Weak at the Knees (14 page)

Asterix is a more regal, more handsome version of a Dulux dog.

“What breed is he?” I ask.

“Un berger de brie.”

“Berger as in ‘shepherd’ and ‘brie’ as in the cheese?”

“Yes.”

“So, in English he’s Asterix the cheese shepherd?”

“Yes, I guess,” he laughs. “So, what brings you here?”

I flash my nails under his nose.

“Very nice,” he approves.

“And what are
you
doing here?”

I live not far from here, about a kilometre away.” He points behind us. “I’m just out walking the dog.”          

“Not working today then?”

“No, a day off, thank God. I can’t stand teaching when it’s like this.”

He holds out his palms and a hundred snowflakes crash-land white on his brown leather gloves, melting a couple of seconds after they touch. It’s hard to believe, but we’ve been standing here, talking, in the middle of this blizzard, and for once I’ve barely noticed the cold.

“We better get moving,” he suggests, “it’s not good to stand still in this weather. Look, if you’ve got time, why don’t you come back to my place. I make a mean hot chocolate.”

I love the way he speaks French, silky, lazy and melodious. Remembering what happened the last time we met, remembering the argument I’ve just had with Gina, I know I really ought to say sorry, no can do, got to rush back up that mountain. But I don’t. It’s
because
I remember every last detail, every last feeling, that I find myself saying yes, that sounds great. I’m a big fan of hot chocolate.

*****

I can hear the fir trees on either side of the snow-cushioned track that we head down quietly groan from carrying their thick white load. I engage only half a brain on the conversation. The other half’s wondering whether Olivier’s thought about that night since too, whether that’s why he’s invited me back to his place, where I presume, I hope, his wife won’t be. She wasn’t there that fondue dinner night up the mountain either. Just as well. So she didn’t see me snatch the odd nanosecond peek at her husband sitting opposite me on the horseshoe table, unable to keep my eyes off his dark, gypsy face, lit up by those startlingly beautiful, almost aquamarine eyes. So she didn’t see him occasionally catch my gaze, hold it like a magnet, turn my insides to mush. So gone midnight, when everyone else had already tobogganed down, she didn’t see Olivier and I somehow get split up from Gina, Alexandre and Michel as we all set off on our flimsy, extra, extra large plastic flat frying pan-like sledges. So she didn’t see me screaming, whooping and hollering out of control down the slope, coming to an unceremonious stop face buried in the mountain. So she didn’t see her husband park up, check I was okay, laugh at me for eating snow in front of him again, then taste some to make me feel better about it and act surprised that I’d been right all along, this Montgenèvre stuff was tasty. So she didn’t see the two of us lying like snow angels, a finger’s breadth apart, looking at the stars twinkling in the midnight blue sky, dwarfed by the brightest of full-moons. So she didn’t see that we lay there, in complete comfortable silence for almost twenty minutes, drinking it all in, not feeling a shiver of cold despite the fact that it was close to freezing.

Even if she had been there, even if she had seen, what she wouldn’t have known was how overwhelmed I was by a sense of calm and peace. How overwhelmed I was by this powerful, magnetic pull I felt from her husband lying next to me, almost but not quite touching. Even if she had been there, even if she had seen, she probably wouldn’t even have known what was going through her own husband’s head. And as we arrive at his home and Asterix the cheese shepherd starts barking and wagging his tail, I’m fully aware that I don’t know what’s going through his head either. And that even if I did, even if I was right, it has to be, must be, is absolutely irrelevant.  

Olivier’s home is completely isolated, surrounded by snowy fields and what looks like a couple of acres of its own land. “Welcome to the Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” he jokes. It’s a converted barn, typically French, built from uneven grey-brown stones with a sloping ramshackle roof. The rambling, bohemian feel of it is utterly compelling. “It’s perfect,” I praise, as he opens the front door and Asterix follows us inside. “How long have you been here for?”

“About a year, but the work’s only just been finished. It was a dilapidated wreck when we bought it.”

The front door opens onto the narrower side of an expansive open-plan living space paved in terracotta tiles. It’s a scene which could have been lifted from
Elle Interiors
. A huge wooden banqueting table with attached bench seats separates the rustic chic kitchen from the lounge, which is a homely set-up of large-screen television surrounded by an array of mismatching armchairs and sofas. All walls expose the barns’ original brickwork and a lot of attention has been paid to lighting, with several low-hanging gothic pendant lamps catching the eye. I am mesmerised by the juxtaposition of old with new, the colour and flair. It achieves what Hugo’s pad doesn’t – feeling simultaneously cosy yet spacious.

