Score!

It must be a dream. Her eyes were so wet and her throat so dry, she couldn’t cry out, and neither, it seemed, could he. They just gazed at each other. The only sound was the brisk drumbeat of James’s tail against a metal filing cabinet.

‘Where did you find him?’ At last she stammered out the words.

‘In Edinburgh, outside my hotel. Some bastard use him to beg for money. He was so thin I didn’t recognize him. He was the clever one who recognized me.’

As someone closed the door discreetly behind him, Lucy’s thanks came tumbling over each other. Wiping her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her nightie, she crouched down beside James, clinging to him, kissing him over and over, as he snaked against her in ecstasy.

‘I thought I’d never see him again.’ Her voice broke. ‘Oh, how did you find me?’

‘Gablecross finally admit you are here, or I would have arrived seven months earlier.’

Lucy gazed down, thinking how tearstained and soppy and Pollyanna-ish she must look in her Peter Rabbit nightie with her yellow hair in bunches. But Tristan was only aware of her sweet, trembling mouth and the way her cheekbones shone like mother-of-pearl as the tears slid over them. Then, suddenly roused from shock, he noticed her bare feet and how little she was wearing.

‘You mustn’t catch cold.’ Whipping off his coat, he wrapped it round her. Breathing in the tang of Eau Sauvage on the dark blue collar, fighting the temptation to fall into his arms, Lucy collapsed instead on to a leather sofa.

‘I didn’t wake you?’ asked Tristan.

‘No, I was watching the Academias. Lily in the Valley won everything. You got Best Director.’

‘I did?’

‘You don’t sound very excited. It’s a huge honour.’

‘Other things matter more.’

‘How’s Don Carlos?’ Anyone would think she was at one of Helen’s drinks parties.

‘People seem to like it. Everyone loves your make-up, and have bet you get Oscar.’

Soothed by Lucy’s stroking, James had collapsed on the floor, but kept one eye open — after all, his future was at stake. All round the walls hung photographs of beautiful, happy, rehomed dogs, cheek to cheek with adoring but often extremely plain owners. Maybe, thought Lucy hopefully through a haze of white wine, one didn’t need to be beautiful to be loved. Then she made the mistake of asking how Tab was.

‘Blissful,’ said Tristan happily. ‘Rupert’s revving up for a massive wedding at Penscombe in April.’

How lunatic she’d been to hope. Smoothing the feathers on James’s legs, Lucy felt the tears starting again.

‘That’s great.’ Desperately she tried to keep the conversation light. ‘I can be godmother to your first child.’

‘I’d much rather you were its mother,’ muttered Tristan.

But Lucy wasn’t concentrating, only noticing that he seemed to be edging across the room towards her, like James trying to get on to her mother’s double bed when they stayed in Cumbria.

‘Lucy darling, please stop crying,’ begged Tristan, ‘I can’t bear it. Listen to me. Hortense die last week.’

‘Oh, no, I’m so sorry.’ Lucy looked up in horror. ‘She was such a darling.’

‘She love you too, and eef you hadn’t sought her out, I would never have known I was Laurent’s son. That parcel was most wonderful present I ever have. I can never thank you too much.’

‘But it’s me who should thank you. You saved my life, you brought James back. We’ll have to settle abroad,’ said Lucy, in a worried voice. ‘He’d never cope with quarantine, nor would I.’

Tristan was so close now, she could again breathe in the familiar heady cocktail of Eau Sauvage, peppermint chewing-gum and Gauloise, and her heart started to hammer as his knees brushed against hers.

‘James and I had long conversation on the plane coming over.’

Was she imagining it or had his hand just stroked her hair?

‘James detest crate I have to put him into,’ continued Tristan. ‘He didn’t believe I was taking him to you. He was so depressed and nervous I had to sit in the hold and hold his paw. It was very uncomfortable for both of us. There were two parrots with us, who both learn to say “I love Lucy” by end of flight.’

Still unable to take in what he was saying, Lucy gave a shaky laugh.

‘James want to live in France,’ insisted Tristan.

‘We don’t know anyone in France,’ said Lucy, in a choked voice.

‘You know me.’ Crouching down beside her, Tristan put one hand over her mouth, ‘Tais-toi, my darling, for just one second. Since you go away nothing in my life has been so dreadful. I suffer over Claudine, but nothing to the purgatory of life without you. Those months of filming, you bring such sunshine into my life.’

With the other hand he was now stroking her forehead, fingering her feathery eyelashes, wiping away a fresh supply of tears, running his finger down her nose in wonder. ‘You are really real,’ he whispered. ‘I have nightmares every night that you are dead.’

‘Oh, so do I,’ breathed Lucy, appalled to find she couldn’t stop kissing his fingers.