That First French Summer by Mandy Baggot

Author:Mandy Baggot [Baggot, Mandy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781789546323
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 2020-08-05T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Two

She had fidgeted in the car the whole way to London. Fingers in her hair, powder compact open, re-touching her make-up and straightening her clothes. He’d never seen her like that before. It was usual for her to take care of her appearance, but this was different. She was jittery, with what seemed like a mixture of nerves and excitement. Now, as they prepared to leave the car, she was toying with her hands, wringing them together.

‘Madeleine,’ Guy said, taking one of her hands.

‘Don’t touch me, Guy, I’ve just straightened my jewellery,’ she gasped, snatching back her hand.

The driver opened the back door and Madeleine was out, surging up from the back seat like a breaking wave hitting its crest.

Guy let out a breath and smoothed his hair back. He didn’t want to be here. All this pomp and circumstance over fashion labels. He might have the means to afford whatever he wanted but he was happiest in his oldest jeans and a worn, faded T-shirt.

He stepped out of the car, joining Madeleine in front of a small number of photographers. She was turning to them, showing off a dress she was wearing that he definitely hadn’t seen before.

‘Guy, this way!’

‘Guy, are you looking forward to the match on Saturday?’

‘Guy, any truth in the rumour you’ve been approached by Calvin Klein?’

Madeleine turned to him, an infuriated look on her face.

‘Why do they always ask so much about you? I’ve been in three motion pictures,’ she stated.

Not to be outdone, she coiled her arms around his neck and pouted a kiss towards his cheek.

*

Chris hadn’t stopped talking about the upcoming match. Although they were supposed to be catching up on past episodes of The Glades he couldn’t stop interrupting with information about match days and talk of how thrilled Dominic would be.

She couldn’t concentrate on the TV either. Her brain was working overtime, everything converging together, in one massive problem she didn’t know how to start sorting out.

‘I’ll wash up,’ Chris said. He bounded up from the sofa and flicked off the television.

‘No. You don’t have to do that.’ She leapt up after him.

‘Don’t be daft. You made the dinner, I’m washing up,’ he insisted. He started to run the water to fill the bowl.

‘Don’t Chris, please. I want to do it,’ Emma begged.

He turned the tap off and looked at her.

‘You want to wash up?’ he queried.

He didn’t understand. She just wanted to be alone. Alone with the million thoughts she needed to unscramble.

‘I… well, to be honest I have marking to do and…’

‘Ah, I see. You want me to go,’ Chris guessed.

‘No. I mean, yes. But…’ No matter how she wrapped it up it sounded mean. But she was mean. Everything she was doing lately was mean.

‘It’s alright, Em. I know you’re busy and I’ve got an early start in the morning anyway,’ Chris said, picking his coat up from the back of the chair.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound… I just…’ What was she trying to say? She hated this.

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