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Using Clementine in this way—and as every hour passed that was how it was shaping up—was going to make it more brutal than it needed to be when they severed ties.
It was time to let her know this domestic idyll was over. He’d known it yesterday morning. He couldn’t have a repeat of the night before. Last night he’d found concentrating on her physical needs helped keep whatever this was between them within bounds—shifting the sex up a notch to a game of skill where the name of the game was her pleasure, not how he felt when she was soft and sweet in his arms. But he would have had to be blind, deaf and dumb not to hear the emotion in her voice as she cried out his name, or see the question in her eyes before she drifted, exhausted, off to sleep. She knew the difference now. She knew he was holding back.
But he didn’t have a choice. It had never been that way with anyone before, and it could never be that way between them again.
‘No, I don’t know,’ she said, her voice suddenly pitched lower. ‘No, I haven’t rented anything. I might be back. I don’t know.’
His heartbeat slowed.
‘It’s not quite what I expected.’
She was thinking about going back to London?
Every muscle in his body went on high alert. His fingers slid away from the buttons of his shirt.
Clementine gone.
This house empty.
He stood there, his head bent, breathing steadily, deeply. He told himself it was for the best.
Usually a chat with Luke lifted her spirits, but tonight Clementine felt worse than ever. It was his questions: about Serge, about her plans. They’d made her realise she couldn’t make plans because none of them involved the man she loved. She was allowed in, but only so far with Serge. Even now their intimacy felt forced, and all about the business. Instead of making her feel more secure, as she had hoped, putting herself forward as public girlfriend only made her feel lost. Because it wasn’t true—and having your picture in the paper didn’t make it so.
Worse, their emotional intimacy the night of the fight hadn’t been repeated. Serge was as attentive as ever, driving her pleasure, but she felt his restraint like a slap in the face. It clearly wasn’t what he wanted. It was as if now she had seen how good it could be every time he touched her was a reminder of what they no longer had.
She inhaled deeply as she advanced on the kitchen. Cooking smells. Serge had only a skeleton staff, and they were never here on weekend evenings, so she knew he had to be cooking.
Unable to believe it, she lingered in the doorway, just watching. He looked sensational. A male animal out of the wild and giving a good impression of being domesticated.
‘You’re cooking.’
‘I can also make beds, sweep floors and clean toilets with a small wire brush. Army training.’
‘I’m impressed—although a little put off by the toilets.’
‘I thought we could eat and watch an old movie and have an early night.’
Clementine told her heart not to leap but it did.
‘Before D-Day?’
‘You don’t have to do this, Clementine.’ He was suddenly deadly serious and her heart thumped in response.
‘No, I want to, Serge. I want to do this for us.’ She could have cursed at the slip of her tongue. She’d meant to say you, hadn’t she?
Serge’s benign expression didn’t slip. He merely handed her a glass of red wine. ‘To us,’ he said, clinking her glass with his, but his eyes remained cool and almost watchful.
* * *
Although she’d had a dress picked out for the occasion, at the last moment it looked all wrong.
She should be good at this. She employed this skill all the time in her job. Making people see what she wanted them to see, shifting points of view, spruiking the product. Except today the product was herself, and the girl trawling through her ad hoc wardrobe wasn’t finding anything. Serge put his head in the door.
‘You’ve got fifteen, Clementine.’
‘Yes, fine,’ she said distractedly, not wanting to ruin a moment of today by making them late. Serge must have some nerves. He was facing a hostile media.
He hesitated, and suddenly his arm shot out and he whipped her green dress out with its hanger.
‘Wear this.’
She’d worn it on their first date and she wondered if he remembered. Probably not. Why would he? And it would definitely not do.
‘Thanks. I’ll be with you in ten.’ She purposely turned her back on him and reinstated the green satin to its place, reached for another dress with a great deal more material.
Serge consulted his watch. He could hear Clementine rushing about, the sounds of drawers closing, doors creaking, little swear words. Something about the noise she was making, the trouble she was going to, touched a part of him he was not familiar with. I’m going to miss this. The thought moved through him, leaving only a troubled sense of having lost something in its wake.
