“It’s good for you,” smiles Michel, placing a hand on my back to help propel me forward. “And look at the sky. Look how beautiful it is. You wouldn’t have been able to see this if you hadn’t walked.”
I stop and glance up. Away from the ambient light in the resort, we’re shrouded in inky darkness, lit only by the moon. Hundreds of stars are sparkling bright white on a black canvass. I spot the Milky Way and the line of three twinkles that make up Orion’s Belt. I am so overawed that I vow to stop moaning about anything here ever again. The cold, the effort, the thigh burn are all worth it just to have witnessed this celestial magic. Gina and Alexandre have overtaken us. I call up to her to make her look at the stars too. From a distance I watch her tilt back her head and slowly turn three hundred and sixty degrees.
As Michel and I lapse into conversation the steps become more mechanical and I forget that I’m even climbing. He tells me that his ex-fiancée Jane was one of the SFS reps here a couple of years ago. She broke off their engagement back in June, getting cold feet about living in a tiny mountain village for the rest of her life. Even though he’d said he would live anywhere just to be with her, she didn’t believe he would be happy anywhere but here. Bereft and broken-hearted, Michel had decided to go travelling, leaving France for the first time in his life, which was what tonight was about. After a fondue Michel plans to show a film of his trip to Tibet and Nepal, which was a big deal because many of his friends have never left the mountains, let alone the country.
“And you, do you have a special someone?” he asks.
Hugo’s my ex and Rod is my last, but he doesn’t exactly count as a boyfriend. He certainly isn’t acting like one either. He’s not so much as bothered calling or even texting me since he left. So I’m not sure how to answer.
“There’s sort of someone, but nothing major.”
It’s the most honest response I can give.
*****
Michel and I are the last to arrive at this cosy rustic restaurant. There’s a raging log fire next to the bar on the right and a giant horseshoe shaped table covered in red and white checked cloths is set for a fondue to the left. A bevy of people wearing different uniforms is scattered throughout the room. I spot one red ski instructor jacket with Ecole de Ski Français written on the back.
“Danni,” says Michel, indicating that I should follow him. “I’d like you to meet someone.”
He makes a beeline for the person in the ski instructor uniform.
“Salut frère,” Michel greets the man, embracing him in a half-hug.
“Salut frère,” the person replies. I hear, but all I can see is his back.
“Danni, meet my brother Olivier. Olivier this is my friend Danni.”
As Olivier turns to face me I find myself swimming, for the second time, in two of the deepest, clearest, aquamarine blue pools. His look pierces right through me. My cheeks flush hot. This is the one, the very same man that I bumped into, quite literally, that first day I went skiing with Rod.
“Enchanté,” says Olivier, eyes twinkling.
For some reason I don’t bother telling Michel that his brother and I have already made our acquaintances. Instead I busy myself with a spot of mental acrobatics, gradually putting two and two together.
“So, if you’re Michel’s brother,” I say to Olivier, “then that makes you Olivier du Pape, like Châteauneuf-du-Pape only not because you’re really Papillons not Papes.”
He cocks his head, mouth slightly upturned, but it’s his eyes that are really doing the smiling. “Ten out of ten for family history,” he praises. He speaks softly, in this deep, bewitchingly assured voice.
Then I had crashed into
the
Olivier. The same man Lorraine had mentioned. The most desired man in Montgenèvre. The most happily married man in Montgenèvre.
Michel interrupts my reverie.
“Danni, what would you like to drink?”
Just over a week later, at 7.55am, I’m entering the Club de Vacances, simultaneously panting and blowing my nose, when my mobile vibrates in my pocket. I fish it out – it’s ‘caller unknown’. My usual policy is not to answer if I don’t know who it is, but for some reason I click on the green button.
“Allo, oui?” I say.
Silence.
“Allo, oui?” I repeat, my heavy breathing slowly becoming less laboured.
“Is that Denny?”
My heart, already beating way faster than normal thanks to the 537-step climb it’s just been subjected to, starts thumping even more wildly and erratically. It took the best part of three weeks, but Rod has finally got around to calling. I’m piqued that it’s taken him this long, but determine to not let it show. Instead I’m all sunshine and, I hope, cool.
“It
is
me,” I laugh. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good. And you?”
