Chapter Eight

 

IF DOUG AND Rebecca had wondered where I’d spent the evening, they said nothing the next day. I was silent at breakfast as Rebecca packed her overnight bag and told me all about her confidence that the foundations would be dug out soon.

All I could think of was the meal in the Chamonix house and how much Madame Chamonix had welcomed me like a long lost child. Although it appeared she was not as close to Berne as her father because they didn’t work together, Madame Chamonix doted on Berne and it was returned with fervour.

When I’d sat through lunch with my mother and Doug, I had answered as I was meant to, neither of them noticing that my mind was elsewhere. Berne and I had sat with her parents, chatting about the wonder of the food, the fact that the winds along the Ardèche were unseasonably strong this year, and Marseille’s narrow victory over Monsieur Chamonix’s belovèd Lyon.

As my mother dragged me onto the plane and we landed in Paris, she was so busy looking at all the designer options that I doubted she noticed my mental absence. Berne had walked me home, her hand strong, holding mine. She had told me of how she planned to take over her father’s business, perhaps expand it in times when there were less local jobs into making stone sculptures.

I tried on dress after dress as though I wanted to wear it. Smiling at the right times was easy, I seemed trained to do so. Behind those smiles I replayed one moment over and over.

 

“You should head inside. You will get cold again.”

I couldn’t let go of her hand, I couldn’t let go of her. “Thank you for taking me home tonight.” I felt over the calluses on her palm. “Seeing them, catching up . . . it was perfect.”

“Oui, it was.”

Her eyes glimmered in the moonlight with unshed tears. In my foolish intention to wipe them away, my thumb traced over her smooth skin.

“Why do you always make me want to sing?”

She nuzzled into my palm and kissed it. “Because around me, you let the truth free, non?”

I brushed her hair out of her eyes and stepped forward. “And what is that truth?” For some reason, my heart had squashed all logic and was driving me onwards.

Berne leaned her forehead to mine. “That you are more than what you appear. That you are another woman inside that shell.” She brushed her lips over mine. Hovered. Waiting. Waiting for me to answer. Electricity rippled up and down my arms as I looked up into soft, gentle, patient eyes. Her eyes.

Uh oh.

“Why can only you see that?”

I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and sank into a kiss. Every pore thudded with the contact, with the relief, with the elation. Her mouth swept circles around my every sense. Her kiss seemed to reach through the mist I had found myself wandering in, pulsing like a light up ahead. Blindly, I followed, my lips desperately searching. Thirsty, parched emotions flooded with the building moment.

I had to breathe. I didn’t want to let go. I needed to breathe.

We broke away. Breathy, ragged kisses, wanting, searching for more. Warmth, soft strong shoulders, her hair glossy and thick between my fingers. I placed my forehead to hers. It felt so real, so needed that I whimpered. I needed her so much.

“Bon nuit, Pepe.”

I pulled her back to me at the sound of her name for me, managing to whisper words between kisses. “Dors Bien, Bebe.”

Her response was to pull me closer. She dragged me under once more. Her hands running up and down my back, soothing the aches from the work. Soothing the ache in my heart. “I must go now.” She pulled me back and held me at arms’ length as her chest rose and fell. “You must be bright for your mother.”

She made no attempt to leave. I made no attempt to let her go. Our kisses had confirmed everything to us both. How could we pull this off when just kissing her felt so good?

“I hate mornings.”

A movement upstairs finally drew us apart. A sultry smile touched her lips. “You did not hate them so much with me.”

Mean, mean and sly. “That’s because waking up with you was a reason to greet every day with joy.”

Berne’s eyes darkened. She moved forward but the sound of Rebecca calling out stopped her.

“Bon nuit.” She shot it at me as though she hated having to say it at all.

She spun on her heels and strode away. I stood helplessly watching. Unsure that she would ever be that close again. I took in every moment, the rugged rocky roadway under her feet, the way she moved, the way her hair bounced along behind her. I leaned against the wall, wishing I had the courage to follow but knowing that, for her sake, I couldn’t. It had to stop. I had to let go, somehow. How did you let go of the love of your life?

