Читать книгу Almost Forever: An emotional debut perfect for fans of Jojo Moyes - Laura Danks - Страница 12

Chapter Two

‘I need to see him,’ I murmur to Georgie, fidgeting on my chair.

‘I know, Fran, but he’s still in surgery, there is nothing we can do right now … I’m sorry,’ Georgie says, squeezing my shoulder.

‘Why are they not telling us what’s going on in there? I’ve been waiting here a long time now for someone to tell me what the hell is going on with Paul.’ My voice begins to rise. ‘Maybe I should go and ask again.’

‘Fran,’ she says, touching my arm with her hand, a gentle restraint. ‘I know it’s hard to just sit here, unable to help, but they’re focusing on making Paul better right now. They’ll tell us something, as soon as they can, I’m sure.’ She keeps her hand on my arm so I take a deep calming breath, trying to relax – even though every cell in my body is pushing me to break free and run to Paul.

‘They’ll tell us something as soon as Paul is out of surgery; they said so,’ she reiterates and I nod, trying to convince myself that patience is the best option right now.

When Georgie’s phone starts to ring again, she looks at me apologetically. ‘Sorry, it’s the office,’ she says, turning it off with shaky fingers.

‘If you need to work, just go ahead. There’s not much to be done here other than wait,’ I say to her with an attempt at a smile.

‘I’m sure it can all wait till tomorrow,’ she answers, taking my hand in hers in a reassuring gesture that mitigates my anxiety but only slightly.

I look around absentmindedly as I twist and turn the ring on my finger.

Time goes on while Paul’s life hangs over a void and we have nothing to do other than look at the boring prints on the wall and the mismatched furniture. The chairs are blue, while the carpet is a dirty shade of green, and the side table – with leaflets and informative booklets against the far end of the square room – is a yellowish pinewood.

Nothing seems to make sense as the whirlpool of thoughts in my head creates a gurgling noise inside my ears, muffling all other sounds. Georgie’s voice finally comes into focus once I realise her lips are moving. I pay attention to her and begin to process what she’s saying.

‘Harry says he is getting close now, so he’ll be here soon,’ she says, hoping that the news will cheer me up. I pretend it does. I pretend I’m fine but after fifteen minutes I’m restless again. Another half hour goes by and I’m going crazy. ‘I can’t sit here doing nothing,’ I say, standing up and walking to the window. The brick side of another building is the only thing I can see, and it makes me feel heartbroken. My eyes fill up with tears. My heart starts pounding in my temples, and I know I’ve reached the end of my will to wait for something to happen.

When I hear the sound of footsteps, I turn immediately towards the door hoping to see a surgeon bearing news. I see Albert and Harry instead. Their eyes are haunted and when I feel my head spinning I worry that I’m about to pass out.

‘Fran!’ Harry runs to me and takes me into his arms. I feel my knees buckling under me but he supports my weight, crushing me against his chest. For the first time in hours I wish I could just close my eyes and rest a little. We stay like this, still and quiet, for a few seconds, but I can feel he’s restless so I step away and look at him.

‘What happened?’ he asks. ‘How is he?’ His voice shakes with worry. Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer to give him; so when my eyes fill with tears, he suggests we sit down.

‘You look exhausted,’ he says, holding my face in his hands.

‘I’m fine,’ I answer, looking away from him before he can read the truth in my eyes. My gaze stops on Albert, who is still standing near the door.

I stand up and he walks towards me. When he is near I lift my arms to him and we give each other a quiet hug that speaks more than a thousand words.

‘Love conquers all,’ I whisper to him.

‘Always,’ he replies, patting my back. Then we sit. He chooses one of the empty chairs on the opposite side of the coffee table; I return to my place in between Harry and Georgie.

I don’t feel like talking and any attempt at conversation from them fails miserably after a few sentences; so we all just sit and wait, while the silence consumes us.

Harry is restless. I can feel tense energy radiating from him when he stands up and starts moving around. I watch him pacing the room like a caged animal. He walks around for a while, then he sits again, rubbing his chin or stroking my hand, then he goes to the windows. He stops to look at the booklets on the table. He studies the prints on the wall, then he returns to sit before starting the routine again.

