Chapter 28
“You always do that.”
I start as Jackson’s words rouse me from my daydream. “What?” I ask, swiveling to face him.
He’s tipped his chair back, his fingers steepled. It’s Monday afternoon and we’re at the office.
“Tap your pen on your bottom lip when you’re thinking.”
“Do I?” I ask absently.
“Yeah, it’s your tell.”
I look at him blankly.
He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “You are in another world today.”
“Sorry,” I murmur, trying to collect myself. “Your tell is paper clips.”
“What?”
“Paper clips. You unfold them when you’re anxious.” I stare pointedly at the two on his desk.
He glances down and his brow knits. “Who says I’m anxious?”
“You don’t have to say, I just know.”
His frown deepens. “Why do you think I’m anxious?”
“There’s a lot riding on this. It’s probably your biggest contribution to the business to date; changing the branding is huge.”
“You’ve done most of it.” He looks fleetingly vulnerable.
“That’s my job, but you’re pulling it all together, and your halo idea for the bottle is great. That’s going to form a big part of the marketing.”
He had this idea to put a yellow ring around the bottle above the etching of Sainte églantine.
Now we’re taking it further, incorporating it into other areas of the design, including two light installations.
We’re having circular yellow neon lights made that will hang down from the center of the ceilings in both the pavilion and the grotto.
The grotto one will be huge—it will light the entire interior space.
I spent an hour this morning trying to find someone who can custom-make the lights in time for the launch, finally locating a company on the outskirts of Paris.
I’ve also lined up étienne’s graphic designer friend Francois to mock up some simpler branding for the website that integrates the halo.
It’s been a solid day’s work, and it has been an effort to stay focused.
He spoke to me in French…
I experience full-body shivers when I think about his voice, murmuring in my ear. It drove me crazy.
He’s coming over tonight to watch that Michèle Mouton documentary. I texted him earlier to check he could still make it. He replied within the hour, which was a relief. I’ve had a just-before-the-party feeling inside me all day.
At seven o’clock on the dot, my ears prick up at the sound of étienne’s GTi coming up the winding mountain lane leading to Mellie’s property. I’m on the terrace when he pulls to a stop. What happened to his usual timekeeping? I wasn’t expecting him for another ten minutes.
“Hello,” he says in a low voice as he gets out of the car. “How are you?”
“I like it when you speak French to me.”
He looks amused. “?a va?” He repeats himself, touching his hand to my waist as he bends down to give me two gentle cheek kisses. He doesn’t brush the edges of my lips, but my skin burns anyway.
“Better,” I reply, leading him inside.
“Bonsoir!” Mellie cries from the other side of the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel as she comes over to greet him.
He’s brought a bottle of rosé. “Ooh, you know us too well,” she says gratefully as she air-kisses him and takes the offering.
“I’m just making some popcorn, but go through to the living room. ”
étienne looks around, taking in the colorful wall hangings and ornaments. His gaze travels to the fireplace. “That’s cool.”
The living room is partly open to the kitchen—they share the same two-sided log burner. It’s the most modern feature of the house: a chunky cast-iron oval that hangs down from the ceiling.
“Yeah, I was so surprised when I visited a couple of years ago in winter and saw that Mellie had installed it. It was my favorite thing about the house that year.”
It doesn’t get as cold as it used to though. Twenty years ago, the snow was so deep on the mountain pass that sometimes you couldn’t get through for days. Albert’s wife and son died on that road, but they haven’t had snow like it in years.
He picks up a ceramic bowl from a shelf: it’s a mid-gray piece with an emerald-green rim.
“That’s one of mine,” I reveal as he studies it.
He glances at me, surprised. “I didn’t know you made pottery.”
“I’m not that good at it.”
He looks as though he disagrees. “On the contrary, I think this is beautiful,” he murmurs.
I’m fighting a significant urge to lay my hands on him.
“What would you like to drink, étienne?” Mellie calls through.
“I’ll get it,” I call back, glancing at him for his order.
“Just something soft.”
“Orangina?”
He smiles and nods. It’s French: I thought he’d like it. I go through to the kitchen, instructing him to take a seat.
I can feel Mellie’s eyes on me as I pour the fizzy orange soft drink into a glass.
“What?” I whisper.
She shakes her head, a knowing smile on her lips. “Nothing.”
A few minutes later, I’m inwardly lamenting the size of the sofa. Mellie has taken the armchair and although I’m sitting next to étienne, he is too far away.
An idea comes to me and I grab a cushion, throwing it onto the coffee table in front of his legs and edging closer, putting my feet up. We’re both barefoot—he kicked his trainers off by the door. I tap his knee and indicate the cushion.
He hesitates, and then lifts up his feet, mirroring mine by crossing them at the ankles.
Now I have an excuse to nestle right in beside him. My heart jumps as our arms brush, and while it makes me nervy, relief is the overriding emotion.
It’s a testament to how good the documentary is that I manage to concentrate. I can’t believe I never knew who Michèle Mouton was—she’s practically Wonder Woman—and her co-driver, Fabrizia Pons, is also a boss.
There’s this one moment when they’re describing the madness of the rally in Portugal where all the spectators line the roads and some try to touch the cars as they pass.
I’m so aghast at the sight of mechanics fishing severed fingers out of the air vents that both Mellie and étienne burst out laughing.
