“I can see you’re deep in thought,” he says. “I’d like to know what you’re thinking about.”
I’m actually fairly certain that he wouldn’t. And then suddenly, as if fate were toying with me, what’s on my mind appears in my line of vision too. We both spot Olivier gliding in the distance. “There’s my brother,” Michel points, although he needn’t have. I’d probably sighted him first. Michel wolf whistles to grab his attention, but Olivier is too far away to hear. Michel settles back down and smiles shyly again.
“Danni?”
“Yes,” I reply. I have a sudden panic that Olivier told him I went round to his place and Michel’s going to ask why I didn’t mention it.
“There’s something I’d like to ask you.”
I keep quiet, waiting patiently for him to ask his question. My heart starts thumping at my temples. I’m convinced I’ve been found out and am not quite sure how to react.
“Danni,” he continues, “You know that I like you and I was just wondering how you felt about me?”
Oh hell, life with Hugo was so much simpler. What do I say? Do I tell him I like him as only a friend, but his brother as much more than that? Why did he have to go and ask me this on the longest chairlift ever, with no hope of escape, dangling precariously from a wire fifty foot off the ground? Michel’s a nice guy. He’s just the wrong guy. He deserves to be let down gently, so I pat his arm and come out with an age-old cliché. “Michel, I don’t think I’m ready for anything at the moment. I’ve just come out of an extremely long relationship and I think I just need a bit of time for me right now. I really value your friendship. Is that ok?”
“It’s ok,” he says, slightly dejected, his shy smile swiped away.
We make small, embarrassed talk as the chairlift drags its way to the end. The four of us ski back together, but even though we’re in a group, I sense that we’re all in our own, very private worlds. I don’t see Olivier again all day, close-up or at a distance. Which gives me more time to build my resolve that calling it quits at this blissful, early stage, is the right thing to do.
The next morning I’m at the boulangerie, digging for change for the croissants, when he finds me and speaks to the back of me. I realise that embarrassingly I’ve come out without any money.
“Salut ma biche. Let me help you out there,” he says, handing two euros to the lady serving. I wait for my blush to subside and my pounding chest to calm, and then turn to face him. And when I do, I feel a heavy weight that I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. ‘I’ll pay you back in kind’ is what I’d like to say to him with a cheeky grin, but I don’t. Instead, I just thank him very much. He speaks soft, sexy, lilting French. “I’m pleased I found you here. I tried to come by yesterday, but I couldn’t make it. I really think we need to talk.”
Here we go. I’m not going to have to be strong after all. He’s going to tell
me
that this can’t go any further, that we’ve got to put a stop to it. My heart’s beating overtime, my hands have gone clammy. I don’t want to hear what I’m about to hear.
“Are you free later?” he asks.
I’ve got a reprieve.
“Yes, that would be fine. Do you want to come to my place?”
“Good idea. I won’t be able to make it till about 7pm though, because there’s another meeting after my last lesson. Does that work?”
“That works. Shall I make you dinner?”
Did I really say that? How disconnected is my mouth from my brain?
“Dinner sounds lovely. See you later then.”
And that’s it. Off he goes. Not giving me a chance to take back my invite or think up an alternative arrangement.
*****
I’m in another world when I return to the flat, thinking how horrible tonight will be and wondering whether we will have the ‘talk’ before or after the meal. I’m preparing breakfast, only I’m not concentrating on the job at hand. I’ve put the empty cafetière on the table and filled it with croissants. Now I’m heaping teaspoons of filter coffee directly into the mugs.
“Shall I stop you now Dan or later?”
“Yes,” I say absently, not properly listening to her.
“The only thing is that if I tell you later, then we might never make it through breakfast.”
“Yes,” I repeat, unaware that one of the mugs is now overflowing with coffee granules.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s really on your mind then?”
“Alright,” I say, subconsciously moving onto the second, slightly emptier mug.
“That’s it!” cries Gina, grabbing hold of my coffee-frenzied teaspoon arm and moving the mugs out of harm’s way. “I think you better spill the beans, excuse the pun.”
“Huh?”
“Tell me what’s bugging you.”
“Huh?”
How does she know something’s bugging me?
“Tell me what’s going on between you and Monsieur du Pape. And it’s not the Monsieur du Pape you think I’m going to say.”
She thinks something’s going on with Michel and me, because I’ve been acting especially strange since getting stuck in the chairlift with him yesterday.
“Oh, bloody hell Dan. I’m not that stupid. Tell me what’s going on between you and OLIVIER.”
My jaw drops. Am I that transparent?
*****
We sit down and I tell her every relevant detail. About Amber dying and the promise I made, which is why I acted so maniacally when she got together with Pierre. About meeting Olivier and feeling this connection with him from day one. About tobogganing with him after Michel’s fondue shindig, about going to his house, kissing on the balcony, kissing in the car, about him being married, but no kids, and about him coming round tonight ‘to talk’ and we all know what that means. When I’ve finished, Gina looks at me and considers.
“I think you should go for it,” she says.
Pah, what would Topol and Amber say to that?
“Whilst I love your advice, you seem to be forgetting one rather important detail. He’s coming round tonight to finish it.”
“I’m not so sure he is.”
“Why on earth do you think that?”
“Call it female intuition, I don’t know. But I don’t think he’d agree to dinner if he was planning to come round with the ‘just good friends’ spiel. Besides, something feels right about you guys.”
How can it feel right when he’s so married?
“Don’t be daft,” I say.
