2006 - A Piano in The Pyrenees (35 page)

I was still positively glowing with a feeling of well-being as I climbed the stairs on my way to bed. Then the phone rang. Funny, I thought. It’s late. Who could be calling at this time?

“
Allô
,” I said.

It had been one of the first things I’d truly mastered in French—answering the phone with an ‘
allo
’ rather than a ‘hello’.

“Hello, is that Tony?” came the voice at the end of the line.

It sounded familiar. It was female, English, but I couldn’t quite identify it.

“Yes, it’s Tony,” I replied. “Who’s that?”

“Well—it’s been a while…Don’t you recognise my voice?”

“I do, yes.”

“Well—who am I then?”

“You need to say some more—I’m nearly there.”

“I’ll give you a clue—I’m not Cherie Blair or Gwyneth Paltrow.”

“Shit! Wait, it can’t be…is that you—Fi? Fiona?”

“Well done. How are you?”

My mind was racing. This was Fiona. Fiona for whom I’d written a song thirteen years previously. Fi, who I’d told Tim and Matt about in the long drive down through France in a white van. Fiona, who’d nearly gone out with me but who had chosen a life in Ibiza with someone else instead. Fi, who I’d fallen in love with.

“I’m…I’m fine, I think. I’m just a bit thrown by hearing from you out of the blue. How did you get this number?”

“From your answerphone in London.”

“Oh yes, I forgot that.”

“Are you in France?”

“Yes. I’ve got a house here.”

“Do you live there?”

“Some of the time. I’m coming here to write. And play the piano. And to finish building a swimming pool.”

“Cool. Where abouts?”

“In the French Pyrenees. Lovely views of the mountains.”

“Fab.”

“Where are you calling from—Ibiza?”

“No, London. Things didn’t work out with Steve. What about you? Last time we spoke you were seeing an Irish girl…”

“That didn’t work out either.”

It had never really been anything much in the first place. I remembered now that all those years ago I’d tried to give Fiona the impression that this fling with the Irish girl had been more than it actually was, in a pathetic attempt to show her that I was over her.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said. “That sounded like it was going well.”

“It was…for a while. Anyway, it all finished a long time ago.”

“So. Are you seeing anyone now?”

“No, I’m not. How about you?”

“No.”

There was a slight pause, and finally the conversation began to move on to what we had both been up to in the thirteen years since our lives had drifted apart. Before that could happen we’d been like teenagers, establishing, not altogether subtly, whether each other was single or not. Only now could we chat like adults.

And how we talked. We had always made each other laugh and we certainly hadn’t lost the knack. The conversation flowed so easily. It seemed like thirteen years had just evaporated. I felt exactly as I’d done all those years ago whenever I spoke to Fi. Energised, animated, excited. The only difference was that I had a few grey hairs that she didn’t know about.

“I’m so glad you called, Fi,” I said as the conversation finally drew to a close. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

“Great.”

“Maybe you should come out to France…”

“Maybe.”

“Bye then.”

“Bye.”

I didn’t sleep too well that night. I just couldn’t shut down my mind. From time to time I kept saying out loud, “This is it.” What ‘it’ was I couldn’t necessarily define, but this definitely had an ‘it’ feel.

“Yes, this is it,” I repeated, before rolling over onto my side with the intention of curtailing these agreeable but sleep-preventing thoughts.

And all this from one phone conversation?

The mountain air must have got to me.

I Drove All Night

As it turned out, Fi and I didn’t have our magnificent reunion in either France or Britain. Spain was to host the event. The next time I’d called her, she said that she was going to spend the following weekend in Spain visiting her parents who had retired out there fifteen years previously, and who were about to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary.

“I could drive down and see you if you like,” I’d said.

“Isn’t it a bit of a way?”

“No, I’m right on the border with Spain. It would be fun to meet your parents anyway. I’ll drive down on Friday evening.”

“Great. But I still think it’s a bit of a way.”

“Nonsense.”

§

It was bloody miles. Five hundred miles, to be precise. A glance at the map revealed Spain to be a needlessly substantial body of land, and the journey from Bagneres-de-Bigorre to Valencia to be quite some undertaking.