Toward the end of the documentary, I bring my legs up onto the sofa, resting my knees against étienne’s thighs. His fingertips ghost over my skin, causing everything inside me to tighten.
I’m coiled to snapping point by the time the credits roll. When Mellie heads into the kitchen, we turn our faces toward each other and have a silent conversation.
He gets up to go and say goodbye to Mellie, thanking her for having him. They share a warm exchange, with Mellie promising to bring her car in early next week for a new set of tires. It’s a Clio, albeit a modern one, but it’s French so obviously he approves.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I say.
The second we’re outside, my back is against the cottage wall and our mouths are locked together, his hips pinning me to the stone.
Our kiss is frantic, desperate, my fingers digging into his back, his shoulders, his neck, his hair; his hands cupping my hips, my waist, my breasts, my face.
Ten minutes later, I’m popping my head around the kitchen door. “I’m just going to go for a drive with étienne,” I tell Mellie breathlessly.
She takes one look at my bee-stung lips and smirks. “I won’t wait up.”
Another ten minutes and I’m in his bed.
He’s thoughtful afterward. I’m lying naked in his arms, feeling boneless from pleasure overload, when I realize he’s staring up at the ceiling. He notices me looking and casts me a barely there smile. He seems…sad? And a little drained perhaps? Maybe I’ve worn him out.
“Do you want me to stay?” I ask, hoping he’ll say yes this time.
He looks back at me hesitantly before saying, “I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
The disappointment I feel is quick and all-consuming.
“I’ve got to go and see a couple of cars,” he explains.
“Your next project?” I ask, forcing what I hope looks like a breezy smile.
“Yeah.” He nods and sits up.
I take the hint, my heart wilting as he reaches for his T-shirt and pulls it over his head.
“I’ll give you a lift home,” he says.
Two days pass and I don’t hear from étienne. I keep reminding myself in a singsong voice that we’re keeping it casual, casual, casual, but my thoughts are rarely on anything else.
On Thursday morning, I crack and text him to ask if he had any luck with the cars he was going to see.
He replies after a couple of hours and attaches a bunch of pictures.
Another Renault 5 Turbo 2! I tap out.
I sold the other one to Gio on Saturday night, he responds immediately.
Cool! That’s impressive—it was on the market for one hundred fifteen thousand euros. What’s the other one?
It’s white, kind of low to the ground, long at the front and sloping at the back with a black rear wing. It also has black bumper trim that reminds me of his 205 GTis, minus their classic red stripe.
After watching Queen of Speed, I have a new appreciation for cars from the 1980s.
1987 Citroen CX 25 GTi Turbo 2, he replies.
I don’t know why it turns me on to see that he’s typed out the full model and make, including the year.
But it does.
On Friday afternoon, after spending the morning supervising the cleaning of Estelle’s artwork in the pavilion—a job I won’t entrust to anyone else—I decide to take étienne a coffee at work. I remember Léo and buy him one too.
The Renault 5 is the first thing I see when I arrive at the open garage door—it’s hard to miss, with it being tomato red.
étienne and Léo are around the back, hunched over. I watch as étienne lifts a bright red bumper away from the car, while Léo looks on, and then they both glance over and clock me in the doorway.
étienne seems taken aback, but when I hold up the takeaway cups, he smiles and passes the bumper to Léo, coming over.
“Salut, Léo,” I call, offering up the second cup.
“Ah, merci!” he enthuses, safely stashing the bumper and bounding over.
My fingers brush étienne’s as he takes his. He looks over the rim at me as he sips.
“How did you know how I like my coffee?” he asks with surprise, pulling it away from his mouth.
Black, one sugar.
“Lise. I got them from La Terrasse.”
“Thank you,” he says warmly.
He’s wearing black work trousers and a snug black T-shirt. His hands are filthy and his tanned, toned, leanly muscled arms are glistening with sweat and smeared with grease. I’ve never seen a sexier sight in my whole life. I think of Jackson and his bulging biceps and feel something akin to an ick.
“I won’t kiss you, I’ll get you dirty,” he says.
Please get me dirty.
Maybe he can read what just went through my mind because his gaze gets a little heated.
I remember that we have company and allow my attention to drift to a green Clio next to the Renault.
“Madame Joubert’s?” I ask.
He laughs and nods. “Oil leak.”
He told me something would go wrong with it before long, but the woman is sentimental.
“What were you doing in town?” he asks.
“I’ve been overseeing the pavilion restoration. You should come and see the progress we’ve made. It’s looking good.”
“I’ll pop by,” he promises, glancing at the Renault 5. I have a feeling he wants to crack on.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just thought I’d say hi.”
“It was nice to see you.”
“Guess I’d better get back to work then,” I say uncertainly.
Has he been avoiding me since Monday? Or is he just busy, like he said?
Is he pleased that I dropped by? I don’t want to be on the back foot, wondering how he’s feeling.
That’s how I’ve felt with Jackson over the years so how the hell I’ve found myself sliding down this rabbit hole after étienne, I do not know.
“Are you going back to Les Saules this weekend?” I ask.
“I might go on Sunday if you want to come?”
“Sure, what time?”
We agree on 10 a.m. but I still feel out of sorts as I return to Chateau Angèle.