‘Ava?’ the voice says again, so close but not his voice. He knows my name. The figure pats my back gently and for a moment I cling harder because I don’t want to wake up from this momentary lapse of sanity. In the melee of delusion, I am the happiest I have been in years.
It’s the stranger who peels me from him piece by piece, limb by limb, until we unstick and are staring at each other. I take him in, so much of the same – the shape of the face, the dark eyes, the frame, the café shirt – but he now looks like Ettie only in stature and uniform.
I know his face because I have seen it before, granted only a handful of times, but I have studied his features over dinners and birthdays and a funeral. I know the face because in front of me now, looking utterly panicked as he examines my face for any signs of recognition, is Etienne’s brother.
‘Florian?’ My voice is strangled, wispy. I shake my head, step away from him. I realise that his hands have been securing my shoulders, stopping me from bolting, and now that he has released me there is a lightness, a sudden urge to run. I step back again, looking desperately around for an exit. I can see the faces now, the faces of the locals who have all stopped to watch.
I look back to him. His hands are held up in mock submission; his eyes wide and lips expressionless, he says my name again. It is like he’s trying to get back some spooked dog. In fairness, that’s how I feel, that there should be a poster about me with a warning that reads ‘Do not approach, will bolt.’
‘I’m sorry… I thought…’ I gabble out a response, but I don’t sound like me any more. I can’t form the words, can’t find the strength to even put on the pretence that I’m fine.
My eyes fix on the exit route, the street that will guide me back to the apartment, back to safety.
‘No. Don’t.’ His voice is soft, raspy as if the emotion is contagious, sticking in both of our throats. He reaches out for my arm, in that moment entirely understanding what I am about to do, but I snatch it away. I do as the runaway dog does, and charge towards the exit. I have never been much of a runner, but I don’t feel the effort of it, just the adrenaline that is flooding through me. I can feel it in every limb, in every muscle, deep in my lungs; my fingers tingle with it.
I round the corner, disappear down the maze of side streets. I can hear my name being called again. I don’t like the way it sounds in his accent now. It sounds like an alarm bell. The drumming of his feet running after me becomes louder until he is closing in. His arm finds my shoulder, pulls me to a stop.
‘Ava, stop please – just for a moment – you’re upset,’ he pants.
I turn to him. There’s desperation there, a sort of pitiful sadness mixed with something else that a frantic mind can’t quite translate.
‘Just come back with me. We can sit down, get you a drink. I can explain.’ His grip on my shoulder tightens as if he has learned from my last escape. He looks terrified of me. I think I am terrified of myself.
‘Let me go.’ I tug at my shoulder but he is a rock.
‘Ava… Please, come on.’
‘She told you to let her go.’ Another voice thunders through the street. Florian and I both look at the willowy figure walking with some speed towards us, a stick being waved in her hand. The American.
Her expression is enough to make Florian release me.
I stagger back towards her. She is a few inches shorter than me but her arm still snakes its way around me protectively.
‘It’s not what it looks like. We know each other. We’re family.’ He attempts to neutralise the situation. I scoff at the mention of family. Feel my shock turn to jagged rage. We are not family. He is a stranger who has spoken more to me in the last five minutes than he ever had in the seven years I was married to his brother.
‘Well then, I’m sure you can see that she isn’t in a state to talk to you right now. I suggest you respect her wishes.’
‘I—’ he starts, his lips forming words that he can’t actually get out. Excuses maybe. ‘Fine!’ He throws his hands up in defeat and storms back up the street leaving me and The American reeling, arm in arm.
The American forces us to sit down on a bench, she says it’s for her knees, but I know it’s so that I can catch my breath and gather the rest of myself together. I lurch forward, bury my head into my hands and let out a few strangled sobs. She rubs my back protectively.
‘I’m sorry,’ I manage after gulping back some of the tears.
‘For what?’ Her voice is gentle, it sounds like the sea.
‘For making a tit out of myself. I’m so embarrassed.’
‘There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We’ve all run away from a man at least once in our lives.’
I manage an exasperated little laugh. ‘Why do I have a feeling you’ve done it more than once?’
‘You already know me so well.’ She squeezes me playfully and I feel the sanity returning. ‘Now, do you think you can walk?’
I pull myself to my feet and dust off my jeans. My legs have an ache in them which lets me know my involuntary athleticism will now come back to haunt me.
‘I can manage to get home.’
‘Oh, we aren’t going there.’ She shakes her head and points down the street towards the silhouette of the imposing Chateau Eleanor standing sentinel over the town. ‘You’re coming to my place, for a cup of tea…’ She tries to gauge my reaction; I clearly look less than enthused. ‘Or something stronger?’ she tries again.
