50 Reasons to Say Goodbye (17 page)

When I offer him the spare room, he accepts.

I go to prepare the bed and he laughs and says, “If it's too difficult then I can always sleep somewhere else
…
”

I know where this is leading and I smile, I play the game. “There isn't really anywhere else,” I say shrugging. “Unless you're intending to sleep in my bed.”

He looks into my eyes. “It's a double,” he says.

I start to laugh and put the sheets back in the cupboard.

We head to the bedroom. We kiss and cuddle; he's huge and warm. But he doesn't get an erection. “I'm sorry,” he says. “It's not you. It happens all the time.”

Maybe I should just forget it, let it drop, but that always sounds worse to me, less accepting, so I try to be routine about it. I try to chat about it, ask him how often, since when.

In the dark, his body starts to shudder, tears flow. I hold him until it stops and then until he drifts into sleep.

When I awaken in the morning our bodies are entwined. We roll around and giggle and laugh. I discreetly slide a hand over his limp cock and hiding my disappointment jump from the bed to make coffee.

The day drifts by easily, dreamily. We talk about our childhoods, our families. We prepare food and fill and empty the dishwasher.

Luc loves my dishwasher, he wishes he had one, but there's no room in his tiny flat.

We wander into town and drink coffee; Luc picks up the receipt. “Wow, half the price of coffee in Paris!” he says.

Some friends wander past and join us. They chat to us, calm and relaxed. They are very nice to Luc; they don't ask how we met. They lived in Paris before and we all agree to hate the city and love the trees and the lanes.

The sun is shining today, and I think how easy it is to love the countryside in the sunshine, and how I crave the city when it rains.

On the way back to the house Luc says that I am very lucky to have such lovely friends, very fortunate to have such a great life-style.

“Nothing is luck,” I say. “Everything is choice.” Luc doesn't agree.

In the evening I cook fish parcels, we open another bottle of wine.

He says he has to get away from Paris, has to break the
metro-boulot-dodo
, metro-job-sleep cycle he has suffered for the last nine years.

I say that many would consider him lucky to live there, to have museums and bars and restaurants and
nightclubs.

Luc says that he never goes out anymore, that after a while one just doesn't bother. “I'd rather go and collect eggs from the chicken shed like you do,” he says.

I feel anxious, a slight tightness across my chest, around my heart – I wonder why. The physical symptom always seems to be apparent long before the reason.

I ask him what music he wants to hear, but he doesn't have a preference, he likes all music. “It's so nice to have any music at all,” he says. “My hifi has been broken for months.”

I ask him how he spends his weekends. He says, “Oh normal stuff, you know, shopping, cleaning, watching TV. I'm usually really tired by the weekend. City life is very stressful.”

“You don't seem to be very happy with your life,” I point out.

His eyes darken; he shrugs. “It's true I suppose,” he says. He laughs nervously. “Maybe I should just quit everything and come and live in Grasse! I feel happier here than I have for ages.”

A cold front moves over my heart; I shiver. I light a log fire.

Luc says he loves log fires and as we sit before it, he grasps my hand. “I love this,” he says. “I love being here, your house, the garden, the cat,” he laughs. “I think I love you too.”

It's too soon and it's all too much. And it's all the wrong way round. I can feel my heart closing down; feel the protection barriers going up, sense the drawbridge lifting. I don't
want
to be the all-in-one solution to anyone's problems. I wonder,
“Is that selfish?”

Now it is my turn to feel sad – sad for Luc and his miserable life, and sad for the dream I will shatter at the end of the weekend.

And sad, above all, for my own enduring loneliness.

Luc picks up on my mood. He says, “It's OK.”

But it isn't OK. It isn't OK at all.

I push open the door. Hot, smoky air blasts past us into the December night. Isabelle squeezes past me into the bar, already removing her woollen hat, unzipping her coat. The pub is busy, frenetic with alcoholic loudness, the English pretending to be in England, the French enjoying a cheap trip to British pub culture. I let the door slam behind me and follow her into the noise and smoke.

