Page 44 of One Night With You

‘Okay,’ I say. Fleetingly, I wonder about cancelling my plans. I think,What if I didn’t go to the party?and then scold myself, guilt stabbing me between my ribs, because of course I have to go to the party. It’s Candice! We’ve not been the best at staying in touch but she’s my best pal, and not going isn’t an option. It’s just … this is such a cool development. It all feels so close. I want to be in the room when they finally make the call where the person at the other end says,Yes, I am Amelie Chalamet and yes, I remember my soldier.

‘Let’s do a quick search and see what we’re working with whilst we’re all together, shall we?’ I suggest. ‘I can at least help you come up with a plan, depending on how many we find. I don’t even know if there’s such thing as a French yellow pages online we can use, or …?’

‘I’ll text the librarian,’ offers William. ‘Maybe she has access through there.’

‘Superb thinking,’ Harry says.

We spend the next two hours using the librarian across in Bessines as a sort of go-between as she uses her library’s system to access thePages Jaunes, copy and pasting what we need into a Word document that she eventually sends across to William, who then has to struggle with JP’s largely unused and very old printer to get a physical copy out. There’s 193 on the list with public numbers, and seventeen private.

‘Here’s hoping it’s one of the ones we’ve got, then,’ says William.

It’s 5 p.m. by the time we’ve got everything we need to start making the calls, but JP is already sleepy and more or less ready to think about his small tinned-salmon sandwich and then bed, so we reason that Amelie, whichever one on our list she is, must surely be the same.

‘Go,’ Harry assures me as William gets JP on the stairlift and upstairs to help him change. ‘Enjoy the party. All we’ll do without you is make the call and establish her situation. I’d hate to miss it too, but I promise I’ll keep you updated on anything significant, and you’re back Sunday, aren’t you? So we’ll see you Monday, first thing. I’ll even shout you a coffee and muffin in the atrium, okay? I’ll walk you through every conversation we have step by step.’

‘Okay,’ I say, and I know I’m pouting. It means everything to me, and now we’re making headway.

‘And make me a promise?’ Harry adds, reaching out to hold on to my shoulders so that he can look me square in the eye.

‘What?’ I say.

‘Collect some stories of your own this weekend, Ruby. I think we’re both learning to take our chances when they present themselves, aren’t we?’

I nod, but don’t say anything. I know he’s right.

The next day I catch up on my reading for the course on the way down to Euston, before hopping on the tube to Ealing Broadway where I do my make-up. Ultimately, by the time I’m making a right out of the station, I look like a student dancer still in her warm-up clothes backstage: a full face of make-up and sweatpants on, textbooks spilling out of her backpack. I’ve done this walk so many times before; it’s only five minutes on foot. I take a breath as I head down the dead-end street where the house is, taking in the manicured gardens of Mrs Higton juxtaposed with the rusty car parts and caravan resting on top of some bricks in Mr Birkin’s. The winter leaves of the trees lining the pavement clag up the road where they’ve fallen and gone damp and soggy. I can hear music blasting from the house before I can even see it – I’m sure nobody is due to arrive until seven, and it’s only half five. Tentatively, I knock on the door, wondering if they’ll even be able to hear me. There’s a scuffle, and somebody swears really loudly, and then I hear footsteps in the hall.

‘It’s you,’ I say, when it opens.

Nic.

Nic being incredibly, incredibly handsome. More handsome than I remember. And he’s in the house, all mischievous eyes and … wait. Has he had his ear pierced? His hair is shorter at the back, like it’s been freshly cut, and his smile is wide and warm. There’s a poetic symmetry to the first time we met, when he was the one waiting to be told to come in.

‘Hey!’ he says, opening his arms to envelop me in a hug. I pull away, noting how he smells like cedar and musk, because I’m unabashedly hungry to get another look at him. He’s in rolled-up cord trousers, a cream T-shirt and open flannel shirt, wearing a beanie and stubble. He looks trendy and cool and not at all ill at ease like he did the last time I saw him.We each take in the sight of the other. It’s kind of adorable – we’re grinning and staring and not knowing what to say, and it’s there. Without a doubt, whatever has been fizzing in my tummy leading up to seeing him hasn’t been wrong. I feel like I want to kiss him. I know that’s totally over the top, but I do. There’s not so much a spark between us as there is a blaze. I don’t even question if he feels it too. It’s indisputable: tonight I am going to hook up with Nic Sheridan again. I think it was decided before I’d even admitted it to myself.

‘Can I take your bag for you?’ he offers. He’s tugging at the hem of his T-shirt as if he’s chilly, and it occurs to me that I’m still in the doorway and itispretty cold. I snap myself back into reality.

‘That would be great,’ I reply, noticing the way his forearm flexes as he takes the handle. I suddenly think of him in a suit, his tie pulled loose and his sleeves rolled up, all focused and concentrating. I’ll bet half his office want to sleep with him. ‘Thank you. I’m not sure where I’m sleeping? I don’t think anyone has moved in yet, have they? But I’m happy on the sofa.’

Jackson sashays to the front door, then, hoots: ‘Look what the cat dragged in! Here she is!’

Nic steps aside graciously to let Jackson flail out his arms for a bear hug. He looks as beautiful as ever, newly bleached cropped hair and all. He’s in a sleeveless zip-up hoodie that’s only done up to his nipples, revealing firm pecs and muscly arms. I notice he’s got glitter on his cheekbones and is clutching a make-up brush in one hand, as if he’s just finished doing it.

‘I miss you so much,’ I say, my voice muffled by his shoulder and a mouthful of his top. ‘Too much. I miss you like oxygen,’ I tell him. He pulls away and gets a look at me.

‘Me too, darling,’ he replies. ‘I can barely even say your name without tears overflowing.’ I roll my eyes, because he’s being dramatic so that he doesn’t have to be truthful.

‘Earnest as ever,’ I say, and he tells me to come in.

‘I’ve not got time to gild an invitation for entry. Can you find whatever needs doing and do it? Nic has got the list. We’ve only got an hour before everyone is here and her highness is handing out instructions like party bags.’

‘Your aversion to anyone with authority hasn’t lessened then,’ I joke, as Nic emerges from what used to be my old room, my overnight bag still intact.

‘I’ve been instructed that you’re bunking up with Candice,’ he says. ‘So I’ll just take this upstairs?’

It happens again. We hold eye contact, and it ignites a storm in my stomach. I’m taken back to the lingering looks and coy smiles the night we met, but this is something else. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, the distance there’s been between us has made our attraction sprout wings. He pushes his tongue to the side of his cheek in a way that I can only describe as very ‘Ryan Gosling when everyone realised they’d given the Oscar to the wrong movie’. Smug, but not irritatingly so. Like he’s in on the joke. It gives me – and there’s absolutely no other way to say this – fanny flutters.

I watch him walk up the stairs, and I know that he knows I’m watching. Damn.

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