I am not here because of his ghost, but I will lay the old truths to rest.

Eight years ago, it was easier to say I missed him than anything else. Our affair lasted through two summers, springs, autumns and a winter. He was the highlight of my week.

He caught my smile on camera because I did not believe him. But… we preferred to lie to each other.

Then it had to stop, because I couldn't answer his question.

So, I messaged him.

Joyeux Noël. I will be in Sainte-Maxime over Christmas. Perhaps you might visit me?

He replied that evening and called me the next day.

-=- 70 -=-

The Gulf of Saint-Tropez looks subdued in steel blue and greys. The groomed sand is desolate. Beach club loungers are stacked, and the Petanque courts rest empty. The old town is their redoubt, and its residents conduct their everyday business.

I stand where the promenade ends at the citadel. My hands are in my coat. I do not know what to do with them or my face.

He knows how to be on time without appearing eager.

His face is a little older around the mouth and eyes. His hair is still a little longer than neat. A well-chosen coat covers his mass, a personal favourite by how it rests on him.

“Hello, Elodie.”

“Hello, Martin.”

I do not know if I should embrace him. With two air kisses, he gathers me up, briefly. Close against wool and sandalwood, my hands rest on his back. We break.

“You look well,” he offers.

“You look like yourself.”

It raises a small boyish snigger. On any other day, he would laugh.

We walk because standing is worse.

-=- 71 -=-

Aurélie is in Nice, with a tree I did not decorate with her. I walked her to the school gate and enjoyed long Saturdays. I painted in between. I sold a few, enough to keep me going.

We talk about anything but that.

The café remains open in the food market. It is cosy, surrounded by the delicious smells of fresh vegetables, meats, and warm bread. We order coffee, individually.

“How long are you here?” he asks.

“Until my daughter goes back to school. Then I am going back to Nice.”

“So, how’s the van?” He smirks.

“Oh, she still hates hills.”

“It’s a Deux Chevaux?”

“Yes, an Acadiane.”

“The more life changes, the more it stays the same.”

It is an old memory I cannot suppress.

“People change.”

My tone is harsh, and I am annoyed with myself. Our coffees arrive. Mine keeps my hands warm and occupied.

“Elodie. I didn’t come here to restart anything.”

“Good. I don’t want you to.”

He tries to smile. “I just want to know how you are.”

“I know.”

Our words dance in ever-decreasing circles. This is harder than I imagined.

-=- 72 -=-

My friend could not look after her grandparents’ cats while they went on holiday. Martin understood that look on my face. It was September, and we took two weeks off work at short notice. We had no idea what to expect. We had never heard of this place.

I was twenty-three, and this was our first holiday together.

It was hot in Sainte-Maxime, a late heatwave. We had the use of a car - a Deux Chevaux. Tired, faded, it was a cantankerous heap that required the crank starter. It made Martin sweat. My father said, judge a man by how he treats cars and animals.

I saw it with my own eyes.

The day’s heat lingered under the pink skies. We walked the promenade like everyone else in our smarter clothes. Martin looked good in linen trousers and a shirt. I chose a tight-fitting summer dress. I had the figure for it back then. My hand was on his arm. There was more than the warmth in the air. We smiled so much that people looked and smiled back.

I let Martin order our food. We drank Rosé. His French was improving. We forgot what day of the week it was.

We found our cadence of beach, food, and sex. Not in any regimented order, well, except for the sex.

There was a lot of that.

Another day, at the house, he stood behind me at the wide bay window. His hand on my waist made me tingle. We gazed out at the diamond-encrusted sea. Kissing my neck, he matched its beauty.

“Martin, if you do that again, we will miss the fireworks tonight.”

He paused. He could not see my grin. “There are no fireworks tonight.”

“But, there could be some here with you.”

“Oh…” He sounded surprised.

I turned and kissed him because I wanted to. “It will have to be now, instead.”

“Then light the fuse.”

