The Woman Who Met Her Match by Fiona Gibson

Author:Fiona Gibson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008157036
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2017-03-13T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

I laugh because I don’t know what else to do. ‘Thank you,’ I manage, ‘but I’m sure that’s not true. Still, at least no mullet these days!’

‘Mullet?’

‘Oh, erm, that hairstyle, you know – long at the back, bit spiky on top like a pineapple.’ He blinks at me. ‘George Michael, Duran Duran, Kajagoogoo …’ Hell what am I on about?

‘Kajagoogoo?’ Antoine looks baffled.

‘Eighties band. I probably wrote out the lyrics to some of their songs …’

He breaks into a smile at the recollection. ‘I remember that. All that writing! Poor girl, I thought. I’ll have to take her away from all of this.’ He touches my arm and a spark shoots through me. ‘Shall we sit down?’

‘Yes, of course …’ Ohh, that accent, I reflect as we make our way to the two velvety armchairs at the small table in the corner of the bar. The lighting is flatteringly dim, the room filled with the hubbub of chatter and laughter and unobtrusive jazz. An aproned waiter strides over.

‘A white wine, please,’ I say.

‘Sancerre?’ he suggests.

‘Oh, yes. That would be lovely.’

‘A glass of Merlot for me,’ Antoine says, then turns to me. ‘So, it’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, it has. I couldn’t believe it when you popped up on Facebook …’

‘Well, I came across those old pictures of us and decided to take a look. You weren’t hard to find. There were a few Lorrie Fosters, and I knew you might be married and no longer a Foster at all … have you been married?’

I shake my head, momentarily floored by his directness. ‘No, I haven’t. How about you?’

‘I was, but that’s over now. So, you didn’t mind me sending you a friend request?’

‘Not at all. It was lovely to hear from you.’

His gaze meets mine and my insides seem to somersault. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d want to be in touch,’ he adds. ‘I thought, will she be horrified to hear from me out of the blue like this?’

I sip my wine, willing him to go on. I want to sit here all night listening to Antoine talking so Frenchly; if I could get away with it I’d record him secretly on my phone.

‘Of course I wasn’t horrified. It was a wonderful surprise …’

‘And I knew this trip was coming up,’ he continues, ‘and I thought, maybe she’s ended up in London, like she said she wanted to? It was just a hunch.’

‘Well, I did and here you are!’ I seem to be having trouble saying anything sensible.

‘Yes, just for one night, unfortunately …’

I assess his face: the dark, compelling eyes, the cheekbones and chin clearly defined. His light brown hair is neatly cut with a hint of grey at the temples. He is wearing a crisp blue and white striped shirt and black trousers – he’s made an effort, or perhaps this is the way he dresses all the time? – and smells gorgeous, of something spicy with a hint of orange. He looks, I realise,

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