Orson recognised Anouk by the cardigan under her open coat before he could clearly see her face. Then she saw him, and the smile that broke across her mouth made the three months both real and briefly irrelevant.
She came straight into his arms. The suitcase rolled an inch and stopped against his shoe.
“I said the third,” she whispered.
“You did.”
“Here I am.”
He kissed her, not caring who had to walk round them. She was cold from the platform, warm at the mouth, laughing and close enough at last. When he drew back, her eyes were wet.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“I know what your face is doing.”
“I can’t help that.”
She laughed and kissed him again.
They took her luggage to the room she’d booked above a quiet guesthouse near the square. Three weeks, paid from the money she’d set aside for…
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