“I’m great, really great, and how about you?
I know I’m repeating myself, but struggle to think of anything else to say. And then, after an awkward silence, I add: “why are you calling so early?”
“It’s eight o’clock. That’s hardly early. Besides, I wanted to be sure to catch you. So tell me, have you got good snow?”
He’s given me body-trembling cunnilingus, and now all he’s interested in is white stuff?
“Yes, perfect. It’s been dumping it down overnight and wall to wall sunshine most days, except for today. Right now it’s chucking it down. And you?”
“No, we’re a bit short here in Austria, I think France has fared better. But apparently we’re going to get some soon. So, have you met some nice people out there, are you having a good time?”
Our conversation feels uncomfortably strained and empty.
“Yes, everyone here is really lovely. Gina is great, we’re a good team.”
Another awkward silence crackles across the phone line.
“And you?” I try to keep the chat from drying up completely. “Is it as good there second year running?”
“Yeah, lots of the same faces.”
I remember him mentioning this German girl he was seeing last year. I try to keep my tone ambivalent.
“Is Nina there again?”
Pause.
“Yes, she’s here.”
I don’t know why I asked that question, because suddenly I’m aware that I don’t really care. Yes, I’m annoyed it took him this long to call, but now that he has, I’m beginning to acknowledge he was always more Amber’s type than mine. Maybe that’s why I went for him. Not that I’m regretting it. It’s just I don’t predict a future life down under for us.
“Hey Denny, I found you a watch like mine. It was the last one in the shop.”
That cheers me up.
“Oh, that’s brilliant. Thank you so much.”
“Yeah, well I’ll get it to you at the end of the season.”
I’m anxious about time ticking away. I’ve got lots to do and I can see one of my group’s teachers waiting to speak to me.
“I’m sorry Rod, I’ve got to go. I’m late now meeting my kids for breakfast. I’ll call you soon.”
We say goodbye and I hang up with a strange mixture of feeling happy that he called, but disappointed by the conversation. And I’m overwhelmed by a surprisingly mature (for me) thought. Maybe Rod was just a necessary part of moving on, of living life a little and letting my hair down. I’m sorry Amber. I know you liked him, but I think it’s going nowhere.
*****
I’m not in the greatest of moods when I get back to the flat, clutching two pains aux raisins in a little paper bag. Gina’s at the kitchen table. “Perfect timing,” she grins in high spirits. “I’ve just made the coffee.” She plunges the cafetière, then looks at me, conspiratorially, like she’s desperate to get something off her chest.
“Come on. Out with it,” I say. “You’re obviously dying to tell me something.”
She asks me to promise not to tell anyone what she’s about to tell me and I do. She lowers her voice, even though there’s nobody here but the two of us. “Pierre just kissed me.”
Pierre - her handsome Latino, very short (in my opinion) and very married chef. I don’t trust myself to speak and I can tell that she’s got more that she wants to impart.
“Well, we were in the lift together going down to the basement to get some more jam for the breakfast when he suddenly grabbed me and kissed me.”
I snap and break into condescending, sarcastic, singsong speak.
“The jam, that’s a wee bit corny, isn’t it? He had to lure you into the lift with him under the pretext of getting some
jam
before he had the balls to make his move?”
Gina stares at me, in silent disbelief at my tone. I glare back.
“Well,” I carry on. “And I suppose we kissed him back did we?”
“So what if I did? I find him incredibly attractive.”
I start raising my voice.
“He’s bloody married, Gina. He’s got a wife and baby daughter. Does that mean nothing to you?”
Gina overtakes me on the decibel front.
“It’s
his
look-out, not mine. Why should I worry about his problem?”
I let rip, speaking in a red-faced, red-hot scarlet fever shrill.
“You should worry because it’s
your
problem too. Firstly, what does that make him if he can even do that to his wife and secondly think, bloody think about what you’re doing. It’s destructive to his family. If he doesn’t know better then you should.”
Gina matches my hysteria.
“How dare you be so bloody judgmental Danni? This has got nothing to do with you. I wish I’d never mentioned it. I only told you because I thought we were friends.”
“Well, you’re not much of a friend if that’s the sort of thing you do.”
