly, then grinned. ‘I will forgo the customary drink until a more reasonable time. I’m going back to my bed. The baby will do very well until the nurse arrives. Don’t fiddle with him! Goodnight.’

Fiddle with him? A bit nonplussed, they stared at each other and burst out laughing. The baby gave a start, a little cry, and went back to sleep. Gazing down at him in wonder, neither of them really believing it, Sébastien gently touched the baby’s cheek. ‘I’m glad the ambulance was late,’ he said softly. ‘A special moment. I want to go and tell the world.’

‘Start with my parents.’

‘Oui,’ he smiled, but he didn’t immediately move.

She didn’t know how long they sat there, just staring at their baby, but it seemed a long time, until Sébastien stirred, gave a rueful smile. ‘Monsieur had better change the bedding.’

‘Yes.’ Reaching out her hand, smiling up at him with as much love and wonder in her face as his, she murmured gently, ‘You were brilliant. Thank you. If you hadn’t been here...’

Squeezing her fingers, then raising them to his mouth, he answered huskily, ‘I will always be here. Thank you for our son. And now I will go and get the Moses basket, blankets, nappies...’ With a laugh, a little shake of his head, he said wryly, ‘And so it begins. A new life. Don’t stop loving me, will you?’

Eyes filmed with tears, she shook her head.

‘Bien.’ Dropping a warm, lingering kiss on her mouth, he went to get all the necessary bits and pieces, and, when the nurse arrived, the baby was wrapped warmly in his cot, Gellis was asleep and Sébastien was watching her.

Don’t stop loving me...

‘Gellis,. Gellis!’

With a little start, she blinked, turned to stare at him.

“The lights are green.’

‘What?’

‘The traffic lights. They’re green.’

‘Green? Oh, green.’

Feeling stupid, she quickly set the car in motion.

‘What were you thinking about?’ he asked quietly.

‘Thinking? Oh, nothing,’ she sighed. ‘Nothing at all.’ And wanted to weep. Had it all been acting? All of it? He’d been loving, kind, tired, because the baby had kept them awake at night—and during the day—but there had only ever been the normal difficulties associated with having a new baby. He hadn’t been impatient, or irritable. Just wry.

He’d given no clue at all that he was intending to walk out on them both. Or had he not been intending to? Had it just been impulse? Because he’d had enough of domesticity? Certainly he didn’t look like a domesticated animal. Glancing at him, at that strong profile, firm mouth, she sighed.

They didn’t speak after that, but she was aware of the puzzled glances he gave her from time to time, the brooding intensity that emanated from him. And his bewilderment must be far greater than her own, mustn’t it?

As she began picking up the signs for the terminal, she asked quietly, ‘Have you seen the Shuttle? Used it?’

He shook his head. ‘Not to my knowledge. Have you?’

‘Mmm, a few months, ago. I came—on holiday.’ As she had kept coming on holiday to France in the small, useless hope that one day she might see him, find out the truth. ‘It’s brilliant.’

‘Good. A new experience for me.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed helplessly. Halting at the booth, she purchased their tickets with her credit card, was advised on the times of the trains and wished a good journey.

‘Do you want anything from the duty-free shop? Or shall we go straight to the train?’

When he didn’t answer, merely frowned, she bit her lip, wondered if he actually had any money on him. ‘I can lend you some money...’ she began awkwardly. ‘I mean...’

Glancing at her, he smiled. But it wasn’t Sébastien’s smile. It wasn’t gentle, just rather mockingly amused.

‘I wasn’t a deck hand for free. I got paid.’

‘Oh.’

‘But thank you anyway. I need to change it into francs. And I’ll pay you back for the tickets when I come into my—“inheritance”.’

She nodded, drove round to the parking area beside the duty-free shops.

Queuing up for coffees, she watched him, watched other people watch him. He didn’t look like a tourist. In fact, he looked like an extra from a movie. One about mercenaries, or piracy on the high seas. People gave him a wide berth. Probably wisely. There seemed very little of the old Sébastien left. This man was bigger, tougher. Harder.

‘Yes?’

Swinging around, she quickly apologised. ‘Sorry. Two coffees, please.’

After paying for them, she carried them over to a vacant table, and continued to watch Sébastien, tried so very hard to come to terms with this unreality. She didn’t honestly know how she felt about him. In an odd sort of way, he fascinated her—perhaps because he was so very different from the man she had once known. Maybe she was still in shock.

As her mother had been—and then thoughtful, understanding. ‘Go,’ she had finally urged. ‘If you don’t, you will always wonder. Go, and be very careful.’

Yes, she would be careful.

He finished changing his money, put it carefully in his wallet and returned it to his back pocket. Looking round, he spotted her, began strolling towards her. Lithe, at ease, yet somehow alert. There was an arrogance about him, a look of indifference, dismissal, almost, of others. He looked as though he didn’t give a damn about anybody, but cross him at your peril.

In clean jeans and a grey T-shirt, he wore them with the same ease he wore everything, whether it be dinner jacket or cords. Clothes didn’t make Sébastien. Sébastien made the clothes. Or had.

‘I got you a coffee,’ she told him quietly. ‘I didn’t get anything to eat. I didn’t know if you were hungry.’

He shook his head. Still standing, he picked up his coffee, tasted it, choked and replaced it on the table. ‘How can anyone make something so good taste so bloody awful? Don’t tell me you like it.’

‘No,’ she replied with a small smile. ‘I think that has to be the worst coffee I have ever tasted in my life.’

‘For sure,’ he agreed fervently. ‘I sometimes think the English make ruining coffee into an art form.’

‘Probably. Shall we go?’

She had a moment’s fear when they drove through the British and then the French frontier controls, but their passports were merely glanced at and then returned.