Clearly I needed to hire a car. The red Peugeot 106 had served me well but it wouldn’t survive the kind of pounding that this weekend was going to give it. Also I reckoned that I needed to break the journey, so I booked myself into a credit-card-operated hotel situated in some industrial estate a few hours into Spain. Well, I thought, if I’m going to a new country, I may as well experience the culture.

As I loaded my bags into the car and prepared to wave goodbye to the view that had revived me in the mornings and soothed me at night, I was struck by a worrying thought. Wasn’t rushing down to see Fi exactly the same mistake as I’d made when I’d hastily put the offer in for this house in the first place?

“It makes you appear too keen,” Kevin had clearly stated.

I tried to reassure myself that a ten-hour drive in a hire car with an overnight stop wasn’t keen at all, merely committed. And didn’t women like commitment? And anyway, keen or not, hadn’t it all worked out rather well with the French house in the end? Perhaps my initial response to Kevin had been the right one.

“Well, I am keen. What’s the point of not appearing keen if I am?”

I set off in the late afternoon, and as I crossed the Pyrenees, following the same route that had been used by political dissidents, smugglers and soldiers for generations, I watched the landscape change from the lush greens on the French side to the barren, rusty reds of Spain. As darkness fell I began to sing Roy Orbison’s song, ‘I Drove All Night To Be With You’. I liked the romance of this. I knew that Fi was worth this drive, and in a way I wanted her to know it.

I didn’t tell her that, though, when I called her from the soulless hotel that was to provide me with rest (and very little else) before the second leg of my journey began at daybreak. Instead we made playful small talk.

I hung up the phone and made my way back to my cheap and distinctly uncheerful hotel room where I sat on the hard bed and prepared myself mentally for sleep. I needed to be fresh in the morning.

I was fully expecting it to be a big day.

§

Normally I don’t like long drives. Actually I’m not crazy about short ones, and medium-length ones get on my nerves. This morning, however, I was getting quite a buzz out of nailing each passing kilometre. I was dominating the fast lane, and I was getting ever closer to the moment when I would see Fi again.

It was going to be a roadside rendezvous.

“There’s a little bit where you can park just after you’ve paid your motorway toll,” she’d said. “I’ll meet you there at midday.”

It was one minute to twelve. My heart was pounding. I didn’t know what car she’d be driving so I had to scrutinise each one. She shouldn’t be difficult to spot. She was gorgeous with beautiful long blonde hair. Unless, of course, she’d cut it off—or perhaps she’d dyed it? Suddenly I was struck by how long thirteen years is. A new fear grabbed me. Perhaps the telephone conversations we’d shared had been deceptive? Could it be that when we met in the flesh we’d find that we’d both changed so much that the magic wasn’t there any more?

Six minutes past twelve and no sign. Fi was late but that was OK. It was a woman’s prerogative.

Twelve minutes past twelve and still no sign. Still OK—this was Fi’s prerogative. Wait a minute! What was going on here? Wasn’t this whole thing ringing some ominous bells? I was struck by a terrible thought. Maybe this was Salamanca all over again. I was in Spain, after all. Arantxa and Mercedes had left me and Tim forlornly sitting on those church steps all those years ago. Was Fi about to do much the same? Maybe this was my destiny. To be the ‘nearly man’ of love.

Twenty past twelve and still no sign. Just as the worries were about to turn into genuine pain, an old Ford Escort pulled over with a flustered but beautiful woman at the wheel.

“Sorry! I got lost. They’ve built a few more roundabouts since I was last here,” said the driver, who looked just as good as I’d remembered.

Fi got out of the car and we hugged. It was a warm hug, a special hug, but it wasn’t without its tension. We were both clearly still a little nervous.

“Hello again!” I said.

“Yes, hello again to you too.”

“You look great.”

“Rubbish. You look good, though.”

“I know.”

She laughed.

“Come on. We have to go to the supermarket to buy lunch. My mother expects guests to grasp the concept of self-catering.”

Maybe it wasn’t the most romantic of starts to our weekend but it was certainly fun.

“I love coming here,” said Fi as we walked the aisles looking for her father’s favourite cheese. “I like playing Spot The Spaniard.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, look around you.”