We stand, glaring at each other, two wild cats about to pounce. I decide there’s only one thing for it, to divert my avalanche before I chuck a ski boot at her head. I control myself, speaking quietly, calmly and with an almost imperceptible trace of venom.
“I’ve lost my appetite. Can I borrow your car if I’m back by twelve?”
She grabs her keys off the table, spins them over-arm at the front door. They hit their target, crashing like a discordant glockenspiel before settling still on the carpet. I stoop down to pick them up on my way out and slam the door behind me.
*****
I have no idea where I’m going as I get into Gina’s green Vauxhall Corsa. All I know is that I’ve got to get away. How could she? How could she kiss a married man without even a soupçon of a guilty conscience? It’s immoral, it’s not right and you only need to look at Amber’s father to see where it can all lead. I drive off down the mountain, taking the winding hairpin bends slowly because it’s started to snow really heavily. It’s the first time I’ve been behind the wheel on the wrong side of the road and the last thing I need is to crash Gina’s car. I’ve been driving for about twenty minutes, anger cooling from a boil to a simmer, when I reach a small village and spot a beauty salon on the right called Grain de Beauté. I pull in, suddenly remembering a second piece of useful advice dispensed by my Polish grandmother. I’d been twelve and was helping her dice beetroot (my most hated vegetable) for a tureen of Borscht soup she was making. Anyway, I was starting to feel queasy as I looked down at my hands, watching pink inky liquid dribbling over my fingers and wiggling down towards my elbows, when she put down her knife and placed one of her juice-stained hands on mine.
“Danni darling. You know vat. Ven your hands feel vonderful, all of you feels vonderful. So, if you ewwer need to cheer yourself up, you vant to go and get a good manicure. It vill make you feel like you’re on top of the vorld.”
This was probably an example of do as I say, not as I do, because hers always looked like workers’ hands, battered rough and raw from hours spent toiling in the kitchen, slicing, dicing, chopping and mopping. I turn off the ignition and look down at my fingers. They don’t look bad, but what if Grandma’s right? What if a manicure won’t just push down my cuticles, but raise my spirits, make me feel vonderful? Perhaps this is divine providence. I was always meant to bring myself to this place, to make the world right again. I get out the car and a bell rings as I enter the salon.
*****
I settle on a French manicure seeing as I’m in France: the natural look. I don’t know what makes the French manicure particularly French and neither does the beautician. I think of all the other English words prefixed by ‘French’ – French plait, French kissing, French letter – and wonder if the beautician will have a better idea as to their origins and what makes them so nationality-biased, but she’s clueless too. What I do know, is that by the time I’m through, my nails polished to perfection, I bizarrely do, as Grandma intimated, feel a whole load more wonderful than I did an hour ago.
It’s snowing really heavily, almost blizzard-like, when I leave the salon. But snow or no snow, I cannot possibly put my gloves on now, because my nails are still tacky. I am admiring them, not looking where I’m going as I head for the car, when I bump thigh-high into something woolly, hairy and alive. I jump, startled, because the creature reaches my waist and at first glance looks like a shaggy brown bear. I calm when I realise it’s a dog.
“Salut ma biche,” says a deep sexy French voice behind me.
At first I think someone’s just called me a bitch, but hope I’ve misunderstood. As I turn to face the voice I literally jump, startled, feet flying at least a foot off the ground, when I realise who it is. It’s Olivier and my heart starts going pitter-patter remembering what happened the last time I saw him. But why would he think me a bitch?
“What did you just say?” I ask.
“Salut ma biche,” he repeats, his face creasing into a dreamy smile, his eyes twinkling. Is this how he looks at everyone, or just me? I’m obviously not as fluent as I thought.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It’s a term of endearment,” he says. “Like cherie, only nicer. A biche is actually a beautiful animal, a doe.”
I curse inwardly as I blush crimson at the compliment. Amber used to be the blusher, not me. I can’t bear its giveaway signals. I quickly change the subject to try to distract him from my cheeks. The shaggy sandy-brown dog is brushing against my legs, tail wagging. He’s a nice dog, a friendly dog, unlike Amber’s Pele. “I presume he’s yours. What’s his name?” I stroke him awkwardly, fingers outstretched like ski ramps to avoid nail damage.
“Asterix.”