Chapter Two: The Wedding Invitation

Restaurants that had set menus for brunch irked Dudley, but his mother was fond of this particular spot, so he went uncomplaining. He didn't feel much like complaining anyway; he had spent the most fantastic night of his life with Gabrielle. Far from the moody post-match brooding that had consumed the early part of his evening, he was radiantly happy the following morning.

It wasn't even that she was just beautiful. She had made him laugh over and over again throughout the night, and she had never laughed at him when he said something stupid, only at his jokes, even when they were terrible. When she'd talked too fast and slipped into a rapid, complex French that Dudley couldn't follow, she'd notice and slow down; she would even translate into English if he needed—which he usually did—never begrudgingly, but always with a gentle smile. And then the conversation had been interesting, not the same dull platitudes about drugs and boxing and sex that he usually exchanged with his mates or the girls he slept with. Gabrielle had talked about France as they danced; about her parents, her sister and her English husband, and her niece while they sat and drank and cooled off from the dance floor; and about the evils of London traffic when they slid together into the back of the car to go to Dudley's hotel room. But she didn't just talk, she listened. She listened with an intensity that Dudley had never imagined when he talked about his love of coffee, or his appreciation for fast-paced action movies and his subsequent horror that she had never seen any. And when he admitted to the feeling of emptiness that he'd felt at knocking out Ozols, she had set her drink down, grabbed his face, and given him a deep, long kiss. Then they'd gone back to his hotel, and the night had gotten better and better, past the words that Dudley had left to describe the sheer delights that Gabrielle had brought into his life.

At the table in the formal, stuffy restaurant, Dudley shifted in his seat, remembering. He fidgeted with the tableware and tried to think of something else.

His fidgeting and self-distraction were short-lived, as Petunia Dursley arrived less than two minutes later. Dudley rose to give his mother a hug and a peck on the cheek. She squeezed him tightly and kissed him on each cheek.

"So sorry I'm late, Diddykins, the traffic was awful." Petunia smoothed her pastel pink skirt as she settled into her seat. A sharply dressed waiter in a tailored waistcoat and a bowtie dashed over to fill their champagne glasses and murmur pleasantries to the mother and son duo.

"I've only been here a few minutes, mum, don't worry. I had a slow trip also," Dudley said.

"Well, then," Petunia said. She paused, as the waiter topped off her glass. As he walked away, she lifted her glass to Dudley, who lifted his as well. "Congratulations on your victory, Diddykins."

"Thanks, mum," he said, and they both drank. Dudley gulped his down while his mother gently sipped hers.

"How are you feeling today?" Petunia asked, dabbing at her mouth with the corner of her heavy cloth napkin.

Words flooded Dudley's mind, each one related to Gabrielle and the time he spent with her. Happy, satisfied, comfortable, eager, curious… But then the bruise on his cheekbone throbbed, and he realized that she was asking him how he felt after last night's fight.

"Yeah, pretty good. Bit stiff, and a couple of bruises, but pretty good." He felt like it was a lie. He didn't feel pretty good, he felt wonderful, amazing. His thoughts drifted to long, silvery hair with a texture like silk…

"And how was the party? Mrs. Polkiss told me that Piers was pleased with the arrangements."

"Yeah, that was also pretty good. Nice place, decent music." He reflected briefly on the evening. Piers's party—Gordon's, rather—had been dull at best and irritating at worst, but it had been redeemed by Gabrielle's unexpected presence. Dudley felt a little bit ridiculous for being so head-over-heels obsessed with her, but he couldn't help himself. The time he'd spent with her had been the best he'd ever had.

"Lovely. Did Piers and Gordon and Malcolm enjoy themselves?"

"Yeah, I reckon they did." Dudley paused as a new waiter arrived with a plate of warm French pastries that he set down on the table before gliding away once more. "Did you watch any of the match last night?"

Petunia fiddled with the clasp of her pocketbook, which Dudley only then realized, as he reached for a flaky croissant, that she had kept on her lap. "What's that, Diddykins?" Petunia asked, distracted.