 

“Phillipa, are you listening to me?”

I nodded to my mother, smiling to cover my lapse in concentration. Could heartbreak be an ongoing thing? It had been long enough that I should have been over it by now.

“Do you want these or in the other style?”

Looking down at the shoes, I blinked back Berne’s soft smile. If I was marrying her, which ones would I have chosen? I pointed to a pair on the side. I liked how her eyes travelled over my legs when I wore heels. I liked knowing how I held her undivided attention. “Those.”

My mother picked up the others, unflattering, boring. “She’ll take those,” she said to the shop assistant in French.

If that wasn’t a reality check, what was? I wasn’t marrying Berne. She would be drooling over some other woman in Marseille by now.

I was marrying Doug. Somehow I doubted if either he or my mother really cared who lay beneath the polite manners and well-choreographed responses. It didn’t matter what I wanted, what I needed. Berne needed me to stay away from her. She was better off without a coward like me.

Besides, I would cease to be myself as soon as I walked down the aisle. I’d cease to be anything but Mrs. Doug Fletcher, the mother of his children.

Yippee for me.

 

PARIS IN THE springtime.

Technically it was early summer and the city felt alive with an energy I couldn’t explain. The weather was warm and the cafés poured out onto the ancient streets. There was nothing like people watching the Parisians. You see, they were so very different to the rest of France. They were the capital’s dwellers and they carried themselves with extra confidence. Men sat cross-legged in shirts with jumpers tied around their shoulders. Others in polo-necked jumpers, jeans, and suede jackets. They just looked like culture. Of course, the younger generation looked like they did back home, texting, giggling, or wandering around in packs and yelling to one another.

I’d consoled myself during the afternoon, watching young couples wander to and fro as I stood diligently being fitted for this and that. It reminded me of when I’d visited with Berne. One young boy strolled along with utter confidence. He threw his empty pop bottle in the air as he tried to act nonchalant for the girl beside him. She gazed up at him, attempting to look bored but I could see her nerves from where I stood. An odd ritual that I was sure happened the world over for the young and in love.

I’d followed Berne down the same street towards the Eiffel tower. She’d been animated, dazzling me with the history of the city and making me laugh at her impressions. I knew I’d carried the same adoring look, attempting to cover it with some kind of coolness.

Young love in Paris, what a perfect way to start the summer.

I had lived in that memory during the evening until Doug and my father flew up to meet us for dinner. The very chic restaurant was exactly what most women would be awed by. The cuisine was perfect, the maître d’ was everything you could wish him to be and Doug looked every inch a prince.

I felt as though I were watching the whole thing on a screen. Someone else’s life that I’d stumbled into. How had that happened?

I’d kissed her. She’d kissed me back.

“So how is the little project coming along?” my mother asked when Doug went to the men’s room. She had an odd smile on her face that made me wonder if she’d drunk a bottle of red by herself.

“I’m certainly feeling it in my back.”

She and my father laughed as he patted her hand. Had they both been drinking?

“How far along?” Her eyes twinkled.

“Not long, it’s going to be closer to Christmas than I would like.”

My father clasped his hands together. “How wonderful. Such a gift for the new year.”

Quite taken aback that they were so pleased with my professional life, I found myself quite flushed. They’d never really taken an interest in my work before.

“When will we get pictures?” The tone in my mother’s voice made me smile. She really was interested, wow.

“I’m thinking of creating a study, you know at each stage of development, so that I can document it.” I picked at the napkin. “It’ll be good to have when we go for more later on.”

“You sound so calm about it all,” my father said. “How wonderful that you feel so confident.”

“Well, I’ve got great support and I’m not alone. So it’s perfect and perfect timing really after leaving that place.”

My mother “mmm’d” in agreement. “They never appreciated you, I told your father . . .” She nodded to him. “Didn’t I? I said, ‘They don’t know what a gem they have.’”

“She did,” my father confirmed.

Wow, I’d never seen this side of them before.