“You're right,” she shouts over her shoulder. “The atmosphere's completely different!”

“Half of Antibes is English,” I tell her.

We elbow through to the bar and I order pints of Guinness and cheese and onion crisps. Isabelle rips the bag open, tastes one and makes a face.

“All part of the experience,” I tell her. I lift the drinks, turn to face her.

“So this place is straight is it?” she asks.

I nod.

She grins. “Good,” she says.

“Why? Seen something nice?”

She nods. “Behind me, against the wall, black trousers, white shirt, green tie, balding, cute.”

I lean to the left, peer over her shoulder. Isabelle turns, looks behind her.

The man looks at her then switches his regard to me. I grin as recognition slowly registers on his face.

Isabelle turns back to look at me, opens her hands. “So?” she says.

“Mark!” booms the voice behind her. “Bonsoir!”

I step past Isabelle, lean in to kiss him on the cheek but he holds out a stiff hand, blocks my path with it – I shake it.

He shoots a warning glance behind him. “Clients,” he says simply.

I nod.

“Isa, meet Robert.” They kiss.

Isa frowns, cocks her head on one side. “The Robert you told me about?”

I glare at her. “No!” I say.

Robert grins. “It's all lies!” he says. “Whatever it was.”

Isa shrugs. “So you're not cute at all then?” she says with a laugh.

Robert points vaguely over his shoulder. “Look, I have to
…
”

I nod. “Sure.”

“Can I call you though?”

I sigh. “Sure, I mean
…
”

“It has been ages Mark, I haven't seen Yves for
years,”
he says.

I smile. “I haven't seen him for a while either,” I say.

A fat man in a three-piece suit appears at Robert's elbow. “More drink required,” he says.

Robert nods and moves away towards a space at the bar.

“That's him right?” asks Isabelle.

“Yves' ex, yes,” I say.

“The one who tried it on with you?” she asks.

I nod. I roll my eyes and grin.

“And you refused?” she asks incredulously, wrinkling her nose and glancing back at him.

I shrug. “He was with Yves!” I say.

She shakes her head. “You are
such
an arsehole!”

I dream of a ship – of an alarm on a ship, of a ringing bell, of a screaming siren, images straight from
Titanic
which I saw last week. I drag myself from the depths of the sea and gasp for air. The siren still screams, no, not a siren, an alarm clock, no, a telephone
…

I fumble for it to my left. I try to say, “Allo.” Actually I say, “Ahhharh
…
” My mouth is too sticky.

The voice is buzzing, electric, and shockingly awake. “It's Robert. Did I wake you?”

I peer blearily at the red numbers on the alarm clock. “It's seven,” I say vaguely. “It's Saturday.”

He laughs at the other end of the line. “Sorry,” he says. “I've been thinking about you. Since last night.”

I don't tell him that I also thought about him, just before I went to sleep. I say, “Uhuh.”

“Look, I'm going skiing today. Do you want to come?”

I cough to clear my throat and lift myself up onto one arm. “I
…
erh. I'm not sure,” I say.

Robert laughs. “I know you're not,” he says. “But I'm not asking you to climb Everest – just come skiing. I hate skiing on my own. You
do
ski don't you?”

I sigh. “Sure,” I say. I wonder vaguely where I put my skis.

“Oh come on!” he insists.

I frown and roll my tongue around my sticky mouth. “What time are you leaving?” I ask.

It is a question. Robert takes it as an answer. “Great!” he gushes. “I'll pick you up at eight.”

I cough.
“Eight?”

“OK, eight-thirty.”

I sigh. “You don't know where I live,” I say. “I live in Grasse now.”

He laughs maniacally, serial killer style. “I know more
about you than you can possibly imagine,” he says.

I hang up the phone, stare at it and shake my head. “Yeah well, you don't know what time I get up on Saturdays,” I mutter.

