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He paused before answering and when he did, his tone was gentle. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, Charles, if things were getting a bit much again? Because you know I’d be over like a shot. The cooperative could go to hell, if you needed me more.”
I rallied and shut my eyes tight, just in case the thing wasn’t a coffee stain. “God no, Flor. Don’t do that. I’m fine, honestly. Couldn’t be better.”
I heard the flick of a light switch. “Can I see you, Charles? Just to be sure? Put me on FaceTime. I miss seeing you.”
Fuck, no. He’d see the shakes for a start. My knee had taken on a life of its own. And my hands too. And I didn’t need a mirror to know I looked a fucking state. Sure, Florian had the hots for the uptight businessman-thing, but there were limits, and I’d sailed straight past them.
“Erm… I’d love to. Let me try. Um… oh. Why isn’t this camera switching on? Oh, the screen’s cracked. I must have dropped it. Let me see if I can…”
I kept up the charade for a few minutes. Did I fool him? I’d no idea.
“Hey, Charles, relax. Don’t worry. We can do it next time. Maybe when I’m out on the salt flat, non? I’ll show you my otter friend if we make it an early call. He’d like to say hello. Take care of yourself, mon chèri.”
Another week passed. Florian called a couple of times and left messages. If I didn’t listen to them, I wouldn’t feel guilty.
And then another week passed, and another one after that, I think, although I didn’t check the dates.
The week after that, he stopped phoning.
And by then, I wasn’t in a fit state to call anybody.
CHAPTER 24
FLORIAN
“I miss him,” I declared. Like it was news. Or did I? Maybe I missed the person Charles had pretended to be. Because the tetchy, jumpy guy who’d woken me with a garbled phone call before dawn was a total stranger. And when I’d asked him to switch to FaceTime, so I could get a feel for him, he’d made up some bullshit excuse that the camera on his all-singing all-dancing phone had died.
Nico took a placid drag on his cigarette before tilting his head back and blowing the smoke out in a long trail. I envied him; I could have done with something to occupy my hands right now. “If it’s a happy ending you were searching for, Flor, then you should have left it at just one night of fucking.”
“Why didn’t you offer me that advice when I was, like, fifteen?” demanded Jerome, making a fuss out of wafting the smoke away from him. “It would have saved me spending all of today in La Rochelle, comparing fifteen million brands of pushchairs.”
“We did,” Nico responded drily. “But you were too boob-struck to bloody listen.”
He followed up with one of his trademark sexy smirks, which these days had no effect on my manhood whatsoever. I could always rely on Nico to tell me how it was, and then for Jerome to make it all about him and the bloody baby. So at least I had that.
I’d heard from Charles twice, although that wasn’t strictly true, as I called him the first time, unable to hold out any longer. I’d been whiling away an hour at the beach, the out-of-the-way stretch where we’d strolled together, where he’d lain on his coat and admired me skimming stones. Like a lovesick teen, I even wrote his name in the sand with a stick, then waited for the iron-grey waves to cover it over, in the reliable way the ocean did.
Thrilled when he’d answered my first call, I’d asked him to send pictures of his apartment so I could imagine him in it. In his bed especially, a great masculine thing of dark leather dressed in plain white linen and with far more pillows than one man needed. Although I waited three days for them. He included a selfie too, looking a little self-conscious and a little strained, if I was being honest, with his glasses propped up on his forehead and the pink collar of his work shirt unbuttoned. I stared at that picture way longer than I should.
I’d wanted to chat longer—hours would have been fine, but work got in the way, and we ended the call in a more abrupt manner than I’d have liked. Nonetheless, the pictures went some way to making up for it.
The second call was a disaster, and the reason I was well into my cups now, and on the verge of humiliating tears. It was as if the Charles I’d known had never existed. Or something much worse was happening, that didn’t bear thinking about.
“And I shouldn’t miss him,” I continued, not one hundred per cent sure I commanded their full attention. On the fourth or fifth hearing, this stuff was starting to sound old. “Because we were never going anywhere anyway, not really. He always had this other life to return to.”
I had to keep on telling myself that. Charles’s phone calls were patchy and short—maybe it was a good thing. And when push came to shove, what would be the point of long sloppy love notes and promises? Why string out something fundamentally broken anyhow?
“God knows what you saw in him anyway,” said Nico. “He was a nice enough guy, and I get that you dig the whole vampire professor vibe he had going. But a pretty face and a willing cock don’t usually get you all down in the dumps like this.”
The crudeness was an attempt to get a rise out of me. I refused to bite, taking an irritated gulp of my beer instead. It was my third bottle of the night and had been preceded by a couple of glasses of rosé at home. I wasn’t much of a drinker, as a rule, but some days, nothing but oblivion would do. L’Escale was half empty, the tourists were clearing out, and the weather was turning. Having finished his evening games of boules, Papi was seated a couple of tables down from us, arguing with his friend Paul about whether the council had the right to erect an ugly green recycling bin at the entrance to the town hall carpark. Because that was what counted as big news around here.
“Go on,” pressed Nico, in a kinder tone. “What was it about him? And why are you so upset now he’s gone?”
I didn’t believe for a second that a problem shared was a problem halved, but right now, what with Papi informing me he’d taken a bunch of flowers to Beatrice this morning, and the Selco meeting just three short weeks away, I’d willingly offload anything if it would help me sleep better at night.
“You’re right. He wasn’t just someone to have sex with.” I gave a heavy sigh. I loved him. “I…I fell for him.”
As if fell for him covered even a fraction of my feelings for Charles. More like somersaulted, back flipped, then triple-Salchowed headlong. My face heated nonetheless; exploring deeper emotions was a conversational first for all of us unless we were taking the piss out of Jerome and his endless saga with Léa. Maybe we were all growing up at last. “And now I’m worried sick about him.”
