Page 11 of Je T'aime, Actually
eight
What did someone wear for a casual drink with an elegant French woman she barely knew?
Monroe had asked herself that question several times throughout the afternoon, each time staring blankly at her wardrobe like the right outfit might magically present itself.
Was it a date?
God, she wasn’t ready for a date, was she?
She should cancel.
Make her excuses.
Save Chloé from the mess that was her current state—still tangled up in heartbreak and self-doubt, still waking some mornings with the weight of Justine pressed somewhere behind her ribcage.
But she hadn’t cancelled—not even drafted a message.
Because deep down, she knew. One way or another, she had to pull herself out of the Justine-shaped fog she’d been stuck in for far too long. And maybe, just maybe, this was a place to start.
Not a fix.
Not a rebound.
Just...a chance to remember something new was still possible.
The train ride to Brighton took twenty minutes. Monroe sat alone, watching through the window as the countryside rushed past—a blur of greens and browns, fields giving way to sudden streaks of concrete grey. It was enough to keep her distracted, to keep her from overthinking—keep her from panicking about Chloé.
Until the train pulled into the station.
As it slowed, the idea briefly struck. She could just stay put. Let the carriage empty out, wait for the return journey, and disappear back the way she came. No harm done.
Her phone buzzed.
Poppy:Have a bloody good time, regardless of whether you fancy her or not. XX
Monroe exhaled a quiet laugh. Trust Poppy to slice through her nerves with perfect timing and no nonsense.
She slipped her phone back into her bag, stood, and joined the slow tide of people spilling out of the station. Brighton felt busier than she remembered. Maybe it was just the contrast to quiet little Sandham, or maybe it was her nerves, sharpening everything: the noise, the pace, the scent of salt on the breeze.
She followed the directions on her phone, heading towards the seafront. Rainbow flags fluttered above shopfronts here and there, buskers filled corners with guitar and saxophone music, and the air was heavy with the smell of chips. It was familiar and strange all at once.
Then she saw her.
Chloé was already there, sitting at a small round table outside the bar, sunlight catching the grey strands in her hair. She wore her sunglasses pushed up onto her head, a glass of wine in front of her, fingers idly circling the stem. She looked relaxed,completely at home, as if she belonged to the moment in a way Monroe never quite felt she did.
Effortlessly elegant, of course. That had been obvious from the start. But what struck Monroe now was howpresentshe was. Not trying to be seen, not performing, just...there.
And for a second, Monroe paused. Just long enough to catch her breath. Just long enough to be glad she hadn’t stayed on that train.
nine
Feeling herself being observed, Chloé glanced up and beamed as she spotted Monroe approaching. She stood to greet her, slipping her sunglasses onto the table as Monroe drew closer.
The double kiss came naturally—left, then right.“Bonsoir,” she murmured on the second kiss, her voice low and close, just shy of a whisper.
It sent something through Monroe, unexpected and warm. Her cheeks flushed before she could stop it.
“Hi,” she managed with a small, slightly breathless grin.
