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Was it because he respected Polly? Knew that once she adjusted she would pick herself up and walk tall, head high, daring anyone to criticise her choices?
Or because he instinctively knew that she hid her weaknesses from the world. He might have been in the right place at the right time—or the wrong place at the wrong time—for her to collapse on him the way she had.
No matter why his usual ‘turn tail and run’ instincts weren’t functioning normally. Not yet.
But they would. He didn’t have to worry.
‘What do you want to do?’ He turned the question onto her.
‘Not get wet?’ Polly glared at the windscreen as if she could stop the rain with pure force of will. ‘I took the day off to enjoy the sunshine. Besides, my new outfit doesn’t include a cardigan or an umbrella.’
‘It was warm just an hour ago. I forgot to factor in the crazy British weather.’
‘Between May and September it’s wise to carry an umbrella, a wrap and sunscreen at all times. Let that be your first lesson in British life. That and always have an indoor alternative.’
‘I would suggest lunch but after that breakfast you just ate...’ he said slyly.
‘I’m eating for two!’ The colour rose high in her cheeks. ‘And I’ve barely eaten anything for the last week or two. I was in a major calorie deficit. Hang on, what does that sign say?’
Gabe peered through the slanting rain at the colourful poster, gamely flapping in the wet and cold. ‘Probably some kind of fete,’ he said. ‘The British summer, always wet and cold and yet full of outdoor events. You’re an optimistic isle, I’ll give you that. Or crazy,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘No, it’s not that. Oh!’ With that squeal she put the indicator on and turned down the winding lane indicated by the poster. ‘It’s a Vintage Festival. Do you mind?’
‘As long as it’s dry and indoors.’
‘What? Mr Triathlete scared of a little rain?’
‘Non, just a man from the South of France who likes summer to be just that, summery.’
‘Oh, boy, are you in the wrong country.’
The small country lane was long and winding and it took Polly a few moments to navigate its twists and turns before she followed another sign that took them through wrought-iron gates and up a sweeping, tree-lined driveway. Gabe caught a glimpse of large, graceful house before the road took them round to a busy car park.
‘Wow.’ Polly’s voice was full of envy as she pulled to a stop, her eyes eagerly looking around. ‘People have come in style.’
Hers was by no means the only modern car there but even her sporty two-seater was put firmly in the shade by the array of well-loved vintage cars from all eras. ‘If I’d known we were coming I’d have brought Raff’s Porsche,’ Polly said sadly. ‘It’s a seventies car so not really vintage but older than this.’
The look she gave her own car was scathing, which, Gabe thought, was a little rich considering the fuss she had made over him driving it the night before.
‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ She had jumped out of the car, heedless of the rain, which had lightened to a drizzle, and was trailing her hand over a cream Austin Healey. ‘And look at that Morris Minor, it’s pristine. Wow, what great condition. Somebody loves you, don’t they, baby?’ she crooned.
Crooned. To a car. To an old car.
‘They are very nice,’ Gabe said politely as he joined her. ‘For old cars.’
‘Shh!’ Polly threw him a scathing glance. ‘They’ll hear you. Don’t listen to the nasty man,’ she told the Austin consolingly. ‘He’s French.’
‘We have old cars in France too,’ Gabe said indignantly, stung by the slur to his country. ‘I just prefer mine new.’
She patted his arm consolingly. ‘This might not be the right place for you. Come on.’
It was a new side to Polly. Excited, eager, playful. It was a side he bet her staff never saw, that barely anybody saw.
‘So, where are we?’ Gabe asked as they walked along the chipping-strewn path that took them through a small wooded area and towards the house. Bunting was strung along the path, dripping wet yet defiantly cheerful.
‘Geographically I’m not entirely sure, socially we’re at a vintage festival.’
Clear as mud. ‘Which is?’
Polly stopped and turned. ‘Surely people go to them in France?’
‘Possibly,’ he said imperturbably. ‘I, however, have not.’
‘You are in for such a treat,’ she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him along. ‘There’s usually stalls where you can buy anything old: clothes, furniture, jewellery. And tea and cakes, and makeovers and dancing. Loads of people come all dressed up in their favourite decade, mostly forties and fifties but you do get twenties and sixties as well.’
