“Look, this has taken me by surprise too. I’ve just come out of an extremely long relationship and believe me, the last thing I’m looking for is to get involved with a married man. I don’t want to be a mistress or your other woman. If all I am to you is some bagatelle or passing fancy, then let’s stop this right now.”
He shakes his head, but I’m looking for verbal confirmation.
“I mean it,” I repeat.
“No, that’s not what you are,” he says softly.
He stubs out his cigarette and steps closer, his face an inch away from mine. I’m melting already, captivated already and we’re not even touching. I swim in his still, serious blue pools.
“You’re so beautiful, do you know that?” he says appreciatively.
My nose is a little too big, matched by my thighs, and my complexion is all freckles as opposed to Amber’s peaches and cream. I’m not conventionally attractive – in fact there’s only one part of me I actually like and that’s my hair, an oversized mane of unruly auburn ringlets. And yet somehow Olivier makes me feel genuinely beautiful. I tilt my head into his hand as he strokes my left cheek. He brings his lips in to meet mine and our eyes close. We seal our adulterous pact with a slow, slightly trembling, pressing kiss. When we pull away we smile, then hug standing, bodies tight and swaying, squeezing the breath out of each other.
He prods me playfully, steering me in the direction of my bedroom. When we get there he stands really close, running his hands up and down my arms, then holding my waist and consuming me with his gaze as he pushes me down onto the bed so that I land with him lying on top of me. I love the way his long black eyelashes curl at the ends, flickering. The way his nostrils flare ever so slightly when he inhales. The way his black mop flops forward, giving him a boyish look. We start kissing deeper and more urgently, gliding hands over each others’ bodies, one by one discarding each item of clothing, tossing them carelessly in the air, until we’re lying there completely naked, his flesh on mine. My body is one big tingle. No sooner than his hands gently glide over one part of my frame, my left breast, my right breast, my stomach, in between my legs, than the whole rest of me aches to be touched and not left out. His body is perfect, in its natural, lithe, muscular toning and in the texture of his skin, smooth and soft. His body is perfect in the way it fits on top of mine, meets mine and complements mine. I love feeling him, touching him, watching his eyes close dreamily when I stroke his back or kiss his neck. We take our time, everything in slow motion, taking pleasure in the contours of each others’ bodies.
He doesn’t enter me for ages and before he does he gives me a look, to check that it’s not too soon. We’re lying on our sides facing, mouths touching, arms and legs wrapped around each other. We rock slowly, gently and imperceptibly back and forth, our fingers tracing light, lingering patterns. He moves tantalisingly slowly and the build is exquisite. I’ve never spent so long being so sensually and sexually still. The final climax is so incredible I want to hold on to it, delay it and make the moment last longer, but eventually I’m so on fire, tingling waves washing through me that I can’t wait for the moment and can’t believe it’s going to happen until it does and we both tremble and shudder and unbelievably come together.
We kiss, hugging tightly. In the other room Edith Piaf is warbling the most famous of her songs, a song about not having any regrets in life.
Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne
regrette rien
. In the other room, the apple of love sauce sits quietly in a pan on the stove. In the other room, two hours earlier, Topol and Amber decided to leave.
I miss Amber, desperately. In a way, it’s been like losing her twice over. She may only have died once, but her presence after she moved on and the voices I heard, even if I was imagining them, were very real to me. I miss that contact. Since the fateful night that Olivier and I consummated our relationship, she never answers when I call her name and she never blesses me with a warm, comforting feeling that makes me imagine that she’s with me, close-by.
Disappointment’s a horrible word. It’s benign, but so much more powerful than getting angry and lashing out. If ever I’m told that I’ve disappointed someone and let myself down, not them, it makes me feel hideously small, much guiltier and less defensive than I might otherwise have been. If Amber were here, if Amber could tell me in one word how she felt about what I’d done, ‘disappointed’ would probably pretty much sum it up. Was it really too much of me that she had asked? Was a promise as simple as never to get involved with a married man really not possible to keep? Aren’t there enough men to choose from without picking somebody else’s husband? I will admit to being weak, for Olivier making me feel that way by bringing out both the best and the worst in me. But until you’ve been in my situation or felt what I feel, that I’ve met the person I’m meant to be with, perhaps it’s not fair to judge.
