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It felt so strange to have him lying next to me again
after all these years. I lay awake for a long time, listening to the sound of his breathing, a flood of memories stirring my brain and warming my flesh.

When
my alarm woke me the next morning, for the briefest moment, I couldn’t remember what had happened. I froze when I realized I wasn’t alone in bed, and then it all came back to me: Sebastian banging on my door; his fumbling kisses, his strange admission – drunken Sebastian passing out in my bed.

I felt his body shift on the mattress and he flexed his hips, lightly pushing his very noticeable morning wood into my back.
Some things never changed
.

Cautiously,
I moved away from him and sat up.

A sleepy blue-green eye blinked up at me. He looked puzzled.

“Caro?”

“You
’re awake then,” I said, sharply.

He looked embarrassed and confused when he
realized where he was.

“Did we…?”

“No, we most definitely did not. You woke me up in the middle of the night by banging on my door, and then passed out on my bed.”

“Oh, right.”

He leaned up on one arm and looked down at the clothes he was still wearing, assessing the truth of my statement. Then he grinned at me.

“Sorry about that. We can make up for it now if you like?”

I couldn’t believe him.
Who the hell did he think he was?!

“Astonishing as this may seem, Sebastian,” I said in a cool voice, “your charming offer doesn
’t thrill me.”

His smile slipped and for a moment he looked hurt: I remembered that look. Then his arrogant expression was back.

“Whatever.”

He swung his
long legs out of the bed and sat up. He didn’t seem to be experiencing any hangover effects whatsoever.
God, he was annoying!

“Where are my
boots?” he muttered.

“Under the chair,” I said, pointing. “Along with your jacket.”

He stood up and I was a little amused to see he had to rearrange his pants. He picked up his jacket and I realized he was leaving. I was surprised to feel a pang of disappointment.

“Why did you come here last night, Sebastian?”

He frowned, then shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

He strolled towards the door and glanced over his shoulder once.

“See you around, Caro.”

And then he was gone.

I sat there for several minutes, trying to process what had just happened. He’d always been so easy to read, but now I didn’t have a clue what was going on with him.

I shook my head and made a mental note not to open my door to strange men in the middle of the night, no matter how
hot they were or how well they filled a pair of jeans.

After my unusually stimulating wake-up call, the day dragged. My editor had emailed
during the night to say that my travel documents had definitely been delayed, but that he was hoping to get hold of someone who could help as soon as possible. The small print was: expect to be stuck in Geneva for at least a few days.

Liz
commiserated with me over breakfast.

“Sorry to hear that, Lee. I got my papers couriered over
from the Embassy first thing. My flight leaves in a couple of hours. Maybe see you out there.”

“Maybe,” I said wearily. “Look after yourself. Keep your head down and
watch your back.”

“You know me, Lee, I wear brass knickers – utterly indestructible.”

We hugged briefly, and she was off again.

I texted Marc to see if he was free
: I couldn’t face a day wandering around pointlessly by myself. I much preferred pointless wandering with company. I was relieved when Marc said he’d be happy to meet up. We spent a peaceful day examining a photography exhibition in the Sonia Zannettacci gallery, and strolling along the Quai de Seujet towards the lake.

By early evening,
I was starting to feel hungry and Marc offered to keep me company over a plate of pasta in a small, family run bistro that I’d discovered just around the corner from my hotel. I was digging into a very tasty Pizzoccheri, a tagliatelle-type pasta made from buckwheat flour and cooked with asparagus and diced potatoes – a local specialty – when Marc’s phone beeped to tell him he had a message.

“I am afraid, ch
ère Lee, that I will be leaving you alone after this night: my papers and assignment have come through.”

I was pleased for him but a feeling of despondency washed over me. How could the British and French governments expedite visas for their nationals,
while my own was so inept?

A
s we discussed his imminent departure to Fayzabad in the north of Afghanistan, we made vague arrangements to meet up, should we find ourselves within spitting distance.

