Getting the Message

'Bonjour Monsieur. Rue Lafitte, s'il vous plait.' I recite in my best schoolboy French. My practice on the plane pays off as he seems to understand me and we set off at speeds only taxi drivers seem to find comfortable -- and yet I wish we could go faster.

I still can't believe it has only been twelve hours since I read her message.

'Why don't you call her?' Pie had suggested. He has such a simple view of life.

Once the unpleasant sensations in my stomach had subsided and I realised I wasn't having a heart attack, I decided I had nothing to lose. I borrowed Pie's all-singing, all-dancing phone and sought quiet shelter in the doorway of the shop next to the pub. After hearing it ring for several minutes, I was rehearsing my message for her voice mail when she answered.

'J'écoute.'

Speaking was difficult but after a couple of attempts I finally managed to find the words to explain. 'When I didn't hear from you. I thought it was all over. I sent you my new mobile number. I just never thought you might have lost your phone.'

'I try to find you. I call and send texts. I come back to Brighton but at the house they say you have gone to Manchester. I write to Manchester but the address is wrong. I call the company in Manchester and they say they do not know you and you do not work there. Now you say you are in London. I do not understand.' She sounded emotional -- but was it sorrow or anger?

'It's a very long story. I have to see you.'

'Oh yes.' Her immediate response lifted my spirits. ' But I cannot come to England now. I must look after Papa. There is a nurse but she is away for one week.'

I knew what I had to do. 'Where are you living?'

'In Toulouse. In Papa's home.'

Pie was great about showing me how to use his phone to book tickets on the Internet. Once I discovered I could get a seat on a flight at seven the next morning things became hectic. I packed a bag and spent the night at Heathrow; I would not miss the flight.

The taxi driver speaks to me again, and it takes a couple of seconds before I realise he seems to want more information. So I show him the scrap of paper on which I had written the address; he nods and mutters, 'D'accord.'

After a few more moments, he pulls up and points at a doorway. I pay him and turn towards the door. Several bell pushes are installed to one side, each with a name beside it. My eyes follow the tip of my finger down the list until I find Leveque and my stomach starts to churn again.

After an eternity the door opens and she looks as beautiful as ever; I feel a lump in my throat.

'Émilie.'

She puts her hand to her mouth, her eyes glistening.

'Jack,' she whispers. Then she almost deafens me, 'Oh Jack!'

She throws her arms round my neck with such strength it hurts. Her lips are locked hard against mine and I feel the wetness of her tears on my cheeks then realise I am crying too. My arms are around her now, crushing her body against me.

This time Ihave got the message: we will not be parted again.