“Honestly Dan. You two look like you were made for each other. The few times I’ve seen you together your chemistry lights up the room.”
She holds up a middle finger and feigns electric shock.
“Stop taking the piss.”
“Okay,” she smiles, “I’m exaggerating a bit, but not that much. Listen, you gave me your unsolicited opinion about Pierre, so I’m going to do the same about Olivier. Life’s too short. If I’m right and he’s not planning on finishing it, then I think you need to think long and hard about what you want to do. Carpe Diem, Dan. Seize the Day. Living with regrets isn’t much fun either.”
Sauces for Seduction
is sitting on her end of the table. She slides it across to me. “The decision,” she says prophetically, “is yours.”
*****
I settle on page ten’s recipe for aubergine sauce with pasta. Not because I’m aiming to whip up foreplay food but because I’m limited as a cook and it’s the only sauce which looks vaguely doable. According to the blurb, the Romans used to call aubergines the ‘apple of love’. Seeing as apples were also forbidden fruit, this symbolism holds a bittersweet irony. I pay a visit to the supermarket, stocking up on onions, pasta bows, sieved tomatoes, aubergine and garlic, plus three bottles of Chardonnay. I don’t go skiing, despite being aware that should I have an accident I could delay tonight. Instead, I do a
Groundhog Day
, repeating the day before yesterday, perhaps subconsciously a superstitious attempt to ensure the ending will turn out the same. I sunbathe, listen to the
Best of Abba
, sing to Abba, sip Perrier and at 5pm put on my faded jeans and cropped white t-shirt. I make the sauce early, in case it goes wrong, but it doesn’t. It’s delicious. I ring the Club de Vacances to tell the teacher I can’t make it for dinner and to feel free to call me should any problems arise. Gina delivers a mini-lecture. She reminds me to Carpe Diem and then says she’s going out with Alexandre and plans to give me free reign of the flat tonight. By the time the doorbell rings at a quarter past seven, I am prepared to rise to the challenge, in whatever guise it should take.
As I open the door to the most beautiful man, dressed simply in jeans, Timberland boots and ski jacket, any resolve I had that there must never be an Olivier and Danni goes flying out the window. But my resolve is irrelevant. Once again, I don’t so much as get a kiss hello. He saunters right on past, smiling lopsidedly. I’ve left the I-pod on repeat, as it was two days ago.
“I love Abba,” he says.
It’s the chorus of
Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!
“Me too,” I say, turning off my I-pod, “but I’ve had it on all afternoon. Let’s put on something new.”
Our flat has a battered CD-player and a few random discs. Olivier flicks through the meagre collection and picks the best of Edith Piaf, a legendary French ‘50s cabaret singer. He removes the disc from the sleeve, slots it into the player and presses play.
“What would you like to drink?” I ask.
“What are you having?”
“Kir.”
“Sounds good, I’ll join you.”
I get out the corkscrew and a Chardonnay, and hand them over. Whilst he’s opening the bottle, I pour a small measure of Cassis into two wine glasses. He fills them up with wine, then gets out a box of Camels and offers the pack. I shake my head. Today I’m going to be strong, about everything. He lights up and joins me leaning against the kitchen counter. I don’t know what to say so decide to say nothing and instead wait for him to speak. The longer the silence continues the more nervous I become. Olivier, on the other hand, looks pretty chilled. I take a huge slug of kir.
“You said we needed to talk.”
He nods and then drags on his cigarette. My mouth turns dry.
“Danni, I really like you.”
There’s another interminable silence, whilst he waits for me to respond, but I’m rendered mute.
“You know that I’m married?” he continues.
Of course I know and he knows that I know, but we both look down at his wedding ring anyway. I nod, and wait for the inevitable ‘because I’m married this can’t go on’. He draws on his cigarette again. This time it looks like he’s searching for Dutch courage.
“I don’t know what you think of me for getting involved with you when I’m married. I just want you to know that I don’t make a habit of doing this. I’ve been married for seven years and have never so much as been interested in another woman until you came along. But with you, it’s different. You make me feel different. I know it’s wrong, that I shouldn’t be doing it, but I don’t seem to be able to find the strength to stop. I thought my life was sorted and you’ve come along and turned it upside down.”
He turns to look at me directly, transfixing me with his blue-eyed gaze. This conversation isn’t going according to expectation, but I’ve been given my cue. This is where if he hasn’t got the strength to stop then I’m meant to find the strength for both of us. He’s waiting for me to say something and I know it’s my turn. I take a deep breath, open my mouth and out it pops, barely audible and not what I should be saying in any way, shape or form.
“I feel the same way,” I whisper.
We’re standing there, staring at each other and I know it’s not too late. I can feel the same way and
still
be strong, finishing this here and now. The dancing twinkle in his eyes has been replaced by a deathly serious look.
“This isn’t a game,” he says. “This is my life we’re playing with. You’re younger than I am. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
“I’m not that young. I’m nearly twenty-seven.”
For the first time in years I’m happy to age myself.
“That’s still too young to throw your life away,” he insists.
What does he mean, ‘throw my life away’. Does he think this is serious too, that this could be the beginning of my life, the start of what I’ve always been looking for? If I’m going to be weak and break my promise to Amber by throwing my principles and everything I’ve ever stood for to the wind, then it’s got to be worth it. The only reason I’m even contemplating such madness is because something inside me believes, even at this ridiculously early stage, that Olivier and I are soul mates, destined to be together. So I suddenly find the strength not to do the right thing, but at least to make sure we’re doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. My eyes are equally as serious.