him, unbuttoning her loose shirt and sliding his hands over her small breasts. Sam closed her eyes.
He made love expertly, apparently giving it all his attention, but as the girl moaned and whimpered beneath him Valentine’s ears were full of nothing but the birdsong in the garden. Afterwards he disentangled himself from her arms and lit a cigarette. At last he was looking straight at her.
‘Sam. I’m sorry, but it’s over.’ He clenched his teeth as he saw her pansy-purple eyes fill with tears. There would be no platitudes, no talk of how it would be best for both of them. At least he owed her that.
‘Valentine,’ she was saying, softly and unbelievingly, shaking her head to and fro so that the tears rolled. ‘Oh, Valentine, please, no.’
Halfway across the world, in the formal splendour of the big drawing-room at Château Reynard, another woman was saying his name.
‘In the Napa Valley,’ Bell Farrer said brightly, ‘with Valentine Gordon, of Dry Stone Wineries.’
As she spoke, Bell was thinking that it had been the strangest, happiest birthday of her life.
At breakfast-time she had found the brother and sister waiting for her in the sunny dining-room. Bell was relieved to see that there was still no sign of Hélène.
‘Happy birthday,’ carolled Juliette. Charles was standing in his accustomed place between the tall windows and his face was in shadow. Bell felt rather than saw that he was watching her intently.
Juliette was pouring orange juice out of a glass jug and Bell saw it was foaming.
‘Mmmmm. Buck’s Fizz. A real birthday breakfast treat.’
‘Now,’ said Juliette, ‘this is from me.’ She pointed to a shape swathed in blue tissue beside Bell’s plate. Bell peeled the paper away and stared down at the miniature sculpture resting in her cupped hands. It was the head and shoulders of a little girl, modelled in reddish clay, and the features were so full of life that Bell thought she could almost hear the child’s piping voice. The face was impish, unmistakably French.
‘Juliette, how beautiful. Is it yours?’
‘My work, yes. Now it’s yours to take home and remind you of us.’
‘Who is she?’
‘The child? She is the daughter of … Catherine’s sister. The same age as …’ There was an abrupt movement from Charles and Juliette faltered. Then the words came tumbling out again, too fast. ‘Well, no one that you would know. I did a lot of studies of her at one time, much bigger than this. Yours was a preliminary maquette, but more successful somehow than the bigger pieces.’
‘I shall treasure it,’ said Bell simply, and hugged her.
Charles stepped forward. The sunlight caught the blondness of his head as he put his hands on Bell’s arms and kissed her quickly on each cheek. The brush of his skin reminded Bell of the night before and she caught her breath.
‘And this is from me,’ he told her.
It was a smaller package, this one wrapped in white tissue paper. Bell held it for a second in her fingers, unable to think of anything but the closeness of Charles himself.
‘Go on, open it,’ prompted Juliette. ‘I want to see what it is, too.’
Charles’s present to her was a narrow ivory bangle, intricately carved with wreaths of vine leaves and bunches of grapes. Bell turned it to and fro under his gaze, marvelling at the delicacy of the workmanship.
‘Phew,’ said Juliette. ‘Clever you, Chariot.’
Bell slipped the little creamy circle on to her wrist and stretched her arm out to admire it. At last she looked up at Charles.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s exquisite. Whenever I wear it I will think of you.’
‘That was definitely the intention.’
How sexy, thought Bell, is the combination of those formal manners with the set of his mouth and the look in his eyes.
He made her feel like a girl again, a little in awe of him, fascinated, bewildered and entranced.
Later, he had said, ‘May I take you into Bordeaux for lunch? There is a restaurant I think you will like, and it will give us a chance to talk.’ Bell had nodded, not knowing whether to feel excited or apprehensive. Her own thoughts were in an impossible whirl, and she found it was beyond her to gauge what Charles was thinking.
Charles had driven her into Bordeaux in the grey Mercedes, leaving the streams of Citroëns and Renaults almost standing behind them. He looked relaxed at the wheel, evidently enjoying the speed, and Bell was content to sit in silence, watching the vineyards flashing past. They drove into the middle of the handsome city and Charles eased his car into a space in the broad Alleés de Tourny. He took her arm and guided her through the traffic, then led her down a narrow side street lined with tall, blank-faced houses.
Bell had been to Bordeaux often before, but this time she looked at it through new eyes. It was where Charles belonged, amongst the elegant eighteenth-century architecture and the calm, discreet prosperity.
A few more steps brought them to a nondescript green-painted door. Charles opened it for her and they walked into a little square hallway where a grey-haired woman in a black dress sat at a desk.
‘Ah, Baron Charles, bonjour,’ she said at once, adding ‘et madame’ as her eyes travelled over Bell. Charles bent to kiss the woman’s hand.
‘Madame Lestoq,’ he murmured and Bell could not help turning to stare in surprise. Charles acknowledged her look with a flicker of one eyelid, almost a wink, as they followed Madame into the dining-room.
There were only ten tables, all but one of them occupied, and they were separated by what looked like yards of carpet. Bell said nothing until they were sitting facing one another across the starched white cloth and glistening silver of a corner table.
‘So this is Chez Lestoq.’
‘Of course. Where else, on your birthday?’
Bell knew that the food in this tiny restaurant was legendary, almost as legendary as the difficulty of securing a table. She suddenly remembered that Charles had only heard about her birthday a matter of hours ago. He must wield impressive influence to arrange for her to sit so casually in the best corner of the room.
‘Well,’ she said, laughing, ‘I don’t think I shall be able to match the splendour of all this with much brilliant conversation. I want to concentrate on every miraculous mouthful.’
‘I will make do with just looking at you.’
Bell had wanted to read the menu syllable by syllable, but Charles waved it away and ordered, quickly and decisively, for both of them. Bell opened her mouth to protest, and then thought better of it.
The food, when it came, was perfect, of course. But afterwards, when she came to try and recall what she had eaten, the memory of the meal was just an exotic blur. She remembered the facts of truffle soup under a fragile golden pastry dome, their shared lobster in its veil of piquant sauce, pink lamb redolent of tarragon