"I said did you watch any of the match?"

Petunia touched the clasp again. "A little. Is your leg bothering you?"

"No, it's fine now, just stiffened up towards the end of the match. Charlie worked it out."

"Lovely." Petunia took another sip of her champagne, dabbed her lips again, and returned her hands to the opening of her pocketbook.

"Mum. You can put it down, you know, nobody here is going to steal your pocketbook, okay?" Dudley urged, licking the last crumbs of pastry off of his fingers. Croissant. French. He wondered if Gabrielle liked croissants.

Petunia shook her head. "No, no, of course not." She paused. "I got a letter today, Dudley."

"Yeah?" Dudley prompted, breaking a piece off of a second croissant.

"At the hotel."

Dudley popped the croissant-half he had grabbed into his mouth. "That's cool. Why'd anyone bother sending you a letter, why not just call?"

More food arrived in the hands of discreet waiters, and Petunia was silent until they had left their bowls of bisque and topped off the champagne glasses. When the waiters were sufficiently far away, Petunia whispered, her lips barely moving, "It didn't come by post."

Already two spoonfuls into the unpleasantly lukewarm bisque Dudley paused, his spoon full and level with his chin. "So how'd it come?" he asked slowly, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Petunia said nothing, instead reaching for another sip of her champagne, her bisque untouched. Dudley watched her hand, unwilling to look her in the face; her hand was trembling. As she sipped, her eyes darted around the nearly empty restaurant. It wasn't a popular place for a weekday brunch, tending to be busier for tea, and then generally on weekends. Besides, they were there on the late side for brunch, rapidly approaching noon, so anyone else who had been there earlier had long since gone. There were only three other groups in the expansive restaurant now: a couple more engrossed in each other's saliva than the food they were being served; an aged looking gentlemen with large hearing aids protruding from his ears; and four businessmen out for an early lunch, their table littered with empty glasses, their laughter excessively raucous. All were seated at tables far enough away from the Dursleys that prevented any eavesdropping, but still Petunia looked frightened. She inhaled deeply, her face white, and released a little gasp, looking expectantly at Dudley as she did so.

Dudley frowned and shook his head. "Mum, speak up, I can't hear you." Her jaw locked and her lips barely moving, Petunia again made an indecipherable noise. "Mum! Just say it!"

Petunia leaned across the table, glanced around the restaurant again, and looked Dudley in the eyes. "Owl," she hissed. As soon as the word passed her lips, she leaned back in her seat and snatched up her champagne glass again, steadying herself with another sip.

Dudley's stomach dropped. Owl. He knew exactly the last time his mother had received a letter from one of those. He tasted bile in his mouth, remembering a hot summer's night when he was fifteen that had suddenly turned dark, cold, and more terrifying than anything he had ever experienced. He could see still clearly imprinted against his mind's eye the brilliant silver deer or horse or whatever it had been that had returned warmth to the night air, and he could hear the screech of the owl that had come flying into their home to drop a letter on the table, a letter that had screamed a message out into the silence of his mother's sparkling kitchen, tainting their home with a cryptic one-line missive to Petunia that had given her a thorough shock. He hadn't seen an owl since then without thinking of that night; he never saw an owl that didn't send a shiver up his spine.

"Did it…did it yell at you?" Dudley asked, his voice barely louder than his breath.

"It hooted," Petunia responded, confused. Her voice, too, was difficult to hear. Dudley shook his head.

"No, mum, the letter. Did the letter scream again?"

"What? No, no, it wasn't like that."

Dudley sighed, relaxing slightly. He didn't know why it made any difference what the letter said or did, considering how it was delivered, but he was still glad to know it wasn't another one of those. "So who was it from, then? From…him?"

