But he couldn’t prevaricate here; Polly was right. He did owe her a secret or two.
He just had so many to choose from. It might be nice to let one or two of them out, to lighten the load.
Gabe concentrated on the road ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. ‘When I was ill I hated my parents so much I couldn’t even look at them when they came to visit.’
He heard her inhale, a long, shuddering breath. But she didn’t protest or tell him he must be mistaken. ‘Why?’
‘Because they hurt so damn much. Every needle in my vein pierced them twice as hard, when I retched, they doubled over. My illness nearly killed them. They wanted me to live, to fight, so badly that when I slipped back I knew I was failing them. My illness failed them.’
He could feel it again: the shame of causing so much hurt, the anger that they needed him to be strong when it was almost too much. The responsibility of having to fight, to stay alive for them.
‘They must love you a lot.’ Her voice was a little wistful.
‘They do. And I love them but it’s a lot. You have to be strong for yourself in that situation, single-minded. Their need distracted me. Added too much pressure.’
‘Is that why you don’t want children?’
He thought back to her scan, to the life pulsing inside her, the unexpected protectiveness that had engulfed him and picked his words carefully.
‘Our lives are so fragile, our happiness so dependent on others. I’ve been cancer free for nearly ten years, Polly. But it could come back. I don’t want to put a wife or a child through the suffering I put my parents through. I don’t want to suffer like that for someone else. Is it worth it?’
There was a pause and he knew without looking that her hand would be back at her midriff.
‘I hope so,’ she said after a while.
He continued driving while she busied herself with her phone. ‘You still haven’t told me your second secret.’ She was looking away again. It was like being in the seal of the confessional: intimate and confidential.
Gabe didn’t even consider before he answered. ‘Ever since I kissed you in the office I’ve wanted to do it again.’
Another silence. This one more loaded. He was achingly aware of her proximity, of her bare arms, the blonde hair piled precariously in a loose knot, the hitch in her breath as he spoke.
His words had unlocked a desire he didn’t even know he carried, one he had hidden, locked down. The kiss had been totally inappropriate. They were colleagues; she was his boss. He didn’t want or need anything complicated—and nothing about Polly Rafferty was simple.
She was prickly and bossy. She didn’t know the names of half her staff and was rude to and demanding of the ones she did know. She worked all the time. She was pregnant.
Sure, she was conventionally pretty with her mass of blonde silky hair, her dark blue eyes and legs that went on for ever but that was just the surface. It was the inappropriately intimate conversations with cars, that carefully hidden vulnerability and her way of looking into a man’s soul and seeing just what it was that made him tick that made her dangerous.
It made her formidable. It made her utterly desirable.
‘What does the tree mean?’ Her words pierced the thickened atmosphere, the soft voice a little unsteady, her hands twisting on her lap.
‘Pardon?’
‘Your tattoo? What does it mean?’
His mouth twisted. ‘My mother didn’t cry once during any of my treatment but she wept when I showed her that tattoo. And not with pride.’
‘I think it’s beautiful.’ Her voice was almost shy.
‘It’s life,’ he told her. ‘I wanted my body to reflect growth and hope, not death.’
‘My mother told me you should visit Paris to fall in love.’ Polly changed the subject abruptly. ‘That’s why I’ve never been.’
‘You’ve never fallen in love?’
‘I’ve been in “like”,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in companionable comfort. I’ve desired.’ Did her eyes flicker towards Gabe at the last word?
His chest tightened at the thought, the blood pulsing hot and thick around his body.
‘But, no. I haven’t been in love.’ She bit her lip. ‘That is rather shameful for a woman of thirty-one, isn’t it?’
‘Non.’ The word was strong, vehement. ‘Real love is rare, precious. Many of us will never experience it.’ He’d thought he’d found it once. Had watched it slip away.
‘My mother left home when I was eight. Our father died a couple of years later but he was in a home all that time.’ Her voice faltered. ‘We found him, Raff and I. He’d had a stroke. He needed full-time care and we were a mess. My mother just couldn’t cope. People always took care of her, you see. She was one of those fragile women, all eyes and a way of looking at you as if you were all that mattered. She went away for a rest and just never returned, found someone else to take care of her.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The words were inadequate.
‘Oh, it was a long time ago, and I think I always knew. Knew she couldn’t be relied on. It was harder on Raff. He absolutely adored her. But for some reason I never forgot her words. She said she’d been to Paris before, with friends, boyfriends, but when she went with Daddy the city turned into a magical wonderland and she knew...’
‘Knew what?’
‘That she was in love,’ she said simply. ‘And she made me promise her, promise I would never go to Paris until I was sure I was ready to fall in love. It’s funny, I have spent my whole life not being my mother, not relying on anyone else, always doing my duty. But I kept my promise.’
Her mouth curved into a reminiscent smile. ‘She also told me to always wear lipstick, make sure my hair was brushed and to wear the best shoes I can afford. I never forgot that advice either.’
‘Even on the Inca trail?’