I made a choice that night and I’ve not looked back. Despite losing Amber and despite feeling her disappointment, I no longer feel any guilt, or if I do, I’ve pushed it right to the back of my mind. Perhaps that makes me selfish and not such a nice person. Perhaps I’ll get my comeuppance. Who knows?
Olivier and I have been together for almost three months now. We’re practically inseparable and blissfully happy. I never knew I could be this happy or dared to hope that meeting Mr. Right could feel so good. The whole affair’s been made remarkably easy by the fact that his wife only flits in and out for a couple of days at a time. We split that time between staying at me and staying at his. Neither arrangement is perfect. Whilst I love Olivier’s house, I feel uncomfortable sleeping in his marriage bed. And so I prefer it when he stays with me, but that’s not fair on Gina either. She’s hooked up with Alexandre the pisteur now and seeing as Olivier and my relationship is still secret, it means that when Olivier stays, Alexandre can’t.
At times it’s trickier than that. Michel and I have remained good friends. Occasionally he just pops by and Olivier’s there, only we make sure he doesn’t know it. It’s pathetically childish, with Olivier hiding in my bedroom, door shut, no doubt overhearing the conversation as I try to dispose of his brother. It’s at moments like that that I’m not happy or proud of myself. I hate that it all has to be one big secret. When you’re in love you want to shout it from the rooftops, let the whole world know, but I can’t. I hate the deceit, the lying to Michel, the lying to everyone, the lying to his wife – although that, admittedly, is not my lie. I hate the fact that when his wife comes back I get paranoid. Paranoid that he loves her more than me and will get cold feet about swapping her for me. I get paranoid if he doesn’t call or if he doesn’t want to see me one night during the week. I never tell him what’s going on in my head though. I don’t want to annoy him or appear too possessive.
I’ll be honest. There are moments when the elation escapes me and I feel incredibly low, like I’m not in control of the situation and Olivier holds all the cards. I didn’t set out to become a mistress or the other woman, but for all intents and purposes that’s exactly what I am. Only I’m convinced it won’t always be this way, otherwise I wouldn’t have started it in the first place.
My paranoia is hopefully needless. All Olivier gives me are reassurances that he loves me and that we were meant to be together and will be. No more lies, soon. We speak a lot about the future and about me living with him near Montgenèvre, what I’ll do for work, how many children we’d like. He says that his wife doesn’t want any kids and he had thought he didn’t want them either, but has since changed his mind. I tell him that’s good, because I’ve always imagined the pitter-patter of tiny feet. Our biggest topic of argument is whether we’ll try for five kids (his idea) or two (mine.) Being an only child, I find it hard to imagine such a large brood. The thought partly excites me and partly daunts me. Perhaps I’m running away with myself by looking too far ahead. At the moment he isn’t even completely mine.
The only person who knows about Olivier is Gina who I trust implicitly. She’s been such a rock and good friend and I’m so pleased she’s found Alexandre – they make such a sweet couple. In Amber’s absence I increasingly rely on Gina for support and friendship. She gives both unconditionally. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
*****
It’s April Fools Day, but so far nobody’s pulled a prank. The French don’t seem that interested. Amber used to try it on every year. When we were younger the gags were innocent, like making an apple pie bed or putting shaving cream on top of the toothpaste tube. But gradually her ideas grew in sophistication. A couple of years ago she pretended to be Ernie from the Premium Bonds, ringing to congratulate me on winning half a million pounds. Last year she claimed to be my bank manager, accusing me of being ten thousand pounds overdrawn. I never fell for it, but that didn’t stop her trying.
So far, the only joke being played is by the weather. It’s hideous. The sky’s ominously black and the international flag masts lined up at the foot of the resort are flapping wildly. Pretty floating festive snow has today been exchanged for a heavy, angry cascade of flakes. I’m convinced they’ll close down the lifts any second. We had been thinking about skiing into Italy today. We’d fancied a change of scenery more than anything else, because truth be told we find skiing on the French side of the border to be superior. Plus there’s a lot of ski poling on flat paths involved getting back to France from Italy and it’s really a pain, quite literally, in the arms. Anyway, today, if you had a choice, is definitely not a day for skiing in any country, so perhaps Gina being all dressed up and reaching for her skis is an April Fools.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re going skiing.”
“I am, but I can’t find my goggles. Have you seen them?”
She peers under some papers lying on the kitchen table, then opens and closes a couple of drawers.
“No.”
“I guess my glasses will have to do then.”