“I love it,” I say, simply.

“I’m glad,” he smiles. “Please, make yourself at home.”

I take off my jacket and hang it next to his ski school one on a coat stand by the front door. Olivier’s already at the fridge, taking out a carton. I look around, wondering where to park myself when I spy an old, rickety black Steinway upright with a large two-seater stool tucked underneath.

“You’ve got a piano,” I squeal, clapping my hands with glee.

“Yes, my parents just gave it to me. Do you play?”

“Yes, but I’ve not played for a long time. Can I try to see if I remember how to?”

“Be my guest. Do you still want a hot chocolate?”

“Are you having one?”

“If you are,” I say.

His lips curl upwards and then he turns, busying himself opening cupboards and taking out utensils. I watch him for a while, his easy, slow movements, emptying the contents of two cartons into a saucepan, breaking up actual pieces of chocolate into a bowl. I blow on my manicured hands to warm them up and case the joint for photographic evidence of Madame du Pape as I head towards the piano which is pushed up against the far right wall. There’s not a single photo to be spied, however. No wedding pictures, no holiday snaps, nothing. One could almost imagine that there
was
no Mrs du Pape.

I pull out the large stool, sit down and lift the piano lid. I’m a functional rather than brilliant pianist. I did a couple of grades and then gave up because classical music just wasn’t my thing. I’m not bad at improvising though, pop songs and jazzy stuff. I once made a point of memorising the music and lyrics to Coldplay’s
Fix You
as well as a funky jazz party piece. That’s what I decide to play now, the
Boogie Woogie
, because there’s no way I’m going to sing in front of Olivier and the
Fix You
score is nothing without the vocals.

For five minutes I forget where I am, forget whom I’m with and forget I’m a hypocrite. I lose myself in the music, clacking my newly varnished nails as I thump enthusiastically on the keyboard. At first my playing is a splodge of wrong notes as I struggle to remember the chords, but then it comes back to me and I manage to keep a groovy, off-beat base rhythm going with my left hand and some floating, bluesy rhapsodies tinkling with my right until eventually my fingers start to ache and give up.

I swivel to face Olivier. He’s leaning back against the counter at the other end of the room, staring at me. He doesn’t avert his gaze like most people would, caught in the act. He carries right on looking, boring a hole in my head, making my heart thump loud, my insides melt, my cheeks blush like Ambers’. I try to avert my eyes, succeeding for a split second, but a mixture of curiosity and magnetic attraction draws me back, locks me onto his chiselled dark complexion, his full, sensual mouth, his jet-black unkempt mop. I can’t be sure, but I reckon he’s a fair few years older, early to mid-thirties. After what was probably less than five seconds but felt like an eternity, his long black eyelashes blink twice and break the spell.

“You play really well,” he praises. “We can have some fun.” He’s casual, making me think that even if I just considered our eye-locking a ‘moment’, he certainly didn’t. The microwave pings and he opens its door to remove a bowl. He empties the bowls’ contents (thick molten chocolate) into the saucepan he’s already heated up on the hob, stirs vigorously with a wooden spoon and then pours into two mugs he’s set aside, dividing it equally. He walks the two steaming cups over towards me and carefully deposits mine on the flat palm of my hand to avoid burning my fingers. I lower my nose into the cup.

“It smells divine.”

“This is the best hot chocolate you will ever taste,” he promises.     

 “Is it better than your brothers?”

I’m flirting when I know that I shouldn’t.

He raises an eyebrow and feigns mock sibling rivalry.

“Oh, so my brother’s beaten me to it on the hot chocolate?”

“Yes, the first time we met, up the mountain.”

His eyes dance. “I’m not sure I can take the pressure, but I think it’s safe to say that you’ll like this one even more.”

“I’m not convinced,” I jokingly shake my head, “because he put brandy in his.”

Olivier gives me a ‘you’ll see’ nod. As I clasp the warm mug in both hands and lift it to my lips I fantasise that making a woman hot chocolate is some absurd, mountain courtship ritual. In normal, unmarried, single circumstances, the girl picks the boy who makes the best version. I take my first sip, and whilst I don’t mean to give anything away, a reflex “mm” slips out. Imagine a bar of your favourite milk chocolate melted and mixed with thick hot cream and that’s what it tastes like - rich and velvety, the purest, most sensational of liquid molten chocolate, only slightly lighter and frothier. It’s impossibly indulgent, undeniably decadent and tastes like it’s made with pure single cream. The calorie count doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Well?” asks Olivier, awaiting the verdict.

