by Anne Fraser
By the time they landed Caroline had regained her composure. They still had a long journey ahead, but Pierre wanted to stop at his Parisian flat to check for mail before they continued towards the South. If he noticed Caroline’s swollen eyes as they collected their bags, he said nothing.
‘You two can carry on without me, if you want,’ he suggested. ‘I can catch the evening train, while you get the earlier one.’
‘I want to see where you live,’ Caroline said, surprising Julie. She had thought she had very little interest in her uncle’s life. Pierre looked uncertain, and for a moment Julie wondered if he had arranged to meet someone at his flat. A girlfriend perhaps?
‘D’accord,’ he said, smiling. ‘As you wish.’
Pierre’s apartment was near the centre of Paris—a beautiful Edwardian building with windows that stretched from the floor to ceiling. Inside it was exquisitely furnished and Julie wondered if Iona had had a hand in the interior design. It would have been natural for him to ask his sister-in-law, an artist and interior designer, to help furnish his place. Looking around at the oversized reception rooms with their graceful French antiques, Julie was beginning to really appreciate how wealthy Pierre actually was. The property, situated where it was, must be worth a fortune. But somehow, despite its beautiful furnishings, the flat seemed empty, devoid of a heart. Perhaps it was because Pierre had been away for a few weeks, but Julie didn’t think so. It seemed to her that Pierre’s home was no more than a place he ate and slept. Or perhaps took his women to, she thought, trying to ignore the way her spirits sank at the thought.
‘This is wicked,’ Caroline said approvingly. ‘Maybe I can bring a few of my friends for a visit some time. I always wanted to see Paris.’
‘We could spend a night here on our way back from the farm,’ Pierre suggested. ‘I could show you all the places I told you about. It’s been years since I visited them myself,’ he added ruefully. ‘Somehow I never seem to find the time.’
Julie laughed. ‘I think it’s the same whatever city one lives in. I can’t remember the last time I visited Edinburgh Castle or climbed the steps to Scott’s monument.’
‘Me neither,’ agreed Caroline. ‘But we should take Pierre when we get back—if he can spare the time.’ She slid a look in her uncle’s direction.
‘We’ll see,’ he said. And then, catching Julie’s warning look, added, ‘But, yes, I would like that.’
It was late by the time they arrived at the vineyard and almost completely dark. Julie only had the vaguest notion of row upon row of bare-looking vines as they drove up to the main house. They had been collected from the station by a friendly-looking man in his late thirties. Pierre had introduced him as Alain—his friend and the manager of the vineyard.
The farmhouse was a large two-storey affair, and as Alain and Pierre carried the bags into the spacious hall, Julie immediately felt at home. The bedroom that was to be hers was on the first floor and furnished with a kingsize bed, made up with patchwork quilts and piles of pillows. A fire had been lit in the grate at one end of the room and its cheery glow cast its flickering light across the room.
After a quick wash she joined the others in the sitting room. Another fire had been lit there, this time in a fireplace which was at least twice the size of the one in her bedroom, which was just as well as the sitting room was bigger than any Julie had ever been in before. Large oversized sofas were positioned close to the fire, and Julie sank gratefully into the welcoming comfort of the one closest to the roaring flames.
I could live here for the rest of my life, Julie thought. It’s just so perfect.
Michelle, Alain’s wife, had flung her arms around Pierre when they had first arrived, clearly delighted to see him again. She had also fussed over Caroline. ‘You look so much like your mama and papa, ma petite,’ she had said sadly, before enfolding the girl in a hug. ‘It is good to see you back where you belong.’
Julie was barely able to stay awake during dinner, a simple affair of bread, cheese and salad, and as soon as she politely could she excused herself, pleading tiredness, and sought the sanctuary of her bedroom. As she snuggled into bed, listening to the laughter coming from the kitchen, she felt inexplicably depressed. The atmosphere of the house, the warmth of the greeting, the laughter from below somehow made her feel more alone than ever. How she would love to be a part of loving family—to feel as if she really belonged, to feel as she was really loved. For years now she had thought that her career and Kim and Lexy was enough. That she wouldn’t miss never having a partner and children of her own. But suddenly, devastatingly, she realised that was no longer true. Right now, she could imagine nothing she wanted more than to be a part of Pierre’s life.