Petunia nodded, one quick, sharp jerk of her head. She opened her pocketbook at last, slipping her hand inside. She paused, casting another furtive glance around the restaurant. Seeing that they were sufficiently alone, she pulled out a light-colored piece of heavy looking paper and slid it across the table to her son. Dudley picked it up and looked at the text on the reverse side. In bottle green ink—a color Dudley found, to his surprise, was strikingly familiar, if out of place—and letters written in elegant, though not ornate, cursive, was written:

You are cordially invited to the marriage of

Harry
and
Ginny

Beneath the names were the dates and location, which Dudley barely noticed. He felt a sort of dull shock at reading the names. Marriage? They were too young to get married. Dudley was only a month older than him, and he certainly wasn't getting married anytime soon. For goodness's sake, they were only twenty-one! Dudley didn't recognize the bride's name, nor did he expect to, but he doubted she could be much older.

He passed the invitation back to his mother. "Do you think his kind always get married this young?" he whispered.

"My—" Petunia began, but then she paused and pursed her lips. She shook her head and said nothing else until she had eaten all of her bisque. Taking her cue, Dudley finished his as well. They were quiet while the waiters removed the bowls and set down plates with small circles of tuna tartar in front of them.

"Was that it, then?" Dudley asked, putting a fork of the tuna in his mouth. "He's just out of the blue gone and invited you to his wedding without another word?"

Here Petunia blushed. "No," she said.

Dudley took a swig of champagne. "No what?" he prompted.

"It wasn't out of the blue."

Dudley nearly choked on his drink. "You've been in contact with him?" he demanded past a cough. "All this time?"

Petunia shook her head. Then, closing her eyes, she nodded then shook her head again. "We meet," she said finally. "Once a year. Just for coffee or tea or lunch, something like that. On the thirty-first of October."

Dudley rocked back in his chair, stunned. He set his fork down on the table, a host of questions swarming through his mind. Eventually, only one managed to make its way down to his lips. "Every year?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Since we came back."

Dudley ran his fingers through his hair. "So that's what, four times? You've met him four times since then?"

"Yes."

"Does Dad know?"

Petunia tsk-ed. "Of course not."

"Do you think he'd stop you going if he did know?"

"No. No, he's always let me make the decisions about…about all of that. If I said I had to, he wouldn't say no. But he would never understand," Petunia said.

Dudley snorted. "I don't understand," he complained. "When we got back, you said you hoped that you'd never have anything to do with any of that again, no part of that world." Petunia anxiously shushed him, but he ignored her. "You were the first to swear it off, faster than Dad, I reckon. And now all along you've kept a foot inside that world? You've stayed in touch with him? I don't get it, mum. I don't."

"It was complicated, Diddykins."

"Don't 'Diddykins' me, mum. What the hell is complicated? We all agreed, we all said, after the way we had to live because of him, because of them, because of all of it, we said we were done, that it was over. What the hell were you meeting him for?" Dudley felt an angry sensation rising within himself. It was more than just anger, though; it was betrayal. They had turned their backs on everything they had been through, and they'd done so together, that was the deal. He felt hurt.

"What do you want me to tell you, Dudley?" Petunia snapped. "He wrote to me and asked to see him. He promised that he would never bother me again if I said no, but he said that there were things that he thought I should know about what had happened to him while we were away. He said it was important."

"And was it? Was it actually important, so important that you couldn't say no?"

Petunia's lips were pressed together so tightly that they were white. As Dudley watched, they trembled ever so slightly. She closed her eyes as she gave Dudley her answer: "Yes."

Dudley put his face in his hands and rested his elbows on the table, past the point of caring if his mother told him off for it. His voice muffled by his palms, he swore.

"Dudley!"

He raised his face out of his hands and looked at his mother with a touch of disgust. "What? Are you going to complain about my language? Mum, we promised. I promised, and I only promised because you did too. Do you have any idea how many times I've wanted to say something to him? Hestia told us that he saved us, Mum, and we don't even know what he saved us from, and I've been wanting to ask him ever since, but we promised that we wouldn't. What the hell am I supposed to think now, mum? What am I supposed to think?"

