Sometimes you can spend years listening to a song, blissfully unaware you’ve understood the words totally wrong. For ages I thought Hot Chocolate were singing
I believe in
Myrtle
instead of
I believe in Miracles
. I was similarly convinced Madonna was warbling on about a
Poppadom Priest
instead of
Papa don’t Preach
. Sometimes, though, we can sing along to a song getting the words totally right, but never understanding the true meaning. And that’s what happens when I sing
Mamma Mia
for the third time. It’s not about some big, fat Italian Mamma. In fact, I now don’t think it’s about a mamma at all. It’s about a woman who’s married to a cad who’s been cheating on her and whilst she knows she ought to get rid of him, she loves him too much and just can’t do it.
I never thought Abba could depress, but it just has. Not that I relate to the woman’s predicament in the song, but it’s all about trust and infidelity and having the strength to walk away. None of it sits very comfortably, so I close the piano lid and swivel round on the seat.
“Don’t stop,” says Olivier, “that was getting really good.”
“I’ve had enough for now,” I tell him. “What I really suddenly fancy is a bath.”
*****
Olivier has got a huge bathroom with a long and luxuriously deep cast-iron claw-foot bath, slap-bang in the middle. I run the water steaming hot and pour in loads of bubble bath, frothing the water excitedly with my hands. I undress, hang up my clothes and wait for the tub to fill right to the brim before gingerly testing the temperature with a couple of toes. Satisfied, I step in and sit down. It’s beautifully warm, full of uneven peaks bouncing on the surface. I play around for a while, scooping them back and forth in my palms, placing huge blobs of foam on each of my breasts. Then I lie back and close my eyes.
“Salut ma biche.”
I open one eye. Olivier’s standing by the door, stark naked, stark gorgeous, stark twinkle back in his eye, stark hard down below.
“I’m going to have to get in, I’m afraid.”
I’m normally territorial about my baths, but not today. Right now, this second, I can’t think of anything nicer. I move towards the middle and as he gets in behind and manoeuvres his legs astride mine, some of the water dribbles over the surface.
“Oh, déjà vu,” I gasp.
“Why?”
I suddenly think how appropriate it is that this time the displaced water represents the combined volume of Olivier and me, as if we were joined together as one. I tell him about Hugo’s Archimedes experiment, how he drilled a hole in the side of the bath to try to work out my body mass. I tell him how it went horribly wrong, sloshing bucket loads of water onto his parents shag pile. I tell him how he’d got pissed off when I called him Achilles. I tell him about my nickname being Ariadne.
“If I was him,” says Olivier, stroking my right breast, “I’d have called you Aphrodite.”
“Mmmm, who was she?”
“She was the goddess of l’amour,” he whispers in my ear, sliding onto my left breast with his hand.
I sigh with pleasure, turning my head to brush his lips with mine.
“Is that where the word aphrodisiac comes from then?”
“I expect so,” he says, sliding his hands past my waist, stretching for the soap. He places the bar onto my stomach and starts lightly circling it. I lean into his body and nestle the back of my neck onto his right shoulder.
“So, Aphrodite,” he murmurs, moving the bar of soap teasingly downwards. “Shall we get clean or dirty?”
You can either aim high in your search for love, reaching for the giddy heights of perfection, and in the doing open yourself up to the worst, darkest and blackest kind of rejection if it all goes horribly wrong. Or you can play it safe by picking someone like Hugo. Then, whilst you might never know the meaning of true ecstasy, on the flip side, at least you’ll never have to experience gut-wrenching pain. If it wasn’t perfect in the first place, there’s not so much to lose.
In choosing Olivier, a married man, the stakes were high. I was gambling for the jackpot and had put every last penny on it. Until yesterday, I feared I’d lost it all and that my world had collapsed around me. But the beauty (and scariness) of the random roulette of life is how quickly things can change. It’s a new day, a new morning. I’m lying in Olivier’s bed semi-awake. The exquisite sensation of a full, warm set of lips gently pressing into mine is a delicious, dreamy re-awakening. The odds were stacked against it, but I’ve won.
“Mm,” I moan, opening an eye.