His Jeep is Big and New and Shiny. I am relieved that I didn't volunteer my car. As I sit next to him, looking at his trendy military-style ski pants, his bulging arm filling his t-shirt sleeve, his chrome Breitling watch – as I sit nursing a slight hangover, a lack of sleep, and trying to close the stuck zip on my faded ski suit, I wonder if Robert isn't altogether
too
shiny.

He talks constantly. This is good – it enables me to doze.

“I prefer the north side,” he's saying. “There are some great black runs, and in the early morning they're in full sunshine.”

I roll my head towards him. “I don't do black runs,” I say.

He laughs. “Except today!” he says.

I laugh back. “Not even today,” I say.

Robert tells me at some length how the only way to advance in life is to face up to one's fears. I sigh. He's making me feel like a kid; making me want to tell him to shut up.

I let him finish and smile. “And the best way to break a leg is to ignore the fear,” I say.

“You won't break a leg,” says Robert.

I nod exaggeratedly, eyes wide. “I know. Because I won't be going down
anything
more difficult than a blue!”

The twists and turns of the road, my hangover and the tough suspension of the Jeep have contrived to push me to the edge of carsickness. On arrival I need coffee.

“You can have coffee later,” says Robert. “We're going to make the most of all those empty slopes first.” He clips into his skis and cuts and grooves down to the ski lift.

I wobble and slither after him. “I haven't found my feet yet,” I offer apologetically.

He grins at me.

At the top we argue about which
piste
to take. I favour the blue, Robert the red. We compromise, go separate ways.

I arrive at the bottom feeling wobbly and uncoordinated. Robert who has been waiting for ten minutes is ready to move on. “Come on!” he says slewing away. “I'll show you the other side of the mountain!”

I sigh and push off after him.

We take a chair lift and the sun starts to gain power – my face glows with the cold air and the sunshine.

Robert drapes an arm around my back. “I thought you were a better skier,” he says.

“I never really learnt. I mean I've never had any proper lessons.” I light a cigarette.

He pulls away. “Sorry, but I can't bear cigarette smoke in the mornings,” he says.

I blow the smoke the other way. It inevitably drifts back over him.

“I mean what is the point?” he continues. “Coming all the way up here to breathe in smoke?”

I toss my cigarette into the distance. For an instant, I flinch, waiting to be told off for this.

He smiles at me. “Thanks,” he says.

At the top I get my coffee. Robert takes his back because it's cold.

Mine's actually cold too, but for some reason – due to some strange British quirk that I've never quite understood – I say, “No, mine's fine.”

“OK. You did your blue. Now we do my black!” says Robert.

I prod him in the arm. I say, “Look into my eyes.” I say, “It
isn't
going to happen. So find a new goal in life.”

He laughs. “I love your British sense of humour,” he
says.

Robert points me off towards my gentle slither; heads off for his death-defying drop.

I slither away; I relax.

I watch clouds forming in the distance at the top of a mountain. I feel the air brushing the back of my neck; I see a flash of red as a nine year old hurtles past me.

“A full two kilometres of steady, smooth, descent! Now this is skiing!”
I think, enjoying the sudden freedom of not having someone waiting for me at each bend.

As I round the first bend, my mouth drops. I panic and try to stop – I fall over, skid to the edge and look down at the drop. I look back up the slope at my lost ski pole.

A man in ski-school uniform stops beside me. “Where's the
piste?”
I ask him. He points to the drop.

“I can't go down
there!”
I say.

He shrugs. “You shouldn't be on a black slope then,” he says, launching himself into the void.

I watch him zigzag around the bumps, descending directly beneath me.

I look back at the slope behind me and start to edge up to my ski pole.
“The bastard!”
I say.

It takes me two hours to get back to the station. Two hours of standing up, wobbling, slithering, gathering speed, falling. Two hours of brushing snow from my arse, of emptying snow from my gloves, of trying to warm my hands and of swearing at Robert.

When I arrive at the station I see him waiting, looking the other way.

I arc to the left, ski behind him and straight into a restaurant. I switch off my mobile phone and lie back on a cushioned bed-chair. I think about him trying to find me all afternoon – it makes me grin.