She exhaled, an amused bubble of laughter. ‘Especially then.’
‘I hope you get to Paris one day.’ She deserved it, deserved to have the trip of her dreams, to experience the world’s most romantic city with somebody who loved her by her side.
But the thought of her strolling hand in hand through the city streets with some unknown other, cruising down the Seine, kissing on the Pont des Arts, made his whole body tense up, jealousy coursing through his veins.
It was ridiculous; he had no reason to be jealous.
Jealousy implied need. Implied caring. Sure he liked Polly, respected her, was attracted to her. But that was all.
If she worked somewhere else, if she weren’t pregnant then she would be perfect—for a while. She was as busy as he was, as focused as he was, she wouldn’t want him to take care of her, to text or call five times a day. She wouldn’t care if he went away for a weekend’s training or decided to pull an all-nighter at the office.
And when she talked about the likes, the companionable comforts and the desires of her past there was no hint of regret. She moved on without a second’s thought. Just as he did.
But she was his boss and she was going to have a baby and there was no point dwelling on what-might-have-beens. Because the boss situation would change one day but the baby situation most definitely wouldn’t. And that made her even more off-limits than ever. She deserved someone who would want a family, someone to take her to Paris.
‘You may even fall in love there,’ he added.
‘Maybe.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘It’s a fairytale, though, isn’t it? Not real life. Because, although Mummy had that perfect moment, it didn’t mean enough in the end, didn’t stop her bailing when things became rough.’
‘No.’ There was nothing else to say.
She took out a few pins and let her hair fall, before gathering it up and twisting it into a tighter knot, a few strands
escaping in the breeze. ‘It was a sharp lesson. If you rely on someone else you are vulnerable. You need to be self-sufficient, to protect yourself.’ She sighed. ‘It would be nice to meet someone who understood that, who didn’t think being independent means not caring.’
She shook her head. ‘One day I’ll go to Paris, on my own. Or take the baby.’
‘You could go to Disneyland.’
She grimaced. ‘I am so not ready for this.’
Gabe glanced over. ‘You will be,’ he said. ‘I think you are going to do just fine.’
* * *
There was something intimidating about meeting other people’s families. Mingling, small talk, conferences, cocktail parties, those posed no fear at all for Polly. But the intimacy and warmth of family homes chilled her.
Even at school she’d hated the invites back to other girls’ houses for the holidays. It was all so alien: in-jokes and traditions, bickering, knowing your place was secure. So different from the formality of her grandparents’ house, a place more like a museum than a home for two children.
Throw in a different language, a tangle of small children and in-laws and her arrival at the Beaufils chateau was a scene right out of her worst fears. She was seized upon, hugged, kissed and exclaimed over by what felt like an endless stream of people.
‘It is lovely to meet you.’ Madame Beaufils linked an arm through Polly’s and whisked her through the imposing front door.
‘Thank you so much for having me.’ Polly did her best to relax. She wasn’t really that comfortable with physicality, more of a handshake than a hug person, but she couldn’t work out how to disentangle herself without causing offence. ‘Your home is beautiful.’
No fakery needed here. Polly had grown up accustomed to a luxurious home; her grandfather still lived in the old Queen Anne manor house in the Berkshire countryside that she and Raff had been brought up in. But the weathered old chateau with its ivy-covered walls, surrounded by lovingly tended gardens that stretched into the vineyards beyond, had something her childhood home lacked.
It had heart.
There were pictures everywhere: photos, framed children’s paintings, portraits and certificates. The furniture in the huge hall at the centre of the house was well chosen, chic but loved, the sofa a little frayed, the mirror spotted with age.
‘It’s a mess,’ Gabe’s mother said dismissively. ‘We put our money into renovating the old barns for the B&B and wedding business, and for turning the wings of the house into apartments for Natalie and Claire and their families. But I like it like this. It feels as if my children are still here with me.’ She looked longingly at a large photo of a laughing, dark-eyed girl.’
‘That’s Celine,’ she said with a sigh. ‘My biggest fear is that she will meet someone in New Zealand and never return to us. It was worse when Gabe was in the States. Paris was better but at least he’s just over the Channel. I can almost breathe again.’
It must be claustrophobic to be needed like that, Polly thought with a stab of sympathy for the absent Celine. But a small, irrepressible part of her couldn’t help wondering what it would be like. Her grandmother was certainly miffed if Polly didn’t meet her for tea and accompany her shopping when she was in town, and her grandfather liked updates on the store. But neither of them needed Polly for herself. Any granddaughter would have done.
‘I’ve put you in the blue room.’ Madame Beaufils led Polly up the grand circular staircase dominating the great hall. ‘It has its own en-suite so you will be quite private. Why don’t you take a moment to freshen up and then come back down for some lunch before we show you around?’ She smiled. ‘Natalie is very excited at the thought of showing off her website to you. She has been compiling numbers all week!’
The room she showed Polly to was lovely. It was very simple with high ceilings, dark polished floorboards and whitewashed walls with a huge wooden bedstead dominating one end of the room. The bed was made up with a blue throw and pillows; it looked so inviting Polly didn’t dare sit down in case the fatigue pulsing away at her temples took over.
