Free The French Promise by Fiona McIntosh

on the day of Harry’s birth. Her trim figure was returning rapidly and she’d put on an eye-catching new outfit for spring.
    ‘It’s the new look,’ she said, twirling the circular skirt for him. ‘I treated myself. Like it?’
    Like it? He’d wanted to tear it off her and kiss the tiny waist it was cinching with itscheeky bow-shaped belt, and nuzzle the breasts her incredibly provocative off-the-shoulder ribbed knit was outlining. She was a picture in pale blue. Her hair was now fashionably cut and flicked around her ears, which wore the tiny pearl earrings he’d given her for her last birthday. He didn’t see her dressed up like this often enough and had perhaps taken for granted, or forgotten, what a stunningwoman Lisette was. She was now a heart-stopping 31-year-old. His wife would turn heads today but he didn’t care; she wore his ring.
    They could see the dramatic, cigar-shaped Skylon Tower for miles. It was a nod towards futuristic buildings and had become the main emblem for the posters and promotions for the festival.
    ‘That looks like a space rocket,’ he said. ‘And the dome looks like a flyingsaucer.’
    Lisette had laughed as she tore open the newspaper and the heady smell of vinegar on salted chips intoxicated them. ‘It’s not elegant but you’ve got to admit, this is good.’
    Luc grinned. ‘Watch your skirt.’
    She gave him a wry glance. ‘I don’t plan to wear it that long.’
    ‘
Mechante!
’ he whispered, feigning horror at her teasing.
    Lisette nodded. ‘Wicked, eh? You shouldsee what I have in store for you, Mr Ravens,’ she threatened, putting a crispy chip between her teeth.
    He grinned and suddenly leant in to bite down on the chip.
    ‘So this dome,’ she said, flicking through the program, ‘features everything to do with the physical world.’
    He frowned. ‘You mean the land, the sky?’
    ‘Yes, the sea, the poles, outer space, plants … perhaps even some lavender.’
    He gavea sound of soft exasperation. ‘I know more about lavender than they could teach.’
    ‘Ooh,’ she mocked gently. ‘Aren’t you the boastful one?’
    He shrugged. ‘The British know little about it. In the Luberon we grew the wild alpine lavender, the original strain with the purest oil. What they grow here …’ He made a typical French scoffing sound. ‘It’s full of camphor.’
    ‘Then grow your wretched wild lavender!’she urged again, risking broaching the subject.
    ‘We need alpine conditions and an entirely different climate,’ he explained gently. ‘Arid summers, remember. Not rainy ones. And snow in winter.’
    ‘It snows in Eastbourne.’
    ‘Not enough.’
    ‘But it would make you happy to grow lavender again.’
    He sighed. ‘Yes, you know it would. It’s who I am.’
    ‘Then we must work out how you can do it.’ Sheflicked through the program once more. ‘But right now we shall head to the Festival Hall. The list of exhibitors is vast, everyone from P&O shipping to Kew Gardens.’ The names were meaningless to Luc. ‘Eat up. I’m in a hurry to see everything, including “Dick Whittington on Ice” – and you know Joe Loss is performing too, don’t you?’ She rolled her eyes when he shrugged.
‘Joe Loss
, Luc!’
    ‘I’m just happy that you’re happy,’ he admitted. ‘Lead me wherever,’ he grinned.
    ‘Well, I hope you’ve got your dancing shoes on because I am going to dance in the streets,’ she warned. ‘But first, a toffee apple!’
    The day passed in a flurry of exciting images and newfangled items; in music, candy floss and a wealth of accents from Scottish to Cornish and many international languages too. Theatmosphere was uplifting and a promotion for joy and hope. When Luc overheard two German voices, uttered in a whisper, he remembered that the whole point of the Festival of Britain was to urge people to leave behind hate and to use the event as a springboard into the future. It affected him. It wasn’t just Lisette’s laughter but the