"Don't talk about—"

"Don't talk about what?" Dudley cut her off, and suddenly he was yelling, not caring about the other patrons in the restaurant, not caring about the waiters or anyone else. "You lied, mum, you lied to us!" He stood up, fuming, and dug his wallet out of his back pocket. "Forget it, mum, you know what, I'm not hungry anymore." He pulled several large bills out of the wallet and threw them onto the table. They fluttered down in a completely unsatisfactory way. "I'm leaving. You enjoy your brunch, Mum; that should cover it. Tell Dad I say hi. Or you know what, don't. Because if you promise to, I don't know anymore that you really will." Dudley snatched up his champagne glass, finished it off in a single gulp, put the glass back on the table and stalked away, ignoring his mother's protests.

The other patrons of the restaurant had gone silent, watching the exchange, perhaps recognizing the famous boxer, perhaps simply scandalized by his conduct. Dudley didn't care.

The restaurant was on a busy street, but there were unusually few taxis going past. None stopped at Dudley's summons, so he was still waiting at the curb when his mother came running out.

"Dudley, wait!" Petunia put her hand on his arm. He shook it off.

"What? What do you want? What do you have to say?"

"Dudley, please, can we talk? We should talk."

"About what? About why you lied?"

"Yes." Petunia's answer was so unexpected that Dudley dropped the arm he had outstretched to hail a cab. "It wasn't simple, Dudley, there was…I should explain it to you. I didn't mean to lie."

"Yeah, well, you did. And that's it." Dudley put his arm back out, and this time a taxi came swerving towards them immediately. He opened the door and prepared to get in.

"It's not, it isn't. Please, Dudley."

Dudley paused, then sighed. He waved his mother into the taxi. "Look, we can't talk here. And I'm not going back in there. Let's go to a park or something, okay?"

Petunia released a long breath and slid into the cab. Dudley climbed in after her, drained in the aftermath of his anger. "St. James's Park," he told the cabbie. It was the only park in London whose name he remembered at that moment, even though he knew it wasn't the closest. "Don't say anything, Mum. Not until we get there. I don't want to talk for a bit."

He hoped St. James's Park was far away.

I get it if you don't want to come or if you don't want to mention anything to Uncle Vernon or anything like that. But Ginny agrees with me, you and Dudley should come. I'm not saying you're my only family. I've got a big family now, blood or not. But you're still family, and that means something.

I know my mum would've wanted you to come. And I know that you know it too.

Dudley finished reading the unsigned note that had come with the invitation while sitting on a park bench overlooking the water in the park and then read it again. His mother was sitting quietly—uncomfortably—next to him.

He had listened in disbelief as Petunia had told him about getting together for tea once a year, commemorating her sister's death, unacknowledged for so long. She'd told a long story about a boy who had come between two sisters who had once loved each other more than anything, about an old man who spoke often about the power of love, about guilt and resentment and sorrow, all repressed into hatred for sixteen years. And then she told Dudley that the ten months they had spent hidden away from the world that they knew had brought all of that to the fore; when he'd reached out that summer and asked to talk, she agreed without really knowing why.

"And, Dudley, he knew. He knew everything, he knew all about that awful Snape boy and what had happened to us. He'd known Snape, been taught by him, and learned everything about me that I had tried to forget for so many years, that his being with us had forced me to remember every day. And he looked me in the eye, Dudley, and do you know what he said? He said, 'I get it all now—and I forgive you.' I didn't even know I'd been waiting to hear it, but hearing the truth for the first time in so long…it was such relief.

"I had loved her, Dudley, really loved her. And then I lost her. And when he was left on the doorstep, I lost a part of myself—I knew that she was dead. And I had never made it right with her. And he was there, everyday for sixteen years, Dudley, sixteen, reminding me everyday of what I had lost. I never hated him, but I hated what he was to me. Every time I saw his face with her eyes looking back at me, I remembered, and I tried not to.

"When he looked me in the eye at that coffee shop four years ago and told me that he understood, it was such relief. Such relief. I wasn't looking for his forgiveness, but he gave it to me, and it was everything I needed."

Petunia had gone on to describe the annual meetings. They recapped each other's lives during the intervening year, drank coffee or tea, then said good-bye. That was it, she said. And then the invitation had shown up with the note, and here they were.

