by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
He let her go abruptly, so that her cheeks were still warm and her mind whirling when she followed him into the sitting room. Her mother’s disapproving glance indicated that she knew exactly what they’d been doing. Her father put down his newspaper, got to his feet, and smiled at her.
“Well, love. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Emile chose that moment to rest his hand against the small of her back. She bit back her gasp. “Yes. Sorry, Dad. This is Emile Renaud. My husband.”
Her father shook hands with Emile. “In the old days, men used to ask permission from a girl’s father before they married her.”
“Dad!”
He shrugged. “Theresa’s never needed my permission to do what she wants, and if she wanted to marry you, I daresay she had her reasons.”
“Ian, see to the drinks.” Melanie’s arms were folded defensively across her chest. “Theresa, sit down.” She didn’t look at Emile, but gestured vaguely in his direction. Theresa went to sit in the old brown leather armchair nearest the fireplace but Emile was there before her. He pulled her into his lap and arranged her so that she was leaning against his shoulder. One of his hands rested between her thighs, anchoring her in place. Theresa began to fiddle with the sleeve of his T-shirt, making sure to give her mother a glimpse of the tattoo underneath.
“Sherry?” Ian asked. “Or perhaps a gin and tonic?”
“The champagne, Ian. It’s in the fridge.”
Of course. As much as she hated every moment, Melanie would still make sure there was champagne to celebrate. She knew what was appropriate, and she’d want to be able to tell her friends from the golf club how delighted they were and how wonderful it had been to meet their new son-in-law.
“No, honestly,” Theresa imagined her protesting. “He’s very… French. And it’s just nice to see Theresa settled at last. She always was her own person. Very independent. No, of course we knew. Yes, well, Ian really prefers rugby, but Emile’s very bright for a footballer. French, of course, but then we’re all Europeans these days, aren’t we? I expect we’ll holiday in France with them, and it will be so nice for the grandchildren to be bilingual.” That would score her some points, even if there were a few raised eyebrows at Emile for other reasons.
Emile took two flutes from the tray that Ian offered and handed one to Theresa. He murmured, “Mon ange,” then kissed her before draining his glass.
In for a penny, in for a pound. Theresa followed his example, taking a kiss and then drinking her champagne in one gulp. Gratifyingly, when she looked around, her mother’s mouth was open and her hand held a glass paused midway to her mouth and tipped at a precarious angle. People did not normally kiss in Melanie Chartley’s sitting room, or drink champagne as if it were cheap lemonade, or sit on each other’s laps, with hands in intimate places.
“Theresa Chartley!”
“Here we go,” she muttered to Emile.
But he wasn’t listening. “I think you mean Thérèse Renaud,” he said gently. “She is my wife now, is she not?”
Theresa drew in a sharp breath at Emile’s assumption of her changed name. That was an argument that could wait for later.
“Is she?” Melanie shot a piercing look at her daughter. “I don’t suppose I’m lucky enough that this is all an elaborate hoax?”
Theresa held up her left hand. “Rings to prove it. I’m sorry I didn’t think to put a copy of the marriage certificate in my bag. I’ll email it later.”
“I just don’t understand you. Why would you get married in such a hurry? You’re not pregnant, are you?”
She bit back a laugh. “What makes you think I’d get married just because I was pregnant?”
“Theresa!”
“Fine. No, I’m not. As far as I know.”
Emile helpfully put his hand on her stomach and caressed it. “Not yet, chérie.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. But in that case, why couldn’t you have waited and had a proper wedding?”
Theresa shrugged. “We wanted it to be as small and low key as possible. We didn’t invite any of Emile’s family, either.” Never mind that Emile didn’t actually have any family. “We just wanted it to be about the two of us.”
“That’s typical of you,” Melanie said. “You never think about anyone else. I don’t suppose it even occurred to you what people would say in the village when those pictures were in the paper.”
Theresa just about managed to keep a straight face. “No, Mum, I can’t say it did. Look, it’s not a big deal. We met a few weeks ago, decided to get married, and did it. You know I never wanted St. Bertolin’s and the huge white frock.”
“There are some lovely wedding dresses these days, very elegant and sophisticated. You could have grown your hair a bit longer. You’d look lovely with a little tiara and Granny’s pearl necklace.”
Emile ran his hand through her short hair. “But she is much sexier with this spiky hair.”
Melanie made a noise of disapproval. “Excuse me. I must see to the dinner.”
As she left the room, Theresa’s gaze switched to her father. “Did you mind not being there, Dad?”
“Not walking you down the aisle to give you away? No, I didn’t mind that. But your mother’s very upset.”
“I know.”
He looked at her for a few minutes. “Yes. I can see that you do.”
“I just couldn’t bear it anymore.”
“I know, love. But she means well. Try and be kind to her, hm?”
She extricated herself from Emile and went to sit on the sofa next to her dad. She gave him a soft kiss on his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, I daresay she’ll come round.” He looked at Emile, lounging in the leather chair with his hands behind his head, long legs stretching across most of the floor. “If this husband of yours is good to you, she’ll come round.”
