“Mmm?”
“Why, if you’re an architect are you up there managing them? I thought you were a brickie or whatever the French call them.”
“They’re called brickies over here too. My manager is off sick at the moment so I decided to handle it myself.”
“I see,” although she didn’t see at all. As an architect he should be spending his time designing, not wasting it overseeing his builds. Her mind scrolled back to what she’d learnt about him designing spectacular prize winning buildings, but perhaps this was his project, his baby.
“So the building opposite.” She tipped her head to look up at him. “You’re not just the architect then, you’re…?”
“The owner you mean, or the mug that’s sunk his whole life into creating a dream?” He pushed his mug away and folded his arms across his chest. “Yep, that would be me.”
“Your dream,” she repeated, parrot fashion.
“My dream, my vision. Call it what you like.”
“But you’re building apartments; flats like this one aren’t you?” She waved a hand at the giant billboard pinned to the side of the building.
“Yes, and no. Apartments, specially designed apartments suitable for people with a range of both abilities and disabilities.” His eyes narrowed. “Most apartments just cater for one type of person. You, and the other people here with you are all youngish professionals?”
“We have to be to cope with the stairs.”
He laughed. “My apartments are innovative in that they’re adapted for both able-bodied professionals, families and those with disabilities. All the doors are extra wide to accommodate both buggies and wheelchairs. All the kitchens are designed with adaptability in mind. All the sockets are at waist height; out of the reach of little fingers but also wheelchair accessible. All the balconies are reinforced glass, high enough to protect inquisitive toddlers, but still functional for wheelchair users.”
Her smile broadened, her eyes never leaving his face. “Wow, bloody wow! How fantastic is that? I’ll just bet investors are clamouring to jump on board.”
“Again yes and no,” the wry smile back. “Yes, because they can see the profit margins creeping up. But no, when they see what I intend to ask for, they disappear into the ether.” He reached out and took her hand, examining her short well-kept nails free of varnish. “This isn’t about making an exorbitant amount of money, Sarah. I’ll never be a rich man,” his eyes joining hers briefly. “It’s about designing affordable adaptable housing that can in effect take the owner from birth to death without them ever having to move.”
“Hence not replacing your project manager and bricklaying in your spare time?” she added softly.
“It’s much better exercise than spending money on a gym I never had time to attend anyway.” He met and held her gaze. “If you’d like, I can show you around?”
She interrupted, her eyes gleaming. “I’d love to see it.”
“Okay, I’ll tidy up here if you want to grab a jacket or something.”
“What about food?”
“It’s all taken care of. The only thing left is you and your bikini.”
“So where are you taking me on this picnic then?” she asked, following him down the stairs.
She’d torn back into her bedroom and rummaged through her drawers for her bathers before adding sun cream and a straw hat for good measure. May might have nudged April out of the way for another year but sunrays were sneaky. With skin like hers she was only safe in the middle of a storm where every bit of sky was obliterated by cloud. Strawberry wasn’t a good look on any day but especially not today, especially not with him.
Her eyes wandered over his springy dark brown hair to where it curled along the top of his collar while she waited for his answer. She wasn’t one for long hair in men and any longer she’d be getting her scissors out. But he didn’t give off the air of someone too bothered about his looks. It was more he just hadn’t the time to go to the hairdresser. He’d thrown on a blue chambray shirt with sleeves pushed up to the elbows and, as her gaze lowered, she noted yet another pair of shorts which he appeared to live in unless he was out on the town. Part of her wondered if he wore them all year round even as another part managed to control her eyes long enough to shift them upwards away from his firm bum before he turned and caught her checking him out.
“I thought it was time I showed you my stately pile,” he answered, pulling open the main door before letting her dip under his arm to sneak out first.
“Yeah right! If it’s anything like my parents stately pile, I should have brought an extra cardigan,” she replied, glancing down at her thick black woollen jacket. “My father is a real one for economising on heat and there are more drafts at Cosgrave Manor than in the average wind tunnel.”
“Wait till you see mine.” He commiserated, “It’s not far, only about forty minutes or so.”
“And you commute each day?”
“D’accord, unless I stay on-site. But curling up in a sleeping bag with only a stone floor for comfort isn’t my idea of a good night’s sleep.”
Grabbing her hand he gave it a gentle squeeze before heading across the road.
“Come on, I’ll show you the building first. There’s still a lot to do but, now the roof’s completed, we can start fitting it out.”
He picked out a couple of hard hats from a pile in the corner before gently pushing one on top of her head. “Company rules I’m afraid,” he added, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “It suits you.”
Making their way through the wire security gates he took her through a maze of brick piles and machinery before reaching the entrance, which led into a large reception area, or what would be a large reception area when it was plastered and floored.
“We’ve finished on the outside now so the plumbers and electricians have taken over for the next few weeks,” he said, pointing to the large hole in the ceiling where the lift was going. Taking her hand again, he directed her to the first door. “We’ve planned some ground floor apartments for those who’d prefer not to be upstairs. Of course they won’t have balconies but they will have access to a small garden instead.”