I gave him everything because he was careful with my heart. He knew the places that undid me even then. I told him of many more, because I wanted him to know everything about my body. He looked pleased in a way that was only for me. We went down on the lounge tiles. Impromptu, urgent, matching how I felt about him.

We might fuck, or make love. We shared, gave and took. Most of all, I forgot the person everyone else saw and let him into the place only he could see.

My true self.

He never wore me down. He always built me up. Shaking hard, lost in my climax, I did not care about the window. I kept him close. When he came, he murmured my name as the most precious word in the world. He left himself inside me again. I cherished that. We lay on the warm tiles holding hands, and did not speak for a while.

“Elodie.”

I turned on my side. My hand rested on his heart. I could feel it pulse for me.

“Yes?”

He looked past me for a moment, and back at me.

“I love you.”

I could see the fear in his eyes. I said it back immediately. I felt it and meant it.

My beautiful man kissed me as if we had a lifetime to define it.

I kissed him back in agreement.

-=- 73 -=-

The café has grown colder. Or I have.

“I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

I sigh, “Sit here and pretend I am fine.”

“Then don’t.”

When I stand, the chair complains. I pay for the coffee, and he starts to argue. I shake my head once. This is all the language we have left.

“My apartment is five minutes away.”

The street is damp, the cobbles dark. Our breathing shows. We climb the stairs that smell of fresh paint. I open the front door, and we walk in. This place is modern and spartan in a way that lets you live in it, but not love it.

I see my diary as he enters. It rests on the small dining table next to an empty wine glass.

Martin hangs his coat next to mine. I watch him. He is still strong and defined, and sits on the settee made for two.

I choose a dining chair instead.

He rubs his thumb along the seam of his trousers. “So?”

I clasp my hands in my lap. “Six years ago. You asked me to divorce my husband and be with you. Well, now, I am divorced.”

He gestures in agreement. “I am not here to cure your loneliness. Not this time.”

“I told you. I did not invite you here for that.”

“Really?”

He stares deep into my eyes.

I wish he would not do that. “Really.”

He refuses to look away. “Then I don’t know what you want. Or who you are.”

“Oh, I am tired,” I snort. “Both sides of me.”

He frowns. “You’re avoiding what you want to say.”

The radiator ticks, and I am not hopeful. The cold worsens my state of mind. I glance at my diary and my hands begin to shake. I squeeze them tight. The storm swells again.

“I….” My voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I need a minute. Please.”

He freezes. I can feel his eyes on me as I leave the lounge. Closing the door, I sit on the bed and bury my face in my hands. Seeing him now is seeing him when I loved him. I am grateful that I weep silently.

I wait until it passes. Staring in the mirror, I look at my pink eyes. He will know.

Of course he will. He is Martin.

When I come back, he is not on the settee. He is at the table, and my diary is open in his hands. I see the page, then his expression. My fears in Nice. Manon in the drawer. Why I threw the ring. The hospital, and the many visits. My two faces.

He is at the tear-soaked page that admits my deepest secret.

“Fuck,” I gasp. “Put that down!”

He looks at me, concerned.

“Martin. That is not yours to read!”

“I know.”

“Then close it.”

He does, but keeps his hand on the cover as if the book might spring open. The tension rests so thick, I can taste it.

He gazes at me, blank-faced, unblinking. “How long have you felt like that?”

“Too long.”

My trembling hands are fists. My features are pinched and tight. I do none of the things I could, but they cross my mind as thick, angry stripes.

“You had no right.”

“When we broke up, or reading your diary?”

“Reading my diary. Why, Martin?”

He swallows. “Yes, why. For all those years… for so many fucking years. Look at you, I can see you’ve been crying. Why, Elodie?”

His raised voice reaches into me.

“It’s private.” I bark.

“So is an attic.”

He deflates. A burden weighs him down, and I know that expression. This silence unsettles me.

“Would you sit?” he asks carefully. “I’ll say my piece. You can say yours. Then, if you want me to leave. I will.”

