I’ve got the perfect get-out. I’m not free, that’s all I need to say. He doesn’t even need to know why. But then I decide that would be rude. He’s a nice man and Amber didn’t say we couldn’t be friends. Who’s saying he even wants anything more? Indeed, I’d be showing more courage and strength of character if I looked temptation in the eye and said ‘no’.
“Yes, that would be nice,” I reply, “as long as you don’t expect me to compete with your hot chocolate.”
“Whatever you have will be fine. Where do you live?”
I point to our flat. “Up there, first floor, top of the stairs.”
We say goodbye and I watch him disappear into the distance. I stand still, reflect a moment, then turn around and enter the supermarket. I pick up a basket and start mooching. I note there are vegetables in every single tray except the one marked ‘carottes’. It doesn’t matter. I’m not after foreplay food. I just want to get some drinks in, because the only beverage Gina and I currently have to offer is coffee. I load up with a six-pack of Stella, a dry Chardonnay and a bottle of Cassis liqueur. Thankfully, Pierre has vacated the flat by the time I get back and the aroma of brewing coffee masks the stale smell of aniseed.
“What have we there?” asks Gina, pointing to my shopping.
“Oh, nothing much,” I reply airily.
Gina peeks in my bag. “It looks like somebody’s entertaining. Is Michel coming round later?”
In case she’s there when Olivier comes round, I know I have to say something. Besides, there’s nothing to hide. It’s just going to sound horribly hypocritical. I pretend to be distracted as I put the shopping in the fridge. “Err, no (I shove the six-pack on the shelf) actually it’s, err, not Michel (I slot the Chardonnay in the door) it’s, err, actually, err, his brother (I close the fridge door shut and put the Cassis on the counter.
“Right,” Gina nods. She stares at me for about five seconds, contemplating, chewing her bottom lip. I’m positively squirming. Surely she’s going to berate me, accuse me of double standards or tell me off for being two-faced? And when she does I’m going to be able to tell her no, it’s not like that, we’re just friends. But she doesn’t pursue it. She just asks if I’d like a coffee.
It’s the most perfect, glorious, fair weather skier’s day. This part of France, the high Alps, is famous for its sunshine record, boasting sun at least three hundred days of the year. Today’s weather is typical for the region - clear blue sky, hot rays and powdery snow which feels like velvet, the kind that makes even bad skier’s look good. I should be up there with Gina, savouring, sampling, salivating at these conditions, but I’ve decided to stay at home and sunbathe on the balcony. I’ve convinced myself that this is what I really want to do, but my sub-conscious is only being partially honest with myself. The real reason I won’t go up the mountain is in case today of all days I should have an accident and not be here when Olivier arrives. I’ve talked myself into believing that to break the arrangement, whatever the circumstances, would be most impolite.
It is, however, quite gorgeous on the balcony. So hot that I’m wearing shorts and a t-shirt and thinking about de-layering further. Not bad considering it’s only January 10
th
. Everything’s perfectly set-up - I’m semi-reclining between two plastic chairs covered in towels. I’ve got my mobile to my right (should anyone call) and a couple of magazines on my left (should I be inspired) weighted down with a can of Perrier with lime, in case I get thirsty. Resting on the table and within arms’ reach is my I-pod, in case I should want to change the music, but I don’t. The
Best of Abba
is playing and I love Abba.
For two hours the most energetic I get is to smear sun cream over my exposed parts and take the occasional sip of sparkling water. I do nothing except close my eyes, soak up the shine and sing along to Fernando and Waterloo three times because the I-pod’s on auto-repeat. By the time the doorbell rings a cool ten minutes later than arranged, my nose is covered in thousands of tiny freckles which didn’t previously exist. To cover up the aubergine-sized broom ball bruise on my right thigh I quickly scramble into a pair of faded jeans and am doing up the button as I open the door. The phrase ‘just good friends’ whirs round my head as Olivier saunters in, without so much as giving me a kiss hello. In the absence of even a platonic cheek kiss I’m not sure we’re even ‘just good friends’.