His eyes are a deeper green when he’s not smiling and his lips, set in a straight line, make him look older than twenty-seven. I watch him struggling to keep his frustration under control. Harry looks so different when he frowns, maybe just because it’s a rare event for me to see his serious side, but the worried look in his eyes makes my stomach knot with fear.

Georgie, whose phone has been ringing non-stop since the minute she arrived, gives in to the pressure of her career and answers the next incoming call, opening a floodgate of urgent tasks. It turns out they can’t wait until tomorrow. After an hour, she is still firefighting, trying to send as many emails as possible and delegating the critically important tasks she can’t resolve remotely. I look at her with admiration. She looks the part with her power suit, the laptop balanced on her lap and the aggressive way of typing that only people who spend their lives sending emails have.

Albert, sitting still in the same spot, seems to be lost in a separate dimension, worrying more and more as the seconds go by without news. He is quiet, his hands in his lap and the weight of the world on his shoulders. His blond hair is turning grey and his light blue eyes are hollow, without the spark I remember. Paul looks so much like his dad, and watching Albert now, I can’t stop myself from picturing how Paul would look in twenty years. The idea of Paul growing old is the most soothing thought I’ve had since I arrived at the hospital.

I think back to the events of this morning, at how – lost in my own world of packing – I didn’t register that too much time had passed since Paul left. Maybe because I was too caught up in my daydreaming, maybe because I was stressing about forgetting some of the documents we needed to take with us, but half an hour had slipped away unnoticed.

When I heard the knock at the door and opened it to an apologetic Cecilia who was telling me she had been caught in the traffic caused by the assault at the end of our road I started to worry at the realisation that Paul was not back yet. I knew immediately something had happened to him. I felt it in my heart and I was filled instantly with panic.

From that moment on, everything was a blur – a string of events that I can only partially bring back to the surface. Everything was slightly confused with only some of the details in focus.

I remember carefully watching the police officer who told me what happened to Paul. I remember staring at him as the words formed on his lips, thinking that he had probably made a mistake, that it couldn’t be, that Paul wasn’t the man who had been stabbed and beaten in the off-licence. I remember Cecilia touching my arm and murmuring something I couldn’t quite hear while I shook my head in denial. I remember watching the ambulance, already speeding away in front of me before I could go with him. I remember the A&E, the frantic calls I made to Harry and to Georgie, telling them – through sobs and tears – what had just happened.

The four-hour deadline the doctor gave us originally has come and gone, and while we are stretched to the limit with worry, I insist that it’s now time to go make some enquiries.

‘No news is good news, Fran,’ Harry tells me when I complain about our lack of action.

I sit back slightly resentful and decide that if I don’t hear anything in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll take the matter into my own hands and question anyone and everyone around, until I get some answers.

I fish my phone from my purse to keep an eye on the time.

The date, Monday, 29th of February, is flashing on the top of the screen above the picture of Paul and I at Gare du Nord. The shock of the realisation that I was in Paris with him only yesterday knocks the wind out of me. It’s scary how our engagement already feels forever ago.

I close my eyes to regain a little perspective, and the images of this past weekend – one of the most romantic of my entire life – fill my mind and take me back into Paul’s arms.

***

Paris stretched majestically in front of us in all her timeless beauty.

Its terracotta chimney pots on the dark roofs, and its tall spires lit by the fading sun reminded me of the unique charm of this city. The Eiffel Tower twinkled from the heart of the most romantic place in the world, dispersing a love-scented atmosphere all around us, so when I took a deep breath, the crisp air filled my soul with the beauty of a wintry sunset in the French capital.

I held Paul’s hand as we walked from the station to the hotel.

La Maison St Martin was a quaint boutique establishment off the beaten track, one we always stayed at when in Paris – almost a second home to us now. The place was timeless with its old-fashioned style, the baroque furniture, the busy wallpaper, and the heavy brocade curtains on every window.

Josephine had stayed here several times before her fame took her to hotels of a different league. Forty years on, they still displayed her autographed portrait in the main reception room.

‘Hungry?’ Paul asked me as soon as we dropped our bags in the room.

‘Yes!’ I answered. ‘I’m starving,’ I added, thinking of the delicacies that this city had to offer. ‘Allons-y.’ I took his hand in mine.

