Page 93 of The Last Kiss

I know nothing about art, but even I can feel the emotion running off its surface.

“It’s beautiful, Simone. She’s very talented.”

“Merci.”

I stand a while attempting to make sense of the brush strokes, occasionally distracted by one of the genetically engineered dogs who is licking its butt on the sofa. I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed. My stomach gives a loud gurgle and Simone laughs. “You’re hungry.”

“I can’t remember when I last ate.” I think it might have been the cake. If Liv knew, she’d be straight on a plane over here to tell me off.

“I can take you to the kitchen.”

“I’m not sure I should be allowed in a Michelin starred kitchen.”

“Non.” Simone shakes her head, reading the grimace in my face. “It’s our private kitchen, no staff.”

“Oh phew, something normal. Lead the way.”

She winds us down corridors away from the over-stylised guest areas until eventually we must be in the private wing—a wing which is the same length as Liv’s whole street—and pushes on a simple heavy and ancient oak door. It gives a satisfying groan as it releases the aroma of rich coffee beans while my stomach gives another distressed gurgle.

Odile is sat at a large wooden table that looks like it’s been in situ for at least four hundred years. Six inches thick, it has a score of grooves and cuts that could cast it as a prop in a battle scene of a film.

“Bonjour, comment te sens-tu?”

Ahhhh, wait I know this! Good morning, how do you feel? “Je…vais bien, merci.”

I’m good, thank you. Thank God for the limited school conversational French I have remembered so I can at least try to make an effort. I vow if I do get a donor heart, I will learn the language.

Odile scrapes back her chair across terracotta tiles. “Here, sit. We were worried about you last night.”

“No need.” All the damn need, but let’s not discuss it. “Not enough food that’s all.”

“Coffee?” She pushes a cafetière towards me and I’m almost salivating at the smell. It would be uncouth to ask for biscuits to dunk, so I pour the thick tar-like mixture and then doctor it with even thicker milk from a metal jug.

“Is this Henri’s milk?” I ask, glancing up to find her watching me, lips twitching.

“It’s from the herd, yes.” She nods, biting down a smile.

What have I said?

Oh.

“I meant Henri’s cows, not him.” Whoosh, it’s hot in this kitchen. Laughing, I pull forward the jug and peer inside. “That would be an impressive feat by any man’s standards.”

Odile peals a laugh and drops her head to her arm on the table, bronzed and exposed shoulders shaking.

“What’s so funny?” Simone asks, but I just shake my head as I struggle to breathe. Laughter, embarrassment, dying. It all does something nasty to the chest area.

The door groans and Odile lifts her head as Henri walks in, banging her hands on the table as she peals off another laugh.

“What’s so funny in here?”

Don’t you dare tell him. She fires off some French and points to the jug while Henri’s dark eyebrow curves and he looks directly at me. I could almost forget the embarrassment just by staring at his beautiful face. Almost… not quite.

“It was lost in translation.” My lips quirk into a grimace at the edges.

With a long stride that almost leaves me breathless he’s across the kitchen and crushing me to his chest. “You’re awake early. I thought you’d sleep more.” His kisses drop like gentle rain on my hair, and I lift my face to absorb some more.

Gentle hands cradle my cheeks and as he inspects my face, reading me as he always has, there’s a frown between his midnight eyes, so I’m not sure what prose he’s finding there on the landscape of my skin.