The Frenchman

THE FRENCHMAN

Donna switches off the engine as she comes to a halt. Out of the car window, she sees the sea about two hundred metres away waves breaking on the sandy beach. The land is bare except for heather and scrub as if everything else has been taken by the wind. It's not strong, though she has the feeling of persistence; it is March after all. It sweeps across the windscreen, wiper blades moaning and fluttering as a consequence.

She can see the top of the memorial. It stands tall, keeping watch, reminding those who visit what happened here and hereabouts eighty or so years ago.

Her own appointment is also steeped in history, one she made ten years ago to this very day. One made with intent, though she did not know if she could keep it. But now she's here, and early, so she sits back and sinks into reminiscence, though there is hardly a day that goes by when she does not remember . . .

She is uncomfortable, and strangely, for one who considers she knows herself well, she cannot work out why. It isn't the temperature of the dance floor, which is hot, nor is it the music, which is thumping. But there's something as she has stopped dancing. She stands, looks around. People are everywhere. Dancing. Drinking. Some in twosomes, most in groups. Laughing, singing, a few trying to talk. The buzz is about the pursuit of pleasure: seeking the warmth of relaxation, and despite the music and the hubbub, chasing the contentedness of knowing the day's more serious events are done.

And then she sees him. Standing at the bar. At the end of the bar. Alone. And he seems to be looking at her. She looks around. Checking if it is indeed herself those eyes are fixed upon. But no one else is looking at him. The group she is with are oblivious. Their concentration stretched to no more than a metre from themselves. No, she decides. Those eyes are for me, and for me only.

She has missed the events of the day, arriving late on the Friday afternoon as she couldn't get away any earlier. It's not important as the main day is the Saturday. But she has something else to deal with first. What to do about those eyes. Donna turns again and looks over in the direction of the man. He is still there. Still looking. After a further glance at her colleagues, she leaves and walks through the crowd, being bustled and shoved at every footstep.

Eventually, she arrives and stands before him. 'Hello,' she says, 'Can I join you?'

He leans over and removes his jacket from the next bar stool, gesturing for her to sit. 'I kept it for you.' he says.

'For me?' Donna says.

'Yes, for you.'

She senses a foreign accent. Possibly French, though she cannot be sure. It's so noisy she realises she lip-read his invitation, rather than heard it.

'I'm Guillaume,' he says, thus confirming his French origins.

'Donna.'

'I'm very pleased to meet you, Donna. Can I get you a drink?'

'You can if we can go through to the bar.'

'A pleasure,' he says, sliding off his stool, then holding out a hand to assist her, which she refuses.

The bar is tranquil despite the distant thump, thump, thump of the disco. They are soon seated over a coffee table with a red wine for him, a gin and tonic for her. She takes a drink, which immediately releases the pit in her stomach.

They discuss the conference. She is from Cornwall, representing a wind farm company. He is from western France and is concerned about the implications of climate change. He is sponsored by the north-west section of the French Environment Management. He has no vote at the conference, similar to Donna's status, though he's hoping to be able to influence decision-making. He is to give a speech on Sunday afternoon.

Donna is fascinated, glued to those dark, brown eyes. They try to look through her, but she stops them and holds them, soaking up the spell in which she is willingly entranced. Her eyelashes flicker, entrapped, not trying to escape.

They have a second drink, then a third, though this time it's coffee, decaf, of course. She asks him about his home life. He lives in a village near Finisterre alongside his mother, brother and sister. And because it's rural, he travels a lot. To Paris in the main, though there are other venues due to events and site visits. He does, of course, do on-line, for meetings and chats with colleagues.

With coffee finished, he says he must excuse himself. It's late, and there is a relatively early start as he has a meeting at eight.

Donna hesitates, 'Would you …' she says, 'would you like lunch tomorrow?'

Guillaume says, 'Yes. I would like that very much. I would like to continue from where we are now.' They exchange mobile numbers, then he stands, as does Donna, and he takes her hand, his lips brushing her skin. The electric tingle makes her feel lightheaded, making jelly of her legs. She staggers, and Guillaume tightens his grip as if to steady her.

'Sorry,' she says. 'One too many drinks.' And she giggles, knowing it has nothing to do with alcohol.

Back in her room, she lies on the bed, crucifix style. Legs slightly apart, arms outstretched. She looks at the ceiling and sees nothing except those dark, brown eyes looking at her across the dance floor.

