A Husband For Christmas

‘You’d make a terrible smuggler,’ he observed almost scathingly.

‘How would you know? Been one, have you?’

‘No,’ he denied dismissively. ‘And you’re being waved on.’

Staring at the official, and then at the raised plates she was being asked to drive over, she bit her lip. ‘I hope the car will go over them.’

‘You didn’t use this car when you came before?’

‘Yes, but it only just cleared them. I should have checked the tyres, made sure they were fully inflated.’ Too late now. Easing cautiously forward, teeth clenched in anticipation of a crunch, ignoring the impatient official, she didn’t breathe easily until she’d driven over the last one, and began following the signs towards the waiting area. ‘They have them so that they know a car will have the necessary clearance on the train.’

‘So I assumed.’ Turning a mocking glance on her, he added softly, ‘Loss of memory doesn’t make me stupid.’

‘I didn’t say it did.’

‘Was I stupid before?’

‘No,’ she denied stiffly. Neither were you so hatefully mocking.

They waited ten minutes, and then drove onto the train. The journey was smooth, silent, efficient, and, thirty-five minutes later, they were in France. Fortunately for her peace of mind, he hadn’t stayed in the car with her. That would have been too much to bear. Whilst she was driving, concentrating, she could shut him from her mind. But, once she stopped, awareness stole back, cramped her muscles, filled her mind with memories.

‘Impressive,’ he murmured.

‘Yes. I told you it was brilliant.’

‘So you did.’ Consulting the map, he ordered, ‘Take the autoroute; it will be quicker.’

‘I was intending to. I’ll drive until it gets dark and then we’ll find somewhere to stop for the night.’

‘I’ll need to stop for petrol...’

‘And something to eat.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know the way? Which turn-offs to take?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly. ‘I know the way.’ She’d been this way so many times she could do it in her sleep. Looking for him. Always looking for him. And now she’d found him and didn’t know him at all.

CHAPTER THREE

THEY spent the night in a small motel, in separate rooms, and, in the morning, they breakfasted together—as strangers. The last time they had driven this route, stopped overnight, there had been laughter and teasing. Love. Now there was just tension.

‘Ready?’

Sébastien nodded.

‘Over halfway,’ Gellis added inanely as they made their way to the car.

‘Yes.’

Climbing behind the wheel, she waited until he was settled, then pulled onto the road that would take them back to the autoroute.

Hours passed. Silent hours, tense hours, and the further they drove, the tenser it became. Stops for petrol or meals weren’t much of a relief, and when they did speak conversation was stilted, unnatural. He, presumably, because he was nearing his goal and so much was riding on it. She because of the close proximity, the realisation of what she was actually doing.

And then there was only one last stop to make.

‘Not much further,’ she murmured as she stood beside him whilst he filled the car with petrol.

‘No. I expect you’re tired.’

‘Yes, a bit.’

‘Your French is very good.’

‘Thank you. You taught me.’

‘Did I? I wonder I had the patience,’ he retorted a trifle bitterly.

Glancing at him, she saw that he was frowning, fingering the white stripe of hair.

‘You cut your head in the accident?’

‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Fourteen stitches,’ he added absently. Removing the nozzle, he fitted it back in its slot, looked at her, then away.

With a little sigh, she walked to the booth to pay, and when she returned to the car she delayed a moment before climbing in, to stare round her. She loved France. Loved the people, the language. And now she was back. Briefly.

It was late afternoon when they reached the turn-off for Collioure, and she glanced at him. He’d been silent since they’d left the service station. Grimly so as he stared out at places he obviously didn’t recognise, and she wondered what was going through his mind. Hope? Despair? It must be so frightening not to know who you were. What you had been. Done. And she was tired, worried about what the next few days would bring.

‘Nearly there.’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes, just down the hill.’ Slowing so that he could see the town spread out below them, the little red roofs, the sparkling sea, she glanced at his stern profile and saw that he was rubbing his fingers across his forehead. ‘Does your head ache?’

‘No.’

Her sigh muffled, she probed hesitantly, ‘Does any of it seem familiar?’

‘No.’

Probably best not to question him, prompt—but how could she not? How could she stay silent in the face of his pain? In the face of her own?

Feeling bewildered and inadequate, wishing now that she had not come, she turned into the little private car park that served the apartments. ‘We have to walk from here,’ she stated quietly.

He nodded, unlatched his door and got out. Collecting their bags from the boot, face grim, he hovered indecisively until Gellis had locked the car. ‘This way. It’s not far. I brought the key. I also rang the agent, told her we were coming, made sure it hadn’t been relet.’

‘Thank you.’