Julie woke to the sounds of birds singing and French voices calling to each other. Looking at her watch, she was horrified to find it was almost ten. She never slept that late! She sprang out of bed, and after a five-minute shower pulled on jeans and a blouse. Tying her hair into a plait, she coated her lips with a quick slick of gloss. Then for a moment she stood, arrested, in front of the mirror. For the first time since the accident she hadn’t thought about hiding her scar. With her hair tied back and her face almost entirely devoid of make-up her scar was there for everyone to see. She peered in the mirror. Was it getting fainter? Beginning to fade? Perhaps, she thought, but down deep inside she knew it was more fundamental than that. Something inside her was beginning to change. Her disfigurement didn’t seem quite as important any more. And if she still didn’t believe she was beautiful, she was beginning to realise that she didn’t mind so much any more. Maybe Lexy was right. She had been hiding from life, using her scar as an excuse to avoid really living. Well, no more.
She scouted around downstairs before she found Michelle in the farmhouse kitchen, elbow deep in flour.
‘Bonjour, Julie. Did you sleep well?’ Michelle asked, smiling warmly. ‘There is café au lait, and bread and jam for your breakfast. Please, help yourself.’
‘Merci,’ she thanked Michelle, helping herself to a piece of crusty bread and spreading it liberally with butter and jam. ‘I’m sorry I overslept—you should have woken me.’
‘Pierre insisted we let you sleep. He said you have been working very hard lately, and needed the rest.’ Just as Julie bit into the warm bread Pierre strode into the room.
He was wearing faded jeans and a thin black jersey. He hadn’t shaved and his cheeks were rough with the beginnings of stubble. He looked completely self-assured and, Julie thought, her pulse beating rapidly, devastatingly gorgeous.
‘Ça va, Julie?’ he asked, pouring himself some coffee.
‘Oui, ca va bonne,’ she said, attempting to drag up her rusty schoolgirl French.
Michelle and Pierre exchanged a smile.
‘Ça va bien,’ Pierre corrected, grinning. ‘Now it is my turn to correct you, but, please, do speak French. It suits you, and I like to hear it in that Scottish accent you have.’
‘I’ll try,’ Julie promised. ‘But perhaps when you’re not around,’ she countered. She didn’t know what was worse, Pierre ignoring her or teasing her.
‘Where’s Caroline?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘Still in bed. I guess she’ll be happy there until lunchtime. In the meantime, I thought I could show you around.’
Julie finished her coffee with a quick gulp. ‘I’d like that,’ she said, wishing she could dispel the feeling of awkwardness in his company.
‘We’ll start in the vineyards,’ Pierre said, ‘then I’ll show you where we make the wine.’ As Julie followed Pierre outside she realised with a shiver of trepidation that it was the first time she had been alone with him since that night. She tried to push the memories away. If he wasn’t going to bring it up, neither would she.
But it wasn’t to be. As she struggled to keep up with his long strides as they made their way to the rows of vines stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see, he turned to her.
‘Headache gone
?’ he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Julie felt a blush rise to the tips of her ears.
She glared at him.
‘I thought we were going to pretend the other night never happened,’ she said hotly. ‘I had too much to drink. I’m not used to it and…’ And what? She thought rapidly. It wasn’t that she’d had too much to drink, only a couple of small glasses, but it was preferable to him knowing that she was unable to control her raging lust. She could hardly admit that. That she had kissed him back like a teenager having her first kiss.
‘And…?’ he prompted. If he was any sort of gentleman, Julie thought, he wouldn’t be tormenting her like this. After all, he had kissed her first!
‘Look,’ she said, ‘regardless of how you think of me, I am a woman with a normal sex drive.’ She sucked in her breath. That wasn’t what she had meant to say. ‘I mean—Oh, dear, can’t we just pretend it never happened? I promise you it won’t happen again.’ This time he laughed out loud. Damn the man. He was enjoying torturing her.
‘Quel dommage—a pity.’ He said. ‘Never before has any woman tried to kissed me with such…honesty. It is something new for me.’