They meet in the foyer just after twelve and decide to go to a cafe opposite the hotel. As they cross the road, he puts a protective arm around her waist. When they reach the other side, he lets go, and she feels disappointed.

Lunch is a distracted affair. The cafe is busy as if the whole conference has come to eat. She orders prawn salad. He has hummus with falafel. They discuss the opposition and tensions each faces from others at the conference, though sentences are clipped due to the background noise.

It becomes clear to Donna that their own stances could be seen to have elements of opposition. In times past, he would have been a pirate, patrolling the Channel seeking spoils, particularly of an English nature. However, times have moved on, and they are no longer foes, though, due to Brexit, there has been a change of heart from one of an alliance to one where differences are apparent.

It is her turn to leave – a meeting with colleagues to summarise the morning. They agree dinner, though Donna will have to think of an excuse not to dine with her colleagues.

They meet at six. He has booked a small, back-street place. Any doubts Donna may have had about small and back street, vanish once she is through the door. It is instead, quiet, with tables discreetly situated in alcoves and corners.

'Just the place for a French bad man to furtively dine his English bounty,' says Donna.

'And may he take her home.' Guillaume replies.

'For ever,' she says, and laughs.

They order wine and settle to the menu, and once served, they chat. Guillaume knows London well as a visitor. He likes to seek out the secret, the hidden, the unusual. Not for him the tourist trails, though he has of course, done the sights such as Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament, and the various markets.

'I'd show you the Painted Hall and the Tulip Stairs,' he says, both are at Greenwich.'

'Maybe another time,' she says.

'Of course.'

He takes her hand across the table, and she returns with a gentle squeeze. When they have finished their meal, he offers to pay, though she insists on sharing.

'Even though I'm a captured maiden,' she says, 'I still have money and some independence.'

'Oui, Madam,' he replies, with a slight bow, and a smile crossing his face, suggesting approval.

Back in the foyer, he invites her for a late drink. But she declines. She shares with a colleague, so her absence will be noted and most definitely will be remarked upon. They agree lunch, but by chance, meet earlier at a seminar. They manage to sit next to each other, feigning distance, but with his hand under the table resting casually on her thigh.

Lunch is a simple sandwich bought at a takeaway. They sit on a wall outside the hotel. Guillaume is distracted due to his impending speech.

'Don't worry,' Donna says, 'We'll meet afterwards. I won't run away.' and she smiles, leaning over, touching his hand, then moving forward and kissing him – on the lips. 'There, you will now be reassured or completely distracted.'

She stands, says, 'See you at three in the foyer,' and blowing him a kiss, heads back to the conference hall.

Taking her seat amongst the hustle and bustle of the preparation for the next session, she finds herself alone. The conference has about 2 hours of life left. Exactly the same amount of time before she, herself, feels she will die. She is due to return to Cornwall, he to France. She is lost. What should she do? What can she do? Run away with him. No, that is not an option, cannot be an option, and will never be an option.

But she could flee, now, avoiding the moment which lies ahead. The pit in her stomach rises again and she wipes a tear from her eye. She is bereft, oblivious of those gathering around her. Then her phone twitches. It's a text from him. He's inviting her to stay the night. He has extended his booking. Should she accept? If asked why she stayed on, she can easily make an excuse, such as the conference ran on, or there were additional issues to sort. She replies 'Yes' then extends her own booking by phone, in her own name, hoping it is for the sake of appearances only.

Guillaume gives his speech. He's only allowed 15 minutes. It's about the threat from global warming. Firstly, due to a population influx from the Mediterranean, due to expected exceptional summer heat. Unlivable heat forcing a move north. And secondly, the need to build power generation to feed the air con units of the south, which are already running at maximum. And those sources are to be found in Finisterre, from wind. Therefore, a twofold consequence.

When he is finished, Guillaume is seriously challenged by another representative. She says he is introspective, selfish and needs to take a wider view. He struggles to reply, wringing his hands, clearly not expecting to be challenged for what he has considered to be a reasonable position, especially while being exposed on such a public stage.

Donna stands. She highlights that Guillaume's position is common and is a reaction to the consequences of warming, one of migration rather than of warming itself. There are many communities under such threats. So it is the colleague who needs to step back and consider how to manage large-scale population movement.

After the closing speeches, they meet and hug.

'Thank you for running to my defence.'

'You're welcome,' she says.

'I've booked us a surprise,' he tells her.

'I love surprises,' she says.

