“At first, I rationalised during daylight hours that the dark shadows weren’t real, they were just my colours looming a little larger than usual, and that I was overtired and stressed. I was working on a big project with Marcus, and I had a deadline to meet. I told myself that if I didn’t think about my mother or her death, and just ploughed on at work, then the colours would bugger off. And they did, for about a week or so.”

  “Then what?”

  He lifted his head to look at me, with a glimmer of a smile. “Are you sure you want to hear all this? Are you still here for all of it? You might be anxious about being alone with me by the end.”

  On the contrary, I was beginning to think I wanted to be with alone with him more, if only to stroke his soft hair.

  “I went to visit a client down on Canary Wharf—a part of London backing onto the River Thames. By the side of the pavement, I spotted what, in retrospect, was probably a real, live cockroach, although they aren’t especially common in the UK. I was taking a shortcut behind a restaurant, and I’ve since discovered that they tend to congregate around warm kitchens and large heating ducts. Usually, I’d have given a little shudder and carried on, like most people would. But it frightened me to death, because the shadows and grey-coloured shapes had only ever appeared in my room. Then, that night I was joined not only by the shapes, but I started to believe I could hear them scratching under the bed too.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “God, no. They’d have all thought I was stark raving mad.” He barked out a laugh. “There’s the irony.”

  I moved my hand from his head and began a slow sweep up and down his narrow back, my fingers drifting lower to the sweet hollow where it curved into the swell of his buttocks and back up again. He’d relaxed, his voice a little sleepier, the tension eased from his limbs. Who had held him close before me? And how long ago? Maybe I’d never be able to find the right words, but at least I could offer him this.

  “To cut a long story short,” he continued, “I began seeing them everywhere. At my desk. On the Tube. In the queue at the supermarket. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d catch a grey blob scuttling away. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, and it got to the point I was petrified to close my eyes for even a second in case one appeared. A group of cockroaches is known as an intrusion, by the way. I found that out later. Whoever came up with that was a fucking genius, it couldn’t be more accurate.”

  He yawned widely and I planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Anyhow, everything came to a peak when I locked a man, a very important client, in a cupboard chock full of grey blobs because he was pissing me off. I was scared, exhausted, turning more and more bonkers by the second, and, out of nowhere, I saw red. Bright, angry red. Metaphorically, and, unfortunately for him, literally. Which was the point at which my business partner, Marcus, realised I wasn’t quite my usual calm, debonair self and… um… here we are.”

  I let out a snort of laughter. I couldn’t help it. Thank fuck, Charles’s shoulders began to shake too.

  “There weren’t actually any creatures in the cupboard, obviously,” he qualified, “That part was all in my head. But the client was very, very real. And pretty fucking annoyed.”

  I bet.

  CHAPTER 17

  CHARLES

  I woke to bright sunlight and the chatter of tourists cycling up and down the venelle, feeling more rested than I ever imagined I would again. The other side of the bed was cold and empty; Florian had warned me he’d sneak out early to prepare his grandfather’s breakfast and then, of course, he had salt to harvest.

  And I had a cooperative to rescue.

  Selco’s strategy followed a well-worn path. Attract venture capitalist funding with a bold campaign to be a market leader, make an offer a small outfit like Florian’s couldn’t refuse, repeat across similar small companies over a short space of time, and voila, become the biggest player on the stage. Then use that clout to sell the product on an even bigger stage at the most competitive price, all the while squeezing the profit margins of the small suppliers you’ve swallowed up and squashing them like bugs. Not the best choice of metaphor given my current precarious mental state, but apt.

  I lost myself doing what I did best, settling into the black and white rhythm of numbers and paperwork superimposed on a navy blue undercurrent. Every now and then I stopped to replay our sex of the night before. Since my arty days, men had been reserved for admiring in the abstract and from a distance. At most, I’d envisaged something quick, scratching a nagging itch with one perhaps, but never taking it any further. But, as I browsed soothing columns of figures, for the first time in my life, I found myself contemplating what a relationship with a man might look like.

  A relationship. My mind had always assumed a woman fulfilling that role, if I ever laid aside the time and effort to find one. Probably because I liked the idea of being a father someday, although lately, I was of the opinion that my shonky genetic makeup should end with me. Yet now, my errant mind, which I struggled to trust these days, wondered if the person with whom I shared a future might not be female after all. It wouldn’t be Florian, of course, because he had his life here on the island and I had mine. We were a stop gap for each other, nothing more. And as wonderful as he was, I couldn’t afford to have my emotions running out of control just because an extraordinarily attractive man had taken a shine to me.

  Marcus phoned with details of his arrival. Flickers of orange interrupted the monochrome number party and my concentration lapsed. Glasses chinked in the background as he read out the wine list at the fancy restaurant where he dined, and then moaned about the quality of the staff at the villa he’d rented, the whole purpose being to impress the folk earwigging at his end of the conversation.

  That Marcus was an utter tit was a universally accepted truth. The kind of man who could be an absolute riot on a night out but with whom one would never do business. Hence, he’d recruited a steady pair of hands like me and stayed loyal, even after my existential breakdown. He’d visited me in the psych hospital too. Every week, without fail. Not a lot of people had done that. No one else, in fact.

