Shoving his chair back, Charles hurried across to the man standing agitatedly in the doorway, and Melly didn’t need to be able to understand French to know that Charles was demanding details of whatever it was that had happened.
Quickly finding some francs, she put them on the table to pay for the coffee, then, pushing her own chair back, she hurried to join the two men who were striding urgently back towards the harbour. Something was wrong, that was obvious, but what?
There was a large knot of people on the quay, all talking, obviously discussing whatever it was that had occurred, and she watched Charles and his companion stride up to some sort of official and begin to question him. She saw him nod, then shove his hands into his pockets and look out towards the open sea.
She could have gone away then, left quietly, without fuss, because she knew he’d forgotten all about her, but she didn’t want to go away, didn’t want to leave. Moving to stand beside him, she asked hesitantly, ‘Is something wrong?’
Snapping his head round, and then staring at her as though he wasn’t sure who she was, he gave a long shudder, and with an obvious effort focused his attention on her.
‘Melly. Oh, hell, I’m sorry...’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, tell me what’s happened.’
‘It’s Laurent—well, Laurent’s yacht, at any rate; apparently a motor cruiser went into her side. I don’t know any details; the rescue launch has gone out...’ Breaking off, he continued, more to himself than her, ‘He’ll be all right. More lives than a cat...’ And then he closed his eyes, as if he was silently praying.
‘Charles,’ his companion said quietly and, grasping his arm, drew his attention to the rescue launch that was slowly entering the harbour. Glancing at Charles’s face, she saw hope warring with bleak presentiment. Averting her eyes, she too stared at the launch as it slowly motored to the quayside.
A man and a woman were escorted off first, the woman weeping hysterically, the man white and obviously shaken. No one else, only the blue uniformed figures. Charles and his companion walked towards the man who was obviously in charge. She saw him shake his head.
Feeling helpless, and useless, she watched as a white-shrouded form was stretchered up and put carefully on the cobbles. Saw Charles kneel and gently pull back the covering to stare down at, presumably, the face of his friend, and then stand helplessly by as the stretcher was picked up and carried to the waiting ambulance. The other man accompanied it, leaving Charles looking lost and anguished, unbearably hurt.
Her heart aching for him, she walked back to his side. Slipping her hand into his arm, she held it warmly against her.
‘I should have gone with him,’ he said bleakly. ‘I was intending to, only I wanted to finish fixing something on Wanderer. If I’d been with him...’
‘If you’d gone with him,’ she said gently, ‘it might have been you.’
‘You think that matters? No, Melly, it wouldn’t have mattered at all. No loss to anyone. But Laurent... Oh, God.’ Turning his head, and obviously becoming aware of the knots of people still talking, speculating, he clenched his teeth and eyes tight for a moment, then, grasping her hand, he said harshly, ‘Let’s get out of here before the Press arrive!’
Pulling her along the sandy track and across the main road towards a block of flats, he pushed through the main entrance door and into a waiting lift. Pressing the button for the third floor, he kept his face resolutely turned to one side, away from her, until the lift halted and the door slid open.
Melly had just time enough to notice that the landing was covered with expensive green carpet, the walls painted cream, before she was tugged along to a door at the end. Flat three hundred and one. Charles inserted his key and, still grasping her hand, pulled her inside. Releasing her, he strode along the tiny hall and into a door at the end. Following slowly, she watched him push open the french windows of the large square lounge and step out on to the balcony for a brief moment. Then, still without speaking, he came inside and made for the bar set up in one corner.
Feeling totally inadequate, and uncertain what to do for the best, she investigated the kitchen and made coffee and sandwiches, neither of which Charles touched, but just refilled his glass every time it was empty and stood staring out over the harbour. Knowing there was nothing she could say to alleviate his suffering, she thought it was probably best to allow him to come to terms with it in his own way. Curling up in the armchair, she watched and waited, in case he should need something. Anything. A shoulder to lean on, cry on. Someone to hold.
As the sky gradually purpled, then blackened, he gave a long sigh and gently pushed the windows to. Turning, he stared at her for a moment before walking, quite steadily, across to the standard lamp and switching it on.
‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed helplessly.
Walking across to the cream leather sofa, he sat, still nursing his glass, and began to talk. All about Laurent, their friendship, the things they had done together. ‘He was my friend,’ he concluded quietly. ‘My very good friend.’ A look of such agony crossed his face that Melly felt tears start to her eyes. Placing his glass carefully on the floor, he hunched over, his head on his knees. Without stopping to think, she rose quickly, and sat beside him. Putting her arms round him, she held him close, laid her head against his and rocked him silently.
‘Don’t go,’ he said thickly.
‘No, I’ll be here. As long as you need me to stay, I’ll be here.’
They had sat for a long time like that, until, eventually, she had helped him into his bedroom, helped him undress, and had then lain beside him in silent comfort.
* * *
‘Madame? Madame!’
With a little start, she blinked, turning her head, and stared rather blankly at Jean-Marc.
‘It is the telephone, madame. Your mother.’
‘Mother? Oh, right, thank you.’
Feeling disorientated and muzzy, she got reluctantly to her feet. Memories of that night spent with Charles remained vivid in her mind and, for a moment, she was resentful at having to put them aside. Memories of his lovemaking would probably be all she ever had. All she maybe deserved, because she had made a conscious decision to stay with him that night. It hadn’t only been the action of a friend; it had also been a selfish desire to be near him. With a little sad sigh, she followed Jean-Marc inside.
CHAPTER THREE
AFTER a really rather pointless conversation with her mother, and reassuring her that she felt fine, and yes, would let her know the results of her scan, Melly replaced the receiver. Poor mother, stuck over in England while her one remaining, and very pregnant, chick lived in France. She was still trying to persuade Melly to go to England to have the baby. She didn’t trust the French; didn’t think they had decent hospitals; thought the food was bad for her; and, as always, Melly soothed her, explained yet again that French hospitals were probably better than English ones; that the food was fine, didn’t upset her, knowing full well that her mother’s anti-French feelings were just an excuse. It was Charles she didn’t trust. She had also been angling for another invitation, and, naughtily, Melly had pretended not to notice. She had already been out twice, and Melly didn’t think Charles would be too pleased at another visit quite so soon. Neither, if she was honest, would she. Mother would fuss, organise, send her to bed; make her put her feet up; and would again comment on the fact that she and Charles didn’t share a room. And her poor father, who Mother always insisted accompany her, would wander round, looking lost and uncomfortable, fervently wishing he could go home and back to his small engineering workshop where he could hide from the world.
‘Mother?’ Charles queried