They take the Tube, and after a short walk, on turning a corner, she finds herself standing outside a hammam.

Donna is aghast.

'I can't go in there,' she says

'Why not?' says Guillaume.'

'I've nothing to wear.'

'I bought you something,' he says, reaching inside his bag, 'Here,' he says, passing her a parcel.

She opens it. It's a one-piece swimming costume. Sky blue. And still standing in the street, she tries it against herself. It seems it will fit.

'How did you know my size?'

'Oh,' he says, 'a little bit of assistance from a friendly receptionist and a good guess.' He laughs, and she joins in, releasing her embarrassment.

'Thank you,' she says, 'It's perfect.'

They go in and visit warm and hot rooms. She gasps as she breathes in steam, then they take tea in the relaxation area. In a cubicle, they lie on twin beds where she falls asleep. On waking, she turns to him. He's resting his head on a crooked elbow. The pit in her stomach immediately returns as she sees those dark, brown eyes watching over her.

'Enjoy that?' he asks.

'Lovely,' she says, 'Thank you.'

'A pleasure,' he replies, 'though sadly our time is nearly up and we must move on.'

Donna is stunned that two hours have passed so quickly. That this moment of comfort, pleasure and possibly true happiness, is to end. Though it is not as if it is gone, for she knows she will remember, and remember forever. They rise and retrieve their clothes from the lockers.

Donna turns to him, 'I'm going to use one of the large cubicles. You can join me if you'd like.'

They spend the evening in his room. Dinner is ordered as room service. In the morning, he suggests they leave together, but she says no. They must leave separately – for appearances.

She says they'll meet at St Pancras, which is his station, 'I want to see you off, because as we both know, this started because you saw me. At the dance. So it's my turn now to stand and stare.'

He is waiting for her. Just as arranged. Standing by the cafe at the entrance to the station. No phone. No distraction. Just standing, looking, waiting. Waiting for her.

She walks up to him. Puts down her bag and looks up and sees those eyes. Dark and brown, which continue to draw her in. Which still causes her stomach to hollow out. 'You're here,' she says, her tone maybe suggesting surprise.

'Of course,' he says, 'Where else would I be?'

With your wife, partner, lover? Surely you must have a lover, she thinks, though says, 'I don't know, but I'm glad you're here.'

He smiles and makes the awkwardness of the moment easy by saying, 'We could do a coffee, but my train is in fifteen minutes. It's best if I just go.'

'Yes,' she says, and stands, hands down by her sides. She doesn't know how to respond. But he bends over to give her a kiss. A kiss on the cheek. But she intervenes, lifts her hands and guides his lips to hers.

Then it's over. He bends down, picks up his bag, blows her a kiss even though his feet have not moved, then turns and walks away. He does not look round, nor lifts a hand in farewell. Just strides through the station entrance and disappears round a corner.

Donna remains still for a moment. Taking in the loss. He's gone. And I don't even know where he lives. She glances up at the station clock. Shakes herself. Comes out of captive maiden mode.

'OK,' she says out loud, 'OK.' She turns, already working out what to do. Get across the city to her station, Paddington. Then it's home, to Richard, and she'll be back in time to pick up the kids from school . . .

She breaks from this memory and glances at her phone. It is time. Stepping out of the car, she gathers hat, scarf and gloves, then fastens the top button of her coat. Not a romantic look, but then it's unlikely one will be required.

She walks across the car park and joins the path. She tightens against the chill, though she's aware it could be sensitivity because of what lies ahead. She stops and stands, looking out to sea and then over to the memorial. There are only a few people around none of whom look familiar. She shakes her shoulders, swings her arms then walks on.

As she nears her destination, she notices a figure sitting on a seat. He's hunched and looking out to sea. Could it be him? She's not sure. So rather than walking up to him and staring, she skirts round, glancing at times, trying to be discreet. It could be, she decides and turns and walks across.

'Hello, Guillaume,' she says, now certain.

He snaps out of his reverie and looks up, lifting a hand as the sun is directly behind her. Then he stands and she sees the eyes she has missed for the past ten years. Holding out her hands, she reaches for his.

'Long time,' she says.

He lets go of her hands and puts his arms around her, and she's drawn in. Safe. Warm. At peace. Eventually, he lets go and takes her by the shoulders, arms outstretched, looking at her. Reassuring himself she is real, he smiles and leans forward to give her a kiss. On the cheek, as the French do well. But she takes him in both hands and guides his lips to hers. And they kiss.