“No way, Gina, you’re mad going skiing in this at all, but if you’re going then you’ve got to have goggles. Otherwise you won’t be able to see anything.”
“That’s part of the fun,” sniggers Gina, “part of the adrenaline rush. I love being out there battling against the elements. Unlike
some
people I know.”
She’s having a dig at me for being a self-confessed, fair weather skier.
“Have you looked out the window?” I check.
She peers through the balcony doors and up at the sky.
“It’s not that bad,” she says. “Besides, it looks like its clearing.”
I take another look outside. She’s clearly deluded.
“It does not look like it’s clearing,” I protest.
She turns, disinterested and heads for the front door.
“Wait a sec,” I insist.
I run to fetch my goggles from my bedroom and hand them to her. “If you’ve got to go, then at least take these.”
She waves them away.
“No, I’ll be alright. I actually find it easier to wear nothing when it’s like this. What we really need is for someone to invent goggles with windscreen wipers.”
And off she goes. So much for April Fools.
*****
I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m up to date with my paperwork. All my group are in ski school. Olivier’s teaching and I’ve had breakfast. There’s only one thing which needs my attention, which is to book a private snowboarding lesson for somebody in my group for tomorrow, but that will only take five minutes. So I finally and begrudgingly decide to do what Gina and I have been putting off for weeks. I decide to clean. I jack up the volume on Abba, put on some rubber gloves (yes, Grandma’s fault again) and begin a whirling dervish of activity. I spray and wipe every inch of the kitchen surfaces until no salmonella germs could possibly survive. I scrub grime off the shower, sink and toilet. I tidy until I’m so red in the face that I decide to wait for the shade of my cheeks to subside before venturing outside to go and book up that snowboarding lesson at ski school.
I’ve booked it up and am on my way back to the flat when a message blasts out on the public address system. “
SFS, to mountain rescue, SFS to mountain rescue
…”
I’m not surprised to hear there’s been an injury. Today’s weather was an accident waiting to happen. I groan. Not because I’ve got anything better to do, but I really would prefer not to have to spend a day in hospital. Ever since Amber died, I’ve developed hospital phobia. Normally there’s just one lady sitting behind a computer in the rescue tent, so I’m pleasantly surprised when Michel and Alexandre are there to greet me. They, on the other hand, don’t seem so pleased to see me. They’re positively scowling and I’m uncertain what I’ve done wrong. Even though I’m now on-guard, I act normal.
“Hi guys,” I say, “I guess you’re busy today with this weather.”
They stand staring, expressionless. I must be in big trouble and laugh nervously.
“Come on guys. What’s up?”
Alexandre bows his head, shaking it. Michel takes a couple of steps towards me and puts an arm on my shoulder.
“There’s been an accident,” he says. “It’s Gina.”
*****
I half expect one of them to suddenly break out in a peel of ‘April Fools’, pointing their finger, imagining their gag to be hilarious. But they don’t, because they wouldn’t joke about something like this, because it’s not funny. Michel speaks so softly I have to strain to hear.
“Alexandre and I found her off-piste. She’d come off the trail that leads to Claviere in Italy. It’s a steep precipice. She’d fallen a long way.”
He’s not telling me what I need to know, but I’m too scared to ask.
“How is she?” I whisper instead.
“Pas bien.”
Not good.
“Anything broken?”
He shakes his head. I can’t take it any more.
“What then?” I raise my voice.
“She’s unconscious.”
Calm in a crisis, that’s what I normally am. Only this feels like a crisis too many. I lose my composure and my calm whisper bubbles into a roar.
“IS SHE GOING TO WAKE UP?”
“They don’t know,” Michel answers quietly. “She’s in the ambulance on the way to hospital now.”
*****
If Gina’s on her way to hospital, then that’s where I’m going too. I race to the flat, grab her car keys and run down to her Vauxhall Corsa. My mind is blank until I start winding my way towards Briançon, taking the bends grand prix style. There’s nothing remotely calm about me now and I’m too crazed to cry. In fact, I’m possessed by an irrational obsession to have an accident, to skid off this treacherous icy road, to not have to go through sitting, watching and praying for a friend to pull through again. But I can’t even do that right, or perhaps I’m not trying hard enough. I don’t really want to die, it’s just I don’t know how much more I can take. It should be me in the ambulance, not her. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s paying for my crimes. It feels like my fault, my doing and my comeuppance. Perhaps I’m a curse on all my friends and that’s why Amber died and that’s why Gin-