I sit on the settee because my legs have had enough.

He is on edge. “A secret for a secret. This is why I travelled here, to tell you to your face.”

I wait.

“In the attic of my parents’ house, there is a shoebox. I put things in it after what… happened. Keepsakes. Letters. Tickets for the Palais Garnier. Photos. The music box.”

He pauses and swallows hard. I remember that music box.

His eyes are sullen. “I have our engagement ring.”

“Your mother asked for it back.”

He snorts, “As if I could buy back the record collection I sold for it.”

He runs his fingers through his hair. He clasps his hands in prayer and presses them to his lips. I do not want him to do that. I am relieved when he lets his hands rest, and he gazes at me.

“Occasionally, my mother asks if I want to keep it. I say yes every time.”

He looks away. “A few months ago, she said it was time to let you go.”

His gaze softens as if years of memories are judged in a second.

“I told her that I can’t.”

He shakes his head.

“Martin?”

“You are the love of my life. You always were.”

It stops me dead. I look at the diary.

My eyes are welling up. “Can you forgive me for what I did?”

He looks up and nods slowly.

He sits next to me and places his hand on mine. “I forgave you years ago.”

A single tear falls, and I wipe it with the heel of my hand.

“I was cruel to you, and I was again, six years ago.”

He sighs. “You are not making excuses for how I treated you.”

“I’m so sorry, Martin.”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.”

I have to stop, or more tears will come.

-=- 74 -=-

In his world, a cup of tea is the answer to everything. We sit together, holding mugs, and say nothing.

He glances at me. I can feel his forgiveness.

“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” he mutters.

“I had noticed.”

“Just in case. I made a reservation. One o’clock.”

I sigh and finish my tea. “Of course you did.”

“So, wear something that is not that coat and jumper. Stop moping. Make an effort.”

I glare at him. “Pardon? What did you say?”

He smiles. “You heard me. You are staying here as if this is a punishment you intend to finish. It isn’t.”

The careful woman bristles. He read everything. The other side of me almost laughs.

“You cannot talk to me like that.”

“I can. I just did.” He flashes that mercurial smile. “You used to like it when I didn’t ask permission.”

“What if I say no?”

He sizes me up. “Then I will eat a very good lunch alone, and you can continue being a fool.”

That lands. It is not mean, but deadly accurate.

“One o’clock?” I ask.

“One o’clock. I will be here, quarter to. I will not find you in that jumper either.”

I flash my eyebrows. “Brave words.”

“I know.”

He grins, and I join in. He stands, and so do I. He reaches out to embrace me. I want to be in his arms.

I hold him tight. “Thank you.”

“Sorry for reading your diary. You never say sorry or please. I knew it was serious.”

I tut. “I forgive you. You gave me an easier way out.”

“I do care about you, y’know?”

“I know.”

When he is gone, I smile.

The careful woman would frown.

-=- 75 -=-

My dress is a simple cut in dark green. It fits better than I remember. I put my hair up and take it down again. I primp it just so. I paint my lips, put on earrings, and dab on a little perfume. I did as I was told.

I smile in the mirror. He was right. I will not tell him that.

He rings at a quarter to, and I let him up.

Looking smart in a navy suit, he sees me and stops dead.

“Don’t look so relieved.” I purse my lips.

“I am. I thought I would have to negotiate with you.” He sucks in air through his teeth. “Difficult. You look great.”

I say nothing and let him have the moment.

The restaurant is warm, comforting. Martin takes my coat as if he had never stopped knowing how to. He tucks me in. I sit facing a thick linen tablecloth, with sparkling glasses and weighty cutlery. Our waiter smiles as his present to the guests.

We drink champagne because he ordered it before I could object. It is lively and a little too cheerful.

“To a summer of painting.” He offers his glass.

“Cin cin.”

They tinkle.

Oysters first, because he knows I like them. Then fish cooked by someone who takes pride in their work.