I smile, wagging my finger like I’m ticking off a child.

“Now, don’t let this go to your head, but you’re right. This is superior. I’ll go so far as to say that it’s the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had.”

*****

“Shove up.”

I shuffle to the right and Olivier sits next to me on the piano stool. We’re even closer than that day up the mountain and it’s even more intoxicating. His body is so close to mine that the slightest adjustment would have us touching. I can feel his heat, an electrical charge which makes the side of my leg that’s almost brushing his tingle all the way down. He pulls up his woolly, navy sleeves. “Shall we?” I note the gold wedding band on his dark, manly hands as his fingers hover above the keyboard. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, thinking the sooner he starts playing piano the better, to distract me from this powerful attraction. He crashes both hands down with flair and starts playing his version of the
Boogie Woogie
. It’s slightly jazzier and more sophisticated than mine. I let him play by himself for a while, enjoying watching him, surprised by how good he is. Actually, he’s not just good, he’s very good. It’s snobbish, and I don’t like myself for thinking it, but I wouldn’t have visualised a ski instructor as playing the piano at all.

The rhythm gets to me, my upper torso unconsciously pulsing forward, toes tapping in my shoes. I put my mug down on top of the piano and start trying to improvise a Gerswhin-esque melody line, fluttering my right hand up and down the keyboard in syncopation to Olivier’s beat. For about ten minutes we thump away, cheesy grins on our faces, occasionally catching each others’ eye. We play whatever comes into our heads, changing the mood and key from time to time. Sometimes it works and sometimes it’s a discordant mess, but it doesn’t matter. By the time Olivier eventually tires and crashes a final chord, our bodies are touching all the way from our shoulders to our knees. I don’t want to move, which is exactly why I do. I stand up, to recover my senses and my drink.

*****

 “That was great,” he says. “We must do it again.”

He reaches for his hot chocolate.

“Does your wife play the piano?”

He doesn’t flinch when I mention his wife.

“No, she keeps saying she wants to learn, but I don’t think she’ll ever have the time.”

“Why not?”

“She’s an air hostess with Air France and is always away travelling. Right now she’s in the Maldives.”

I presume that’s why she wasn’t there that night up the mountain, and that’s why she’s not here now. It’s weird. I don’t really want to know about his wife, I don’t want to talk about her, but I can’t help myself. I need to find out. I think it’s unlikely, because there’s no evidence of toys or general kid paraphernalia, but I ask anyway: “Do you have children?”

“No.”

I note he said ‘no’ instead of ‘not yet’.

“How did you meet?”

“I’ve known her all my life. We lived practically next door. We went to school together and even started university together, although I dropped out. I guess I’m a mountain boy at heart. All I ever really wanted was to be outdoors all day, in the fresh air.”

“Were your parents annoyed?”

He laughs.

“No. I was studying philosophy and I don’t think they knew what I’d do with that anyway.”

“So why did you become a ski instructor and not a pisteur like Michel?”

“It pays better and plus, I always fancied teaching.”

He finishes his hot chocolate and places the empty mug on the floor.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he says, “and now I’ve got one for you.”

“Only one?”

“Only one.”

“How much can you find out with one question?”

“That depends on how good the question is.”

“Is yours good?”

“Let’s find out.”

I swallow nervously and smile nervously, scared by what he might or might not ask. For the first time he averts his eyes, not looking back until he’s halfway through the question.

“I hope this isn’t too personal and if it is, then please feel free not to answer, but what I’d like to know is why every time I look at you you’ve got this great big smile on your face but your eyes seem to be so sad?”

Thwack! Smack! Smash! Ace! One hundred and fifty miles an hour! How the hell did this man who hardly knows me notice that?

*****

That’s how Amber enters the room. I didn’t invite her. I didn’t want her here. I don’t like her being here. It makes me uncomfortable. Because if she’s here than I sure as hell shouldn’t be. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laugh at the irony of me sitting here, with a married man who hardly knows me but understands enough to notice that even six months on my eyes are full of grief, because six months is too short a space of time to get over it, to move on, to not stop thinking about her, crying at the loss of her every day. Even Hugo couldn’t have read me
that
well. Or maybe I should cry. Cry at the paradox that the man who is able to see right through to my soul is married. He’s forbidden to me, because he’s married, I’m principled and because I promised Amber.