‘We don’t come often enough,’ Paul said with a smile as we walked out of the hotel lobby.

We were at home in France, as much as we were in Britain, and it was always a great pleasure when we did get the chance to cross the Channel, and unearth our sense of belonging.

We strolled down a little alley that took us right down to one of the main roads. With my eyes open wide I admired the lit-up shop windows and the restaurants that were already getting busy with early diners.

‘True,’ I agreed. ‘And when we do, we always end up in the same places …’

‘Brasserie Juliette and Café Rue de Bac,’ we said at the same time before looking at each other and laughing.

‘Wait,’ Paul said, taking my face in his hands and gently kissing my lips. I smiled at him and he kissed me again, making my heart beat fast inside my chest.

‘We should explore a little,’ I said, ‘maybe try something new for once.’

‘Maybe we should,’ he murmured, placing a featherlike kiss on my forehead.

‘Let’s go to a place we don’t already know. Let’s be bold,’ I suggested.

‘All right. How about the first place we see? Whatever it is, we’ll go for it. Deal?’

‘Deal!’ I said, snuggling under his arm when we resumed our walk. ‘I hope it’ll be a crêperie,’ I said lifting my crossed fingers.

‘Crêpes for dinner – I don’t think so.’ He laughed, pulling me closer as we wandered down the road to meet our destiny.

Our expedition didn’t take us very far as the first restaurant we encountered was just around the corner.

‘Oyster bar? Nooo!’ I squealed, horrified.

‘A deal is a deal,’ Paul said, amused by my bad luck. I wasn’t very keen on seafood, always doing my best to steer away from the creatures of the sea. Feeling the disgust for those slimy, colourless crustaceans already closing my throat, I considered begging Paul to forget about our wager and choose somewhere else, but then I remembered Paul loved seafood and we rarely ate fish because of my aversion to it; so I decided that as long as I could wash it down with champagne, I was going to be all right.

‘Fine. Fine,’ I said, swallowing my repulsion, ‘but you owe me, my friend. We are going to have pancakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner tomorrow. Is that clear?’ I asked as he opened the door and gestured for me to go first.

‘Sure …’ he agreed with a chuckle. ‘We’ll make tomorrow pancake day.’

‘Yep,’ I said, steering us as far away as possible from the big counter displaying the most incredible variety of fruits de mer.

I chose one of their small round tables in the orangery and, despite the menu, I had to admit the place was stunning. Its tasteful combination of traditional and new was very pleasing to the eye. Almost as much as looking at Paul, who was finally relaxing and enjoying himself. A tough six months, I reminded myself as we held hands. He deserves a break.

‘What do you fancy?’ he asked, distracting me from my musing.

‘Nothing,’ I snorted, categorically refusing to look at the menu. Paul just ordered white wine and a seafood platter for two and I just hoped for the best while preparing for the worst.

We talked and laughed, and when the waiter arrived with a silver tray covered with crushed ice, we intertwined our fingers under the table, unwilling to break contact. The waiter placed the tray down with reverential solicitude, then quietly disappeared, leaving us to admire the edible artwork between us. Delicately laid on the ice, there was a bouquet of colourful shellfish and lemon wedges. Oysters and crabs, langoustine and halved lobsters were arranged so precisely next to mussels and prawns and clams that the platter looked like a mosaic.

‘Beasts from the sea,’ I said, trying to hide my repulsion, knowing that my face was possibly turning an alarming shade of green.

Paul smirked then poured our wine, ready to dig into this seafood extravaganza.

‘To us,’ cheered Paul, lifting his glass and clinking it to mine.

‘Santé!’ I replied, looking up.

His gaze immediately locked with mine, and I read a strange expression in it. He was about to say something. He seemed suddenly nervous, but then he grinned at me and said, ‘Everything looks so delicious.’

‘So deliciously slimy, you mean,’ I said with a growing sense of unease. ‘I don’t know where to start,’ I admitted, feeling slightly defeated.

‘Here, philistine,’ said Paul with the sweetest tone, feeding me a bite of the lobster.

I loved the romantic gesture but I opened my mouth reluctantly.

‘So?’ he asked as I chewed slowly on the succulent white meat.