Looking around she was stunned at the open plan feeling of space that the cleverly designed apartment created. Stepping carefully to avoid the trenches for underfloor heating she skirted around the edge of the lounge to poke her head through the doors of the two smaller rooms complete with large ceiling to floor windows.
“The lounge faces south-west so it’ll get the evening sun, but I’ve made both bedrooms north facing to capture the early morning light,” his voice anxious.
“Can I put my name down now?”
He laughed and, swivelling her around in his arms placed a quick kiss on the tip of her nose.
“You like it then?”
“I love it,” her face slightly pink. “It’s…” She stepped back to spread both hands wide. “It’s perfect.”
In her mind’s eye she could already see the plain white walls splattered with bright abstract prints. The concrete floor covered with ceramic tiles of earthenware hues. The modern open-plan kitchen separated from the living space with a breakfast bar and rich pine stools.
“With a kitchen area along the far wall,” she added, gesturing to the corner. “And a large squidgy sofa positioned to watch the children playing in the garden…” She hadn’t realised she’d expressed her thoughts out loud until he tweaked the end of her ponytail.
“I’m sorry, I got carried away.”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” he said, throwing back his head with a laugh. “So how many children are you planning on having then?”
The colour on her face intensified as she said, “Me! I wasn’t talking about me, and anyway I’m not planning on having any,” she added, turning back towards the door, “shouldn’t we be going?”
“Yes we should.” He paused and then flung a casual arm across her shoulder as they made their way out of the building and over to his car.
&
nbsp; Safely ensconced in the warm interior, she thought she’d escaped having to answer the question that was hanging over them like a thundercloud ever since he’d asked it. They’d talked about the empty streets and the chiming Sunday church bells and a hundred other topics but of course he was biding his time. He was waiting for the perfect opportunity to drop it back into the conversation like the proverbial brick.
They’d passed the deserted kindergarten school before he interrupted her halting discourse on the array of flowering mop head hydrangeas that seemed to grow with increasing regularity now they’d left the centre of Paris.
Placing his hand on her knee but with eyes fixed ahead he finally said. “That’s a shame; you’d make a great mum.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh I think I do, ma petite; the way you’ve already started to mother little Minou.”
“There’s a vast difference in taking on a cat to having full responsibility for a child.”
“Not really, it’s all about love and, from where I’m sitting you’ve got more than enough to share around,” he said, throwing her a sideways look from narrowed eyes.
“Well it’s a moot point anyway.”
“What?”
“It’s a moot point. In other words it’s irrelevant, completely and utterly immaterial.”
“Why? I thought it would be very relevant,” his voice so soft she had to strain to hear him.
“Not if you’ve decided not to have them. My mother nearly died when she had me and things like that tend to run in families. I don’t want to risk it, and I really don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she added, patting his hand absentmindedly as she turned her head to look out of the window.
She threw him a look as she tried to work out what had made her divulge something so central to who she was, even as she noticed the sudden whiteness around his jawline. She’d forgotten how embarrassed men got about such things and they were merely passing acquaintances after all. In a few weeks he’d move on to his next project and she’d be leaving Paris herself when her term came to an end. He’d probably dump her now anyway, she thought, a wry smile tugging at her lips. Who’d want to go out with her after they discovered that she was scared of getting pregnant? It was also one of the reasons marriage to Rupert, whilst unsavoury and unwanted, wasn’t something completely out of the question. He’d already got four grown-up children from his first two marriages and was dead against any more.
He must have felt her eyes on him because; before she could turn away he’d touched her hand. “My home is just around the next corner…”
She’d expected him to pull up outside one of the small cottages that straggled the roadside of many a French country lane. Instead, she found herself being driven through a set of thick wrought-iron gates reminiscent of Cosgrave Manor. There was even a long swirling driveway disappearing out of sight behind a display of ornamental box trees. Just at its end she could see spiralling turrets stretching out towards the sky but that was all, the rest of the imposing building was hidden from view.
The gateway and entrance whilst as grand as her parents in both form and size had a distinctly neglected feel. The sand covered drive was sprouting more than the odd weed while the hedges were in urgent need of a good prune. Even the powerful gates looked as if they could do with a lick of paint, something Hopper oversaw with the zealous eye that bespoke both his position and worth.
Ignoring the drive, he pulled in behind the gatehouse, leaning across to open her door before collecting a large hamper from the boot. Once inside, he placed the basket in the kitchen before returning to where she was standing in the miniscule hall.
“What about I show you around and then that swim I promised?”
“I thought you were joking?”
“Really? I never joke.” He smiled, tapping the end of her nose with his knuckle. “There’s a swimming pool by the main house that I’ve managed to keep in usable condition. It’s a great way to relax and chill after a day on site.”
