Chapter Six
My stomach started complaining of hunger about halfway through our wait for the next train. When I stood and began gathering my things, Benoit watched me questioningly.
“If I don’t eat something, neither of us will make it to Cabourg.”
“I’ll join you.”
I would have rather he didn’t, though I didn’t say so.
Now that I’d calmed down, I could see how…
maybe… I had been cruel to him. He did stop to make sure I was okay, after all.
He did help me up. And although he touched my underwear in doing so, he did help me pick up my mess.
I wouldn’t have screamed at Apolline if she were trying to help me in the same way.
When I was honest with myself, in those long hours on the hard train station bench, I could see how some of what had happened was my fault. We shared the blame.
I had to preserve my energy, and, yes, being spiteful was costly.
Actively hating him would distract me from my mission, which was to get better stories than him.
Crush him with my talent and capabilities.
Ruin his career. I couldn’t fight him the whole trip and maintain my professionalism.
I had a job to do. And no matter how I felt about my colleague, he was my colleague, and we’d been tasked with working together.
Passively hating him would be more practical.
So I nodded my acceptance and walked toward the café.
We sat together at a small table in the concourse where we could watch other travelers passing by.
Sunlight streamed into the station through the wide skylights in the ceiling.
A server came and filled two glasses with water from a large carafe.
The menu was simple, and after the business of ordering lunch, we sat facing each other, our bags tucked under our seats so they were out of the way.
And it occurred to me that we would, unfortunately, be sharing many meals like this in the coming days.
My next thought was that at least he was pleasant to look at.
He had sparkling eyes in a shade of blue that I’d never seen on anyone else before.
And his thick brown hair fell in a glossy swoop over his forehead.
His jawline and cheekbones could have been carved in marble by a master.
His face drew the eye. A regretful fact.
Beautiful people always got away with more, made it further in life, because of their physical pleasantness.
Now if only I could figure out how to get him to keep that perfect mouth shut.
“How well do you know our illustrator?” he said, breaking our silence.
“Is that why you’ve followed me to the café? To find out gossip about our coworker?”
“I’m just curious. And hungry.”
“We’ve never traveled together, if that’s what you mean. She’s been at L’Entreprise longer than me. I’ve encountered her in various professional settings. I’m familiar with her work. What do you want to know?”
“I suppose I want a sense of what she’s telling Vartre right now about why we missed our train.”
“Oh. Well. I’m not sure. I hadn’t considered that she’d tell her anything.” Perhaps I should have, but when I’d spoken to Vartre, it didn’t sound like we were in any trouble. “I think it will be fine. I fell. You were helping me. She got on the train without us.”
“You’re probably right.”
The server returned with our soup and bread.
It was hot and looked delicious with creamy white beans and rosemary.
The baguette was crisp and fragrant. We ate in silence for a few blissful minutes.
He had decent table manners and swept up his own crumbs when he finished his bread. Had his mother taught him to do that?
“Your family seems nice.”
“Oh, did they? For having raised a villain like me, you mean?”
I laughed, despite myself. “No. I just mean they seemed so normal.”
“Again. Compared to what?”
“I’m trying to be nice, you know. And I mean it.” I almost told him about my own lack of family life, but I held back. There was no reason to get that comfortable.
“Well, thank you. I appreciate it. They are nice. Maybe not normal, though.”
“How do you mean?”
He raised an eyebrow, perhaps surprised that I’d asked.
I was a little surprised myself. “Well, my father, who never approved of me, died a few years ago. My mother is unwell. My sister’s husband is a captain in the navy, and so he is rarely around.
With the children and my mother when I’m at work, it’s a lot for Rachelle.
I have an older brother, but he’s a doctor in Orléans and has three young children of his own. ”
“Have you left your sister in the lurch for this trip?”
“No. We’ve recently hired someone to help with my mother; it seems to be going well. And we have a housekeeper who has been with us for so long she’s like family. They’ll manage, I hope.”
“It’s not what I pictured of your home life.”
“You pictured my home life, Marnet? Now you must elaborate.”
