‘That reminds me,’ Neil said, shifting on the bench to dig one hand into the pocket of his jeans. ‘I’ve got a present for you.’
I blinked at him. ‘A what?’
‘A present. I meant to give it to you at breakfast, but Garland trapped me at my table …’ He dug deeper, frowning slightly. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve bloody lost it, after all that … no, there it is.’ His face cleared, and he drew the whatever-it-was from his pocket.
It didn’t look like anything, at first – I only saw his hand stretched out towards me. And then his fingers moved, and a disc of bright metal glinted between them, and he dropped the coin into my upraised palm.
It was the size of a tuppence but twice as thick, with a gold-coloured centre surrounded by an outer ring of silver. Absently I rubbed my thumb across the bit of braille close to the coin’s edge. ‘It’s Italian,’ I said, faintly puzzled.
‘Yes, I know. Five hundred lire. Last night at dinner I sat next to a kindly old Italian gent,’ he explained, ‘who found that for me in the pocket of his overcoat. He charged me rather more than the going rate of exchange, I think, but I simply couldn’t let the opportunity pass.’
‘You mean you actually bought this from someone?’ I stared down at the coin, feeling the weight of it, the warmth. ‘For me?’
‘You said your father gave you coins to wish with every morning, when you lived in Italy.’ He turned his mild gaze upon the dancing spray that veiled the three bronze Graces. ‘Different fountain, of course, but I thought if the coin were the proper currency, you might still get your wish.’
I was stunned that he’d remembered such a small thing, that he’d gone to so much trouble. My vision misting, I tucked my head down, mumbling thanks. The spectre of my five-year-old self danced happily beside me. What should I wish for, Daddy? And again I heard his answer: Anything you want. Anything …
I hadn’t heard Neil move, and so the touch of his fingers on my face startled me. It was a light touch, warm and sure and faintly comforting, as if he had every right to tip my chin up, to fix me with those understanding eyes and brush his thumb across the curve of my cheekbone, wiping away the single tear that had spilled from my wet lashes. ‘It’s really not that difficult,’ he said. ‘Believing.’
‘Neil …’
‘Whenever you’re ready.’ His smile was strangely gentle. ‘It’ll keep.’ His thumb trailed down my face to touch the corner of my mouth, and then he dropped his hand completely and the midnight eyes slid past me to the crowded market square. ‘There they are,’ Neil said.
The boys had spotted us as well, but it took them a few minutes to push their way through. I was grateful for the delay. By the time they reached us, I was looking very nearly normal.
Paul’s hands were empty, tucked into the pockets of his bright red jacket, but Simon had evidently fallen victim to the vendors. ‘… and you can’t tear it or wear it out,’ was his final proud pronouncement, as he held up a perfectly ordinary-looking chamois cloth to show us. ‘You should have seen it, Emily – the sales guy even set fire to it, and nothing happened.’
I agreed that was most impressive. ‘But what is it for?’
‘Oh, lots of things,’ Simon hedged, shoving the miracle cloth back into its bag.
Paul grinned. ‘He’s pathetic,’ he told us. ‘He nearly bought a radiator brush, of all things. Every salesman’s dream, that’s Simon.’
‘Mom and Dad have a radiator,’ his brother defended himself.
‘And I’m sure that’s what they’ve dreamed we’d bring them home from France – a radiator brush.’ Paul’s voice was dry. ‘Have you still got my bread, by the way? I’ll need it to feed the ducks.’
‘What? Oh, yeah.’ Simon rummaged in a carrier bag, tugging out a long piece of baguette. ‘I’m surprised those stupid ducks haven’t sunk to the bottom of the river, the way you feed them.’
‘Ducks need to eat, too.’ Paul took the bread and turned to me, his dark eyes slightly quizzical. ‘You’re welcome to come with me, if you want, unless you’d rather—’
‘I’d love to come,’ I cut him off, relieved to find my legs would still support me when I stood. Neil settled back against the bench, the soft breeze stirring his golden hair. He met my eyes and smiled. I was running away, and we both knew it, but he didn’t try to stop me. He seemed quite content to stay behind with Simon and peruse the bulging carrier bags, while I scuttled like a rabbit after Paul.
The crowd surged in around me, swept me on, and shot me like a cork from a bottle onto the Quai Jeanne d’Arc, where Paul stood waiting at the foot of the Rabelais statue.
We sat on the steps, as we had before, with the sloping stone wall to our backs and the river spread like a glistening blanket before us, stretched wide at either end to the horizon. The ducks were clustered out of sight at the end of the boat launch, but the cacophony of paddle and squawk still rose loudly to our ears, nearly drowning out the constant drone of traffic on the quai. The same flat-bottomed punt bobbed gently to the rhythm of the current at our feet, its chain moorings trailing clots of sodden dead-brown leaves.
Paul reached for his cigarettes, nodding at my hand. ‘What have you got there?’
Vaguely surprised, I looked down at my tightly clenched fist. ‘Nothing,’ I said, a little too quickly. ‘Just a coin.’ I dropped it loose into my handbag, and heard it fall to the bottom with a reproachful clink. Frowning, I ran a hand through my hair. ‘Listen, could I have a cigarette?’