  Florian sauntered back after he finished work, fresh from the salt marsh, smelling of summer heat and tasting of silvery, sparkling youth. He came upon me in the garden, making a pig’s ear of sketching a clump of hollyhocks basking against the crumbling stone wall. “I should stick to painting you, not flowers,” I said in greeting. “I’m much better at it. And you’re a prettier subject.”

  He grinned, accepting the praise like it was his due. “I can’t stay, unfortunately. I promised Papi I’d drive him over to Saint-Martin to visit some old friends.”

  Hauling me up from the bench, he pulled me into his arms, as if I belonged there. “But I needed to check that my favourite artist was okay, first.”

  With his lips on mine, delivering a punishing kiss, and his hands wandering down my spine and massaging my behind, I was much more than okay. After he’d gone was a different story.

  “I’ve finished my review of Selco’s financial strategy,” I informed him romantically.

  He laughed and his lips moved to my neck. “Putain, if you’re going to keep that dirty talk up, then Papi and his friends will have to wait.”

  “We can go through it together—I think you’ll have a very convincing argument.”

  “I have a very convincing argument right here.” He rolled his hips into me to illustrate his point. His gaze searched over my shoulder. “And this garden isn’t overlooked.”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind was a nagging sensation that already, this thing with Florian was growing into more than a summer fling. What he saw in me was a mystery, but we’d clicked, from that first drink together. He knew my past, the sad sequence of events that had brought me here and thought no less of me. And in return, he’d shown me what hid behind his dimpled charm; his worries about his grandfather, his future challenge with the cooperative.

  But for now, with quick fingers undoing my belt, a smart mouth whispering naughty words in my ear and silver dancing around Florian’s shoulders, it was easier to believe what we had was only lust. Nothing more.

  Legs akimbo amongst the flower beds with my trousers flapping around my knees had not been on this afternoon’s agenda, not that I was complaining. Over the last few days, my body had become a cocktail composed of three parts; daydreaming about Florian’s mouth, imagining Florian doing things to me I’d never contemplated with another man, and filling the gaps when Florian wasn’t around with wondering when he’d next appear.

  Chuckling softly, he swiped a pearl of pre-cum from my tip. “You’re pretty silvery yourself this morning.”

  My neediness had me blushing and I pressed my mouth to his to hide it. “I told you, I’m green.”

  I breathed into him as he began a slow, steady stroke up and down the length of my shaft, as if he’d been pleasuring me forever. “Always have been. A flat, forest green.”

  He smiled around our kiss, though he didn’t falter. “I like that you’re green.” I let out a whimper; I swear that voice did illegal things to me. “It suits you.”

  His other hand cupped my balls, and an inquisitive finger, slick from my pre-cum, slipped behind, where no man’s finger had ventured before. More wetness pulsed out of me as he teased my hole. “You like that, don’t you Charles? You want more?”

  I gasped, as with a firmer press, Florian breached my virginal tight ring. He let out a kind of growl, turned on himself and thrusting up against my hip, his own dick trying to punch its way out of his jeans. His finger pushed a little deeper, teasing another desperate sound from me. I spread my legs as wide as my trousers would allow, grabbing for the bench to steady myself, craving more of that intruding finger, the feel of it rubbing up inside, his palm suffocating my balls as he pushed higher still.

  Florian’s lips pulled away from mine. “Your face is so pretty right now, Charles. So pretty. Mon dieu, if you could see what I’m seeing.”

  His voice rumbled down my spine as if it was opening me up further. And it was; he was setting a fire under parts of my being I hadn’t known. Hidden wants, hidden needs, hidden desires. An uptight businessman was coming apart, just like he’d known I could, right here in the garden, where the sun beat down and cyclists chattered from the other side of the wall, and the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on was pleasuring me so precisely I could do nothing except lose myself to his silvery magic.

  “Can you take one more, mon ami?” His other hand remained curled in a heavenly cloak around my dick.

  Oh fuck, yes. I could take everything this man offered.

  A second finger pushed at my entrance, stretching me, filling me, hitting that hidden spot over and over. My legs threatened to fold; Florian, plastering me between the bench and his taut body, was the only thing holding me up. The sensation of his hard shaft rubbing up and down my hip in time to his hand around my dick and his fingers up my arse was…well… yes.

  And after that, my vision pretty much whited out and it was all over embarrassingly quickly.

  Afterwards, we cuddled on the sofa, with my arm slung around Florian’s shoulder and his head resting on my chest. Out on the garden bench after I’d recovered my faculties, I’d reciprocated the hand job, minus the added extras and with much less finesse, even if it did reach the same speedy conclusion.

  “I can’t concentrate when you put those on,” he grumbled as I reached for my glasses.

  I peered at him over the top of them sternly. “You’ve a strange idea of what you find attractive in a lover, Florian, anyone ever tell you that?”

  I coloured at my use of the word lover; I was sure there must be a less laden, more vernacular term, but French slang had moved along since I’d lived in Paris, and I’d not moved with it.

  “I have discerning taste,” he corrected, “When it comes to choosing a lover.”