“And bagging a catch like Doug,” she said, making my father nod in hearty agreement. “Wonderful man—”

“Wonderful,” my father added.

“And to think in college we were worried.” She laughed.

I didn’t. How had I made her worry in college? I’d had the best marks in the year for a start.

“Hanging around with those girls who were less than reputable.”

“You mean Rebecca?” I had never been one for a million friends. Women tended to find me hard to figure out, so most of my social group was male.

“Yes, well, the less we say about her the better.”

“Now, Daphne,” my father said. “Rebecca is a wonderful young woman.”

“Oh, you would say that after she fixed your car.” My mother looked over her thick-rimmed glasses at me. “Hopefully now, you’ll move in more acceptable circles.”

Are you kidding me? was the first thought, followed by a sudden nausea that my mother felt such a thing about Rebecca. “She is acceptable.”

“With all those tattoos? And that hair . . .” My mother clapped her hands in a dramatic show of disgust. “No wonder she can’t get a man.”

“She doesn’t want one,” I hissed through my teeth.

“What is she going to do when you’re busy, hmm?” my mother asked. “What then? She can’t just tag along everywhere.”

“Why not?” I knew that was borderline teenager but I felt like someone had thrown the ice bucket down my back. “A ring doesn’t mean a lobotomy.”

At least I hoped it didn’t. What if that’s what Doug would order? I shook that thought free. Not good.

“You hardly want her influencing the little one.” My mother beamed at my stomach.

I looked down to try and see what she was gawking at.

“Little what?”

Had I dropped something?

My father laughed. “You were the same, Daphne . . . grumpy and in a daze.” He beamed at her, patting her hand as though she were a pet pooch. “Such a torrid time.”

My mother leaned into him. “Sent you out to buy onions at three in the morning . . .” She turned to me. “You’ll need to take a good look at those toes because if Doug is anything to go by you’ll be twice the size I was.”

The penny finally dropped.

My stomach seemed to drop into the abyss with it.

Oh shit.

“Everything okay?” Doug sat next to me.

I stared ahead, my mother’s mouth moving yet I couldn’t hear her words.

“Pippa, you okay?”

Oh shit.

They thought I was . . .

Oh shit . . .

Nausea swished around in my stomach. All that perfect French food cried out in panic and readied arms to make a break for it.

“She’ll get like that.” My mother was in my face now, her hand on my head. “We should get her back to the hotel, rest up.”

Why, why would they think such a thing?

Was I?

Oh no . . . no, no, no . . . no . . .

I wasn’t . . . was I?

In panic I started cycling through my memory. When was the last onslaught from period purgatory?

Was it two . . . ?

Wait . . .

Had I had it that month?

The new car smell made me realise we must be in the car. My father was chatting to Doug happily in the front about stocks and shares. My mother rubbed my arm.

Had I had my period?

I needed to call Rebecca . . .

She’d know . . . She was good with these things.

Why didn’t I write the stupid things down like she’d told me to?

“Slow breaths,” my mother said. “I’ll get you some ginger tea when we get back. Was a lifesaver for me.”

I’d kissed Berne.

I could be having Doug’s child.

He wanted to get married.

I wanted to go back to London, to Winston, and beg for my old job back. I also wanted to take Winston, drive to Marseille, and beg Berne to take me back.

Uh oh. That was really not good.

My chest tensed up so tight it was painful to breathe.

“Calm,” my mother urged. “It’ll pass over.”

My shoulders decided I wasn’t getting enough air and joined in, moving forward and back in support. The food continued its little revolution inside, charging to and fro with wild abandon.

“Come on now. We’re at the hotel.” My mother guided me out of the car, Doug’s hand was on my back. The sweet reception girl waved hello.

“Hold onto me now.” My mother cooed like she had when I was a small child. The lift slid into motion.

“You know what it is yet?” my father asked.

“Bound to be a boy first time, don’t you think?” Doug said. “I mean, I’d love a girl too but be good to have an heir to hold the name steady.”

“Best way,” my father said. “We did the same.”