He opens up about his work and how it keeps him travelling. The wine finds the places that the tea could not. I recall my travels and why I did it. I explain the dilemmas that the road and my painting confronted. He does not condemn me. He lets me talk. I notice myself smiling and do not stop.

“You are enjoying this.” He grins.

“Don’t gloat.”

“I will gloat a little. You look like yourself.”

“Which self?”

“The one who lit up any room she walked into.”

I smile at his answer. I eat the last of his potatoes because he is not finishing them.

“Oi!”

“You abandoned them.” I plunder another one. “That is a crime when they went to so much trouble.”

“I was leaving those ‘til last.”

“Then you should have eaten faster.”

I pop it into my mouth.

We have cheese. We have dessert. I have forgotten what great food tastes like. Coffee comes in small cups, and the waiter leaves us alone. When the bill arrives, Martin gives me that look, and I know when not to argue.

Outside, Sainte-Maxime is wintry and handsome. I take his arm without deciding to.

“Walk me to your hotel.”

“Is that a request?”

“It is an instruction. Your heating works. Mine is miserly.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Don’t.” I frown.

“Mademoiselle.” He grins.

I am warm all the way to his hotel.

-=- 76 -=-

I am on edge, suddenly nervous. The bed is made. The window holds a burnished silver view against the rising speckles of light. I gaze at him without guilt, as if we are young again.

“Elodie?”

“I did as I was told. I am insufferable after I am obedient.”

I place my hand on his chest.

He holds my chin to look into my eyes. “Be insufferable, you know what that gets you.”

Six years is a long time to remember a man and still be surprised by him.

Our first kiss tastes of coffee. The second has less manners. I laugh into the next.

My dress slides from me. His shirt opens for my cool hands, and he flinches for my amusement. I press my lips to his neck, which I used to own. I leave them there as a memento from history. He breathes suddenly.

“Just there?” I ask.

“Always.”

My brassiere loosens with that trick he has, single-handed. When his hand finds I am already wet, he growls in that way that makes me flood.

“Fuck, Elodie.”

“Yes.”

I take him in hand. He is hard and known. I stroke him and watch his eyes lose their focus, the way they always did.

“Look at me.”

He does. That light is there… older, and wiser.

I sit on the edge of the bed, prop myself up with my arms behind me, and open my thighs. He puts his mouth on me because he still knows that look in my eyes. I hold his hair, and I do not pretend to be shy. He flattens his tongue. He knows all those places, and I swear at the ceiling of a four-star hotel. When I come, it leaves me shaking. He kisses the inside of my thigh as a threat to do that again.

“Put it inside me,” I tell him. “Now. I have been polite all lunchtime.”

“You ate my potatoes.”

“That was to hurry you up. Do it.”

I retreat up the bed. He crawls after me. His strong hands fix me in place. He pushes into me in one slow stroke. It steals my breath. I am tight around him because Martin has a heft I am not used to. He holds still because he likes to feel me take him. I like that he still likes it.

“Elodie.”

“Don’t be careful, Martin. Not now.”

He fucks me as if the day just started. He moves to introduce himself all over again, with all his best qualities. I devour every last one. I hook a leg over his hip, and he finds that place without trying. He stays there until I swear into his shoulder. This was always my delicious comeuppance. The sweep of him finds my hot, syrupy appetite for more, and I writhe freely.

I come again, lip-locked, and cry out with a sound I forgot I owned. I cling to him, and he does not race to the finish. He toys with me, cat and mouse, until I am frantic. I press on his body. He flips me over onto all fours.

I am baying as he plunges. He pushes me into the pillows to muffle my protests. Then, he gives me more to think about. I am loud and shaking as the tension unwinds hard and fast through me.

I plead for him to finish, to see him at that beautiful moment. He relents as I lie back. My hands glide across his biceps and rake over his back. I pull him to me. I want it deep and hard. My legs wrap over his, to hold him should he change his mind. My lips find his, then my tongue. Then, I entwine my arms around him as he weakens.

“Inside me.”