“I’ll just bet it is.” Her mind was brimming with questions; questions she was pretty sure she’d soon find the answers to. He was a complete enigma; this tall, good-looking man, and she didn’t want him to be. She wanted to know everything there was to know about him; after all he knew nearly everything about her, apart from her shoe size.
“So this is the lounge, as you can see.” She followed him through the first door on the right, which opened into a bright west-facing room with views over a small, well-tended garden. Its plain white walls were in stark contrast to the old, blackened, wooden beams and mahogany-stained floorboards but the addition of a large sofa pushed up in front of the wood burner turned what could have ended looking like a doctor’s waiting room into a comfortable home. There were a couple of newspapers on the stool and an open book turned upside down to mark his page. In fact, all that was missing was a cat, she thought with a smile as he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the kitchen.
“I only finished this a few weeks ago. What do you think?” His eyes were on her face as she took in the sleek black lines and granite surfaces. There was even a cat flap she noted with a smile, thinking suddenly of Minou and how much he’d love it here.
She arched an eyebrow. “How do you keep it so clean and tidy?”
“It helps if you don’t use it much,” he said on a laugh, opening the fridge to reveal a carton of milk and a few bottles of beer. Unbuckling the straps on the basket he took out a bottle of Muscadet and placed it in the special rack provided before turning back to her. “The bathroom’s upstairs if you need to…”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” She perched on one of the bar stools hidden under a spare worktop.
“So how long have you lived here then, it’s a gatehouse isn’t it?” Her eyes focussed on the edge of the gate-post just visible from the window.
“That was a long time ago. I should get them removed but I quite like them, apart from the security. It’s quite isolated around here even though it’s only a stone’s throw from Versailles.”
He stood up and stretched, giving her a crooked smile. “I’m not used to such late nights.” Holding out his hand he added. “Come on; let’s see if some of this fresh air can wake me up, and what about that swim I promised?”
He left her in the hall only to return within seconds with a couple of large fluffy towels under one arm. “I hope you’re hungry, ma chérie?” Flashing her a smile from under his brows even as his hand reached up to run a knuckle over her lower lip. “Apart from spicy chicken I was in the dark with what you like.”
She felt her mouth tremble at his touch and saw his eyes lingering where his finger had only been seconds before. Biting down on her lip she turned away to pick up her bag. She could tell him what her tastes were, but she had an inkling he knew as the atmosphere suddenly changed from just two friends enjoying a peaceful Sunday outing to being charged with enough hidden emotion and desire to power Flamanville Nuclear Power Station.
“Oh damn it to hell.”
“What?”
She found herself twisted back within his arms, her bag dropping to the floor with a bang, but she didn’t hear the bang. All she heard was the thumping of her heart as he lifted up both hands to cradle her head. All she felt was his eyes as they scrolled over her face with that look again. All she saw was his mouth and then she closed her eyes as feelings and emotions took over.
Sarah had been kissed before. There was the stable hand, Angus. He’d pinned her against the wall of the barn on her sixteenth birthday, but the smell of sweaty horse flesh squashed any lingering memories of what was her first kiss. She remembered he’d limped for days after the well-aimed kick to his groin but at least that was the last time he’d ever come near her without a horse’s lead in his hand.
Then there was Paul. Paul whom she’d thought special; maybe even the one. He’d smelt of beer and stale Indian, or Chinese, or whatever other fast food he’d lived on in the halls. In fact, his breath was the only rea
son she hadn’t moved their goodnights into the bedroom: if his mouth was that bad what would the rest of him smell like?
Rupert, well she didn’t want to think about Rupert: Rupert with his meaty hands and sweaty upper lip. Up until now she’d avoided anything over and above a kiss to the cheek, but the way his hands always managed to squeeze her in places she didn’t want to be squeezed was a revelation, or should that be revulsion? They say always save the best til last and she knew as Pascal’s lips touched hers that this wasn’t just a kiss. This wasn’t just the meeting of two young things eager to get it on. This was soul kissing.
There were no fireworks or explosions. There wasn’t even the sound of ringing bells or trumpets heralding a new dawn. There was Sarah and Pascal falling irrevocably in love in his tiny hall somewhere near Versailles. The kiss, slow, sweet and lingering went on for seconds but felt like hours. His hands remained cradling her face, his fingertips intertwined in her hair, free now from the usual confines of its ponytail. Her hands, well she didn’t know what to do with her hands so she let them hang by her side, wishing with all her heart she had the nerve to wrap them around his back in an effort to bring him closer.
Finally they pulled away, his hands moving from her face to the gentle slope of her shoulders before drawing her into a gentle hug. Her head filled that little dip just under his chin and after a moment she found the courage she’d been looking for and wrapped her arms around his back.
“Are you all right, ma chérie?” he whispered into her ear. “I wasn’t expecting that to happen.”
What could she say as she felt her heart settling down in her chest? She’d never been asked by a man if she was all right, well apart from her dad on the odd occasion he was actually around when she’d done something stupid like falling off her pony and breaking her arm.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 6