A French Fling for the Golden Gals

Prologue

At twenty-five, the future should be an open sky, clear blue, with no sign of rain. But the storm clouds came too early.

Twenty-five was too young to lose the love of your life.

Maxine Sweet stood at Andy’s bedside, watching him breathe in, out, in. Waiting, terrified, for the out that wasn’t in again.

His eyes flickered open.

‘How are you feeling?’ Maxine asked quietly. Not just because she was in a hospital, but because it was a foolish question, and she knew the answer.

‘All right,’ Andy lied – just for her. He was attached to a heart monitor, to all sorts of tubes. He met her eyes. ‘I’m still here.’

Maxine brought his hand to her lips. ‘They’re looking after you.’ She couldn’t think of anything else to say. She tried harder. ‘The nurse that came earlier – Helen – she’s nice.’

Andy barely heard her. The smile was still on his lips, the one that looked happy even though his eyes were glazed.

‘Your mum’s gone to get a coffee,’ Maxine said.

‘That’s good.’ Andy was too tired to speak. Her Andy, the great conversationalist, the life and soul of every party. Charming, bubbly, popular, full of life.

There was nothing left to say.

Three weeks ago, he’d been playing football, going to the gym, to dinners, parties.

They’d been talking about a holiday, about a trip to Kerala.

He’d been promoted at work, which was great news – her job at the charity was going well too; they’d planned to buy a small flat in Battersea, a home of their own. They’d had a future.

Now, on a bleak April afternoon, he was lying in a hard bed with stiff white sheets, and the clock was ticking fast. Maxine felt tears form.

‘I love you.’

Andy’s blue eyes met hers and she knew that he had given up.

‘You’ll be all right, Max. You’ll meet someone else. Just make sure you leave it until after the funeral.’ It was his brave attempt at a joke.

‘Don’t.’ She squeezed his hands. His fingers were limp, as if he couldn’t hold on.

The curtains rustled and Helen, the nurse, came in. She couldn’t have been much older than Maxine. Or Andy. She bustled around the bed, checked something on the heart-monitor machine and was still for a moment, as if thinking. Glancing at Andy, she said, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

He muttered thanks but no sound came from his lips. His lids closed wearily.

‘Try to rest,’ Maxine said hopelessly.

Again, her words were empty. Rest wouldn’t help. Nothing would.

Yesterday, hours ago, everything had been fine.

They’d been out for the evening, returned to their little rented flat and she’d discovered that they were out of milk.

Andy had joked that he couldn’t live without coffee and had popped out to the corner shop, crossed the road in a hurry, and the car had hit him.

Of course, it had been going too fast. The roads had been wet. The driver had been young. There had been three other young passengers coming back from a night out; they had been laughing and joking, distracting him.

Maxine had heard the sirens, seen the ambulance’s flashing lights against the dark sky from her window. She’d rushed out, watched the panicking driver. Then, as she’d approached, she’d seen Andy sprawled on the tarmac.

For a carton of milk.

And now, he was in hospital, breathing shallowly. In. Out. In.

He was drifting. It occurred to her that there wasn’t much time. She was hanging onto each breath, hoping there would be another, hoping it wouldn’t be the last. She wanted to keep him for as long as she could.

The doctor’s words had hit her like a barrage. Trauma. Acute internal haemorrhage. Nothing to be done. Make him comfortable.

It was hard to take it in.

Andy’s lips moved. Maxine wasn’t sure what he’d said. She edged closer, closer still, until her cheek was almost against his lips.

‘What do you need, my love?’

His mouth opened again, and she thought she heard the word ‘home’.

‘What about home, Andy? Can I get you something?’ Maxine felt suddenly nervous. Andy was fading.

‘I’m going to find our home… and wait for you,’ Andy whispered. The air against her cheek was almost imperceptible. She held her breath and willed him to inhale again.

There was nothing.

‘Andy?’ Maxine leaned closer. ‘Andy?’ She heard her voice rise to a scream, as if it were someone else’s. ‘Can someone come quickly?’

Maxine met Russell at Andy’s funeral. Of course, before he’d died, Andy had joked that she should wait until after the funeral to meet someone else. She hadn’t thought about his words at the time. Why would she?

It was a tearful occasion, heartbreaking.

She didn’t really notice Russell. He was tall, slim, polite.

Dark hair, piercing blue eyes, a confidence that made him speak slowly, as if he intended listeners to hang onto each word.

He offered condolences and said he’d worked as a finance analyst in the same office as Andy: Andy was one of the good guys, the best. Maxine had never heard Andy mention Russell Barton, but her mind was elsewhere.

She’d cried throughout the service. Andy’s mother had asked her to read something, and she’d chosen a verse by an anonymous poet she’d found on the Internet.

It was deliberately short – six lines long – so she’d manage it without falling apart.

She’d whispered the first two lines,

‘I wrote your name in the sand,

but the waves washed it away.’

and thought her legs wouldn’t hold her up. Clutching the lectern, trembling, she needed all her effort to make it to the last few words,

‘So I wrote your name in my heart,

and that’s where it will stay’

before she was convulsed by sobs.

At the church door, the rain pelting outside, under a dismal grey sky, Russell Barton told her he had never seen anyone speak from the heart so beautifully. He said it had brought a tear to his eye.

Then he did something strange. He pressed her upper arm with his fingers, keeping his hand there as if sympathy would pass through like a magic power. She noticed the touch, strange in its unfamiliarity, but she took it as a connection, a kindness.

She thanked him and moved away to speak to someone else. She didn’t think of Russell Barton again.

Not for over thirty years.