When Emilie tried to talk to him over supper, he was distant. When they climbed into bed later, she asked him again if he had a problem. “Sorry, things are just very difficult at present, that’s all.” “You mean, businesswise?” “Yes. I’ve just discovered the bloody bank hasn’t been putting through my direct debits. And the chap I’d sourced in France who thought he might be able to lay his hands on a Picasso turned out to be a real chancer. He said he’d already had bids over seven million for it, and all I got was a couple of blurred photographs as proof. So, no, I’m not in the best of moods,” Sebastian grunted. “You know I’ll help financially if you need me to. You just have to ask.” Emilie massaged his shoulders as he lay in bed, his back turned to her. “Thanks, Emilie, but you understand how I feel about running to you every time I have a crisis.” “Please, Sebastian, you helped me so much when I needed you. If you love someone, surely it doesn’t matter that you turn to them?”
