bit part actors in the elaborate costume drama that was Montluce. For the first time, he found himself thinking about them as individuals with everyday concerns, people who shopped and cooked and looked after their families, and looked to his family to keep their country secure.
He’d never been to the market before, had never needed to, and suddenly he was in the heart of its noise and chatter, surrounded by colour and scents and tastes. And always there, in the middle of it all, Caro. Caro, alight with enthusiasm, that husky, faintly dirty laugh infecting everyone around her with the need to smile and laugh too.
‘What are you planning to do with all this stuff?’ he asked, peering into the bag of tomatoes and peppers and red onions and God only knew what else that she handed him.
‘I thought I’d make a salad for lunch.’
‘The kitchens will send up a salad if that’s what you want,’ he pointed out, exasperated, but Caro only set her chin stubbornly in the way he was coming to recognise.
‘I want to make it myself.’
By the time Philippe finally managed to drag her away from all her new friends at the market, both he and Yan were laden with bags. He hoped the Dowager Blanche didn’t get wind of the fact that he’d been seen walking through the streets with handfuls of carrier bags or he would never hear the end of it.
‘You know, it would be quicker and easier to order lunch from the kitchens,’ he said to Caro as she unloaded the bags in the kitchen.
‘That’s not the point.’ She ran the tomatoes under the tap and rummaged around for a colander. ‘I like cooking. Ah, here it is!’ She straightened triumphantly, colander in hand. ‘I worked in a delicatessen before it went bust, and I loved doing that.
‘That’s my dream, to have a deli and coffee shop of my own one day,’ she confided, her hands busy setting out anchovies and bread and peppers and garlic, while Philippe watched, half fascinated, half frustrated.
‘I thought your dream was to belong in Ellerby with the pillar of the community?’
‘George.’ Caro paused, a head of celery in her hand. ‘Funny, I haven’t thought about him at all since I’ve been here…’ She shook her head as if to clear George’s image from her mind. ‘No, not with George,’ she said, upending the last bag, ‘but with someone else, maybe. The deli would be part of that. I’d know everyone. I’d know how they took their coffee, what cheeses they liked.’
She stopped, evidently reading Philippe’s expression. ‘At least I’ve got a dream,’ she said. ‘All you want is to avoid getting sucked into a relationship in case some woman asks you to do more than stay five minutes!’
‘We don’t all have your burning desire for a rut,’ said Philippe. ‘I’ve got plenty of dreams. Freedom. Independence. Getting into a plane and flying wherever I want. Seeing you wear clothes bought in this millennium.’
Caro stuck out her tongue at him. ‘You can give up on that one,’ she said, peering at the high-tech oven. ‘I suppose there’s no use asking you how this works?’
‘I’ve never been in here before,’ he said, but he eased her out of the way and studied the dials. If he could fly a plane, he could turn on an oven, surely?
‘Brilliant!’ Caro bestowed a grateful smile on him as the grill sprang to life, and Philippe felt that strange light-headed sensation again, as if there wasn’t quite enough oxygen in the air. She was very close, and his eyes rested on the sweet curve of her cheek, the intentness of her expression as she adjusted the temperature.
Caro had her sights fixed firmly on her return to England, that was clear. Well, that was fine, Philippe told himself. He had his own plans. As soon as Caro had gone, he would invite Francesca Allen to stay, he decided. Her divorce should have been finalised by then, and they could embark on a discreet affair to see him through the last stultifying months of boredom here in Montluce. Francesca was always elegantly dressed, and she knew the rules. She had a successful career and the last thing she’d want right now would be to settle down. If Philippe had read the signs right, she was looking to enjoy being single again. She’d be perfect.
The trouble was that he couldn’t quite remember what Francesca looked like. Beautiful, yes, he remembered that, but nothing specific. He didn’t know the exact curve of her mouth, the way he knew Caro’s, for instance, or the precise tilt of her lashes. He didn’t remember her scent, or the warmth of her skin, or the tiny laughter lines fanning her eyes.
‘If you’re going to stand around, you might as well help,’ said Caro, shoving a couple of ripe tomatoes into his hands. ‘Even you can manage to chop up those!’
So Philippe found himself cutting up tomatoes, and then onions and celery, while Caro moved purposefully around the kitchen.
‘How did your meeting this morning go?’ she asked him as she watched the skins of red and yellow peppers blister under the grill.
‘Pointless. Lefebvre is clearly under instruction to tell me everything but stop me from interfering in anything. Apparently, I’m to go out and “meet the people”. It’s clearly a ruse to get me out of the way so that he and the Dowager Blanche can get on with running things,’ said Philippe, pushing the chopped celery into a neat pile with his knife. ‘I’m supposed to be getting the country on the government’s side about this new gas pipeline they’re trying to put in but that’s just my token little job.’
Caro turned from the grill. ‘What pipeline?’
‘It’s taking gas from Russia down to southern Europe.’ He pulled an onion towards him and turned it in his hand, trying to work out the best way to peel it. ‘The easiest and most convenient route is through Montluce, and the government here has been in discussions with the major energy companies across Europe. We—as in my father and the Dowager Blanche—are keen for it to go ahead as it will allegedly bring in money and jobs.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘That’s what I asked Lefebvre but he was evasive and, when I pressed him, he said that my father had made the decision and did I feel it was important enough to challenge him when he was so sick. So I don’t know. People need jobs, and they need energy. On the face of it, the gas line makes sense to me.’
When the salad was ready, Caro tossed it with her hands in a bowl and carried it out to the balcony overlooking the lake. They ate at the table in the shade, and Philippe poured a glass of wine, surprised at how comfortable it felt.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ he said, leaning over to top up Caro’s glass, ‘we’re dining with the First Minister and his wife tonight.’
Caro sat up in consternation. ‘But I thought I wasn’t going to any official events!’
‘It’s not a state occasion.’ Philippe didn’t think that he would tell her that he had made it clear to Lefebvre that he would like her invited. Even now, Madame Lefebvre would be tearing up her seating plans. He wouldn’t be popular.
Caro was looking dubious. ‘Will it be very smart?’
‘Very,’ said Philippe firmly. ‘Is it too much to ask you to wear a dress made this century?’
‘I can’t afford to buy new clothes.’
‘I’ll
