“I’m guessing he didn’t crack open the champagne because he’s about to be a granddaddy, then?”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “Not exactly, no. He gave me a huge spiel about the right way to do things—you know, get married and buy a house first, like he did, and that young folk like me wasted too much money on mobile phones and flash cars instead of saving for a mortgage. Blah blah blah. I pointed out that he bought his house thirty years ago, when they cost about as much as a wheel of brie, and that whether I spent two euros on a takeaway coffee or not wasn’t exactly going to be a deal-breaker. I thought it better not to mention that my car was a fifteen-year-old heap of rust.”

  Never having had a father, I always imagined I’d missed out, even though Papi had done his very best to fill the gap. Sometimes, I was no longer sure.

  Jerome let out a huge sigh. “We’ll cope. He’ll punch something and holler, but he won’t kick me out. He’s not an ogre. And he knows we can’t move into Léa’s place. And my mother is already talking about redecorating the spare room. So I’ve just got to suck it up.”

  Charles was busy mopping the kitchen floor when I reached his house, an incongruent sight, seeing as he’d paired one of his usual cashmere sweaters with a bright yellow pinny. The pungent odour of bleach had my eyes watering; he’d done the floors in the sitting room and dining area too. The doors leading out to the garden were shut tight.

  “I thought this extortionately priced place came with a housekeeper?”

  “It does,” he answered, untying the apron. “And he’s already been this morning, but I thought I saw something running across the floor earlier, so I decided to give it another go. It was no bother.”

  Mon dieu, I hoped he never looked too closely at my floors. I rubbed at my stinging eyes; Charles’s were reddened too. “Do you mind if I open the windows?”

  There was the minutest hesitation before his shoulders relaxed. “No, it’s fine. Go ahead. I probably imagined the whole thing anyway. It was probably a leaf floating through the window. Let me make some coffee and we’ll take it outside now the rain has stopped.”

  So much for lazing in bed or exploring the delights of the kitchen island, but we settled on a bench in the garden where Charles seemed much less tense. His business partner, Marcus, had kept him on the phone for most of the morning, running through some options regarding a big new client

  “I thought you were supposed to be recuperating, not taking work calls?” I observed mildly. Seeing as diving on him wasn’t an option, I laced his fingers through mine instead. We had all weekend; I could be patient.

  “Oh, Marcus doesn’t count. It was important and he needed my advice. He knows he can always call.” He paused, his gaze darting toward the house. “Anyhow, my mental health is much better now. I’m a bit closer to getting back to normal every day.”

  I wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince with the last part, him or me, but I let it slide. Did night terrors not count? And he was acting as if the call from Marcus had stressed him. Should I ask what colours it triggered? Somehow, that felt more intimate and intrusive than anything we’d done yesterday. I supposed the mopping frenzy this morning had been odd, but Papi and I had dealt with a wasp’s nest and an ant infestation this summer already, so perhaps we should take a leaf out of his book. And maybe wading through a little paperwork helped him feel he hadn’t been forgotten. He’d enjoyed doing some of mine for me without any ill effects.

  With my coffee drunk, my hand wandered from the mug to his leg. Charles’s lips curved into a smile.

  “So Florian, what would you like to do today?”

  “Do you need to ask?” My fingers drifted higher, caressing the relaxed muscles of his inner thigh.

  “As well as that?”

  “I would like to take you for a walk along the beach.”

  Since when did I take my lovers to the beach? Come to that, since when did I think of men I slept with as lovers?

  “That sounds nice.”

  “And after that I would like to take you to bed.” Hopefully by then the floors would have dried and the stink dissipated. And some colour would have returned to Charles’s face.

  “Bed sounds even better.”

  “Where I shall unwrap you like a birthday present.”

  “Does Papi know you’re gay?” he asked a while later.

  A restless soul, I patrolled the pebbly shore, skimming stones, whilst Charles lay on his expensive coat spread across the damp sand, his face uptilted to the watery late afternoon sunshine. Watching him stretched out, so relaxed and content and fucking rational, it was hard to believe he was the same man who’d woken screaming with terror for the last three nights in a row. I bent to pick up a flat, perfect stone, then turned to him. “Yeah. I came out to my grandparents and my mum when I was sixteen. Although I think my mum had already worked it out.”

