“I’ve missed you so much Gina, these last two months without you have been hell.”
She pulls away.
“I’ve missed you too. But you look really great. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
I pull a cheesy grin.
“Come on. Let me help get the stuff out of your car, than I’ll reveal all.”
*****
We manage the load in one go. I make a pot of tea, open a pack of chocolate digestives and ask Gina about her interview which is for a job writing brochures for a French travel company. And then I ask her whether she’s considered perhaps becoming a mini-skirt model for M&S instead.
“Enough ridiculousness,” she says. “I haven’t got long. I know something’s happened, so tell me.”
I keep my face deadpan, for maximum impact.
“Actually, there are a couple of things. Firstly Hugo proposed two days ago.”
“NO!”
Gina claps a hand over her mouth, which muffles her next question: “What did you say?”
“I told him I needed to think about it.”
“And what have you been thinking?”
I put my hand into my back pocket and fish out my boarding pass which I pass to her.
“You’re going back, to see Olivier?”
I give a slightly scared nod.
“Are you going to tell me I’m out of my mind?” I ask.
“Not for a second. You know that I thought you were mad to leave without talking to him in the first place, so I think it’s a great idea. But what’s made you decide to do it?”
I tell her about my parents sending me to see John Smith and what he said about unfinished business and the need to achieve final closure. I felt that could only be done by going back.
“I’m starting to feel sick now though,” I admit, “just thinking about it. What if he never wants to see me again? If he’d wanted to, if he’d really wanted to, wouldn’t he have found a way to contact me?”
“You said he didn’t have your numbers.”
“That’s true. But couldn’t he have tried to find them out?”
“You know what Dan, Alexandre called me yesterday, asking for your address. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave it to him.”
“What does he want my address for?”
“That’s just it. I don’t think
he
wants your address at all, but he wouldn’t tell me why he was asking for it. He refused to give away his source.”
“So you’re saying it could be
Olivier
?”
“It’s possible.”
I reflect a while.
“No, it wouldn’t have been him. Alexandre didn’t know anything about us. It would have looked too odd for Olivier to have asked him.”
“I’m just telling you what I know.”
She looks at her watch.
“Dan, I’m sorry, I better go. I really don’t want to be late for my interview. It’s the first job in ages that sounds even vaguely interesting.”
We get up and walk down the garden path to her car, where we hug goodbye on the pavement.
“I’m scared Gina. Do you think this is going to be the end of the end?”
She gives me an extra special reassuring squeeze.
“Who knows, it could be the beginning of the beginning. Whatever, you’re doing the right thing.”
We wish each other good luck. After I’ve waved her off I turn to head to the house, pause for a second and then hurry back down the path. I’d just seen Mrs Slater for the first time in almost eight months. She was weeding in her front garden. The thing is, though, I’m not ready yet for her to see me.
I’ve had a night to sleep (or not, as was the case) on it. The initial excitement at having taken control and made a decision to see Olivier is now fading into fear. What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he’s deliriously happy about becoming a father? What if his wife has stopped working due to the pregnancy and is at the house when I arrive? Worse still, she might greet me wielding an axe to commit a crime of passion. What if I’ve deluded myself about his feelings for me? How will I feel if I really have to accept it’s all over? Will I really be able to move on and will finishing the business actually help me to cope better? The enormity of what I’m about to do has hit me. It’s also hit my parents, especially my mother. When she’d got back from work yesterday she’d been thrilled to see a positively new, perky me.
“Well," she’d said, “I take it all back about Psychiatrists. Looks like that John Smith did you the world of good. What on earth did he say?”
I decided to wind her up.
“He said it wasn’t my fault, that insanity is hereditary. He asked if either of my parents suffered and I said that I wasn’t sure but thought it came from my mother’s side.”
From smiling her expression turned tight-lipped, indignant.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she trilled, “my side of the family is an extremely solid and stoic bunch. It must be your father.”
