A Husband For Christmas. Emma Richmond

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      ‘Your French is very good.’

      ‘Thank you. You taught me.’

      ‘Did I? I wonder I had the patience,’ he retorted a trifle bitterly.

      Glancing at him, she saw that he was frowning, fingering the white stripe of hair.

      ‘You cut your head in the accident?’

      ‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Fourteen stitches,’ he added absently. Removing the nozzle, he fitted it back in its slot, looked at her, then away.

      With a little sigh, she walked to the booth to pay, and when she returned to the car she delayed a moment before climbing in, to stare round her. She loved France. Loved the people, the language. And now she was back. Briefly.

      

      It was late afternoon when they reached the turn-off for Collioure, and she glanced at him. He’d been silent since they’d left the service station. Grimly so as he stared out at places he obviously didn’t recognise, and she wondered what was going through his mind. Hope? Despair? It must be so frightening not to know who you were. What you had been. Done. And she was tired, worried about what the next few days would bring.

      ‘Nearly there.’

      ‘Are we?’

      ‘Yes, just down the hill.’ Slowing so that he could see the town spread out below them, the little red roofs, the sparkling sea, she glanced at his stern profile and saw that he was rubbing his fingers across his forehead. ‘Does your head ache?’

      ‘No.’

      Her sigh muffled, she probed hesitantly, ‘Does any of it seem familiar?’

      ‘No.’

      Probably best not to question him, prompt—but how could she not? How could she stay silent in the face of his pain? In the face of her own?

      Feeling bewildered and inadequate, wishing now that she had not come, she turned into the little private car park that served the apartments. ‘We have to walk from here,’ she stated quietly.

      He nodded, unlatched his door and got out. Collecting their bags from the boot, face grim, he hovered indecisively until Gellis had locked the car. ‘This way. It’s not far. I brought the key. I also rang the agent, told her we were coming, made sure it hadn’t been relet.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      They didn’t see anyone they knew as she led the way along the cobbled alley, for which she was thankful. She didn’t think she could have coped with questions, curiosity. As the lane widened out to a small square, she felt a lump rise in her throat as she saw the planted tubs on everyone’s wrought-iron balconies. No riot of colour at this time of year, but there were little shrubs, some white and mauve flowers. Someone had obviously replanted her own tubs—what had been her own tubs, she mentally corrected—because they were as pretty as everyone else’s.

      Halting outside their apartment, she tried to see it through his eyes, feel it through his confusion. Grey stone, leaded casement windows. Not large, not fancy, just—home.

      Turning her head, she watched him, saw the complete absence of recognition. With a gesture that hurt her more than she could ever articulate, he unlatched the gate and stood like a stranger, the white streak at his left temple a flag of unfamiliarity. The hair across the scar tissue would never grow back dark. Always there would be that white streak as a reminder.

      He turned to look at her, gave a wry smile, but his eyes were bleak. As bleak as her own. Taking out her key, she opened the door and led the way into a pretty apartment that suddenly felt cold, empty, unlived-in. Should she leave him? she wondered. Let him find his own way? Come to terms with it on his own?

      ‘Would you prefer to be alone?’ she asked quietly, and he shook his head.

      ‘Then I’ll make some coffee, shall I? The agent said she would stock up for us.’

      ‘Yes,’ he agreed absently, and pushed into the lounge.

      Hands shaking, a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she went into the kitchen, felt the memories rush back and hastily banished them. She had to be hard. Distance herself.

      A packet of coffee stood on the counter with sugar and a fresh loaf. The fridge had been switched on and inside were milk and butter, a few vegetables, fiuit. With a deep sigh, she filled the percolator, switched it on, then opened the back door that led onto another little balcony. She saw that these plants too had been looked after. A cool wind blew off the sea, but it wasn’t as cold as in England. Not as bleak. Only in her heart, she thought That was bleak. Very bleak indeed.

      And the last time they had driven from England to Collioure she had done exactly the same things. Switched on the percolator, come to check on her plants whilst he unloaded the luggage. And then he had come up behind her, slid his arms round her waist, held her against him, touched his mouth to her temple.

      ‘Bed?’ he had suggested with that devilish twinkle in his eyes. And then he had swept her up in his arms, carried her along to their room. His eyes had been laughing, his mouth curved in that wicked smile that had always been her undoing, and they’d lain on their wide bed and made love. So much passion there had been. Always so much passion. And now they were strangers, and she suddenly felt frightened. Frightened of a future that stretched bleak and empty.

      Wrenching her mind away, she returned to the kitchen, got out their cups. Thick, heavy coffee-cups they’d bought in the market together. And she felt her eyes fill with tears for what might have been. What she had thought would be. Perhaps she should have worn his favourite outfit in the hope that it might jog his memory, she thought bitterly—should have worn his favourite perfume, left her dark hair loose, just as he’d liked it... And perhaps the eyes that had always been filled with laughter and love would flicker with memory.

      And then what? An explanation for his behaviour? But supposing there wasn’t an explanation? Supposing he just hadn’t loved her any more? Or their son.

      Leaving the coffee to percolate, she went to find him because she couldn’t do anything else. The compulsion was coming back. The need. And that had always been the danger.

      He was in their bedroom, wardrobe door open, staring at the few clothes hanging tidily inside. Standing quietly in the doorway, she watched him with an aching intensity, a hopeless yearning for it all to be different, all to be right. For him to turn, smile, say he remembered, that everything was all right. But he didn‘t—just continued to stare into the wardrobe with bitter hopelessness. Staring at him, at this bitter stranger, she tried to hate him. And couldn’t.

      He lifted out a jacket, tried it on, then gave a grim smile as it strained across his back. ‘I’ve put on weight.’

      ‘Muscle,’ she corrected him quietly. ‘You’ve put on muscle.’ And she didn’t want to feel pity for him, compassion, but she did. He’d once been so dear, so loved, and was now so impossibly distant.

      He removed the jacket, hung it back on the hanger and turned to look at her. ‘Help me,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me what I was like. I feel as though I don’t exist. That I never existed. My only memories are of a dirty cargo ship, of rough men in rough places. I look at you and I don’t know you. We presumably kissed, made love...’

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