  A major clue had been opening my bedroom door to discover me and the lad I was doing ‘homework’ with sprawled across my bed and sucking each other’s faces off.

  “And how did Papi react?”

  Drawing back my arm, and with a practised flick of my wrist, I released the stone. Seven bounces. Not bad. I scoured the rocks at my feet for another. “Difficult to say, actually. But his attitude and behaviour toward me never changed afterward, so I guess he’s okay with it. It’s not come up in conversation since, probably because I’ve never brought anyone home.”

  I twisted round to smile at him, inexplicably embarrassed. “Except you.”

  There, it was out. The proof that I liked him more than I’d ever liked anyone else. And now he knew. In response, Charles just smiled in that sexy, abashed way he had whenever he received a compliment, which was almost as hot as when he swore in English the nanosecond before he was about to climax.

  “Does he know what I am to you, then?” he asked, as I resumed hunting for stones. “Or does he think I’m just a friend?”

  I kicked at a loose pile of pebbles. I don’t think even Charles knew what he was to me. In a short space of time, he’d become the source of my joy, the reason my heart beat quicker, the last thought in my head when I went to sleep at night and the first when I woke. I wasn’t going to share that, obviously.

  “I can’t tell,” I said, which was the truth. “And he’s still convinced you’re Belgian, by the way. He likes you, though. When you didn’t join us for dinner last night, he asked me where you were. And he’s planning on beating you at boules.”

  I skimmed another stone. Six bounces this time. Charles applauded anyhow and I gave a silly little bow. Excluding the bleached floors episode, which I’d decided hadn’t signalled anything after all, the last few hours might have been the most perfect afternoon of my life, the only grey cloud on the horizon that it would come to an end.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” I began, “What we have.”

  Mon dieu, how was someone expected to reply to that? Charles’s slate-grey eyes, the same colour as the smooth pebble in my hand, locked onto mine. His mouth that had kissed me so beautifully all afternoon curved into another small smile. “Yes,” he agreed in a quiet voice. “It’s buttery yellow.”

  CHAPTER 19

  CHARLES

  “I like this sketch of me the best,” said Florian. “You’ve made me look wise and sensible. But still drop-dead gorgeous, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  He’d walked up behind me on silent footsteps; I hadn’t known he was there until his sweet lips landed on the back of my neck.

  “It’s the look you had on your face last night, just before you ordered me to strip down and join you in the shower.”

  He laughed. “See? So wise and sensible.”

  Two weeks had passed in the blink of an eye. We’d spent almost every night in my bed; we’d either both dined with Papi, or Florian had crept out once his grandfather was settled for the evening. Marcus was on holiday, so he’d stopped plaguing me. Orange had receded and taken its shadowy grey edges with it. What with green and silver and yellow vying for prominence, it was no wonder. Perhaps the shadows hadn’t been there at all, and I’d imagined them.

  I still mopped the floors daily anyhow, just in case, because I couldn’t be too careful. But not in Florian’s presence. Knowing he witnessed the nightmares was bad enough. And they hadn’t got any worse, had they? They hadn’t disappeared either, but maybe I was going to have to learn to live with them. At the end of the first week I ran out of one of my meds but was having far too much fun to drive into Saint-Martin and replace them. All the proof I needed that they were now superfluous to requirements.

  A row of newly cleaned paintbrushes were laid out in the sun to dry, and Florian picked one up, twirling it between his fingers. I’d used it earlier, on preliminary sketches of a watercolour that, if it turned out decently, I was going to give to him as a present. Perhaps when I returned to England, as a souvenir of our time together. When that sad day came, it was going to be au revoir, not goodbye. Already I’d planned for him to visit me in London at the end of the salt harvesting season, because even if our relationship fizzled out, which, living in separate countries, was inevitable, then we could remain good friends. And I wanted to holiday here again when work became less busy, maybe I’d buy a small place of my own. Somewhere I’d come to paint, to unwind, to ogle Florian working on his tile.