Dudley didn't speak during her story. He'd spent nearly a year hiding with his parents in a remote Welsh village with people he barely knew, and his mother had never once mentioned the reasons why they were hiding. It felt so strange to know it now.

"But, mum," he said at last, "why didn't you tell me?"

"How could I? How was I supposed to tell you?"

"Like you just did!"

"I've never done anything harder in my life, Dudley," Petunia admitted.

Dudley took several deep breaths, trying to decide what to say next. "I've wanted to talk to him for four years. Four years, Mum. And you were talking to him all along."

"What did you want to say to him?" Petunia asked, confused.

Dudley bit his tongue and frowned. The truth was, he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. He just knew that there was something, something important that he wanted to say to his cousin. He settled for that. "He's my cousin, mum," he said. "We grew up together. And he saved my life. It feels weird not to have anything to do with him."

"You thanked him for that," Petunia reminded her son, sounding more bemused than ever.

"Thanked him?" Dudley looked at his mother in disbelief. "It'll never be enough to just say thanks for that. My life, Mum, he saved my life." The darkness, the cold, the sound of a long, rattling breath… Dudley broke out into a cold sweat remembering the fate he had narrowly avoided, saved by a glowing moose. "You can't ever understand what it was like that night and what he saved me from. I thanked him? I owe him everything."

Petunia looked at her hands, which were absentmindedly folding the note into a minute square. The silence between them stretched on as she unfolded the note and smoothed its creases out. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said softly, staring at the messy black handwriting of the note.

"Yeah, well, that's it then," Dudley huffed. He stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, as he put his hands behind his head. "So what now?"

"I don't know," Petunia said. "I don't know."

"Are you going to go to the wedding?"

"I don't know."

A group of babbling tourists ambled past, and Dudley watched them walk past. It was early spring in London, and these tourists, with their brash American accents and too-heavy coats, were out of place in the peaceful green expanse of the park. Dudley wished they would move away, go tour Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey or wherever it was they were going.

"Do you reckon their weddings are the same as ours?" Dudley asked over the noisy tourists.

Petunia shrugged. "I wouldn't know."

"What about your—"

"I didn't go." Petunia's voice was sharp. "We didn't go," she said more softly.

Dudley opened his mouth, the why not already halfway to his tongue, when he saw a streak through the makeup on his mother's cheek and thought better of that line of questioning. The American tourists moved on to a new locale, and Dudley watched them go. Petunia pulled a handkerchief from her pocketbook and delicately blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes.

Once the tourists were gone, Dudley drew a deep breath. "We should go," he declared.

Petunia paused in the process of putting her handkerchief away. "Do you think so?" she asked timidly.

"Yeah. We…he's family, right? We should go."

"Are you sure?" Petunia stuffed the note inside her pocketbook after the handkerchief. "What if he's only reaching out because of you, Diddykins? What if he wants money? You're famous, Diddykins, he must think you've got lots of money to spare…"

Dudley dropped his hands into his lap and turned to stare at his mother. "Are you serious? Really?"

"I don't know, Diddykins. The letter arrived the same day as your big match. What if…?"

"So what if he does want money?" Dudley demanded, the words surprising even himself. But a silver deer flashed before his eyes, and he continued. "If he wants money, he can have it. We owe it to him, mum. We owe it."

"We don't—"

"Besides, when has he ever asked for anything from us? Has he ever asked you for money at any of your meetings?"

"No." Petunia blushed. "He-he pays," she added, stammering over the words.

Dudley nodded his head. "Right, then, that's settled. We should go."

Petunia cleared her throat. "Do you think we should tell your father?" she asked.

"I dunno. Maybe. He won't want to go, either way."

"But he will. If we tell him he should, he'll go."

"I dunno, mum. That's up to you." Dudley stood up, holding his hand out to his mother to help her up as well. "Let's get you back to your hotel, mum." At the word hotel, Dudley thought of Gabrielle for the first time since his mother had mentioned receiving any letters. He had left her still in bed in the hotel room, though not without telling her where he was going and why. She'd smiled at hearing him say that he'd promised to have brunch with his mother. He had told her that he didn't expect to be back until the early afternoon, but that she was welcome to stay as long as she liked and help herself to room service. He wondered, in retrospect, if he'd sounded too plaintive when he told her she could stay.

