Page 10 of Je T'aime, Actually
Alive.
And time was probably something she should consider. Chloé wouldn’t be here forever.
She stared at the message a moment longer, then typed:
Monroe:Tomorrow’s not too soon. Suggest somewhere. I’m trusting your good taste and French instincts.
She hit send before she could second-guess herself.
Then she placed the phone face down on the coffee table and leant back, heart tapping a little faster than it had an hour ago.
seven
Chloé lay in bed—the spare bed in Leah’s cosy flat overlooking the sea. The window was open, and she could hear the soft hiss and whoosh of the water as the tide ebbed and flowed over the pebbles. Nothing like the beaches around the Loire Valley, with their long sandy dunes and sleepy, sun-soaked quiet.
It would take a day or two to adjust to the sound of people again. Voices drifting up from the street, laughter carried on the salty breeze, and the occasional scrape of a chair on a balcony below. In the French countryside, night came with stillness, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of a fox or the low creak of her old house settling into sleep.
This, though—it reminded her of the heady days of her early twenties: nights in Paris, sharing tiny rooms above cafés and corner shops with other students just as determined to live the high life as they were to learn anything at all. Windows thrown wide open, music blaring from somewhere three floors down, and wine flowing as easily as conversation.
She closed her eyes and smiled. It had been chaotic. Glorious. Loud.
Brighton, she thought, had a different sort of noise: less urgent, more worn-in. But maybe, just maybe, it would suit her for a while.
Monroe had replied.
Monroe:Tomorrow’s not too soon. Suggest somewhere. I’m trusting your good taste and French instincts.
A quiet amusement tugged at Chloé’s mouth. She reread the message once, then again, and resisted the urge to read too much into the wording. Still, there was something about ‘trusting your good taste’that made her feel...noticed.
Not the curated version of herself—the version people usually got—buther.
She thought about suggesting somewhere flashy in Brighton. A place with statement lighting and overpriced cocktails. Somewhere you could lean in close over small plates and pretend the world didn’t exist, but she wanted something real.
She opened her messages and typed:
Chloe:There’s a place I like in Kemptown. Quiet, decent wine, music soft enough to actually hear each other. It’s a short walk from the seafront. 7pm?
It had been Leah who’d suggested the place. Gay-friendly, like most bars in Brighton were, and relaxed enough to feel comfortable for a first date.
Was it a date? Of course it was. At least, in Chloé’s mind it was. Two attractive women sharing a drink. Getting to know one another. There had been a spark, hadn’t there? Something unspoken, but quietly there beneath the casual conversation.
Then a thought struck her, uninvited. She scrolled back through the memory of their time together—on the plane, in the terminal. Had Monroe ever actually said she was gay? Or queer? Or anything, really? She’d mentioned Brighton, that was true,and spoken about it with familiarity. But had there been any real confirmation?
Chloé frowned slightly at the ceiling. Had she misread it?
Still, Monroe had agreed to drinks. Smiled at her. Replied quickly. There was something open in her eyes, even if her heart still looked like it had corners that needed to be stitched back together. And she had said she was a mess, meaning she might not be someone to get involved with, right?
Chloé sighed. If it turned out to be a misunderstanding? Well, at least the wine might be good.
She rolled onto her side and thought about her day. It hadn’t turned out badly at all, despite the last-minute scramble when her taxi failed to show up and she’d had to ring Pascal in a panic to drive her to the airport instead.
The rushed goodbye at the office, the tense silence as they hit traffic, the dash through the terminal—she’d barely made it through security, arriving at the gate with five minutes to spare and her pulse still racing. Thank goodness the flight was delayed.
But it had all worked out. Better than expected, really.
Meeting someone like Monroe—intelligent, witty, quietly observant, and beautiful—was just about perfect,non?
She smiled into the pillow, feeling that low hum of anticipation again. Maybe the trip hadn’t started smoothly, but she had no complaints about where it had led.