‘Yes, okay, you’re right. It’s really good,’ I admitted, and when he smiled smugly at me, I rolled my eyes expecting a sagacious reply. Instead, he took my hand and kissed my knuckles softly.

‘I want tonight to be special, Fran, so if you don’t like it here, let’s just go somewhere else. We can have pancakes for dinner, if that will make you happy.’ And with those simple words he made my heart swoon.

I looked into his beautiful blue eyes lit up with his smile, his light brown hair streaked with blond strands as if he spent his days on the beach and not in an office, and I thought back on all of the incredible memories and moments we’d shared together. I knew, just from the way his eyes held mine, that we both loved each other unconditionally.

‘I could just look at you forever,’ he said and, damn it, I almost fell off the chair, his words made me so dizzy with emotion.

We were having an amazing time, and with every smile we exchanged, the atmosphere between us seemed to grow more and more romantic. The wine was making my limbs loose and my spirit soared. Paul kept looking at me as if I was the most beautiful woman on Earth. He leaned over often to kiss me and softly stroked my fingers, creating a pleasant tingle of excitement in my belly.

‘This weekend in Paris is exactly what we needed,’ I said, but the excitement I’d felt earlier was slowly turning into an overwhelming feeling of discomfort. Everything had been so incredibly perfect until now, when an inexplicable sense of apprehension sparked from the pit of my stomach. I felt uncomfortably hot as well, but I blamed the wine.

Unwilling to let these little details ruin the evening, I just decided to ignore them.

We worked our way through the ‘plateau de fruits de mer’ in front of us, but truly Paul was the one doing most of the eating while I just nibbled without much excitement.

When a cramp turned the top of my stomach into a knot, I took a deep breath and shifted my attention back to Paul, hoping that the whole thing would just go away.

‘Try at least one,’ Paul asked, offering me the last remaining oyster, but the sight of it was enough to make me go pale.

‘No thanks,’ I said as a sense of nausea rose up from my stomach. It was suffocating.

I leaned away from the table, feeling slightly better only after the waiter finally came to take the tray away.

‘God, Fran, I love you so much,’ Paul said, leaning across the table to kiss me. The unease ebbed away and I felt weightless with joy. When he was only inches away I closed my eyes and sighed when his lips gently pressed against mine.

The dreamy buzz inside me was crushed by the salty taste of seafood that lingered in his mouth and I felt my stomach roll.

I retreated back against my chair, inhaling deeply and hoping to calm the queasiness that hit me.

‘Fran, are you all right?’ Paul’s worried voice came across to me in waves.

I shook my head, then picked up my glass and drank some water, hoping that it would help, but I realised immediately that it just made things worse.

I stared at him, scared that I was about to throw up in the middle of the restaurant. I was light-headed, my ears were ringing, and I felt cold sweat dripping down my back. My face was burning, while violent shivers shook me from head to toes. I prayed quietly that I’d manage to get back to our room before it was too late.

‘We need to go,’ I said quietly, already standing up and collecting my handbag, forcing myself to take deep breaths and avoid making any sudden movements.

‘What’s wrong? Are you okay? Fran?’

‘No, I’m not. Please let’s go, Paul!’ I begged him.

‘Sure, of course,’ he said, signalling to the waiter for the bill, then took enough money to cover the cost of twice what we ate from his wallet. He pushed the euros into the waiter’s hand as we rushed out the door and into the street.

‘Mille fois merci,’ we heard him shouting as the door closed behind us.

The fresh air helped but I knew I only had a few minutes before my body would win the battle of wills.

‘Wait, Fran, what’s going on? Did I do something wrong?’ asked Paul as we rushed back to our hotel, which luckily was less than a block away.

‘No,’ I said and clamped my mouth shut again. ‘I think I’ve got food poisoning,’ I said, striding fast, pressing my lips against each other as firmly as I could while inhaling deeply through my nose.

‘Are you sure? I’m feeling fine.’ Paul squeezed my hand gently as he matched the speed of my walk.

‘Yes … pretty sure …’ I said, swallowing the saliva that was already filling my mouth, aware that I wouldn’t be able to keep my stomach under control for much longer, and once the sickness started there would be no stopping it.

