“Andy?” I say into the cell phone.

“There you are!” Andy says, sounding relieved. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice. Didn’t you get my calls? I’ve been ringing your mobile all day. Why didn’t you pick up?”

“I’m sorry, did you call? I never heard it ring.” This is true. Cell phones don’t work in the Chunnel.

“You have no idea what I’ve been through,” Andy goes on, “coming out of that horrible office and finding you gone like that. The whole way home, I kept thinking, What if she’s not there? What if something happened to her? I tell you, I must really love you, eh, if I was that scared something might have happened!”

I give a weak laugh. Even though I don’t feel like laughing. “Yes,” I say, “I guess you must.”

“Liz, Christ,” Andy goes on. Now he sounds…tense. “Where the fuck are you? When are you coming home?”

I gaze up at what looks, in the slanting rays of the sun, like a castle on a hillside. But that, of course, is impossible. Castles don’t sit out in the middle of nowhere. Even in France.

“What do you mean, when am I coming home?” I ask him. “Didn’t you get my note?” I left a note for Mrs. Marshall and the rest of Andy’s family, thanking them for their hospitality, and a separate note for Andy, explaining that I was very sorry, but that I had unexpectedly been called away and would not be seeing him again.

“Of course I got your note,” Andy says. “I just don’t understand it.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. I have excellent penmanship. But I was crying so hard maybe my handwriting was shakier than I’d thought. “Well…like I said in the note, Andy, I’m really very sorry, but I just had to go. I really am-”

“Look, Liz. I know what happened this morning at the Job Centre upset you. I hated having to ask you to lie like that. But you wouldn’t have had to lie if you’d just kept your mouth shut in the first place.”

“I realize that,” I say. Oh God, this is awful. I don’t want to do this. Not now. And certainly not here. “I know it’s all my fault, Andy. And I really am sorry. I hope I didn’t get you into trouble with Mr. Williams.”

“Well, I won’t lie to you, Liz,” Andy says. “It was close. Very close. But…Wait a sec. Why are you calling me Andy?”

“Because it’s your name,” I say, moving out of the way of some people who’ve come through the sliding door from another car and are looking for an empty table.

“But you never call me Andy. You’ve always called me Andrew.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, I don’t know. You just seem like more of an Andy to me now.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” Andy says in a rueful tone. “Look, Liz…I know I made a fuck-all of everything. But you didn’t have to leave. I can fix this, Liz. Really. Things didn’t get off on the right foot between us, but everyone feels gutted about it, especially me. I’m done with Texas Hold’em…I swear it. And Alex has given up his room-he says you and I can share it. Or, if you like, we can go somewhere else…somewhere we can be alone. Where was it you wanted to go? Charlotte Bronte’s house?”

“Jane Austen,” I correct him.

“Right, Jane Austen’s house. We can leave right away. Just tell me where you are and I’ll come fetch you. We’ll patch things up. I’ll make it up to you-all of it-I swear it.”

“Oh, Andy,” I say, feeling guilt-ridden. Jean-Luc, over at our table, is paying the bill to make room at the table for the new passengers who’ve come in. “That just…I mean, it won’t be possible for you to come fetch me. Because I’m in France.”

“You’re WHAT?” Andy sounds a bit more surprised than is necessarily flattering. I guess he doesn’t consider me fairly brave, the way Jean-Luc does. At least, not brave enough to get to France on my own. “How did you get there? What are you doing there? Where are you? I’ll join you.”

“Andy,” I say. This is terrible. I hate confrontations. It’s so much easier to walk away than it is to have to explain to someone that you never want to see them again. “I want…I need to be by myself for a bit. I just need some time alone to think.”

“But for God’s sake, Liz, you’ve never been in Europe before. You don’t have the slightest idea what you’re doing. This isn’t funny, you know. I’m really worried. Just tell me where you are and I’ll-”

“No, Andy,” I say softly. Jean-Luc is coming toward me, looking concerned. “Listen, I can’t talk right now. I really have to go. I’m so sorry, Andy, but…like you said, I made a mistake.”

“I forgive you!” Andy says. “Lizzie! I forgive you! Just-listen. What about the money?”

“The…what?” I am so stunned I nearly drop the phone.

“The money,” Andy says urgently. “Can you still wire me the money?”

“I can’t talk about that right now,” I say. Jean-Luc has reached my side. He is, I note, really very tall-taller, even, than Andy. “I’m so sorry. Good-bye.”

I hang up, and for a second or two my vision swims. I would not have thought it possible to have any tears left, but apparently I do.

“Are you all right?” I hear-since I cannot see-Jean-Luc ask gently.

“I will be,” I assure him, more heartily than I actually feel.

“Was that him?” he wants to know.

I nod. It’s feeling a little hard to breathe. I can’t tell if it’s because of my barely repressed tears or Jean-Luc’s proximity…which, given how often the swaying of the train occasionally causes his arm to brush mine, is considerable.

“Did you tell him you were here with your attorney,” Jean-Luc wants to know, “and that he was busy drawing up your demand for your blow job back?”

I am so shocked by this I forget about not being able to breathe. Instead I find myself grinning…and the tears mysteriously drying up in my eyes.

“Did you let him know that if he can’t see fit to return your blow job immediately, you will have no choice but to sue?”

Now the tears in my eyes are from laughter.

“You said you can’t tell jokes,” I say accusingly when I’ve stopped laughing long enough to catch my breath.

“I can’t.” Jean-Luc looks grave. “That was a horrible one. I can’t believe you laughed.”

I’m still giggling as I collapse back into my seat beside him, feeling pleasantly full and more than a little sleepy. I struggle to stay awake, however, keeping my gaze on the window on the far side of the car, just behind Jean-Luc’s head, where the sun-still not quite sunk-seems to be silhouetting another castle. I point at it and say, “You know, it’s so weird. But that looks like a castle over there.”

Jean-Luc turns his head. “That’s because it is a castle.”

“It is not,” I say drowsily.

“Of course it is,” Jean-Luc says with a laugh. “You’re in France, Lizzie. What did you expect?”

Not castles, just sitting there for anyone to see by train. Not this breathtaking sunset, filling our car with this rosy light. Not this perfectly kind, perfectly lovely man sitting next to me.

“Not this,” I murmur. “Not this.”

And then I close my eyes.