The Secrets of Meadow Farmhouse. Katie Ginger

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СКАЧАТЬ She took a sip of coffee and saw the imprint of her red lipstick on the rim of the cup. ‘I don’t think it’s love.’ Sometimes, she found it hard to believe that someone would ever love her. Her life had been so destitute of it from such an early age. ‘And to be honest, I’m not sure I’m in the market for that sort of thing at the moment. I like him, but …’

      The words died on her lips. What could she say? He was another man who over the years hadn’t made her feel the way Adam had? Océanè would laugh at her for thinking of a love that happened so long ago. An image of their goodbye at the train station floated before her, causing her throat to tighten. She dropped her eyes to her cup, focusing on the coffee inside it, hoping it would draw her mind and the pain away.

      Océanè took a moment to understand the phrase, but realisation quickly dawned. ‘You are mad. He has everything a woman could want: money, success, good looks.’

      Bastien did have all those things and he was also kind and funny, which is how they’d made it to five dates rather than just one, but despite her best efforts, he still hadn’t managed to break through to her heart.

      ‘You are a cold woman. You care only for your work.’

      Amelia raised her head at this remark. Was she cold? She didn’t think so. She had friends and had been through some decent relationships, but they’d never felt strong enough to last. She wasn’t cold, she was just focused on living her life to the full. She’d worked hard to become one of the foremost interior designers in Paris, and she wanted more than just a man who was perfect on paper. She wasn’t prepared to invite a man into her life for the sake of it. She’d always done fine on her own and her life was far too busy for loneliness.

      Océanè continued. ‘I do not know how you can be so immune to his charms. Our men – French men – Parisian men – know how to win a woman’s heart.’

      ‘Your French men are pretty charming, but I’m far too busy with work to worry about love.’

      ‘Don’t your parents want you to get married? Mine do. They say that I should marry Émile and have children before they are too old to enjoy being with them. They say my eggs will die.’

      ‘Your eggs?’ Amelia almost spluttered her coffee.

      ‘Eggs.’ Océanè motioned towards her lap. ‘Your parents do not worry about your eggs?’

      A sharp pain shot into Amelia’s chest and a hurt she’d convinced herself had been dealt with stabbed anew. ‘My parents are dead. They died when I was a child.’

      Océanè’s hand paused as she tore off a piece of croissant. ‘You have never told me that. We have been friends for years and yet you make no mention of this. Why not?’

      Amelia shrugged one shoulder. ‘It’s never come up before.’ That was a lie and she quickly changed the subject, unsure why she had suddenly admitted it. Perhaps she was more tired than she realised. Her temples started to pound again. She’d been out with friends every night this week, and last. Maybe a decent dinner cooked by herself – something hearty and wholesome rather than tiny, minuscule restaurant portions – and a quiet night in were in order. ‘Once we’re done here, I’d like to take another look around. I’m after some special pieces for an apartment I’m working on in Montmartre.’

      ‘You will have to do that alone; I have to meet Émile. But you must think about Bastien. There are many women who would like to take your place in his bed.’

      ‘He was in my bed, actually,’ she replied, playfully eyeing Océanè over the rim of her cup.

      ‘You know what I mean.’ Océanè raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘You can be too hard, Amélie. Too independent.’ It always amused Amelia that Océanè called her by the French version of her name when she was being serious. ‘One day, you will push a man too far away and he will not bother coming back.’

      Not if he’s the right man, Amelia thought, but didn’t bother saying so. She hadn’t planned on sleeping with Bastien last night and it had been a moment of weakness she was paying for this morning. She hoped that by spinelessly hiding out until he’d left, she’d avoid an embarrassing situation.

      ‘You have a great business, yes?’ Océanè said. ‘You have a great apartment, yes? But you are never alone. Always you are with friends. A person cannot exist without love. Eventually, you will have to let someone into your heart. Why not Bastien?’

      Feeling the prickle of embarrassment inch its way over her skin, Amelia pulled her compact from her handbag and topped up her red lipstick. She’d been without love all her life, since her parents’ deaths but she couldn’t face talking to Océanè about that now. ‘I’ve done fine without a man so far,’ she said light-heartedly, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

      After they had finished their coffees and talked about their plans for the rest of the weekend, Océanè left and Amelia took another walk around the flea market. Temptation sat on her shoulder and whispered into her ear as her eyes fell on different objects that would suit her already overflowing apartment. Some of her clients liked a minimalist style, but when Amelia saw something she wanted, it was almost impossible to resist. As a result, her small flat was now packed with possessions and her wardrobe overflowing with clothes.

      Amelia haggled with a vendor to buy an ornate perfume bottle – a finishing touch for the Montmartre apartment – and a vintage copper milk jug for her own place. She’d find somewhere for it to go later. Maybe the bathroom? And made her way back to the Metro.

      As she climbed the steps from the Metro station, the cold, fresh air blew through the elaborate dark-green metal bars and under the glass ceiling. The station design was so iconic she had a picture of one in the living room of her apartment. She’d bought it shortly after moving in all those years ago, and though it had been fairly inexpensive, it was still one of her most prized possessions.

      Her apartment in Saint Germain was in a typical eighteenth-century block with white shutters and decorative ironwork across the windows. On hot summer days she would cast the windows open and let the light flood her apartment. As she stepped inside the communal hallway, she gathered her post and made her way upstairs. An envelope postmarked from England caught her eye and her lungs turned to stone. It had a company name she didn’t recognise. Even worse, the town it came from was dangerously close to Meadowbank; the tiny village she’d grown up in with Great-Aunt Vera who had begrudgingly taken her in after her parents had died.

      Curiosity almost forced her to open it there and then, but Amelia valued her privacy and continued upstairs. She pressed the key into the lock, hoping once more that Bastien had left by now. She really didn’t fancy talking to him. He’d try to convince her to spend the rest of the day with him and all she wanted was to nap on the sofa as the soft breeze blew over her.

      With a gentle push, the door opened and all was quiet inside. No sounds of snoring, no sounds of movement, and sighing with relief, Amelia advanced down the hall and into the open-plan living room and kitchen, anchoring the milk jug under her arm so she could see the envelope again. It nestled among bills, inviting Amelia to ignore everything else and tear it open without any further delay.

      ‘Good morning, ma chérie.’

      Glancing up, her eyes fell on Bastien, lying naked on her kitchen counter, one leg bent, the other outstretched and all of him on display. The copper milk jug fell from underneath her arm, landing on the floor with a deafening clatter. Bastien wobbled precariously and almost toppled forward onto the floor. His hand СКАЧАТЬ