Page 66 of Je T'aime, Actually

And whatever came next.

fifty-three

It wasn’t a long drive down to Portsmouth. She’d driven onto the ferry and parked up without incident. The SUV was comfortable enough for a journey like this—reliable, spacious, and the blacked-out windows helped mask the fact her entire life was packed into the backseat and boot.

Now, standing on the deck with the salty wind pushing her hair back and slapping at her coat, Monroe let her lungs fill with fresh air. The nausea that had been clinging to her all morning had begun to ease. Good thing, too. She still had three more hours of bobbing about the Channel before docking in Caen.

She glanced down at her phone. No signal. Not that she’d expected any this far out. Still, she opened her messages and scrolled up to the last one from Chloé.

Chloe:I will be waiting. I need to feel you in my arms once more.

A slow smile spread across her face.

It was that thought—and that thought alone—that had kept her steady these past few days. Every time doubt crept in, everytime the ache of leaving twisted in her chest, every time Kitty had FaceTimed to say she was going to miss her, she closed her eyes and imagined it: Chloé’s body wrapped around hers, skin warm, mouth soft, arms unyielding in their embrace. She imagined their limbs tangled beneath cotton sheets; the slow, synchronised rise and fall of their breathing, the whispered words that meant everything.

For the first time in years, Monroe felt like she’d found it. The thing she’d convinced herself only existed in novels or dreams: Love. Real love.

And now, she was sailing towards it.

Monroe followed the instructions of the man in the hi-vis jacket and yellow hard hat as he motioned her car forwards, then pointed her towards the ramp.

As her tyres rolled off the boat and hit French soil, she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.

“Made it,” she whispered to herself, a mixture of nerves and excitement fluttering in her chest.

The queue ahead was slow-moving, so she pulled the handbrake and reached for her phone that had now connected to a French network.

Monroe:Made it to French soil. Now for the long drive.

She sent it to Poppy first, because she knew Poppy would be waiting. A second later, she tapped out another message, this one softer.

Monroe:My love, I’ve landed. Should be on the road soon. I’ll be with you around seven. I can’t wait to start our life together.

The reply from Poppy came almost instantly.

Poppy:I miss you already. Have fun. Drive safe xxx.

Monroe:I’ll be back soon enough. Give the kids a hug from me, xxx.

Traffic began to move again. She inched forwards, then glided through border control with barely a glance.

And just like that, she was on the road.

Southbound. Towards Chloé. Towards a new chapter. Towards everything.

fifty-four

Chloé tapped away at her keyboard, completely absorbed in the hours that were slipping by unnoticed. She’d been in meetings all morning and was cautiously optimistic there was a small investor on the horizon; someone who seemed genuinely interested and willing to put a few thousand euros intoLa Fée du Livre.

It wasn’t much, but it would help keep things ticking over; one small victory in a day of many tasks.

Now, she was knee-deep in contract drafts for the new authors they’d recently signed—fresh voices, exciting talent, and for once, hope didn’t feel foolish. Marketing was running full throttle, pulling together social media campaigns, cover reveals, and newsletter teases in preparation for the books to go live.

The website had just launched its redesign: A sleek, modern overhaul that, in hindsight, she admitted was long overdue. But the timing had worked out. Everything was beginning to align: a new look, a fresh direction, and the chance to actually survive.

She briefly rubbed her temples, glancing at the clock. Nearly four.

Her heart gave a small flutter.