“Well, John Smith was adamant that my condition was more likely to have been handed down the maternal line.”
My mother tries to assume a more caring expression.
“So did he say you had a condition?”
I nodded, looking woeful.
“He did. He said I was suffering from UBS.”
She clapped a hand over her chest.
“UBS?” she whispered, barely bringing herself to utter this dreaded new three letter acronym.
I cast my eyes down to my feet.
“It stands for unfinished business syndrome.”
Paralysis gripped her face.
“Oh no, will you be okay? Can they give you something for that?”
“No, there’s sadly nothing they can give me,” I said, still looking down.
“So you’re telling me there’s no cure?”
I finally looked up and stared into her eyes for maximum dramatic effect.
“Actually, I think there is a cure. I’m going back to France, the day after tomorrow.”
The colour drained right out of her face.
*****
Sometimes I think my parents are the epitome of a soap opera couple. Seeing as both their names begin with a ‘G’ I’d call their show
The G-Force
. My father Geoffrey is downbeat, downtrodden and always trying to do his best by his wife, but never quite meeting her exacting standards. My mother Geraldine is loud-voiced, demanding, idiosyncratic, overpowering, over protective and always thinks she knows best. They’re upstairs in the bedroom, door shut. I’m downstairs in the kitchen, having breakfast really early because I wasn’t sleeping. My door is also shut. Despite two closed doors and a staircase between us, I can hear every word they (especially Mum) are saying. I can also imagine everything else that’s going on, without being able to see them.
The G-Force
Scene One
Sitting in queen-sized bed, each propped up high with four pillows. Geraldine is wearing yellow Marigold rubber gloves
(to protect her hands).
Geoffrey is wearing stripy flannel pyjamas.
Geraldine
: Whatever
possessed
you to suggest sending her to a Psychiatrist?
Geoffrey
: I thought it might do her good. And anyway, it was
you
who told
me
to make the appointment. You can point the finger all you like, but take a good look at yourself first.
Geraldine
: Yes, but I didn’t know he was a quack. I thought he was the best in the business, but all he’s gone and done is made things worse.
Geoffrey
: How’s that then? I thought she was in much better spirits yesterday.
Geoffrey, sensing trouble, gets defensive and swings legs out of bed. He stands and starts getting dressed.
Geraldine (shrill voice
): That’s only because that ignorant John Smith put stupid ideas into her head, telling her to go back to France.
Geoffrey (buttoning white shirt):
He wouldn’t have told her to do anything. I’m sure she came up with that idea all by herself.
Geraldine
: Well, even if that’s the case, he must have guided her in that direction.
Geoffrey (putting on navy tie with little white dots):
Maybe going back to France is the right thing for her to be doing?
Geraldine (even shriller, waving yellow rubber-gloved hands maniacally in the air
): How can you say that? That lovely Hugo proposed to her and she’s going back to France, to that horse, rabbit and donkey eating
Ohhhhleaveeeay
. I mean, he doesn’t even speak English and he probably doesn’t have a penny to his name. And then there’s Hugo, who’s handsome and wealthy, who speaks English better than the Queen, with his silver barrister tongue and quick wit. Really, Geoffrey, it’s obvious to me. There is no choice.
Geoffrey (insurance salesman grey trousers now on, sitting on the end of the bed, applying shoes with shoehorn):
Sorry Geraldine, I’m confused. Was it Danni that was meant to be marrying Hugo or you?
Geraldine (beside herself with fury, takes off her rubber gloves, chucking them across the room at Geoffrey):
Oh shut up Geoffrey. You’re always on her side. I hope that Ohhhhleaveeeay doesn’t want anything more to do with her. She doesn’t know which side her bread is buttered.
Geoffrey (putting on insurance salesman matching grey jacket, checking reflection in front of long mirror):
Well, I hope, for our daughter’s sake, that if Olivier’s who she wants, if it’s Olivier that will make her happy, that it all works out for her.