I could never tire of looking at this man who is suspended above me. His mouth is creased in a lazy, closed smile. I am too blessed if this is my reality. I open my other eye to check I’m not dreaming.
“Ma biche, I’ve got to leave now unfortunately.”
“What time is it?”
I yawn and stretch my arms in the air.
“Nine.”
“Wow!” I exclaim. I roll my head on the pillow. I can’t remember the last time I slept in this late.
“I’ve made you coffee.”
A big, steaming mug is sitting next to me on the bedside table. It all feels too good to be true. What have I done to deserve this? I lean up, wrap my arms around his neck, gently pull him on top of me and seek the entrance to his jumper, so I can sneak my hands inside to stroke the length of his toned back. He kisses me, long and lingering. I melt into his arms, into the mattress, into the pillow and into his lips, but sadly, he pulls away.
“That’s very lovely, ma biche, but you must help me to leave because otherwise I’m not going to be able to and I really must. I’ve got a lot of work to do to sort things out for the summer.”
Olivier is a paragliding instructor May to September, flying through the air like a bird, gloriously free and gloriously graceful. So he tells me. I haven’t actually done it yet, although he’s promised to take me, maybe even in the next few days, weather permitting. Apparently the thermals have to be just right, whatever that means. I once asked if my M&S thermals would do the job, and he wasn’t sure if I was serious or not and said that undergarments weren’t quite the kind of thermals he meant. He was talking about thermals in the atmosphere.
I release him reluctantly and he rolls off the bed and runs a hand though his tousled hair as he walks to the door.
“Help yourself to whatever you want,” he says. “I’ve left a spare key on the kitchen table. Oh, and you couldn’t walk the dog could you?”
I can think of nothing nicer than breakfast followed by a long walk in the sun with Asterix at my heel.
“The cheese shepherd will be walked,” I reassure him. “Do I need a lead?”
“No, he’ll be fine roaming free.”
Olivier stands at the door. He looks at me for about five seconds, smiles contentedly, and then leaves.
“What time will you be home?” I yell after him.
“About five,” he calls back.
I lie back on the bed feeling deliriously happy. It all feels incredibly perfect.
*****
Half an hour later I pad downstairs, intending to take Asterix straight out, but then I spy a doughy loaf of artisan bread, a jar of thick runny honey and
Le Figaro
and decide to put walkies on hold. A long, civilised breakfast is suddenly much more appealing. I put on the kettle to make more coffee, find a board and a knife, slice two thick doorsteps and smother them in honey. As I sit down and open the French newspaper I apologise to the dog and promise him we’ll go out soon, but I’ve only half a mind on it. The other half is alternately thinking that a good old English tabloid is a much more satisfying read (salacious gossip is one thing the Brits do well) and that I wish I could get
Mamma Mia
out of my head. The chorus is stuck there, on auto-repeat. There’s only one way to get rid of it.
I bite a corner off my slice of bread, pick up my mug and head for the piano. I lift the lid, open the music book and flick through looking for the next least tricky song. I settle on
Thank you For the Music
and flatten out the book’s pages on the music stand. My hands are hovering over the keyboard, poised to play, when I hear a key go in the front door. For a split second I think nothing of it and presume Olivier’s forgotten something. Then I remind myself that he’s not meant to be back until five. What if-
I freeze, hands suspended mid-air, like stone. My head’s yelling run and my brain’s yelling hide, but my body is paralysed, glued to the seat. Asterix is at the door barking, tail wagging expectantly. I just sit there, wide-eyed, staring, heart thumping and praying it will be Olivier. I watch the handle lower and the door push itself open. Then I close my eyes, so that if I don’t like what I see I can pretend I’m not here, even if it’s only a temporary reprieve. I hear a couple of shuffle steps and than a deep male (thank goodness) voice greets Asterix and then nothing. Quiet.
“Danni?”
I open my eyes.
It’s Michel.
