Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

didn't unbalance her. "Monique's away this week. There's no one else I can ask and I'm frightened, Juju. Please come."
    He wanted to tell her that having a baby was nothing to worry about: thousands of women did it every day. But there was no point arguing about it. He promised to be there as soon as he could. Then he told Carrie, the sous-chef , that she might be in charge in the kitchen for the next couple of weeks, and went into the office.
    It was reassuring to see Mark's familiar face there. In name, Mark was the maître d'hôtel , the dining room manager; in practice, he did a lot more, dealing with anything that Jules was too impatient to handle including accounts, hygiene inspections and most of the personnel issues. Jules relied on him heavily, paid him well and worked at keeping their relationship strictly business so that Mark would have no reason to leave.
    He thought Mark was gorgeous, although they were very different types. Mark looked so English with his sandy hair, button nose and freckles. Jules was dark and handsome with the olive skin of his Mediterranean ancestors. Jules was lean-bodied while Mark was a little overweight. Jules never used to find plumpness attractive but lately he had noticed that his tastes were changing. He was seeking out cuddly guys and enjoying the soft warmth of the extra flesh. It was bizarre. Well, as long as it kept him from hitting on Mark...
    They were both gay and careful to avoid anything that would bring them too close. Like the time that Mark had leaned in for a kiss in the kitchen at the staff New Year party, and Jules had stopped him by making a comment about the difficulty of working with somebody you had slept with. Or the time that Jules had too many cognacs at the end of a long Saturday night and fell into Mark's arms in the office, and Mark had sat him down in the chair, left the room and sent one of the girls in with coffee. It was the right thing to do. The restaurant, Mark's career, these things were more important than a night's pleasure.
    Jules announced that he needed to use the computer. As he went online to book himself a seat on the next morning's flight, he started to talk about arrangements for the time he would be gone. But he wasn't worried: Mark would take care of everything.
    ****
    It wasn't until the plane landed at the provincial airport in central France that he remembered that his rental car was still reserved for the following week. Fortunately there was no difficulty and he was given the keys to a small Renault. He didn't drive in England (he was waiting for the day when the EU would make the obstinate English change to the right side of the road) and it was a pleasure to get back behind the wheel whenever he came to France.
    Claire had texted during the night to confirm that she was in labor and they were keeping her in the hospital, so he drove straight there. They had grown up further south, but Claire had settled in Saint-Herbert when she finished university and Jules had been coming here to see her about once a year since their parents had died, so he knew where he was going.
    He knew, too, that childbirth could take many hours. He'd tried phoning her before he left England, once from the bus that took him to the airport and again from the departure lounge, but both times it had gone straight to voicemail. He guessed that Claire wouldn't be able to talk until after her daughter was born, and there was nobody else he'd need to talk to until the restaurant opened later in the day, so he had switched off his phone and pushed it into the bottom of his bag.
    He parked and went in through the nearest door. It turned out to be the place where ambulances dropped off the emergency cases. Disoriented, he walked along a tiled corridor, trusting that the efficiency of French design would soon help him out. It did: all routes led to a central reception desk facing a bank of lifts.
    "I'm looking for Mademoiselle Moreau, Claire," he said. "Can you tell me which floor?"
    The receptionist consulted her computer. Her smile faded as she clicked and typed. It looked like she was having trouble finding Claire's name. After a long pause she said, "Take a seat, Monsieur. Somebody will come to meet you."
    There was a guide for visitors beside the row of chairs. Maternité Obstétrique was listed on the fifth floor. Jules said, "I'll just go up."
    "No, please wait. Somebody will be here in a moment."
    He paced around the reception area, looking at the