I followed Fi’s instructions and I soon saw what she meant. For the first time I noticed a lot of sunburnt faces, and men in socks and sandals.

“God, the place is crawling with Brits,” I said.

“Yes. And we get a point for every Spaniard we spot.”

“OK. Well, there’s one over there!”

“She’s behind the delicatessen counter. Staff don’t count.”

Fi won Spot The Spaniard. It had been a close game. It had been 4–4 for a long time, but Fi snatched victory when she spotted a young family of three by the soap powder.

“Seven-four,” she boasted proudly. “A fine victory. Although I’m a good deal more experienced in this than you.”

For a moment I wondered if the French Pyrenees would ever become overrun with Brits in the same way as southern Spain. I hoped not. Its Frenchness was what made it special. I wanted more than the Britain in the Sun that this part of the world seemed to have become.

§

“Mum, Dad, this is Tony,” said Fi as we reached the front door of the modest Spanish villa. “Tony—this is John and Arlene.”

The pretty house was set on a small hill and had pleasant views of the neighbourhood (largely made up of pretty houses on small hills with pleasant views of the neighbourhood). I wasn’t nervous about meeting Fi’s parents. Getting on with girlfriends’ parents had always been my forte. It had been the ‘getting on with the girlfriends’ bit that I’d found hard.

“Hi there, pleased to meet you,” I said, confidently.

“Good to meet you,Tony,” said Arlene.

“Come and have a beer,” said John. “You must be dying for one after that journey.”

The tall, slim John waved us through to the terrace, looking a little like I might imagine myself in another twenty-five years. Arlene tagged along beside him, jovial and giggly, and clearly delighted to have their daughter around. Soon we were all laughing together, and it became apparent that we were going to get on just fine.

With each passing minute, the initial nervousness between Fi and I dissipated and we began to share the odd brush of hands, or affectionate touch on the shoulder. How I’d longed for fleeting moments of intimacy like these all those years ago.

The closest I’d got had been in Manchester. It had been Fi’s first producing job in television—filming a comedy benefit for the
Big Issue
. I’d hosted the show and as a result we’d worked closely together, rehearsing in the afternoon. At one point we’d both been down in the auditorium and we were needed up on the stage. The stage hands hadn’t put the movable staircase in just yet, and so I took it upon myself to put my arms around Fi’s waist and hoist her onto the stage. As I did so, there’d been a definite moment of frisson between us. But, alas, that’s all it had been. A moment.

Perhaps it was because I’d been thirty-three to Fi’s twenty-five. At that point I was beginning to reach a period in my life where I was ready to slow down a bit, whereas Fi still had her foot pressed down hard on the accelerator. Maybe things would be different now. After all, you know what they say.

Good things come to those who wait bloody ages.

§

We played tennis in the afternoon. This gave me the chance a) to show off a bit, and b) to stand behind Fi with my arm across her midriff whilst showing her the topspin forehand. Afterwards we swam in the sea, and I admired her body, taking good care to make these examinations when Fi was preoccupied with gazing at the view or observing fellow swimmers. We talked about old times, we laughed and we shared the occasional affectionate touch. As we walked back to the car from the beach I wanted to hold her hand, but like a nervous teenager I couldn’t summon the courage. What if this was a step too far? What if I’d been misreading the signs? I remembered my ‘date’ with Monique, back in France. She’d appeared keen enough—but things, it seems, are never that straightforward.

Our first evening together for over a decade was no ordinary meal. We were joining John and Arlene at a favourite restaurant in celebration of their fortieth wedding anniversary. As we sat down at the table I had to smile at the unconventional nature of my relationship with their daughter. Having initially got close to each other, we had introduced a thirteen-year hiatus—and then, having re-established contact, I’d travelled miles from one country to another in order to share in a unique family occasion. Shouldn’t we have at least kissed each other before this happened? Oh well, rules are there for breaking, I suppose.

“So, Tony, how do you like living in France?” asked John, as we tucked into our fish soup starters.

“I like it,” I said. “I’m not there all the time, but when I am, I definitely feel the stresses of London life peeling away.”

“Will you be taking Fi there?” enquired Arlene, who I’d already learned was someone who liked to race straight to the point.