“I guess I assumed something less wholesome.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Because it gave me another reason to dislike you, I suppose.”
His blue eyes glistened. He didn’t care at all that I hated him. “Well, I appreciate your honesty. Do you come from a big family?”
“Me? No.” I wasn’t going to say more, but when he stared at me instead of continuing on about himself, I had to fill the space. “My mother died in childbirth. My little brother’s, not mine. I was eight. My brother didn’t make it either. And so it was just my father and me after that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. And is your father in Paris?”
“No. He’s gone as well now. Died when I was fourteen.”
“Goodness, you’re an orphan. I had no idea.” His brow crumpled with what seemed like genuine pain over my circumstances. Most people felt bad for me, which was why I should never have brought it up.
“It’s fine. It made me who I am today.”
“Well, no one would envy you. But as a man who has always lived in an over-crowded house, I can see some obvious benefits to having fewer people around.”
The server came with coffee and cleared our soup bowls; an interruption that allowed me to step back on what was a deepening conversation. I needed to be vigilant and careful about deepening anything with this man.
When the train rolled in, we were both waiting on the platform, ready.
Puffs of steam filled the station. The arriving passengers debarked, and finally it was time for us to board.
A porter directed us toward the back of the train, and as we passed other cabins, I saw roomy bench seats facing each other with little tables mounted between them.
For a brief moment, I was relieved. It would be annoying to share a cabin, but they seemed roomy enough.
“Here we are,” he said, opening a narrow door at the back of a train car. “Oh.”
“What?”
“This can’t be it. There isn’t room for both of us in here.”
“Let me see.”
He stepped inside, struggling to turn in the tight space and face me. “It is certainly tight.”
“Tight? Where am I supposed to sit? On your lap?” The cabin—if you could call it that; it looked more like a cabinet—was less than a meter wide or deep. There was one bench seat that seemed much smaller than all the others we passed. There was no table and the window was more like a peephole.
“Did we open the right door?” He stepped out again, brushing past me and craning to look at the surrounding cabin doors.
I didn’t want to believe that this could be it.
I checked the ticket against the plaque on the door twice, hoping my vision would miraculously clear, and we’d be in the wrong seat.
But no matter how many times I blinked, the numbers didn’t fail to correspond.
There was not a more spacious cabin waiting for us somewhere else.
And yet there had to be. My chest tightened at the thought of cramming myself in there with him.
Desperate, I said, “I think we should find someone to ask. Maybe we’re in the wrong car. ”
His pretty face betrayed no sense of humor. “I don’t think so, Vanessa. I am afraid this is it.”
“Well, I refuse to accept this.” I shook my head like an insolent child. “This is not going to work.”
“Now you’re being intentionally difficult. There are two seats. Plenty of room.” He stashed his bag under the bench and offered to do the same with mine.
“I can handle my own bags.” I tried to step past him and put away my valise, but there wasn’t enough room.
My hip rubbed against his, and when I tried to move in the other direction my breasts pressed against his firm arm.
My heart began to flutter in the most uncomfortable way.
I had never been claustrophobic, but a panicky surge of denial hit me, standing there in that tiny space.
All I could smell was him—the cologne, the floral something (a lavender soap maybe), and a hint of sweat.
He was touching me even though he wasn’t trying, and there was no room to share.
I wanted to scream. “That treacherous ticket clerk lied to us! That’s maybe one and a half seats.
Two children couldn’t sit here comfortably. ”
“It will be fine. After everything that has happened today, I’m sure we can manage. It’s only for a few hours.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as me. But a small, reluctant part of me appreciated his positivity.
He sat on the bench seat, taking up most of it.
Then he scooted toward the wall as far as he could and looked up at me.
We were still so close that my skirt was brushing his leg.
He smiled when he saw my face, which had to be twisted and ugly.
It felt like it might melt off. I groaned and let my shoulders fall and my head hang.
Why? Why me? I had asked it a million times in my life, and I was asking it again now.
The train whistle signaled departure. There was nothing to do but sit. And so I did.