Emile caught her eye and winked. He replied to Ian, but his gaze stayed on Theresa’s face. “Oh, I’ll be good to her, sir.”
She felt her cheeks grow warm and unwanted images from the previous night flashed into her head. He’d been very good to her indeed.
Melanie had cooked Theresa’s favorite lunch. Roast beef, with all the trimmings and plenty of Yorkshire puddings. Emile frowned at his plate, scraped the gravy from the meat, and picked at it carefully. Theresa kicked him under the table. He raised an eyebrow at her. He was only doing what she’d asked, after all. He wasn’t supposed to be politely ingratiating himself with his new in-laws. He was supposed to be all Melanie Chartley’s worst nightmares brought to life. She bit her lip and gave him a reassuring smile.
“So, how did you two meet?” Ian asked.
Theresa caught Emile’s eye. They’d agreed beforehand that there was no reason not to tell them the truth.
“At a nightclub,” she said.
“She was dancing,” Emile added, “and it was as though she was making love. I watched her and I wanted her.” He leaned across to kiss her on the lips, then sat back. “So I took her home and made love to her as though we were still dancing.”
His eyes never left hers and his voice was so seductive, it was all Theresa could do not to drag her clothes off and throw herself at him. At her parents’ dinner table. Over Sunday lunch. She drew in a deep breath. She had to remember where she was and what they were doing. It was a show, for her mother’s benefit. And just because Emile happened to have such mesmerizing eyes and husky voice with a French accent that sent her senses spiraling out of control, didn’t mean that any of it was real. Not after that first night, at least. There hadn’t been any contracts or rings on fingers, no obligations and no thought of a wedding then. They’d both wanted it and they’d both enjoyed it. Maybe there was still something real. Theresa glanced at Emile’s face and smothered a grin. There was nothing honest about the look of helpless adoration he’d conjured up from somewhere.
“Love at first sight,” Melanie said sharply. “I don’t believe in it.”
E
mile slid his hand up Theresa’s thigh. “Neither do I, Mrs. Chartley. It wasn’t until we made love again the next morning that my heart caught up with my cock.”
Melanie gasped. So did Theresa.
Ian said calmly, “We don’t use that sort of language at the table, Emile.”
He didn’t bat an eyelid. “My apologies, sir.”
“I expect it’s a bit different in the team changing room.”
Emile grinned. “You’d be surprised.”
“Theresa’s never liked football, have you?”
She laughed, and so did Emile. He placed his hand over hers. “She is coming around to it.”
“I went to Emile’s match yesterday, Dad. It was interesting.”
Emile lifted her hand and placed a kiss on her palm. “I will have to teach you how you are supposed to respond when your husband scores the winning goal.”
Theresa leaned up and murmured in his ear. “If you keep feeling me up like this, we’ll be naked on top of the table before she brings out the dessert.”
He turned his head so that he could whisper in return. “If that’s what you want, just let me know.”
She pulled away and shifted her chair slightly further from his. “So, Mum, what’s for pudding?”
Emile leaned back, watching her with a smirk.
“Now, I really think we should have a party for you and…” Melanie waved her hand in Emile’s direction. Apparently, he’d flustered her so much she couldn’t even bring herself to say his name.
“Emile.”
“I was thinking October twenty-third. We can hire the golf club, and they’ll set up a marquee for us. I’ve asked the vicar and he’s happy to do a blessing in the church, and then we’ll have an evening reception. Your father can give a speech and perhaps Emile has a best man he could ask.”
“Perhaps.” Emile gave Melanie a brief, uninterested smile and returned his attention to Theresa.
“I’m sure your Aunt Jenny would be thrilled if we asked her to make the cake. It’s short notice, of course, but everyone would pull together. Canapés, I think, and a sit-down buffet.”
“Whatever you like.” Theresa winked at Emile over her coffee cup.
“Your mother expects you to be there,” her father said. “Both of you.”
“Ah.” She put down her coffee. “Mum, you can have any party you like. Invite the whole golf club. Invite the whole village if you like. But Emile and I have already had our wedding. We’re not coming to a pretend one.”
“Oh, Theresa.”
She shrugged. “You wanted me to get married, and I have.”
“I want you to be happy,” Melanie said.
“Well.” She looked at Emile, who met her gaze and smiled slowly. “I am.”
“I can’t believe you said that!” Theresa had waited until they were safely in Emile’s car, speeding back towards London, before she burst out in horrified laughter.
“What?” Emile asked innocently.
“You know perfectly well what. I don’t suppose my mother’s ever heard it called that before.”
He laughed. “You looked almost as shocked as she was.”
“I was!”
“Little prude.”
She hit his arm. “I am not.”
“Prove it.” He glanced across, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
“What, now?” She reached a hand over to his lap, teasing him.
He laughed and batted her away. “Some time when we’re not risking our lives, hm?”
“Now who’s the spoilsport?” She winked at him. “Prude.”
Emile grinned at her. “Fine, you’re not a prude. I can see why you’re so emotionally repressed, though.”
