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But they hadn’t accounted for my Florian.
The architect had skimped on office space, though. Perhaps because the salt harvesters had never employed permanent office staff. A teenager managing the small souvenir shop had run a few errands for them, when he had a spare five minutes, but overall, the organisation had been shambolic, and Florian tasked with turning it around.
From the doorway of the cramped office, I watched him. Dark head bowed over a computer screen and chewing on a pen. Precarious stacks of folders and papers, like Jenga blocks, rose from the desk around him. A puff of wind or an excessive door slam and the whole heap would come crashing down. Sensing a presence, he looked up and our eyes locked.
“Hi. I came to offer you some help.”
He put down the pen and sat back, crossing his arms. “What makes you think we need it?”
The chaos on the desk for a start, but I could feel the reddish challenge in his gaze. “Because this isn’t where you belong, Florian. You belong out there.”
Today was one of those spring island days that began shrouded in misty rain and smelled of brine. By lunchtime, a bracing wind would blow the cobwebs away, rewarding hardier tourists with sunny late afternoon hugs and kisses.
In other words, fleur de sel-harvesting weather.
“Yes. But I also have a cooperative to run. There will be other Selcos trying to seduce my men if I don’t.”
My men. I liked the solidarity of that. “I can run it for you. Or at least assist and advise,” I corrected. “I can amalgamate your debt, invest your surplus, tighten the margins. Help with all those things we spoke about. So that no one’s heads will be turned when men in sharp suits try to break you down. I’m good at it, it’s how I’ve spent the last fifteen years.”
Florian shook his head gently, with an expression in his eyes I couldn’t interpret.
“We can’t afford an expert like you. And we’re not a charity case.”
“Then pay me.” I stepped into the room. “Or better still, pay some locals to run the place for you and I’ll teach them. The increase in profits will more than cover the wages. You need an accountant, too—not full-time, but with regular contact. And an office manager. Someone to coordinate all of this”—I gesticulated at the piles of paperwork—“who’s keeping track of money in and money out. Who ensures invoices are paid on time, who chases the outstanding ones, who ensures you maximise available tax advantages. Someone to manage your media profile.”
“We don’t have a media profile.” By now, his tone was sharp red.
“No, but you should. Use it for good. Use it to promote everything this island stands for. Use it to campaign for mortgage breaks for folk who were born here and have families here. Use it to support the island’s birdlife charities. Hell, do what the devil you like with it.”
“I could sell prints of me half-naked,” he said sourly. Yep, that would bring the euros rolling in. Rising to his feet, Florian turned his back to me and walked over to the window. His movements were lithe. His shoulders squared. A proud Frenchman.
“Please let me help you, Florian. Pay me something if you must, call it a consultancy fee if it makes you feel better, but let me help. So that years from now, exactly as you said in your speech, you have something to hand down to island children like Jerome’s, or yours even. Like your grandfather had something to pass on to you.”
He twisted around, green eyes blazing. “How do you know what I said in my speech?”
“I read it in La Hune, of course. Online, when I was in the hospital recovering. They printed the whole thing, almost word for word. I’m so proud of you, Florian, of what you’ve achieved.”
He said nothing for a few minutes, a powerful reply in itself. But I had nowhere else to be. I was prepared to wait, forever if I had to.
“What’s in it for you, Charles?” His voice still held a hard red edge, although, like a lover’s sigh, he softened the consonants of my name.
“Do you really need to ask?”
A small huff of a laugh and another shake of his head. He wrapped his arms around himself. “Mon dieu. It’s been months and months. I thought I’d got over you.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I went away. I should have listened to you when you said I wasn’t ready. You knew me better than I knew myself.”
He turned back to face me then, his beautiful eyes brimming with hurt, put there by me. “How do I know you won’t leave again? How do I know this isn’t just another break from your normal life? I’m glad you’re well, Charles, unbelievably glad, like you have no fucking idea, but you can’t put me through that again. I won’t allow it.”
“Trust me. I have no plans to leave. I’m no longer Marcus’s business partner. I’ve sold the apartment in London and rescinded my partnership. I’ll do occasional consultancy work for them, but that’s it. I’m done. Finished. I live here now.”
“How long for?”
“That depends on you.”
He rubbed a hand across his mouth. I wanted to step forward and replace his fingers with mine, and then with my lips. But we were some way off that.
“And I also came back to thank you for saving my life. I barely remember any of it. But Marcus told me what you did.”