Geraldine (throwing one of Geoffrey’s pillows at him):
How can you say that? Do you want our only daughter living in France with a man who doesn’t speak our language?
Geoffrey (holding the door handle, staring at Geraldine, who’s got pillow number two poised, in low, calm controlled voice):
We can always learn to speak
his
language and France is not so far away.
Geoffrey exits room. Geraldine throws pillow at closed door screaming in frustration. She sighs, emitting a defeated: ‘Oooooooh.”
My Dad leaves the house straight away, without coming into the kitchen and without having anything to eat or drink, despite Geraldine always insisting breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Having heard every word of their little tête-à-tête I feel a great deal of warmth for my father, who stuck up for me and only wants me to be happy. Strangely though, I feel warmth for my mother too. It’s not all about Hugo for her, even though she thinks it is. Yes, she does want me to marry him and yes, if that’s what I decided to do then it would make her happier than a chimpanzee in a banana plantation. But the real reason she’s so upset is that she’s worried she’s going to lose me. I’m her only daughter and she doesn’t want me to move so far away. She does want me to be happy, but she almost loves me too much to let me go. I’m painfully aware that should my story end happily, hers would not. We’re both praying for different outcomes.
*****
At three in the afternoon the doorbell goes, bang in the middle of my watching
Runaway Bride
. I’ve decided to cram the next twenty-four hours with as many feel-good, happy Hollywood endings as possible to give me courage and belief for my trip to France, irrespective of whether life does or doesn’t imitate art. I reluctantly put the DVD on pause and pad to the door, hoping against hope it’s not Hugo.
I should be shocked by whom I’m suddenly facing, only since Hugo’s proposal the word ‘shock’ seems to have been eliminated from my vocabulary. I swear that something weird is happening in my solar system. I’ve never seen so much planetary activity. It’s Crocodile Dundee himself, all tall, bronzed and rippling – and I’m not speaking Paul Hogan. I feign surprise, lest he think I’ve been expecting him all this time.
“Rod, oh wow, oh hi! What brings you here?”
“Hey Denny. I haven’t got long. I’m on my way back to Australia and you’re on the way to the airport, so I thought I’d come by to say g’day.”
It’s nice to see him. He looks absolutely gorgeous and I’m finding it hard to remember why I made such short shrift of him.
“How long have you got?” I ask.
He looks at his watch – yes,
that
watch.
“About half an hour,” he says.
“Shall we go for a walk?” I suggest. “The weather’s nice and you’re about to be cooped up in a plane for a day.”
“Good idea.”
I put my trainers on, fetch my keys, lock up and we set off, past Amber’s house. En route to the local park I apologise for not letting him come to Montgenèvre at the end of the season, trying to explain that things were a little complicated. “No worries,” he tells me, and I’m pretty sure he’s chilled enough to mean it. We get to the swings. Without thinking I sit down on the same swing I was in when Hugo proposed. Rod takes the swing Hugo was in. I’m swinging away, eyes closed, listening to Rod tell me how he’s decided to go back for good this time to start his career as a boat builder. Now that he’s nearer to thirty he really thinks it’s time to grow up and get on with the rest of his life. I stop kicking and as the swing slowly comes to a halt I jokingly ask which lucky lady he’s taking back with him. I remember him saying on the way to the Alps that he was planning on taking a European woman back home.
As I look at him, waiting for his answer, I suddenly wish I hadn’t asked, jokingly or otherwise, because I’ve got a horrible sense of déjà vu. He smiles and laughs and I think that’s it, his non-answer. But then he puts his hand into his trouser pocket and fishes out a little box. It’s a bit bigger than the one Hugo gave me.
“This is for you Denny.”
My eyes are boggling and he’s not even naked. I’m scared to open the box, but as he’s waiting for me to do exactly that, I hurry up and get on with it. I sigh, audibly, when I see what’s inside.