“What?” She wasn’t repressed. Just because she preferred not to let her emotions spill over in uncontrollable chaos.
“I think anyone would be, if they’d had to live with your mother at an impressionable age.”
“I’m nothing like my mother,” she said.
“No, of course not,” he agreed soothingly, in a way that made her fume. Then he reached across to squeeze her knee. “I am sorry. I do not know her well enough to judge.”
“You don’t know me all that well, either.” Which wasn’t entirely true. Between last night and this afternoon, he already knew her better than any other guy had managed for years.
“True. We could do something about that. Tonight?”
“I have to go home. I’ve got some work to catch up on and an early start tomorrow.” And she needed a break from Emile.
“Shame. Another night?”
“I’ll let you know.” She was not going to worry about hurting his feelings. That wasn’t what they’d agreed to. When they were both free and both willing, then they’d have mutually pleasurable sex. Otherwise, no strings.
“Fine. I’d hate anyone to think I was married to a prude, though.”
She shook her head, refusing to rise to his bait. “Nobody thinks that.”
“Maybe, but I have a reputation to maintain, Madame Renaud.”
“Ms. Chartley.”
“We’re married. I have the certificate. You’re Madame Renaud now.”
“No,” she said, “I’m not. Just because we’re married doesn’t mean anything else changed.”
He glanced across at her in surprise. “I thought it was the same here as in France. Women have the name of their husbands, no?”
“No. Well, sometimes, I suppose.”
“But not when it is only a paper marriage? I suppose it would cause some confusion when things end so quickly.”
“No. I mean, yes it wouldn’t be worth it for such a short marriage. But I wouldn’t change my name for any sort of marriage.”
“Ah, I see.” His lips twitched into a smile but he kept his eyes on the road.
“What do you see?” He did not sound like a man who had come to a new understanding of institutionalized sexism in contemporary society.
“You are one of those women.”
If she hadn’t known he was deliberately baiting her, she might have lost her cool. As it was, she merely enquired, “Are you about to demonstrate that you are as sexist as I think you are?”
“Probably.”
“Then don’t tell me what you meant by ‘those women’. Because I might have to reconsider my position on our divorce.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. There’s no minimum time limit before you can commit mariticide.”
“I am not sure I want to know what that is.”
“Murder of one’s spouse.”
He laughed. “Very well, you can keep your name, Ms. Chartley.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
He glanced over at her. “Do I get to state a preference?”
“Not really. It’s not your name.”
“We could share a name,” he suggested. “Emile Renaud-Chartley.”
“Chartley-Renaud.”
“Of course. Ladies first.”
She shook her head but she was smiling. “You’re a hopeless case.”
“What can you expect? I’m only a man, after all.” He shrugged with Gallic expansiveness. “And a footballer.”
“You, Emile Renaud, are a fraud.”
“Says the woman who spent today pretending to her parents that she is in love with me.”
“Yes, well. That’s different.”
“Your father guessed, didn’t he?”
She pressed her lips together. She hadn’t liked the way her dad had looked at her. A little disappointment, a chunk of understanding, and all the rest weary resignation. He’d had to live with Melanie for nearly forty years, after all. And he had to live with her at the moment. She hadn’t really considered how her wedding would affect him and she was sorry for it. He didn’t deserve to be hurt like that.
“I think so. Sort of.”
“I liked him.”
She hadn’t expected that, either. Her father had been unfazed by Emile’s appearance or his behavio
r. The two men were about as different as they could be, and yet, they’d respected each other.
“I think he liked you. My mother, on the other hand…”
Emile laughed with her. “She tried.”
“Oh yes. I just wish she cared more about what I feel than she does about what people at the golf club think.”
“She cares.” Emile flashed her a quick smile. “She just doesn’t understand.”
“I know.” She sighed. “I do know that. Anyway, we don’t have to go again. That’s it until the twelve months are up and I file the papers. You don’t have any more obligations to me.”
He nodded. “But we can still see each other, right? You have something to prove to me.”
“No more football and no more family. But mutually agreeable sex is definitely allowed. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Chapter Seven
It was nothing like being married.
As far as Theresa could tell, most marriages involved far too much compromise to make anyone happy. What she and Emile had was more like friends with benefits. They met up when they were both free, and in between, they texted each other or phoned. Emile had got into a habit of calling at lunchtime to make sure she ate something, after she’d admitted one day that she quite often forgot to get a sandwich if she was busy at work. She made a point of checking the football results at the weekend, so she’d know whether to congratulate or commiserate. They’d become friends, but they didn’t get upset if there was silence for a few days while one of them was busy.
There was no obligation to be involved in each other’s lives. No football. No family. No fighting over the remote control or whose turn it was to put the bins out. Just fun and a lot of fabulous sex. Pretty much perfect.
Theresa set aside the documents she was checking through and brought up her work schedule for the rest of the week on her computer. The big contract had been signed off on Monday, and she was just catching up with everything else that had been put on hold. There wasn’t anything that couldn’t be left until tomorrow. On impulse, she picked up her phone and texted Emile.