Julie was horrified. When he used the word ‘honesty’, did he suspect how she felt? Had he guessed how much that kiss had meant to her? Or was he implying the kiss had been awkward, lacking sophistication? She cringed inwardly. She had to make him believe it had meant nothing.
‘Well, let me assure you this woman will never try to kiss you again. Honestly or otherwise.’
Suddenly Pierre’s expression changed. The humour left his eyes, to be replaced with a gleam that almost made Julie step back from its intensity.
He lifted his hand and, cupping the back of her neck, pulled her towards him. She felt goose-bumps all over her body. She was powerless to resist as he drew her closer, before tilting her chin and bringing his lips down on hers.
Julie felt her whole body melt with pleasure as he explored her mouth with his tongue. She felt herself tremble as his arms swept down her back until, resting on her hips, he drew her closer into his body. She gasped with pleasure as warmth flooded her body and she felt time stand still. This is where I belong. That was her last thought as she gave in to his kisses and pressed her body into his.
It could have been seconds, minutes or hours before they drew apart. Pierre gazed down at her, looking stunned. He dropped his hands to his sides, his fists clenching and unclenching. ‘Merde,’ he said, his voice hoarse. Julie held his look, drowning in his silver eyes. So this is what I’ve been missing all my life, she thought blissfully.
Pierre opened his mouth as if he was about to say something when they heard shouts coming from the field lower down. Pierre and Julie looked at each other. It was clear that something had happened. As one they started moving quickly in the direction of the shouts. As they ran, Julie could see a tractor in the distance, beside which two men were calling and gesticulating, clearly agitated. As soon as they approached the tractor they could see the cause of the commotion. Alain was lying on the ground, holding a mutilated hand and crying out in anguish. Next to him another man was kneeling, attempting to stem the blood spurting from his arm with the pressure of his hands. Julie didn’t need to follow the rapid French exchange between the man and Pierre to realise what had happened. Somehow Alain’s hand had become trapped in the machinery attached to the tractor. The sharp blades had lacerated his hand to such an extent that Julie doubted it was salvageable. At least he wasn’t trapped any longer, Julie thought as she took in the scene. Pierre was taking command of the situation.
‘Julie, run back to the house and ask Michelle for the emergency kit. And ice and a plastic bag. Then ask her to phone for an ambulance. Try and keep her calm.’
Julie spun on her heal and sprinted the several hundred metres back to the house. She paused outside the kitchen to catch her breath. She needed Michelle’s co-operation if they were to help Alain.
Michelle was shocked and distressed, but pointed Julie in the direction of the emergency kit before picking up the phone to call for help. Julie only had time to give her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before she was off again. Her return trip was slower, the heavy bag impeding her progress. By the time she arrived back, Pierre had elevated the injured limb and appeared to have stopped the bleeding. There was so much blood, Julie thought. He’ll go into shock soon if we don’t do something. She opened the medical bag, hugely relieved to find there was a line and a bag of fluids that Pierre obviously kept for emergencies such as these. Quickly she tore open the giving set and inserted the needle into one of Alain’s veins. At the same time Pierre was attaching the bag of saline to the tube in Alain’s arm. Julie and Pierre worked together as naturally as if they’d been doing so for years and Pierre continued to speak soothingly to Alain throughout. Although his eyes were closed, Alain seemed calm. Julie could only wonder at his fortitude. He must be terrified as well as in the most awful pain. But at least they had morphine to give him, Julie thought as she drew up a dose and injected it into another of Alain’s veins. It wasn’t as big a dose as she would have liked to have given him, but until they had him in hospital it was the best she could do. Having done that, she examined his injured hand closely. She was shocked to realise that although the injury to his hand wasn’t as bad as she had thought, three of his fingers had been sliced off.
In the distance she could hear the wail of the ambulance. Michelle came running towards them, her apron flying behind her. She dropped to her knees beside her husband, crying and murmuring words of endearment. She looked up at Pierre, her eyes saying all she needed to.
He spoke to her in French. Julie could understand enough to know he was telling Michelle that Alain would be all right, but they needed to get him to hospital. He said something about fingers and slipped something into the plastic bag of ice, before handing it to Julie. As she took the bag from him she realised that while she had been away he had found the severed fingers and had hopes of reattaching them. But surely it was possible only if they got Alain to hospital quickly?