My own heartbeat thumped in my ears. Why had they turned into something from Pride and Prejudice? An heir? Doug wasn’t the king of England.

Unable to hurl a tirade of abuse, I let my mother lead me from the lift and hurried into our penthouse rooms. It was less like a usual hotel suite and more like a large apartment.

I staggered up the steps, into the bedroom, and shut the door behind me.

“Be fine . . .” I managed. “Bathroom.”

I could hear them all laughing in delight, more baby talk ensuing. I scrambled for my mobile and dialled Rebecca.

Ring, ring . . . ring, ring.

I could visualise the awful ringtone in my ears. Why she thought that TV theme tune was cool, I couldn’t fathom. The show had finished well over a decade ago.

Ring, ring . . . ring, ring.

“Pick up!”

Where was she? I slumped down onto the bed. The realisation buckled my legs.

She was in Marseille.

With Berne.

Berne and Viper-Vivienne, the creepy, toothless, old bat.

Ring, ring . . . ring, ring.

“I need you . . . Pick up the phone.” I held my forehead with my palm, hoping it would calm the pounding behind my eyes.

“Pip?”

Relief washed over me, then tears. “You sober enough to be trusted?”

“Pip, it’s ten o’clock and I had a glass with dinner.”

Oh, so the bat cooked. Bet she was like Mary Berry—focus!

“When was my last red mark?”

“Are you seriously—?”

“Please.” I sounded like I was appealing for help on a desert island. I was half ready to unfold my clothes in the shape of letters and flag a passing helicopter.

“Last week,” Rebecca said. “Yeah, you ate us out of Carte Dor, remember?”

“So I’m not pregnant?”

Rebecca sucked in her breath. “Not since last Tuesday. What is going on?”

Relief flooded through every pore I had. Oh thank you, thank you, thank you. “Doug said I was.”

“He what?” The anger in her voice made me smile, ever my hero. “What did he do . . . ? When—?”

“Wait.” I knew what her next question was. “We haven’t . . . not since . . .”

I didn’t remember when I’d last let Doug stay over. I’d been in flux since I’d left work.

“Why did he tell my parents?”

“He told your parents?” I could hear her explaining to someone, the muffled tones as she covered the mouthpiece.

Berne’s voice in the background made me sigh in relief then tense that she wasn’t alone. Another voice, a sultry voice. My stomach revolted at the sound of the toothless cradle-snatcher’s soft tones.

I dived for the bathroom. “I need to go.”

“Wait . . . Pip . . . I’m here . . . talk to me.”

I shook my head, stupid because she couldn’t see me, but it made me feel better.

“It’s Pip,” Rebecca said to someone in the background. “Doug told her parents she was pregnant.”

“She is?” Berne’s voice sounded like she wanted to strangle someone.

“Who is Pip encore?” The third voice. Her voice. “She is your girlfriend, Rebecca?”

“Er . . . yeah. She’s . . . er . . . my girlfriend.”

Way to sound convincing Rebecca.

“No, she’s not pregnant. He’s wrong. He’s also an idiot.”

It had to be her if Rebecca was lying. Oh that hurt. My heart skipped several beats in response as if it wanted to stop then and there.

Vivienne didn’t sound old, she sounded like she probably looked, gorgeous.

“I have to go.”

I disconnected the call and turned the phone off. I hadn’t even bothered to switch on the lights in my haste to slam out reality.

I rolled off the bed and walked to the un-shuttered window. Paris carried on below, the lights of the city a stream of reds and whites. Summer in the air and the smell of possibility, of dust, and fragrant sweetness. Sounds of mopeds and distant life buzzed on. I’d always adored France, adored the history, adored the people and the flow of life.

Berne had brought me here that summer weekend. We’d travelled up on the TGV train and stayed near to the Champs D’Élysées. Berne had shown me the city, every quiet forgotten corner that hid from the tourists’ eyes. A little café which made the best pizza that I’ve ever tasted.

The owner was from Portugal. His laugh had filled the small place. His wife bounced their baby boy on her lap as she chatted with another woman. Berne’s hand in mine beneath the silvery-shined table. Her whispered purrs in my ear as she challenged me to order. I’d been so terrified to speak the language, so worried I’d get it wrong.