"Something the matter, Diddykins?" Petunia inquired, seeing Dudley's distant expression.

Dudley blinked and shook himself a little. "Yeah, no, I'm fine, mum."

They walked together to the park exit. Dudley hailed a cab and settled his mother inside. "Are you all right on your own?" he asked her. "I want to head back to my hotel, if that's good with you."

"Of course, of course, go," Petunia urged. She kissed him on the cheek. "We'll talk on the phone about getting to the wedding, how does that sound?"

"Great. Sounds great, mum." The two exchanged a few more perfunctory good-byes before he closed the door and let the cabbie pull away.

Hailing another taxi for himself, Dudley changed his focus, trying without success to push all thoughts of Harry Potter and his upcoming wedding out of his mind. He thought of Gabrielle, who, with any luck, was waiting for him back at the hotel. He slid into the cab with a crease between his eyebrows and a smile on his lips.

He was lucky. After bouncing on the balls of his feet all through the elevator ride up to his floor and fumbling with the key to his suite, he barged into the bedroom to find Gabrielle sprawled across the bed that, evidently, housekeeping had found the chance to remake. She was dressed in a pair of Dudley's sweatpants and an overlarge t-shirt, a normally appalling combination, but, of course, on her it was an ensemble barely short of jaw-dropping. She was lying on her stomach, facing away from the door, and flipping through a magazine.

Seeing her there, and in his clothes, no less, Dudley felt his heart stutter, and he grinned. He leaned against the doorway and wolf-whistled. Gabrielle turned her head to look at him.

"Ah, you are back!" she cried.

"You're still here," Dudley replied, unable to keep the amazement out of his voice.

Gabrielle smiled and rolled onto her back, the pages of the magazine crinkling beneath her. "How is ta mère?" she yawned, stretching her arms up over his head. As her arms went up, a small gap appeared between the bottom of her shirt and the waistband of her pants. Dudley found himself staring at this alluring space with rapt attention, a stupid grin spreading across his face. Gabrielle snapped her fingers. "Allô, allô, allô, monsieur Dudley, mon visage est ici!" she said, gesturing to her head.

Dudley's eyes snapped up to look at Gabrielle's face. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. He sauntered over to the bed and perched himself on the edge of the mattress. "I couldn't help thinking about last night, you know?"

"Mm." Gabrielle put her arms down, taking Dudley's hand in one of her own as she did so, lacing her fingers with his.

"I had a great time."

"Oui."

"Oui? Is that it?"

"Oui. Bien sûr you had a good time. I had a good time."

Dudley raised his eyebrows. "Is that how it works, then?"

Gabrielle pulled herself up and put her lips next to Dudley's ear. "Bien sûr," she whispered. Dudley felt his breath go unsteady. Gabrielle leaned back slightly, looking at his face. He reached with his free hand to pull her back for a kiss, and she obliged, kissing him passionately. When they separated to draw breath, she said, "I would like to have another good time with you, yes?"

Dudley slipped his arm around her waist. "I'm ready for a good time right now," he said.

Gabrielle kissed him again. "Moi aussi," she sighed. Dudley tightened the arm around her waist. "But I cannot, Dudley, non, I am sorry."

"Is something wrong?"

"Non, merci, but I have not the time. I should have left il y a une heure. I have to go to my sister, but I wanted first to see you before I go."

Dudley groaned and released his grip on her. He fell backwards onto the bed and threw an arm over his eyes. "Sisters," he growled. "They're nothing but trouble."

Gabrielle's eyebrows drew together. "You have the sister?"

"No, they always seem to make life difficult," he said bitterly, thinking for a moment of the tear tracks on his mother's face.

Gabrielle bent her head and planted one more light kiss on his lips before sliding off the bed. Dudley propped himself up on his elbows to watch her. She grabbed her belongings off of a chair and glided into the bathroom.