*****
I stand up. We’re at opposite ends of the room, facing one another, in silence for an eternity. I can see his brain ticking away, whilst mine’s desperately trying to drum up some lie of an excuse for me being here, in his brother’s house, when I’m meant to be en route to London. But nothing good springs to mind. If Gina’s car had broken down, then she would be here too. His expression turns hard and frightening. His lips are pursed and inky blue, his arms are crossed defiantly. It’s a whole new Michel that I’ve never seen before.
“
What
are you doing here?”
His voice is low and controlled. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head.
“Tell me not you and my brother?”
I’m still mute. Michel half-laughs sarcastically as he works it all out.
“So, no doubt you two have been having fun and games, laughing behind my back? All this time I’ve been telling you how I feel about you and you’ve been with my fucking brother, making me look an idiot.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I whisper.
“What was it like then?”
He raises his voice. He’s less in control and is losing his composure.
“We couldn’t help ourselves.”
“You couldn’t help yourself so you picked somebody else’s husband?”
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to and neither did he.”
“Oh, save it Danni. I’ve obviously got you pegged all wrong. The person I know wouldn’t have done this. They wouldn’t have stooped so low.”
“Don’t say that Michel. It really isn’t like that.”
“What is it like then?”
I’m about to answer, about to tell him that it’s like nothing ever before, it’s like the two of us were made to be together, but then I realise that nothing I say could ever make this look right in Michel’s eyes.
“So Danni,” he spits my nickname, his voice laced with venomous sarcasm. “Where does it go from here? Are you going to stay here and be my brother’s bit on the side or are you going to split up a family?”
Silence.
“You don’t know, do you?”
I’m not sure what he’s going on about.
“You thought you knew it all, but you don’t.”
More silence.
“Well, I might as well tell you then. Olivier’s wife is pregnant. They’re going to have a baby.”
“You’re lying,” I whisper, throat tight.
“No, I’m not.”
Why hasn’t he told me?
Why the hell hasn’t he told me
? I’m dying to ask Olivier that question, but I most definitely do not want to ask Michel. He won’t know and I don’t want to hear his opinion on the matter.
“How long have you known this for?” I finally ask.
“A little while.”
“Olivier said she didn’t want kids.”
“Maybe that’s true, but she’s still pregnant.”
I walk closer towards Michel, so that I can see him better and know whether I can trust him better. I look straight into his cold, glazed stare.
“Promise me, Michel. Promise me you’re telling the truth.”
“Why should I promise you anything, when you clearly can’t be trusted? I’m not as good at lying as you though Danni,” he spits again. “We believe in honesty here in the mountains. Well, at least
I
do.”
I nod. I’m certain Michel isn’t quick enough on his feet to concoct a story just like that.
“So then,” he throws daggers with his eyes. “What are you going to do now?”
I don’t hesitate. For the first time since this whole thing began, I know precisely, absolutely and unequivocally what I have to and am going to do.
“I’m going to leave,” I say.
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
He walks to the kitchen, opens and shuts a few of the cabinets and finally pulls out a big, steel toolbox. He picks it up, goes to the front door and opens it ajar.
“Don’t even think about changing your mind,” he orders, giving me one last glare and slamming the door behind him.
*****
The force from deep within, the force that had been stronger, more powerful than my moral conscience, that had weakened my resolve three months ago, that had navigated my lips from Olivier’s cheek to his mouth, has finally been overcome. Children change everything. I’d always justified my actions on the grounds that no children were involved, that the only person to get hurt would be an adult. Until fifteen minutes ago, I didn’t think that that person would be me. Right this moment, I feel shocked and angry. I’m shocked at having being pounced on and found out by Michel and shocked by the breaking news. I’m fuming that Olivier never had the guts to tell me. When was he going to? After he left his wife, after I came back for good? And what sort of a man does it make him if he can leave his pregnant wife? Perhaps he’s not the person I thought he was.
I’m bizarrely calmed by this bombshell and suddenly see everything really clearly. I don’t need Amber or Topol, or anyone else for that matter, to tell me what to do. I feel strong and resolute because there is no other hand. No rationale or reasoning can let Olivier off the hook. Even Gina, surely, would be hard pressed to reassure me that we could work through this and still make a decent go of it, not if it meant ditching a pregnant woman by the wayside. Nobody with any moral conscience could do that, could they?