By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

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      Anxiously she contemplated the meal she’d cooked. Her salad—she was leaving the vinaigrette dressing to him—the lamb cutlets with the Shari Lacey version of ratatouille instead of a sauce. It was Luc’s turn to make the dessert.

      His handsome face lightened. ‘Everything is good. No need to worry.’ He smiled, but she couldn’t help wondering. And worrying.

      He partook of the meal she’d partly prepared with apparent appreciation, but, as she’d noted before, he was a courteous guy. She made the resolution to take some lessons in French cuisine just as soon as she had the chance. Definitely.

      Over the next week or so he often seemed deep in meditation. Once or twice she caught him looking at her with an expression she couldn’t interpret.

      Well, she was starting to show. Her waist had thickened a little, and there were definite signs of a bump. To compensate she started making sure she looked beautilicious when he arrived home. Pretty clothes, underwear. She even had her hair cut and foiled and bought a straightener. At one point she succumbed to ironing a tee shirt.

      In the bedroom she felt driven to experiment in ways that surprised even her normally inventive self. Was it hormones, rivalry or sheer insanity? Every time he looked gloomy, she felt challenged to distract him in some new and sensuous way.

      She was at risk of turning herself into a femme fatale.

      Luc came home early one afternoon when she was working on her book. The dining room’s light with its romantic view of the rooftops and chimney pots of Paris had made it the obvious choice for her workplace. To spare the furniture, she’d spread a sheet over the table for her paints and paraphernalia, and pinned up some paper to protect the silken walls from splashes.

      ‘Ça va.’ He kissed her, tasting of coffee, the city, man and desire.

      ‘You’re early.’

      ‘Oui.’ He noticed her painting and bent to examine it, exclaiming, ‘Aha. The carousel in the Luxembourg. You know, my papa used to take me there when I was a little kid.’

      ‘Oh, did he? It’s so beautiful there. It must be the best gig in the world for a juggler.’

      ‘But I don’t see your owl,’ he said, searching the picture.

      ‘Ah. No. I’ve abandoned him until I’m in Australia again.’

      He frowned, as he often did when she mentioned Australia. She guessed the reminder of Rémy’s business shenanigans there still stung like crazy.

      ‘See?’ Shyly, she showed him her initial sketch, and some beautiful old posters she’d unearthed from the famous Cirque d’hiver. ‘I’m still working on the face. It’s not so easy to do the juggler.’

      He compared them with her painting, exclaiming about the little telltale signs she’d used to make the setting obvious to Parisian children. ‘It’s so good. It’s … exceptional. Magnifique. You are a great talent.’ Glancing about at her protective measures, he indicated the room with a sweep of his hand.

      ‘Maybe you’d like to change all this. Find a new look for the apartment. Make this a proper studio.’

      ‘But that would be so much trouble, wouldn’t it, when we don’t even know how long-term my stay here will be? I’d hate to cause you all that expense for something that might well turn out to be temporary.’

      ‘Shari …’

      She looked enquiringly at him. He looked almost pained, then his jaw hardened. He threw out his hands. ‘Chérie— There is something— I have something I must discuss with you.’

      Clunk. For some reason her heart hit a pothole. She picked up a cloth and wiped her hands.

      He took her shoulders and looked gravely at her. ‘I have had news. Your visa can’t be changed from within France. I’m sorry, chérie, but the laws here are very strict. If you wish to apply to be a resident, you must do it from Australia.’

      ‘Oh.’ It was a shock. ‘You mean—go home? Already?’ Disappointment, and a zillion obstacles flashed through her mind. Being with him. Their life. Her hopes and dreams. Her French lessons, her clinic appointments. Leaving him. Leaving him.

      He lifted his hands. ‘The immigration and visa laws have tightened here as everywhere. This is why …’ his dark lashes screened his eyes ‘—I am suggesting—to spare you the trip—we should get married.’

      Her brain spun for a giddy minute or so. When it slowed down she noticed a certain rigidity in him. A waiting stillness. Then the full implications of the words hit.

      Pain sliced her heart like a knife. ‘Oh. Oh. Married. Heavens, has it come to that?’

      His eyes glinted. ‘It may look like an extreme solution, but in your condition … Surely a long flight wouldn’t be advisable?’

      ‘Oh, that’s just …’ She smiled bitterly and shook her head. ‘Pregnant women can fly right up until the thirty-sixth week.’

      ‘Are you sure? How do you know?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Have you been checking?’

      ‘Emilie. She wanted to come for the … Anyway … Anyway …’ She laid her palm on her forehead. She felt flummoxed and prickly, as if all her fur had been horribly ruffled and she might just burst into tears. ‘If I go home, who knows how long I’ll have to wait for a residential visa? I’ll just have the baby there, I guess.’

      ‘No. No, Shari …’ He made a sharp movement but she turned away from him. ‘Don’t think of leaving, chérie. No need to give up. The marriage ceremony is nothing. Just a formality. A banal, bureaucratic formality.’

      ‘Look, I just need to think for a while. Excuse me while I go for a walk.’

      She grabbed her bag and almost flew out of the apartment. Down on the ground floor she rushed blindly past the concierge’s office, then headed to the nearest métro. The closest station to the Luxembourg was only one stop further on from Saint-Placide where she travelled for her lessons. Several times already she’d walked from there to the gardens to help her story cook.

      Naturally, like the thoroughly emotional woman she was, she cried on the train. Then she cried on the way to the gardens, which was silly because she bumped into people and some of them were quite rude.

      Then she walked past the children’s garden, past the carousel, all the way to the fountain where she’d first told Luc she was expecting. As a coincidence, it was late afternoon again, not many people about.

      She sank into a green chair and sat with her head in her hands. These last few weeks she’d been living in a bubble, she realised, and now it had burst.

      But if you loved someone, what did it matter? A marriage proposal was a marriage proposal. She probably didn’t deserve roses and pretty words and kneeling on the ground. The alternative was to leave him and fly home. Leave him without his baby? How could she even contemplate such a thing?

      If she did make that long journey, would she ever come back? Would he even want her back?

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