We
’d nearly finished a carafe of house red, when I became aware that someone was hovering over us. To my astonishment, and more than a little dismay, I saw it was Sebastian.

He looked as though he was barely
managing to rein in his temper, his eyes blazing.

“We need to talk,” he said from between gritted teeth.

Before I could frame a reply, he grabbed my arm to pull me up.

Marc stood immediately. “Let go of her, m
’sieur, or you and I will have a problem.”

Sebastian scowled at him and for a moment I thought I was going to be breaking up a fight, but then he dropped my arm.

I wanted to know what the hell Sebastian was playing at. Whatever his problem, I’d had enough of this game of hide and seek where he was the only one who understood the rules.

“It
’s okay, Marc,” I said, quietly.

He
raised his eyebrows, stared at Sebastian, then back at me. “Very well, but I will be phoning your mobile in 15 minutes to check on you, chérie.”

I smiled and blew him a kiss.

“Who the fuck does he think he is?” snarled Sebastian as I left the bistro with him.

I stared at him in amazement. “A friend! What
’s it to you?”

He didn
’t answer.

I trailed along beside him as he marched down the street
in furious silence. I didn’t know whether to be amused at his petulance, angry at his rudeness, or wary of his apparent temper. All three, probably.

He
ducked into a small bierkeller, holding open the door for me. Well, that was a small improvement in manners. The barman nodded at him in recognition, and Liz’s words came back to me:
they say he drinks.

He ordered without asking my preference.

“Deux whiskies.”

He had a damn nerve!

“Non merci, je préfère du vin rouge, monsieur.” I’d always preferred red wine to whiskey.

Sebastian looked
enraged.
Well, fuck him.

The barman poured our drinks
, then wandered off to serve a couple of tourists at the other end of the bar.

Sebastian tossed the whiskey down his throat
, and turned to face me.

“What are you doing here, Caro?”
he said, a scowl marring his lovely face.

“That
’s a good question, Sebastian,” I replied calmly. “Right now, I’m wondering why the hell I’m listening to you order me around.”

“Oh, for fuck
’s sake!”

His reply was almost amusing. Almost.

“Seriously, what is it to you?” I asked, genuinely interested in an honest answer.

He ran his hands over his hair; a gesture, I remembered, that expressed extreme frustration
.

“It
’s dangerous out there, Caro. In Afghanistan, I mean. I know that’s where you’re going – obviously.”

What?!

I took a deep breath.

“Sebastian, apart from the fact that I
’ve already had assignments reporting from Iraq and Darfur – which weren’t exactly summer camps –
it’s none of your business
.”

“It
is
my business!”

He really was unbelievable.

“Based on what?”

He was silent.

“You know, Sebastian,” I said, my voice rising with anger, “I spent 11 years being told what to do by my ex-husband – I don’t need
you
to do it as well. You of all people
should understand that.”

He blanched, his expression wounded.
It was the first time either of us had referred to the past or what had happened between us.

“Caro, that
’s not it, I…”

But I
’d had enough. If these were the pearls of wisdom that I’d come to hear, thereby screwing up my last evening with Marc, I’d had enough. I stood up to leave.

“Caro
! Don’t… don’t go.”

His expression and voice were pleading.

“Why did you bring me here, Sebastian? And I’d
really
like to know why you assaulted me last night.”

He gaped at me.

“Assaulted? I didn’t! I’d never…” his words trailed off and he stared at me in anguish, as he saw the anger on my face.

“Actually you did – you were just too drunk to remember it. You
’re damn lucky I didn’t report you. Although I’m fairly sure you can work out the reason why I didn’t – why I couldn’t. Good night, Sebastian.”

I took a step away, then turned and looked back at him. “I hope you have a nice life, I really do. And while you
’re at it – quit your drinking before you really do something stupid. More stupid.”

And then I turned on my heel and left.