  Damp bristles tickled under my chin, making me giggle and squirm and reflect on how far I’d travelled. A few months ago, the play of the brush over my skin would have had me rocking in a corner, my head buried in my hands, drowning in ugly charcoal and convinced a swarm of demons was intent on eating me alive. Now, as Florian swirled the brush across the ridge of my collar bone with one hand, and with the other deftly unbuttoned my shirt, all I saw were silver and green entwined in perfect harmony, and all I felt was a desire to let this man strip me bare and bury me underneath him.

  He stroked the brush over a nipple, a sensation much more thrilling than it had a right to be, and had everything to do with the man wielding it. I rolled my eyes at him. “Which part of me are you planning on tickling with that thing next?”

  “Your balls.”

  Already Florian was unzipping my fly and dragging me over to the sofa. He pushed me down before performing a sexy striptease, the brush held between his teeth, like a lover presenting a single red rose. Christ, my salt harvester was stunning; my mouth dried as he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his jeans and wiggled them over his narrow hips until his long, slim dick sprung free. With a suggestive look, accompanied by an exaggerated pout, he swept the fine brush up the underside of it, along the length of his shaft, pretending to writhe with unbridled passion. His other hand massaged his inner thigh and he groaned in fake ecstasy. I let out a snort. This man could make me come from laughing.

  “Get over here, you funny man. I need to turn those ridiculous noises you’re making into real ones.”

  We made sloppy, happy love, the sweeping planes and hard edges of his spectacular body now as familiar as my own more ordinary ones. As he straddled my chest, I surprised him by grabbing the paintbrush out of his hand and sweeping the soft bristles around the tip of his dick until his pretend moans slipped into something else. And when that wasn’t enough, he kneeled up, palming his length and shuffling forwards. Wetness glistened on the swollen head.

  “Close your eyes, Charles, and stick out your tongue.”

  “I knew you’d used that line before.”

  He hesitated. “Only if you want to.”

  I’d never done this, and I wasn’t sure why. Prudishness maybe, although the man had had his fingers circling over and inside my hole, so God knows what had held me back. Florian tolerated my incompetent hands fumbling with his dick with the patience of a saint, it was high time I had a go with my mouth. With a featherlight touch, he rubbed his swollen head across my upper lip, back and forth, as if applying lipstick. On instinct, I flicked up my tongue to lick at the slick collecting there and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. He continued around to my lower lip, dragging it down, grazing the tip against my teeth. Opening my mouth wider, I lapped at him, letting my tongue sink into the slit, roaming around the ridge until I closed my lips around it, and gave an experimental suck.

  “Mon dieu, I like the way my cock looks in your mouth.”

  His voice was breathy, a tone lower than normal, the cadence resonating deep in my belly as if I were receiving a blow job myself. No job involved; blowing him was no more a chore than kissing him, or running my hands through his silky curls. As he fed more of his length inside, I shared in the pleasure—the quickening of his breaths, the sounds he made, and the taste of him filling my mouth.

  Silver caressed my soul as my eyes shuttered closed. My lips were stretched tight, I breathed through my nose, noisily, and arched my hips up against nothing because having him in my mouth felt so fucking good. He’d been considerate, there had been no hands holding my head steady, no deep thrusting, but now his movements were choppy, his breathing more jagged. I wrapped my hand around the base as I sensed he was close.

  “Oh merde, Charles. Merde. So good. You want me to come in your mouth?”

  I nodded, opening my eyes, and looking up to watch his face as it happened. I wanted to capture the image and hold onto it forever, so on sad days and bad days, on dark dawn mornings when I wished the sun would never rise and the tides would never turn, I’d be able to picture Florian like this and feel his silver coursing through my veins. I’d know that in a quiet corner of a little island, a slice of silvery goodness carved out a happy, carefree existence. A curtain of wavy hair shadowed his flushed face, eyelids flickering, lips parted. A stiffening of his lean thighs under my palm, a shudder and then with a sudden warmth against my throat, his quiet sighing moan of release.