A stroll along the moonlit Seine. Her gentle hum as the tourist boats swished by. Water lapped against the wall below us. I was due to go home for a week after our time there. I hadn’t wanted to go back, to leave but she wrapped me in her arms.

“We’re only a moon away, non?”

I looked up now, tonight, at the same full-beaming face high in the clear night sky. We couldn’t have been the first to use her quiet smile as a messenger while two hearts beat apart.

Somewhere out there, I kept the comfort that Berne was gazing up in wonder too.

 

THE MOON SHONE in glorious wonder over the Mediterranean. It was still tonight, the heat building as it always did this time of year. Marseille was an eclectic city, one Berne both loved and loathed. In her heart, she was as much part of the Ardèche as the rocks themselves. City life had never been for her but it had been too lonely in Ajoux-Sur-Rhône. She had great friends in the city and it was where Vivienne lived but it was nothing without Pippa.

“You are quiet tonight.”

Berne turned and smiled at Vivienne, taking the offered glass of champagne. “It is a beautiful night, there is nothing like a full moon.”

Vivienne placed a kiss on her neck and Berne relaxed into it but her thoughts strayed far from the lips she could feel to the lips she desired.

“This has much to do with your new colleague?” Vivienne smiled and touched the back of her hand to Berne’s cheek. “I know you too well. I know when you worry.”

Sighing, Berne turned back to the room. Rebecca had left not long after the phone call to drive back to Ajoux-Sur-Rhône. It had taken every ounce of self-control for her not to go too. If Rebecca was worried, then no doubt she had good cause.

“This man who her girlfriend marries, he is a bad man?”

Was he? Was there any sign that Doug had done anything but adore Pippa?

“Non, he is just. He does not always think before he acts.”

Vivienne chuckled and held out a hand. “What lover ever does?”

Berne knew what the gesture was, where Vivienne was going with the look in her eyes. It had always been enough, enough to make her feel something. Not a fiery burning need like she’d known before. No, not a soul-soothing relief, not even close to the emotion she had once felt and yet it had been sufficient.

That was before she had kissed Pippa again. What was meant to be a moment of memory and nothing more had reignited every flame she’d spent so long fighting to extinguish.

Foolish to think that any caress of Pippa’s could be resigned to a single second. It was so foolish to have given in. They had been in each other’s presence a week and already they had come undone. Already they had betrayed the people who loved and trusted them. Never before had Berne lied to Vivienne but to speak the truth about Pippa was madness. She would never allow her to work alongside Pippa. Regardless of their arrangement, Vivienne expected faithfulness and Berne just wasn’t the kind to be anything but.

Yet, she’d kissed her. She’d already been unfaithful. Why did it feel as though being here was the crime?

All that deceit seemed to be worthwhile, for the sound of those words, “I love you,” echoed in every thudding of her heart.

Pippa still loved her.

“You must not fret so.” Vivienne’s voice grew more insistent. “She will only break Rebecca’s heart anyway, non?”

“What do you mean?” The instinct to leap to Pippa’s defence only barely restrained, Berne tried to cover her frown as though she were contemplating Vivienne’s words.

“If she loved her so much, she would leave this man. She would not play games.”

“Like we do not?” A hint of bitterness seeped in. Years of frustration, heartbreak, and molten pain fuelled her grumpy mood.

“Neither of us is married, Berne.” The bored tone irritated her further as Vivienne sipped on her champagne. “What games are there?”

A dramatic sigh made Berne’s stomach clench. She hated it when Vivienne did this. What did she know? “The ones where you hide me from your life like a lover hiding from a spouse.”

Having never complained of the situation before, it seemed so hypocritical for her to do so now. Still, the knowledge that she was nothing more than a sordid secret sparked a sudden need to get away, to run, to be free of the chains.

To run to Pippa. She loved her. So why weren’t they together? Why had she left? Why had they wasted so many years?