"So, what, is this it?" Dudley called to the bathroom.

"Non, I told you that I would like another good time, yes?" Gabrielle's voice echoed back from the bathroom. "I waited for you because I did not like to leave without telling you this."

"Right, well, when are you free again?" Dudley asked, standing up.

Gabrielle's head popped out of the bathroom doorway. She had already managed to change back into the dress she had worn the night before and was tugging at its sequined top. "I go back to France," she said apologetically. "After I see my sister, I go back to France, sans intermédiaire."

"Well, when are you back in England, then?" Dudley demanded.

"Zip me?" Gabrielle requested, turning around. Dudley strode obligingly to the bathroom and slid the zipper up, deliberately moving more slowly than he needed to. "I am back en Angleterre next month. Mon beau-frère has a sister who is getting married, and I am going." She paused then smiled over her shoulder at Dudley. "She is marrying my first…comment dites-vous en anglais? Mon premier béguin?"

Dudley shook his head, not understanding. "Something about your pretty brother?"

"Non, my sister, yes?"

"Yeah?"

"Her husband. His sister. She is getting married to the person I first…like, yes, I like him? Romantiquement?"

That Dudley understood. "Oh, your first crush?"

"Précisément!" Gabrielle exclaimed. "Alors, I will be back in England next month for that. The first Saturday of the month."

A date written in green ink popped into Dudley's head; it was also next month. "Want to go to two weddings?" he asked.

"Qu'est-ce que ce?"

"My cousin's getting married on the fourth, and we only just got the invitation. Want to go with me?"

Gabrielle shrugged. "This is which day?"

"The fourth."

"Yes, but lundi, mercredi, vendredi…?"

"Erm," Dudley said, frowning. "Let me check." He went back into the main room of the suite, where he thought he had seen a calendar on the table at some point. Finding it, he turned the page to May and immediately sighed in defeat. "It's the first Saturday of the month," he reported to Gabrielle, who had followed several steps behind him, slipping her heels on effortlessly while she walked. He turned around and embraced her. "Ditch your wedding and come to mine," he suggested.

"I cannot, it is family."

"Barely," Dudley scoffed.

"It is a Saturday," Gabrielle said thoughtfully. "I can meet you that Sunday, maybe?"

Dudley rolled his eyes and kissed her again. "If that's all you've got," he conceded.

"Sunday, the fifth, then," Gabrielle declared. "C'est réglé. Et maintenant I must go. My friend from the club yesterday, he is waiting for me; we go to my sister together."

"Oh, yeah, your friend, huh? Not the same as your first crush, is he?" Dudley asked, his jealousy getting the better of him.

"Non! My first crush he is English, yes, but this friend he is not from England." Gabrielle stepped out of Dudley's embrace and raised her eyebrows at him. "He is like you, I think. A famous athlete."

Jealousy roared more powerfully through Dudley. "Oh, yeah? What sport does he play?"

"He is not English, you would not know." At the expression of suspicion on Dudley's face, she laughed outright. "Ne panique pas, Dudley. Viktor is too old for me. He is my sister's friend, we are just traveling together while he visits her. Besides, he is ugly and he walks like a duck."

"Yeah, okay, I get it. Look, here's my number okay?" Dudley handed Gabrielle a slip of paper that he had torn off the bottom of the calendar after scrawling his usual telephone number on it. "Call me. Call collect, that's fine. Don't let long distance or whatever stop you, please?"

Gabrielle looked a little bewildered, but she accepted the paper, tucking it into the top of her dress. With one final peck on the lips, she headed to the door. Dudley didn't follow, rooted to the spot by a despair he couldn't quite explain.

"Adieu, Dudley. Until Sunday the fifth."

"Sunday the fifth," Dudley agreed. "Call me."

Gabrielle gave a little wave and then slipped out the door. Dudley stared at the space where she had been for a few moments. When the image of her departing figure faded slightly from his retinas, he went to sit in a chair to contemplate weddings, silver deer, and the beautiful French woman who consumed his thoughts.