The ambulance, following the tracks of the tractor, made its agonisingly slow way towards them. Eventually it was close enough for them, with the help of the paramedics, to load Alain in. Pierre jumped in beside his friend, shaking his head at Michelle. ‘I’m sorry, chérie,’ he said in French. ‘You must follow us in the car.’ As the paramedic was pulling the doors closed behind them, he added, ‘Julie, can you drive Michelle to the hospital? She will show you where to go. Take my car.’ And then the doors closed and, with the siren back on, the ambulance sped off.
Julie and Michelle hurried back to the house where they met Caroline, looking bewildered and panic-stricken.
‘What’s going on? What on earth’s wrong?’ she asked, her eyes darting from woman to woman. ‘Someone’s been hurt, haven’t they? Who is it? Are they all right? Is it Pierre?’ she gripped Julie’s arm. ‘Tell me, please.’
‘Alain’s hurt, but he’s going to be all right. I’ll tell you about it later, but Michelle and I need to go to the hospital. Pierre has gone with Alain in the ambulance. He said we should follow in his car. Where are the keys?’
Caroline reached behind her, lifting as set of keys from the hook behind the door. ‘We’ll take Alain and Michelle’s car. Pierre’s only holds two and I’m coming with you.’
It took an excruciating thirty minutes before they arrived at the hospital. Apart from a brief explanation to Caroline as to what had happened, the women were silent. Although Julie suspected that Pierre was going to attempt to sew the severed fingers back on, she didn’t want to say anything to Michelle prior to discussing it with him. Perhaps there had been too long a delay; perhaps there weren’t the necessary facilities at the country hospital. At this point, apart from reassuring Michelle that Alain would be all right there was little else she could say without the danger of falsely raising her hopes.
The three women dashed into the accident and emergency departme
nt. The head nurse prevented Michelle and Caroline from going beyond the doors of the resus room, but allowed Julie in. ‘Dr Favatier said you were to be shown in as soon as you arrived,’ she said in accented but otherwise perfect English. ‘He plans to operate and attempt to reattach the fingers. He said you are to assist. Once you have spoken to the doctor, I shall get someone to take you along to theatre. We only have one Theatre but luckily there is no one else needing it at the moment so he can go straight in.’
Well, Julie thought wryly, I am certainly getting to Pierre work in his home country—just not in the circumstances I hoped for.
Alain was lying on the gurney, a temporary dressing on his injured arm. He looked groggy but comfortable. Pierre was in conversation with another medic and a nurse. Probably discussing the operation, Julie surmised.
‘Is it okay if Michelle comes in for a few minutes?’ Julie asked. ‘I think she needs to see for herself that Alain is all right.’
‘Of course,’ Pierre said, barely glancing at her.
He had already changed into theatre scrubs. Seeing him in hospital gear, with the different more authoritative persona he seemed to adopt whenever he was working, Julie felt herself distanced from him and was reminded forcibly of their professional relationship. Was he already regretting the kiss? This time there was no doubt in her mind. He had kissed her as if he had meant it. Why, then, did she feel a chill run down her spine? But she had to remember he was desperately worried.
‘I’ll go and fetch her and explain what we are planning to do,’ he said. ‘We will be taking him into Theatre in about ten minutes. ‘He turned his attention back to Alain, saying something that Julie couldn’t follow but which made the injured man smile weakly.
Julie turned to the nurse who had shown her in. ‘I’ll go up to Theatre now and get scrubbed if you could show me where to go.’
The operation took until the afternoon. Julie assisted as Pierre, who used a powerful microscope to magnify the field, carefully reattached first the severed blood vessels then the nerves of the missing fingers with microscopic stitches. His concentration was complete. Not once did Julie see him waver as worked. Throughout the operation he explained to her exactly what he was doing and telling her patiently how she needed to assist him. Although concerned for Alain, Julie found the whole procedure fascinating, and as before she found she was able to anticipate Pierre’s movements. At last, the operation complete, he stood back from the table and stretched luxuriously.