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 behavior. 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.
Are you free this afternoon? Pick me up at the office, any time after two, and I’m yours for the rest of the day.
He didn’t reply immediately, but she knew he often forgot to check his phone. An hour later, she checked again. Still nothing. She dialed the number. She was fairly sure he didn’t have training, but maybe he was busy with another engagement. His phone rang, but he didn’t pick up, which was unlike him. Maybe he’d left it in his locker at the club. She tried his flat, but the number went straight to voicemail, so she left a message. If he wasn’t around, then she might as well get on with her work. Maybe they could arrange an afternoon date later in the week, and she’d be glad to have gotten ahead.
Her phone didn’t ring until after two. She picked it up and tucked it under her ear while she began to close down her computer and clear her desk.
“Hey.”