  I must have snoozed, a rare dreamless sleep, because I woke to a tickling sensation below my right eye, as if a stray eyelash or a butterfly had landed there. “Sshh, don’t move,” murmured Florian, “I’ve nearly finished. And I’m trying not to drip paint on this expensive cream sofa.”

  Obeying him, I lay still, as with his face inches from mine, he daubed first on my right cheek and then on my left, turning my head this way and that, stopping at intervals to admire his handiwork and to dip the brush into the palette laid on the floor. Staying still was no hardship because the view was glorious. Half-sprawled on top of me, chewing on his lip as he concentrated, he was still naked, and I ran a lazy palm down the sweep of his spine.

  “You like to top, don’t you?” I said.

  He nodded slowly, a little frown of concentration wrinkling the smooth skin of his forehead. We hadn’t broached the subject, yet, although it had played on my mind more and more.

  “Yes.” Another dab with the paintbrush. “I’m vers, but mostly I prefer to top. Hey, don’t move your head!”

  “Do you want to top me?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and his gaze flicked up to mine. “Yes, of course. But only if you want me to. There isn’t a rush, and we are having plenty of fun doing everything else. I don’t feel like it’s missing.”

  He dabbed a blob of paint on the end of my nose. “Voila, finished. Let it dry before you get up.”

  Very carefully, so as not to disturb his artwork, he pressed his lips against mine and I melted into him, my limbs liquid and loose. A few strands of dark hair had escaped his ponytail; the scrap of elastic holding them in place no match for his thick curls, and I tucked them behind his ear as he broke away, still staring down at me as though I was someone worth staring at. I grinned up, feeling lighter and younger and healthier than I had in years.

  “I’m not especially busy tonight, Florian,” I ventured, “If there was anything you fancied doing, you know, in this big old empty house.”

  Another expression crossed his face, one I also needed to get down on paper. “I can think of a thing or two.”

  My lips curled into a smile. “I thought you might. I suppose the real question is whether that sulky woman who runs the corner shop in Loix sells lube?”

  “You’ve painted a garden on my face.” I said, staring into the bathroom mirror a while later. I looked ridiculous and I bloody loved it. “I didn’t even know I owned a palette with sparkly glitter paint.”

  “That’s because when you paint you choose the dull browns and shades of taupe and ecru and all the other fancy sophisticated colours. My bright colour scheme is much better.”

  “It is, you’re right.”

  I counted six bold flowers, in all the colours of the rainbow except for the colours God had intended.

  “Florian’s flowers.” I declared. “Flowers for Florian.”

  His beautiful name was perfect for him. Latin or Roman maybe. Florus, florianus. Blooming, flowering. Tiny green and silver hearts interspersed them. We’d already taken photos, on my phone and his, of our grinning faces pressed together. When he hadn’t been paying attention, I’d scooped up some paint and smeared it over him. And then rubbed it off and painted him properly, so we sported matching blooms. By the time I’d finished we resembled a pair of mischievous pre-schoolers let loose in an empty classroom.

  “You’re not allowed to wash it off,” he warned. “Promise me you’ll keep it on all night. I’m going to suggest a walk along the beach, by the way, and finish with a drink at L’Escale. To show off my artwork.”

  I felt so heady with buttery yellow happiness, I didn’t care who saw me. “Only if you promise too. Can you imagine the look on Nico’s face? Or your poor, lovesick policeman?”

  A series of dull thuds interrupted us. Florian cocked his head. “Was that the door?”

  Another dull thud, even louder. “Yes, I think so. Probably the housekeeper—he said he would be dropping off some clean bedding. Good timing, because if I keep this all over my face, we’re going to need it tomorrow.”

  And lube and sex would be messy.

  “I’ll go,” Florian offered. At least he’d managed to pull his jeans on, I was still parading around in my underwear, my own trousers lost amongst the paint pots in the sitting room. Once he got rid of the housekeeper, I had every intention of getting those jeans off him again. The beach walk could wait.