More Than A Dream - Emma Richmond

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never have met Jean-Marc. Would never have ogled the rich and famous at the American Film Festival...’

      ‘Ah, now, be fair, you could have ogled them any time. They hold the festival here every year.’

      ‘But I couldn’t have ogled them as a guest!’ she insisted. ‘Couldn’t have ogled them from the arm of the most sought-after bachelor around. Anyway, I quite like being the wife of racehorse owner; the wife of a casino partner, famous yachtsman...’

      ‘Hardly famous,’ he derided, his mouth turned down at the corners.

      ‘Well known, then,’ she substituted. Staring at him, examining that strong, attractive face as he gazed pensively at the table, she wondered how much he was regretting it. Had he taken one too many gambles and lost? Had he been expecting her to refuse his proposal? He would never say, even if she asked, yet she knew this wasn’t the lifestyle he had planned for himself. He’d been quite honest about it, about never intending to marry. So really he was someone else who had to lie in a bed of their own making. ‘You lost more than I ever could,’ she added quietly in a foolish desire to be reassured. ‘Your freedom to choose.’

      Raising his eyes, and shaking off whatever thoughts he had been thinking, he smiled. ‘Choose what? Women? Women were never that important to me, Melly, despite what the gossips say. I like them, enjoy their company, and I don’t say I’ve never bedded them,’ he added with his engaging grin, ‘but not to the degree those same gossips would have you believe, and the truth of the matter is I don’t feel tied. I enjoy being married to you, didn’t you know that?’ he queried lightly.

      ‘Do you?’ she smiled, knowing it for the lie it was.

      ‘Yes, of course. It’s also an excuse I can use when I want to leave somewhere that bores me; an excuse for importuning women...’ With a laugh that mocked himself, he added more seriously, ‘No, the only regret I have is that I might hurt you. I’m on a course of self-destruction, Melly, always have been, you know that. I seem to have this need for danger; to pit my wits against the world. Constantly test my abilities. A need to win... I’ll make the best provision I can for you and the child, and then if anything happens...’ With a little shrug, his mood changed again. ‘What shall we do today? Choose the pram?’

      Shaking off her own feeling of despondency that his words had brought, she shook her head. ‘No, mustn’t tempt fate. I won’t choose the pram, or cot, or anything until the last month...’

      ‘But that’s ages!’ he protested.

      ‘Only eight weeks—it will soon go.’

      ‘I suppose. But I want to do things!’ he exclaimed comically. ‘Get the nursery ready! Choose outfits for him, it, her...’

      ‘Designer?’ she asked with a teasing grin.

      ‘Of course designer!’ Looking down, he traced an invisible pattern on the tablecloth. ‘It frightens me, Melly,’ he confessed quietly. ‘Being a father. I can’t picture it. Don’t know how I will be.’

      ‘I do,’ she said softly. ‘You’ll be protective, caring—and fun. What more could a child ask?’

      ‘For his father to be there, I should think!’ With an abrupt move that took her by surprise, he got to his feet. ‘I have to go and see someone about the horses. I’ll be back in an hour or two; we’ll go out then.’ Almost at the door, he halted. Turning, he regarded her with a frown. ‘Don’t you have to go to the clinic today?’

      ‘Mm, but not till two.’

      ‘OK, I’ll be back well before that. See you later.’ And, with that, he was gone.

      Abandoning her attempt to eat, she leaned back and gave an unhappy sigh. Oh, Charles. It was getting harder and harder to appear relaxed, friendly—for him, too, she suspected—but if any intensity was to creep into her voice, any hint of how she felt, she would drive him away. He would feel threatened, and he would leave. She had always known that; she just had not known how desperately hard it would be—or had not wanted to admit it, yet she must have suspected how doomed it would be, with both of them pretending to be something they weren’t.

      Clenching her hands tight on the napkin, she took slow, deep breaths to let out the tension that his mood had brought. Self-destruction... He would do the craziest things on a seeming whim: race his yacht; ski down routes that were marked hazardous; stake a fortune on the turn of a card... And she did not know why, why he had this need to push himself to the limits, punish himself. It wasn’t because of Laurent’s death, or for making her pregnant; his course of destruction had started long before those two events. Was it because of his upbringing? Because of Beckford? They both had their share of secrets. She didn’t know his, and, hopefully, he would never find out hers, for, although he suspected that their meeting wasn’t one of those odd coincidences that occurred from time to time, he didn’t know. Not for certain, not that she had known he was here, and that her desire to visit her grandfather’s grave had just been an excuse. A reason for being in the same place as Charles.

      Throwing down her napkin, she got awkwardly to her feet and wandered out on to the small terrace. Settling herself in the cushioned chair that Jean-Marc always put out for her, she gazed out over the town spread below.

      Charles. He’d coloured her life, given it magic, and every other man paled into insignificance beside him. He was her fantasy, her dream come true. And he had no idea—at least, she hoped he didn’t, hoped that he thought she regarded him, as he did her, as an old and valued childhood friend. So, always there must be this need to keep the reins loose, never give him reason to feel trapped, because, without him, life quite simply would not be worth living. She needed him near, and he needed to be free, like a wild horse, but if she was careful, and clever, perhaps he would always come back.

      Her eyes unfocused, she thought back to that day over six months before when they had met near the harbour. Correction: when she had engineered the meeting. Although, as in all things, fate had played its part. Had, on that one occasion, played into her hands. And if he found out? No, she thought with a little shudder, he must never find out. He would never understand obsession.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THERE had been grey skies, a fine drizzle, the day Melly had arrived in France. The overnight ferry had been crowded and she had been glad to reach the relative freedom of the roads. The drive to the Hotel du Golf in Deauville had been without incident, and after unpacking she had wasted no time in gaining directions to the Military Cemetery from the desk clerk. First things first. Set up the alibi.

      It was only a five-minute drive from the hotel. A winding road, empty of traffic, then along a small unmarked track, tucked away behind some trees. Isolated. Forgotten? No, not forgotten. All the war graves had been carefully tended. The grass cut.

      Shrugging into her slicker, pulling the hood over her dark hair, she climbed from the car. A fitting day for visiting a grave, she thought, with the heavens crying, and guilt was her companion that day, because grandfather’s grave was only an excuse. Her father had drawn her a little map, which she had memorised, and, with that in mind, she walked straight to his grave.

      Huddling more warmly into her slicker, she gazed before her. Yet, even with her eyes on the grey stone cross, she saw only Charles. Or, said the French way, ‘Sharle’. With a small smile, she savoured the name on her tongue. Sharle. No, not here, now; that was a betrayal of them all.

      Focusing once more on the memorial stone, she conjured up an image of her grandfather. A face seen only in photographs. A black and white image of a young man that bore a striking resemblance to herself. Mid-brown curly hair, amber eyes with the same wistful expression. And he deserved far more of her attention than she was giving him. He had died for king and country, died so that future generations could be free, and here she was, over forty years later, giving him barely one tenth of her attention.

      Captain David Morland. Aged thirty-two. Liberator.

      June 6, 1944

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