“You know why, Berne. I cannot do my job if my private life is questioned.” Vivienne narrowed her eyes. “And, I don’t like people thinking I’m like your new friend or the one you insist on keeping close.”

“What are they?” Berne’s anger bristled. “What makes them so bad?”

“I need men to find me attractive, you know that.” Vivienne rolled her eyes. “They need to think they can capture my heart.” A slow smile played across her lips. “But they are not the one I wish to seduce, non?”

Berne’s mobile buzzed in her pocket. She yanked it out and read the text.

“It is Rebecca. She has managed to talk to her. She is okay.”

How true that was she didn’t know but it wasn’t her concern anymore. Pippa was not hers to worry over. The pain made it hard to swallow. Pippa wasn’t hers but she still loved her.

“You wish to waste the evening thinking of some stranger?” Vivienne’s voice oozed with impatience. She’d never needed to wait for anything. With her looks, her status, everything fell into her lap with a simple smile. Berne, much to her own disgust, had been much the same.

How could she not have been flattered that this actress wanted her? It beat brooding over Pippa, it dulled the ache.

It was only to be a brief affair but that had stretched out into nine long years and she was still at Vivienne’s beck and call. She was still no closer to being treated as someone Vivienne truly loved and respected.

But then, Vivienne didn’t know her like Pippa did. There was only one person who came close to it. Someone she really needed. “I should go and see Babs.”

Not waiting to look at Vivienne, she hurried out of the door and strode away. The claustrophobic secrecy squeezed at her chest.

As she rounded the corner from the apartment, she fought to suck in the hot humid air. She pulled her mobile from her pocket and dialled Rebecca.

“Berne?”

“Oui. She is okay, really?”

Rebecca sighed. “Yeah, I mean. She’s freaked. Which she needs to get over by the morning or she’s gonna face some uncomfortable questions.”

Barmy summer heat, moon glow overhead, Berne made quick work of the journey to Babs’s place. Hopefully her old friend would be alone. It was wishful thinking but maybe she was. “Why would they question her?”

“Because . . .” Rebecca sighed. “Look, I know that whatever happened between you was epic but she’s supposed to be marrying prince charming.”

Berne heard the sound of clanging and Rebecca huffing.

“I mean, he’s like the dream for her parents. He’s rich, he’s handsome and they want her breeding future heirs.”

“That is her dream too?”

“No,” Rebecca said. “You and I both know that Pippa’s dream would be to own some kind of wood-crafting business and eat chocolate.”

Again more clanging. What was that noise?

“Thing is, she’ll do what her parents want and what Doug wants . . . and regret it every single day.”

“Why?” Berne stared up at Babs’s window. She was in, the light was on, the main light. Maybe she was alone?

“Manners, politeness . . . social expectation. Her brother is a colonel in the army, her sister is married to some barrister. Pip wouldn’t dare rock that image.”

“That does not sound like the woman I know.” Berne had no doubt that she knew the real, indefinable, raw passion that was Pippa. Her laughter, her wish to dance under the moonlight like they did in the movies simply to feel the romance of it.

“Probably because you bothered to fall in love with who she really is.”

Rebecca clanged something again and swore under her breath.

“What is happening with you?”

Rebecca grunted. “Stupid car broke down.”

“Where are you?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. I got off the motorway or whatever you guys call it and I’m somewhere between there and Ajoux.”

Guest or no guest, Berne decided that she would have to break up the interlude. Babs would love the adventure of it anyway. “Stay with the car. We will come get you.”

“Look, that’s lovely but I’m sure you and Vivienne want some peace and quiet—”

“I am not with Vivienne . . . I leave . . . I . . . alors . . . My friend, Babs, we will be there soon.”

Rebecca chuckled and a car door closed. A second later the lock sounded. “I’m more than happy to get off the spooky country road then.”

She disconnected and took the steps to Babs’s apartment two at a time. Anything but wander around staring up at the moon.

She hammered on the door. Perhaps it was too late for such noise but she didn’t care. She felt like she was breaking free. It felt good. Vive la liberté.