“What would you like to drink?” I ask. “And don’t say hot chocolate!”
His eyes dance in their usual, annoyingly alluring manner.
“No, it’s far too hot for chocolate. What have you got?”
I open the fridge so he can see what’s available. He selects a bottle of Stella and I suddenly feel like a Kir, white wine with a dash of blackcurrant Cassis liqueur, and ask if he wouldn’t mind opening the Chardonnay because I’m useless with corkscrews. Bottle opened, he waits for me to pour my drink and then wanders out onto the balcony. I follow him, glass in hand. We both prop up the ledge, facing towards the resort.
“Great view,” he says.
“I know. Every day when I wake up and look out at this, I pinch myself to check I’m not dreaming.”
Before us is a vista of mountains, a vast natural bowl coated in thick snow and bathed in sunshine. With the sky so blue and the sun so bright, I’m light-headed no sooner than I’ve taken just a couple of sips of my Kir.
“So, how do you like Montgenèvre?” he asks.
I reflect. My feelings are hard to put into words.
“There’s something magnetic about this place. It feels truly special. Do you ever get bored of all this or take it for granted?”
I wave my arms out big, demonstrating the enormity of the ‘this’ and the ‘it’.
“Never,” he replies. “No, I never take this for granted.”
We chat about how he’d like to go to England one day and how he’d like to learn to speak English. I offer to trade language lessons for ski lessons and he jokes that if we did that it would be an unfair exchange because judging from the first time we met, when I crashed into him, I’m in desperate need of skiing tuition. I assure him that I’ve greatly improved and then he turns and hoists himself to sitting on the ledge, leaving me standing, dangerously close, facing him. He asks me what my relationship is to the guy I was skiing with that day (he’s referring to Rod) when I ate snow in front of him for the first time and I tell him that we are colleagues. My view is now enhanced, his chiselled dark Mediterranean face and startling blue eyes front of frame, the bright light bouncing off tiny green flecks in his irises. If I had a camera I would click it right now. A portrait shot of Olivier in his red ski school jacket, mountains dusted white behind, blue sky above and a semi-circle of rays twinkling across the picture. It feels so isolated and remote, a million miles from Hendon. It’s tempting to imagine that this
is
a different world entirely and if it is different then perhaps it’s got a different set of values, of ethics, of principles. And then perhaps I could
be
different and make different choices.
“Danni?” he says, breaking my reverie.
“Yes?”
“I wanted to apologise. I thought I might have upset you or asked you too personal a question yesterday about your best friend. If I did then I’m very sorry.”
And so Amber comes onto the balcony, but this time it’s under control. I even dare to take a step sideways, so I’m standing in-between his legs, placing a friendly light hand on his forearm.
“You don’t need to apologise. It was nice of you to notice and ask. And it was good to speak about her. I haven’t spoken about it in a while, so thank you.”
He looks down at my hand on his arm. From the look on his face I fear he’s about to tell me to remove it, at once. But it’s the time on my watch he’s startled by: 17.05.
“Merde, sorry Danni. I’m late already. I’ve got to go.”
I’m hovering, about to step backwards to let him jump down. He has the look of somebody desperate to make a hasty exit, so it’s much to my surprise when suddenly, without warning, he gently pulls me towards him, pushing his full, cushioned, beautifully warm lips, into mine. We open our eyes simultaneously and I positively swoon looking into his blue pools. He strokes a finger down my cheek, cups my chin in his hand and draws my face towards his again. Our lips merge languorously, sensually, indulgently and lingeringly again. Abba is still playing. It’s the chorus of
Take a Chance on Me
.
*****
We break away a second time. He shakes his head vigorously, as if trying to rid it of something, possibly me.
“Mon Dieu,” he says. “You make my head spin.”
“And you me,” I whisper.
Silence.