I’d had food poisoning once before, a few years ago, when I was working on an excavation in South America, so I recognised the symptoms immediately.

I fidgeted while Paul fumbled with the antique lock of our room and wished that for once we’d stayed at the Radisson where they used key cards on their doors.

‘Quick, Paul. I’m going to be sick!’ I said, knowing that I had very little time left before the contents of my stomach made an appearance on the floor. Then, the second the door opened in front of me and, holding my hand over my mouth, I ran to the bathroom.

Once the first wave was over, I was so weakened that even getting up from my kneeling position in front of the toilet seemed too much effort for me to accomplish, so I just stayed where I was, leaning against Paul’s chest, while he stroked my back.

‘Are you better?’ he asked in a soothing voice that was my only comfort as another bout started. When he offered me a glass of water, I took a tentative sip, but as soon as the liquid hit my stomach, I was sick again. It took four goes for my body to believe that the poison had been cleared out of my system.

Paul endured it without flinching or leaving my side.

When it was finally over, Paul took me into his arms and carried me to the bed. I felt like a ragdoll when he laid me down gently against the pillows.

‘Sorry …’ I whispered, closing my eyes.

‘I should be the one to say sorry for forcing all of that seafood on you,’ he said, kissing the top of my head.

‘I’ll forgive you, if you don’t mention the word seafood ever again,’ I answered. I remained, for a very long time, quiet and immobile, with my lips firmly shut, trying to stop the shivers and hoping that the stomach cramps would subside soon too.

Paul took my hand in his and massaged it gently, stroking my skin with the soft touch of his fingers. Eventually, the shaking subsided and my knotted stomach seemed to be less achy.

When I started to feel better, even if only slightly, I murmured against his shoulder as I snuggled closer to him, ‘Thank you.’

‘Dans la maladie et dans la santé …’ he said solemnly.

I looked at him and the intensity in his eyes made me quiver. I knew that sentence. I understood its meaning. It was part of the French wedding vows, the equivalent of the English ‘in sickness and in health’.

I didn’t quite know if Paul had chosen those words for any reason other than they fitted the situation; so unsure of how to respond, I said in admonishment, ‘Paul … This is not the time for jokes.’

He wasn’t smiling; he just kept his eyes fixed on me until my heart started to beat faster and faster with anticipation. He pursed his lips, slowly touched my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

‘Marry me?’ he said eventually, and my heart stopped. He made it sound like a question, but there was strength underneath his gentle plea. I swallowed just as my throat closed up.

‘Marry me, Fran,’ he repeated, lowering his forehead to my clammy one.

I was pulled in so many different directions, I had to close my eyes to regain some balance. Excitement, and fear, and joy, and more fear were a whirlpool inside my chest, so I took a minute to collect all of those conflicting feelings and find the courage to answer him.

‘I’ve thought of proposing to you for so long, Fran, that I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t have my mother’s engagement ring in my pocket. I thought of asking the day we moved in together. Then again on Christmas morning, on New Year’s Eve. Then I thought Valentine’s Day would be the most romantic day to ask you but I was always too scared you’d say no. So, I procrastinated. I just wanted the perfect proposal, the perfect moment that would became a special memory we will cherish all our lives. I was thinking of asking you as we walked hand in hand along the Seine, with the stars shining above us.’

He smiled.

‘Then, while I sat with you on the bathroom floor, I just realised that every minute with you is special, that I didn’t need to wait for the perfect moment because when you are with me, that’s perfection to me.’

I was still speechless when he gently lifted my face to his.

‘We’ve been together eight years, Fran. I want you to be my wife, if you’ll have me,’ he said resolutely.

He then took my hand in his and fished a little blue box out of his pocket.

His hands shook slightly, his eyes – sparkling in the dim light – didn’t quite meet mine. ‘Fran, I understand you well enough to know that you’ll want to wait until you finish your PhD, until you’ve accomplished what you set yourself as a goal before even considering getting married, but I love you so much and I promise that if you just say yes …’

‘Yes,’ I said, interrupting him.

‘Yes?’ he asked in confirmation, frowning at me.

‘Yes!’ I repeated. My voice was shaking now.

‘You said yes?’ Paul asked again, hesitant, testing the words.