“What the—?” Babs face broke into a grin and she hurled herself into Berne’s arms. “You are too long away from me!”

Berne offered the double-kissed greeting, walked in, and grabbed Babs’s keys. “You fancy rescuing someone?”

“She worth my time?”

Berne smiled. “Let’s just say that she is a friend of someone who you may wish to see again.”

Babs picked up her door keys without even casting a glance at the mess behind her. She was much like Pippa in that sense, organised chaos. “Renee?”

Berne shook her head, searching for the little Clio.

“Stephanie?”

“We need to get to Ajoux-Sur-Rhône,” Berne said, opening the door to the little red car. They’d had some great adventures in her.

“Emilie?”

Berne got in the passenger side and handed the keys to Babs. “Non.”

“I cannot think who.” Babs started the car and screeched out of the parking space. “I have not seen you this happy in years—” She slammed on the brakes. “Non?”

“Keep driving.”

Berne couldn’t hide her smile even when the driver behind them held down his horn for nearly a minute.

After hurling expletives out of her window, Babs roared the car into life, whipping in and out of the traffic like always. “Could it be . . . ? Pepe returns?” She scowled and wagged her finger. “I am still angry with her.”

“I know.” Berne squeezed Babs’s knee. “And you will forgive her as quickly as I did.”

“So she is back for you?”

Swallowing back the answer, Berne concentrated on the city whipping past.

“Bebe?”

“She is marrying someone . . . a man . . . I am working on their house.” Berne shrugged as Babs swung the car through a gap in the traffic and tootled up the road, leaving the city. “Mais . . . she told me that she loves me still.”

“She does?” Babs honked the horn for good measure. “She does not love him?”

Berne shook her head. No, she knew that, she could see it in Pippa’s desperation. She was fond of him but she didn’t look at him the same way.

Babs’s black hair whipped behind her as she rolled the window down. “Then we need to bring her home, Bebe.”

“I cannot do that.” She wanted to. It would be heaven to wake up in Pippa’s arms again. “There is Vivienne—”

“Merde to that. She is not Pippa.” Babs honked the horn again. “We’ll get her back.”

Trying not to get carried away with Babs’s enthusiasm, Berne attempted to turn the talk to more mundane things.

She hadn’t seen Babs in months. If she was honest, Babs and Vivienne had hated each other at first sight and so it had been difficult for nine years. Not that it stopped them meeting when Babs was home. It was harder to pretend she wasn’t in the city when Vivienne wanted to see her that was all.

Nine long years of faking it.

She shook her head as the city roads became narrow country lanes. Garish lights faded and the blissful quiet of the country made her rest her head back. Babs was a busy woman. Head of her own business, an internationally renowned business. Not bad for a five-foot-nothing dynamo. Berne smiled. Pippa had dubbed her the Flying Frenchwoman. She was right and it was good to know that energy hadn’t faded.

Babs hurtled around a bend and Berne spotted a car at the side of the road. “There.”

“Non . . . I would not have guessed.” Berne tutted at Babs’s sarcasm as they pulled over.

They both got out of the car but Berne took out her mobile. Rebecca was in a foreign country, alone on a road. It was best to warn her. “I will call.”

“Please tell me that’s you closing in on the car,” Rebecca said.

Tempted to tease, Berne waved into the wing mirror. “Oui. You can come out. We do not bite.”

“Speak for yourself,” Babs shouted from behind her.

The door opened and Rebecca got out into the moonlight, her bright hair evident even in this light. She was everything that Pippa had described, and every bit as loyal as Berne had always imagined.

She was, well, English. Pale, with reddish-blonde hair, at least under the dye. She was stockier than Pippa, more swagger in her walk. The tattoos and the fashion made her a walking statement of, “I don’t care,” yet under it, Berne could tell she was sensitive.

Rebecca also had a real maternal side to her too. Berne had watched her mothering Pippa, affectionate and gentle in her chastising. She knew that her friend was struggling and she was trying to help her.

Berne wanted to ask her why, why had Pippa left. Why had she run if she still loved her like she did? Only pride stopped her. If Pippa wished her to know, she would open up in her own time. She hoped.