Thick, swollen and twitching, the noise he makes is the old one, the one no other man made. I keep him there until the last of it has gone through us.

We lie together and breathe quickly.

“Happy Christmas, Elodie.”

“Yeah, and you are still a great fuck.”

“Did Christmas come early for you?”

I laugh at the ceiling. I face him and caress his face. “Happy Christmas, Martin.”

Afterwards, I get up for some water. The carpet is soft under my feet. He watches me, appreciating my naked body in the way I want to be seen. I bring a glass back, and we share it.

“Stay,” he asks, expecting nothing, “Spend the night with me.”

“Your heating works. I am not stupid.”

I rest alongside him under the covers. He is warm, and his breathing calms me. We doze for an hour, and I say nothing of it except when he watches me rouse.

“What?” I am bleary-eyed.

“Oh, nothing.” He grins.

“You haven’t changed.”

“I won’t either.”

He orders room service because of course he does. We eat a light snack and then shower. I cannot do that with him, or we will never leave the room. The promenade is alive with celebration. People wish us a Happy Christmas, and Martin is gracious every time in flawless French. I thaw, slide my hand on his arm, and I reply too.

Then, he stops us. He kisses me.

“What was that for?” I ask.

“For your courage.”

I shove him, playfully, smiling. I am glad he understands.

We retreat to the hotel and decide to end the evening with a warming drink in the bar. He orders two Cognacs, and I tut. A drink we shared when we first made love. Another time, he poured on my breasts and licked it off. I recall it, and he knows I am.

I let my smile rest. “You are the limit, Martin Richardson.”

“Admit it, you had fun today.”

Later, I fall asleep in his arms. I am still smiling.

I remained in his arms all night.

-=- 77 -=-

It is Christmas Day.

Martin sleeps, and I dress in silence. I know the side streets back to my apartment. I can make a clean exit before he asks for more.

I look at him, at peace. My hand reaches out, and it pauses. It trembles.

I stroke his hair.

He wakes, and I give him a hesitant smile. He does the same. Wearing my coat and yesterday’s dress, I am outside. Sainte-Maxime is still and empty.

I call Aurélie.

She answers with her mouth full. “Maman!”

A television blares. Her father’s voice drifts away amidst the chaos of a house that has opened its presents.

“Joyeux Noël, ma puce. Did you get something nice?”

“Paints and an easel. I want to be an artist like you.”

My throat tightens suddenly. Quick tears make me choke.

I push out a laugh. “Shall I teach you how to paint?”

“Yes, please.” She sounds excited. “Are you painting where you are?”

“A little. How’s your day been so far?”

She tells me about a cousin she has not met before, and chocolate for breakfast. A goose roasts in the oven, and she is not sure she will like it. I tell her I love her. Aurélie says it back, and I know she is smiling.

When I hang up, my throat tightens again. I missed the tree. I missed the floor and the discarded wrapping paper.

But I do not have to be a martyr. I can be an artist… with her.

I return to Martin’s room.

He is at the window gazing out over the gulf. He looks at me as if I am about to leave.

“I spoke to her.”

He nods, thoughtfully. “Good.”

“She has paints and an easel. She wants to be an artist.”

He turns and smiles kindly. He does not offer to comfort me.

“Can I stay?” I ask. “Until the first.”

He looks relieved. “I’ll see if I can extend my booking.”

“I am not asking for more. The village is alive during the holiday week. I would rather not experience it alone.”

Martin scoffs. “That is the least romantic sentence I have ever heard.”

I muse, mischievously. “Take it or leave it.”

He smiles, properly, the one that reveals his laughter lines.

“I’ll take it.”

-=- 78 -=-

Words are easy in his company. The silence is just as pleasant. We enjoy an afternoon promenade. We dine in the old town where we can. I show him my folios, and he holds each painting with great care.

I can see a pride in his eyes. “You’re very talented.”

“Flatterer.”

“Really.” He holds my gaze. “I can see the real you in them.”