I nodded, interrupting his next sentence with a kiss.

‘Yes, I want to marry you, Paul,’ I said, looking straight into his eyes. ‘Even if I haven’t finished my PhD. Even if I don’t have a job or a penny to my name. Even if I’ll be terrible at it,’ I warned him.

‘We can wait until you’ve finished your studies. I’ll support you until you get the job you want and I won’t let you be terrible at it. We are in this together, Fran; we’ll make it work,’ he declared with a certainty that made me want to make it work.

‘You are really sure about this, about us?’ I asked and then held my breath.

‘I’ve always been sure. I knew the day I met you, Fran. I knew when I was away from you all those years at Stanford. I knew when I kissed you at the top of our tree, and I even knew when you puked out your soul about an hour ago. I know it every time I look at you, every time I make love to you, every hour that we spend together, and every second that we spend apart. I want to be with you jusqu’à la mort nous sépare …’

His tone was solemn, like a promise, and the look in his eyes, the joy tugging at his lips, gave me goose bumps.

‘Till death do us part.’ I translated his words looking at the one man I had loved since I knew it was possible to love, the one man who had just promised to spend the rest of his life with me.

‘I love you with all my heart, Paul.’

He kissed me and with his forehead resting on mine he whispered, ‘Looks like we just got engaged. Let me make this official.’ He opened the box in his hand. He took the heirloom ring from its nesting place and slid it onto my finger. It fitted perfectly. Then after lifting my hand to his lips, he kissed it softly.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, looking down at the emerald-cut diamond ring on my finger. ‘I love it even more because it was Josephine’s.’

‘When she gave it to me, she told me that she would bless anyone I chose to share my life with, but she just hoped it would go to you.’ He winked at me with those final words.

I couldn’t stop the tears that flooded my eyes, and when I blinked they ran down my cheeks leaving a wet trail behind them. Paul dried them with soft kisses and soothing words.

‘She loved you as though you were her own daughter. She was always so proud of you,’ he murmured. His warm breath caressing my skin comforted my aching heart.

‘I miss her so much,’ I whispered while Paul trailed kisses over my forehead and my temples, to the sides of my lips and along my jawline. While I let the pleasure of his affection console me, an idea popped into my head. ‘Can I choose the date?’ I asked.

He stopped the kissing and tilted his head, then, hesitantly said, ‘Sure, when do you have in mind?’

‘February 29th. Leap day,’ I said quickly, expecting him to rejoice at my choice.

‘OK …’ he accepted reluctantly instead. I could see the shadow of disappointment across his face, his lips no longer curled quite so far upwards and I frowned in surprise.

‘What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?’ I said, stroking his hair off his forehead.

‘Of course I like it if you like it. It’s just, well, just … slightly further away than I’d hoped; but sure, leap day is perfect.’

‘Further away than you’d hoped?’ I repeated, looking at him with surprise. ‘The 29th is only four days away. Such a special day should be worth the wait.’

Paul frowned. ‘Yes totally worth it, but four years is a very long time.’

I shook my head. ‘Not four years, Paul. I said four days, as in next Monday.’

He looked at me with a baffled expression on his face. ‘Let me get this straight: you want to get married in four days. As in four days. So, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and then we get married. Next Monday?’

I nodded, rolling my eyes and waiting for him to finally get the picture.

‘Monday, 29th of February,’ he spelled out holding my hands in his, his thumb tracing circles on my skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. His smile returned.

‘The very same,’ I confirmed.

‘But how? I mean where? I don’t know if …’ he stuttered and for the first time since I met him, Paul Alexander Hugh FitzRoy was flustered. I couldn’t stop the giggle that burst from my lips.

‘We’ll work it all out, Paul. We’ll figure out a way; we always do.’ He kept staring at me as if he was in shock.

‘Do you want to marry me or not?’ I demanded.

He laughed then, shaking away the doubts that I’d seen in his eyes. He lifted my chin and kissed me. ‘I do, Fran, really … I do.’ And we both smiled at the future ahead of us.

‘Then, let’s just figure something out. How about Gretna Green?’ I suggested.