Instead she walked over to the large French windows and flung open the shutters to step out onto the narrow balcony. Her room was at the back of the house overlooking the peaceful-looking garden and the rows of vines beyond. She had never seen anything so vibrant, even on her travels—the green of the vines contrasting with the purple hues of the lavender in the distance, set off by an impossibly blue sky. Polly breathed in, feeling the rich air fill her lungs and, for the first time since that devastating conversation with her grandfather all those months ago, she felt at peace.
She reluctantly tore herself away from the view and took her toiletry bag into the pretty bathroom adjoining her room, emptying out her compact and lipgloss. It was time to apply her armour.
Or was it?
Polly stared at the deep berry red she favoured and then slowly set it back down.
She didn’t need to hide. Not today. Instead she loosened her hair and brushed it out, allowing it to fall naturally down her back.
With one last longing glance at the inviting-looking bed, Polly took a deep breath and opened the door. She was ready.
She found the family in the garden, congregated around a large cast-iron table set under a large shady tree. It was already set for lunch and at the sight of the plates piled high with breads, salad, cheese and meat Polly’s increasingly capricious appetite perked up.
Oh no, what if it was one of those days? It was all or nothing at the moment; mostly nothing, but when she did want to eat she had no stop mechanism. She hoped she didn’t eat the Beaufils family out of house and home.
She could imagine them, gathered together in twenty years’ time, telling tales of the Englishwoman who couldn’t stop eating.
Polly leant on the corner of the house content just to watch them for a moment. Everyone was talking, words tumbling out, interrupting each other with expansive hand gestures. Polly’s French was pretty good but she was completely confused by the rapid crossfire of laughing conversation.
The laughter was loud and often. Each peal rang through her, making it harder and harder to take a step forward, to interrupt. Not wanting to break into the reunion, for the lively chatter to turn into the inevitable formal chitchat a stranger’s presence would cause.
And the longer she stood there, the more impossible that step seemed.
She had never seen Gabe so utterly relaxed. Sitting at the head of the table, he had one plump toddler held firmly on his knee, another was crawling at his feet, attempting occasionally to climb up his denim-clad legs. His mother was pouring him wine, one sister showing him something on her iPad, his father grasping his arm as he made his point.
He was totally immersed, somehow paying attention to each member of his family. A smile of thanks, a nod of acknowledgement, a firm capturing of sticky fingers. Son, brother, uncle, the heart of his family. How could he want to escape this? If this was Polly’s family she would never ever want to leave.
It was as if he could hear her thoughts. Gabe’s head snapped up and he looked straight over at Polly, his dark gaze unwavering. She didn’t want him to think her a coward, wanted to step out with her head held high but she was paralysed, held still by the understanding in his eyes.
She should have felt exposed, weak, but instead it was as if he was cloaking her in warmth, sending strength into suddenly aching limbs. It was almost painful when he dragged his eyes away, handing the toddler on his knee to his mother and scooping up the one by his feet as he rose gracefully out of his chair, walking over to Polly and expertly avoiding the small hands trying to grab his nose.
‘Bonjour, Polly, this is Mathilde. She doesn’t speak English yet but you must forgive her. Her French is terrible too.’
‘Your French was terrible too when you were two, and it’s not much better now,’ interru
pted a petite dark-haired woman with a vivacious grin as she came over to join them. She lifted the protesting small girl out of her uncle’s arms, cuddling her close with a consoling kiss before turning to Polly.
‘We must all be a bit much for you. It gets very loud when we are en masse. Especially when we have all the babies with us. I’m Natalie. I’m sure you didn’t get a chance to work out who was who earlier.’
‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ Polly couldn’t help her gaze dropping to focus on the woman’s large bump.
Natalie followed her gaze and grimaced. ‘I know, I am enormous.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘The doctor assures me it’s not twins. I blame Maman’s cooking. There’s nothing like eating for two.’
‘Not at all,’ Polly said quickly. ‘I was just thinking how well you look.’
Well. Happy and secure. Could that be her future?
‘Come, sit and eat. Would you like some wine? Non? How about some grape juice made from our own vines? It’s very refreshing.’
Polly allowed herself to be led to the table, to have her glass filled with the chilled juice, her plate filled with a tempting selection of breads, salads and meats, and did her best to join in with the conversation, which kept lapsing into French.
‘En anglais,’ Madame Beaufils said reprovingly. She turned to Polly. ‘I am so sorry, Polly. You must think us very rude.’
‘Not at all. I think you are very happy to see Gabe. Please, don’t speak English on my account. It will do me good to try and get along. My French is sadly rusty.’
‘But so many of our hotel guests are English it does us good to speak it,’ Claire said. Gabe’s oldest sister was the quietest of the family, much of her time taken in attending to one of the two small children sitting by her side. A third slept quietly in a pram under the tree. ‘I want these three to grow up with perfect English.’
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