  Trust him not to let me get away with it. Flustered, I picked up the papers. “I’ve divided my background analysis of the situation into two parts and I’m sending it to you via email. The first section is a list of reasons why joining forces with Selco would be a bad idea in the medium to long-term. We’ve discussed most of them already. Your task is to convince everyone else.”

  Florian huffed. “Nothing much, then. Just an Oscar-winning performance.”

  “Exactly.” I pressed a soft kiss into his dark curls. “That’s exactly how you should approach it. My business partner, Marcus, for all his faults, does this better than anyone I know. Numbers and graphs aren’t enough. He always says you need a mix of three ingredients: credibility, logic, and emotion. Clients, or in your case, colleagues, need to hear the cold, hard facts, but you must also paint a picture they can believe in. And it’s got to be personal. You need to appeal to their hearts, not only their minds.”

  “I’m not sure Jerome’s father has a heart.”

  “Everyone has a heart. You’ve got to work out what makes it beat, that’s all. Easy.” Mine currently beat in tune to the young man curled into me.

  He snorted. “Yeah, right. What’s the other half of your analysis about?”

  I shuffled through the papers. “It’s not going to be enough to slate Selco. You need to offer an alternative.”

  “I don’t want an alternative. I want to carry on being independent.”

  “Exactly. But the Selco bid has actually done you a favour. It’s exposed your weaknesses. And as I’ve already warned you, another Selco will come along if you’re not careful.”

  “And you won’t be around to show me how to fight them.”

  Although he kept his tone light, I sensed his shoulder stiffen.

  “No,” I answered. “It is extremely likely that I won’t.” I tapped my pen on the top sheet, black and white blotting out a sudden dimming of green. “But you won’t need me, because if you do things right, no one will be interested in being taken over. Look here.”

  He raised his head to where I pointed. “I’ve outlined a modernisation strategy for the cooperative. There are so many simple things you can do, to make yourself stronger. For instance, you haven’t increased your wholesale prices for three years and it shows in the profits. You need to track inflation. And you’re a protected ecological business. There are several new government grants you should apply for. They’re small, but they soon add up.”

  “Have you ever dealt with French bureaucracy, Charles?” He huffed a sigh. “We don’t have time to wade through all that shit.”

  “Then employ someone who does. The sums are right here—look, it would be cost-effective.”

  I turned the page as a buzzing sounded from his phone. He fished it from his pocket.

  “That’s Papi. It’s time I left.”

  His forehead creased as he read the message and his light-hearted flirtatiousness vanished. “He wants to know why I’m picking him up. Where we’re going.”

  Untangling his body from mine, he eased himself off the sofa and paced to the window. “He’s been looking forward to this all week. He spoke to his friend on the phone only yesterday, to arrange a time. And now he’s forgotten that conversation completely. Already. Merde.”

  Joining him, I wrapped my arm around his waist. “But you said he was happy, didn’t you? Isn’t that the most important thing? Does it matter if he’s occasionally confused?”

  He dropped his head back onto my shoulder. “No, not really. Not now, anyhow. But it’s going to get worse, isn’t it? And then what? Because when someone tells you they would rather be dead than in a care home, it’s kind of hard wondering if that’s where they might end up.”

  I sympathised. My own experience of being institutionalised and not in control of my mental faculties was still fresh. “You’re way off making that decision, Florian. Go, take him to visit his friends. Make the most of seeing him enjoying himself.”

  CHAPTER 18

  FLORIAN

  The rains came at the weekend, a blessed joy, because they gave me a perfect excuse to laze around in bed with Charles.

  Papi’s memory issues fluctuated from day to day. This morning, for instance, he had no problem at all recalling he had a boules match; him and his cronies talked me and Jerome into rigging up a gazebo over the sandy pitch so they wouldn’t get wet.

  “Where are you hurrying off to?” Jerome queried after we’d bashed in the last tent peg.

  “Nowhere special.” I gave a relaxed shrug, as if I hadn’t spent the last quarter hour fantasising about bending Charles over the huge granite island in his fancy kitchen. Most likely, that little scenario would never progress beyond a fantasy; he’d not shown any inclination to take our lovemaking beyond hands and mouths, and I hadn’t pushed.

  “How’s it going with your Englishman?” He smirked. Seemed I was more obvious than I’d thought.

  “Too well. I’m kind of liking having him around.”

  “We noticed. We used to kind of like having you around. Have you had time to think about fighting the Selco bid, or are you having too much fun?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Multitasking, actually. Charles manages an investment business. In London. He’s given me some pointers.”

  He’d given me more than that. I’d read through his notes last night. Thorough didn’t even begin to cover it, even though he’d insisted it had been the work of minutes. And had taken his mind off other things. My confidence at being able to persuade the majority to reject the bid had swelled. A small comfort for when our brief love affair came to an end.

  “Have you told your dad about the baby yet?”

  I’d bumped into Léa last night on my cycle home from work. The way she was filling her clothes, he’d work it out for himself if Jerome waited much longer.

  My old friend groaned. “Bah oui. Why do you think I’ve been hanging around here all day making myself useful?”