“I’ve really got to go,” he insists. “Listen, we usually all have a drink in the piano bar after the meeting, at about 8pm. Can you come?”
I nod and stumped for words walk him to the door, closing it behind him. First I do a silent scream. Then I can’t stop jumping up and down, hugging myself, repeating the phrase ‘you make my head spin’. This is a moment which has to be savoured. This is a once-in-a-lifetime, can’t imagine it ever happening again scenario. I mean, who else is ever going to tell me that I make their head spin when I kiss them? And yes, my head had spun too, but something else had also happened, something even more incredible. Both times that we’d kissed I’d felt my legs give way.
I wander back onto the balcony, scan the village and catch a brief glimpse of Olivier entering ski school. Standing on the very spot that it happened I replay the kiss, the feeling, the moment back over. Then I remember, for the second time in two days, something that my Grandma once told me. “Danni,” she’d said over lunch when I was ten years old. “If a man ewer makes you wery dizzy ven you kiss him, make sure you newer let him go.”
Well Grandma. Not only did this Frenchman make me wery dizzy, he also made me go weak at the knees. Am I really meant to never let him go?
*****
I decide to take no responsibility whatsoever for my actions again, to blame it all on Grandma. She died two years ago and probably wouldn’t object to taking the rap. If she hadn’t told me about the hand thing, I’d never have had the manicure. If I’d never had the manicure, I wouldn’t have bumped into Olivier. I’d never have gone back to him, got friendly, met him this morning, had him round or had the kiss or felt my head spin and my knees go weak. I’d have never been faced with this stupid, hideous dilemma. At never letting go of a man who makes me feel dizzy when he kisses me even though he’s married, it’s adulterous and I promised my best friend on her deathbed. Oh, this is dire. This brings a whole new Grandma meaning to destiny being in your own hands.
I’m standing on the balcony, in deep contemplation as I finish my drink, when a message blasts out on the resort’s public address system.
“
SFS to mountain rescue. SFS to the mountain rescue
…..”
Normally this message would make me groan, because it means that one of Gina’s or my group members has had an accident. If the injury’s too serious for the Doctor in Montgenèvre, the relevant rep has to travel with the patient in the ambulance to the nearest big hospital in Briançon, about half an hour away. Bizarrely though I’m not groaning, I’m smiling. Because this is divine providence intervening, making it easier for me, taking responsibility away from me and helping me not to be proactive. Because if one of my group members is injured and I do have to go to hospital, then I won’t be able to meet Olivier later and the whole thing will just be able to fizzle out. Perhaps our paths need never cross again.
I’m thrilled, beaming like the Cheshire cat when I get to the rescue tent and find out that it is indeed somebody in my group, a twelve-year old called Rosemary. It’s looking like a badly broken leg and a definite hospital visit. I’m told she’s at the doctor’s clinic in resort, waiting to be x-rayed. The clinic is close to my hotel and I note, as I run there, that I don’t even remotely puff from the exertion. Amber’s dream of a fit friend and her premonition of an adulterous friend are simultaneously coming true.
I find Rosemary lying on a bed in a quiet corner of the waiting room.
“Oh dear, my love, what have you gone and done to yourself?” I comfort her.
“I fell over and hurt my leg.” She rubs her right thigh, grimacing. That’s a big bone the right thigh, a nasty one to snap. Rosemary looks pale and pained. I take a seat by her bed and hold her hand.
“I’ve just had an X-ray,” she tells me. “The doctor's pretty sure it’s broken.”
“Oh well, let’s hope for the best,” I say, although I’m two-facedly praying for the worst.
We make small-talk for another couple of minutes before the doctor exits, holding an x-ray up to the light.
“Well Rosemary,” he says, “you’re one very lucky young lady. It looks like it’s just a bad sprain. No sign of any break whatsoever.”
Rosemary gives a huge sigh of relief. I just sigh. So much for divine providence giving me a helping hand! Now I will just have to be strong, all on my own.