Berne turned to look at Babs and smiled at the glint in her eyes. Rebecca was everything Babs made impassioned vocal arguments against. She hated tattoos, she hated odd hair colours, she hated cocky arrogance, and she often left women when their fashion sense irritated her.

Pippa had said Rebecca didn’t date short women. She didn’t date women who embraced fashion as art. According to Pippa, Rebecca felt they were false, shallow, and unintelligent.

Berne smiled at that. She and Pippa had made a bet, which one would crack first. Which heartbreaker would win the battle of France versus England?

“Hi.” Rebecca smiled, motioning to the car. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

“Pas de problème. This is my friend, Barbara Henri.” Berne didn’t miss the appreciative glance that Babs gave Rebecca. “Or as Pippa named her . . . Babs.”

“Er . . . Bonjour—I mean soir . . . bonsoir.” Rebecca wiped her hands on her jeans and held one out. “I’m Rebecca. Pippa calls me a lot of things but none of them are repeatable.”

Babs’s hearty laugh made Rebecca jolt but then Babs laugh did that to most people. “Then our girl has not changed, non.” She gripped hold of Rebecca’s hand, yanked her forward, and placed two kisses on her cheeks.

Poor Rebecca looked shell shocked.

“Let’s head to the village. It is better to stay there. Maman will wish to feed us tomorrow.” Berne doubted that they could fix the car in the dark. It wasn’t going anywhere.

“You sound like Pip now,” Rebecca said as they climbed into the Clio. “She is always thinking of her next meal.” Rebecca met Berne’s eyes as Babs slammed the car into motion. “Which she didn’t do before coming here.”

“Food is more than just to sate the appetite, non?” It was good to know that she’d made an impact on Pippa’s life, on her passions. It had been a joy to show her France. Watching her experience it and fall in love with it stirred something inside her. She hadn’t meant to fall in love.

The eighteen year old who had wandered into her flat during a summer storm had stunned her. Drenched from head to toe, she had a dreamy look in her eyes, as if she understood the feeling in the music.

Eighteen and way too young for her. Berne was ten years older, she was training to be a gendarme. She’d waited until then to help out her father but had found herself in the city more and more.

Pippa had wanted to learn everything she could about France, about working with wood and stone, about the language. It had been hard to ignore the lingering looks, the feelings etched across her gentle, soft features. Pippa didn’t even realise she was doing it half the time.

It just made her all the more pleasurable to be around. She cared, really cared, about the mundane to the profound. She wanted to know how Berne felt, what she was thinking. Pippa reached her in a way that no one had ever come close to. And, she had been eighteen.

Berne had been given a gentle warning from her father when he met Pippa that Berne was to do her job, tutor the girl, and make sure she had a wonderful time.

That was it.

Yet, her parents had been delighted when Pippa wriggled her way in to Berne’s heart. She’d never seen them as happy for her. Of course, they had to keep it away from the friend of Pippa’s family.

He had given them a huge contract that had given the family much needed money. It had taken seven years to complete the Gite village but it had secured her parents retirement years. Pippa had always been mindful of the risk their relationship could have. Berne often wondered if that was the reason why Pippa had left.

They hurtled over the humpback bridge at the bottom of the village, jolting her back to the car. Babs whooped and Berne laughed at the tickle in her stomach.

“Dumb question but one, is this car stolen?” Rebecca asked and Berne turned to her. “And two, where are the seat belts?”

“Relax, my little English lightbulb,” Babs purred. “You are in safe hands with me.”

Berne noticed a slight blush creep over Rebecca’s cheeks or was that just her eyes in the dim light?

“She thinks she is amusing,” Berne offered in case Babs had caused offence.

Rebecca winked. “Only if you slow down, my little French lunatic.”

Babs roared with laughter once more and Berne relaxed back into the seat as Rebecca grinned her way. Berne smiled to herself as she looked from Babs to Rebecca and out of the window.

The competition was on. Interesting . . . very, very interesting.