‘Mhmm, we’re not minors; we’re in a hurry,’ he answered noncommittally, and I knew then he would just come up with the perfect solution, like he always did. Paul was a man who had a plan for everything, so I knew he’d rise to the occasion and find a way for us to be man and wife before Monday was over.

While he searched the web using his tablet, stroking my hair and playing with the ring on my finger, I curled up, snuggling in the crook of his arm and let out a sigh of contentment, enjoying the feel of his chest rising and falling as he breathed, the smell of his shampoo, and the way I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face.

I closed my eyes to concentrate on the enormity of what was about to happen. In four days’ time, I’d become Mrs FitzRoy. The idea was both frightening and elating and it was incredibly hard to keep my heartbeat steady. All sorts of images entered my head about the future, our honeymoon, our kids, and the beautiful life just ahead of us.

After a few minutes, Paul interrupted my reverie. ‘A marriage licence everywhere in England needs fifteen days’ notice, so with only four days to spare … it’ll have to be Vegas.’

His tone was firm, no joking, just complete and utter seriousness.

I turned to fully look at him, my eyes bright.

‘Vegas it is!’ I agreed, propping myself up, ready for action. ‘I can look for flights and you can book the chapel and we …’

‘Later …’ he said, claiming my mouth and preventing me from carrying on with my planning.

‘Later …’ I agreed again, running my fingers through his hair.

We returned to London on Sunday morning because I was too weak to travel the day before, and with just one sleep until our wedding day, we only had enough time to swap the clothes in our luggage and get to the airport. Lucky for us we were going west and because of the different time zone, we would gain several hours.

Monday morning arrived way too quickly and with our plane departing in a few hours we needed to get everything ready really fast.

Still, it was not even eleven and we were showered and dressed, just about to finish packing our bags, and everything was going as scheduled. Then I realised I had forgotten something important that would put a spanner in the works. In our mad rush, my brain finally reminded me of what I was forgetting.

‘I need cash for Cecilia,’ I gasped, looking at Paul and feeling slightly panicky. ‘She’s coming over in twenty minutes!’ I whined, looking at the clock.

‘Who is Cecilia?’ asked Paul with a raised eyebrow while taking a jumper from the bottom drawer and bringing it over to the pile of clothes he had already placed in his suitcase.

‘She’s the gardener. She’s supposed to start preparing the raised beds, and she was going to pick up the perfect plants at a horticultural auction but she said she needed cash. Rats … I promised her I would get her some,’ I said, angry with myself.

‘That’s okay,’ Paul replied calmly. ‘I’ll get cash from the off-licence down the road. They have a machine. We have plenty of time, plus that’s the beauty of not flying commercial: the plane will wait for us.’

‘Are you sure?’ I looked at Paul with a radiant smile. ‘I would go myself but look,’ I said, pointing at my suitcase only half-full. Next to it there was a pile of stuff that I still needed to somehow squeeze into it.

‘It’s no trouble, I’ll be two minutes tops and my bag is ready,’ he answered with a smug smile as he zipped up his luggage and lifted it from the bed to prove his point.

‘Okay then, get as much cash as you can. I really want a Japanese maple tree and they cost a small fortune apparently,’ I told him, suddenly business-like and concentrating on what I was doing.

‘Consider it done,’ he promised, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. I answered him with a grunt. Without lifting my eyes from the pair of jeans that didn’t want to squeeze in the only empty corner I had left, I was pushing them down with all my strength when Paul stepped closer. Initially, I thought he was coming to my rescue; instead, without any warning, he turned me to him and – holding me by my elbows – he lifted me up until we were at eye level.

‘Paul! What are you doing?’ I squealed, my feet dangling several inches from the floor.

He answered me with a passionate kiss that made my head spin. I gave in completely, pouring my love for him into it. When he eventually put me down, I was breathless and light-headed, and blissfully happy.

‘I needed a kiss for the road,’ he said when I looked up at him dreamily, trying to regain some control. ‘I love you,’ he said, heading for the door.

‘I love you too,’ I answered suddenly wary that we were going to be apart, even if it was only for a few minutes.

‘Miss you already,’ I whispered, my voice unexpectedly trembling with emotion. ‘Hurry back, please.’

‘I will,’ he answered, blowing me a kiss before jogging down the stairs.