On New Year’s Eve, everywhere closes at six. We eat at the hotel and start the night at our table with Champagne.

“I was talking to one of the staff. There is a tradition here,” he sips his drink. “Bain du bout de l'An. An end of year swim in the sea for reasons no one can explain.”

“You and your swimming.” I shake my head. “Also, I have noticed. When did your French get so good?”

“Oh, you know. I’ve worked here from time to time. So, fancy a dip?”

“I do not have a costume.”

He leers, “That never stopped you.”

“I paint the sea. I do not get in it in December.”

I glance up. He is still smiling, and I thaw, joining in.

After dinner, we join the crowd on the Promenade. We drink thick hot chocolate laced with Grand Marnier. Saint-Tropez is a scattering of gold on the far shore. Our lights look less gaudy at this distance. At midnight, a cruise ship in the gulf sounds its horn. Someone on a balcony shouts it to everyone, and many reply.

The fireworks erupt, and I kiss Martin because I want to.

“Happy New Year.”

He eases back.

I giggle, “Don’t look so surprised.”

“I am a little.”

“Good.”

He kisses me back. “Happy New Year.”

We leave for his hotel room.

In it, I approach, and he grins widely as I walk naked towards him. I hold the bottle of Champagne by its neck, and sip from a glass. I place them both on the dining table. I kiss him and nibble his bottom lip. My hands slip off his belt and open his trousers.

On my knees, I have him in my mouth. I am all eyes for more. He is flushed, panting. I sip from the glass and let the bubbles go to work on him.

He is ready in the way that used to make me feel smug.

“Elodie… fuck,” he groans, “don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

I am smug now. “Why not?”

Pushing him onto the mattress, I kneel over him and drink. I feed it to him, holding him in place. Sliding back, I take him. Upright, I gaze down, watching his features soften as I move. He will not set the pace.

I ride, playing with fire. I douse the flames with champagne, tipping it onto his chest. I lick it from him, and he responds, deep and slow, forcing out my groans.

I turn, grip his ankles and take the angle I need. Crawling across the bed, I look back at him. He reads my thoughts. He is inside me, holding my hips. I push back every time, until our bodies clash.

I offer one hand. He takes it. I spit out what I want, and he seizes my other wrist. Hauling me onto my knees, my arms are pulled back, and the fill of him is brutal. I cannot keep these sounds in. He has me where he wants me, and I asked for it.

He keeps me there until I expel a long, brutal unravelling. It leaves me red-faced, convulsing and limp. I lie there, mouth slack, twitching.

I want to know if I can grind on him with those twisting hips he could never endure. I do not ease from it. His weak nipples are exploited. He bucks, and his eyes never waver. He holds my breasts as I slide against him.

It is not fate or destiny. It is us now, not then.

I crash hard when Martin overwhelms me. He pushes to the ends of me. I feel his entire release and that rumbling groan.

“Fuck… fuck….”

Then he goes silent as his need for air takes over.

“Happy New Year,” I laugh.

Afterwards, I lie with my head on his chest and listen to him breathe.

A small feeling rests inside me.

It is not a plan or a future rendezvous, but a glimmer of permission.

-=- 79 -=-

This day came too quickly. We do not pretend we have the solutions to our lives. He travels for work. I have a school gate, and beyond that, I do not know.

I walk with him to the taxi rank. He kisses me properly, and I can do that without regret.

“Martin, when you are on this side of the Channel…”

“I will call you.” He finishes my sentence.

I pull him close and hold him. “I may be painting. I may not answer at once.”

“I’ll remember that.”

I sigh, “Thank you for insisting. And for staying.”

He kisses my forehead. “Thank you for the dress. And for asking.”

He heads towards Saint-Raphaël. I walk along Simon-Lorière alone. The Christmas tree looks smaller this morning. My apartment is cold and empty. In my jumper, I open my diary and sip cheap wine.

I write with a calm hand.

The radiator in my room ticks. I ignore its promise.

But I make a new one.

And write it down.