Weak at the Knees (22 page)

I shrug.

“I don’t think so. Birthdays are no big deal and twenty-seven is hardly one of the big ones.”

As far as I can see, twenty-seven is one to forget. It’s getting dangerously close to thirty and my life is still not exactly sorted. He rubs it in.

“There’s only three more years to go until you join my decade! Look, forget about it being your birthday. Let’s just say we’ve got an evening to spend together to do something a bit different. What would you like to do then?”

I’m not brave enough to ask what’s going to happen to us in ten days’ time, to ask whether he’s going to have left his wife by then, or whether he’s expecting me to stay on as his bit on the side. But perhaps I won’t need to. Because if I can summon enough courage to tell him exactly what I’d really like to do for my birthday, his answer will probably tell me all I need to know. There is something, one thing, I’ve been desperate to do since we got together, but it’s not been possible seeing as our affair has to be kept secret. It doesn’t seem much to ask and for most couples it’s the simplest thing to do. I can’t bear to look at his face, to see his expression or to read his reaction, so I fixate on our fingers instead, making pretty puppet patterns.

“Actually, there is something I’d like to do for my birthday,” I say. “I’d like to go out and eat at a restaurant, just you and me.”

He’s silent for the longest moment. His fingers stop moving and so, it feels, does my heart. I’m still focused on our two clasped hands when he answers.

“Do you know how difficult that is for me Danni?”

His face is tight and serious when I look up and drown in his clear blue stare. I nod, but say nothing. I can barely breathe. It feels like the question mark hanging over our relationship and future has just jumped off the page, quadrupled in size and wrapped itself tight around my windpipe.

I have to say, despite a consummate belief that my birthday would be so completely memorable (for all the wrong reasons) that I’d want to forget it, it ended up being somewhat of a mini-triumph. It began with Gina singing happy birthday in French and walking into my room at the crack of dawn bearing a plate loaded with a candle stuck in the middle of a pain aux raisins. Then she gave me my present, outrageously bright pink Lejaby lingerie. I was modelling the halter-top and panties, twirling this way and that in front of the mirror, admiring the perfect fit and audacity of the colour, when my mobile rang. Gina answered and handed me the receiver. At eight in the morning I assumed it was my mother, but it wasn’t. It was Rod. It came as quite a surprise. We hadn’t spoken for three months and I’d almost forgotten he’d ever existed. He hadn’t had a clue it was my birthday, it was just a timely coincidence.

“G’day Denny,” he drawled, and then launched into the real reason he was calling without wasting any time on small talk. “My season finishes a bit earlier than yours because we’ve run out of snow in Austria. I was wondering about popping over to Montgenèvre to see you and give you your watch.”

I told him it was a nice thought, but wouldn’t work for a number of reasons, and instead suggested we could arrange to catch up another time. Much as I didn’t want to see him right now, it was still nice to hear from him and served as a very pleasant ego boost.    

Mid-afternoon, Olivier came round, insisting that skiing was passé and it was time to get me onto a board. Part of my birthday present was two hours of private snowboarding tuition by him. I had no real desire to do it, fully aware that as a beginner you spend more time on your backside than on your feet, not much of an incentive for someone who’s only recently become secure on skis. But the gesture was nice and at least we would be seen together in public, which was a step in the right direction. I was, as expected, woefully unnatural on the board and spent more time falling forward onto my wrists than plopping backwards onto my behind. The only way I managed to make it down the slope in an upright position was with Olivier holding my hands and steering. An alcoholic beverage to numb my senses and make me forget my vow to never strap my feet onto a board again, was very much in order. We’d just ordered two gin and tonics when a couple of my teachers entered the bar and asked if they could treat me to say thank you for a wonderful week. I couldn’t say no, and so we ended up sitting with them for over an hour. Olivier seemed to actually be enjoying himself, making an effort to speak pigeon English. Because of Olivier’s wedding ring and because I wear a Russian wedding ring on my fourth finger (an 18
^th
birthday present from Hugo) one of the teachers referred to Oliver and I as ‘husband and wife’, praising us on being such a lovely couple – an error which went uncorrected, mainly because I like the sound of it too much.

I still had no idea what we were doing later and had decided on a wait and see approach, before getting my new pink knickers in a twist about the fact that Olivier had no intention of ever leaving his wife. My birthday evening felt like make or break. What we did or didn’t do would answer my question for once and for all. I was preparing to be angry, preparing for waterworks, preparing to feel bereft. Only that never happened, because he didn’t let me down, because we
did
go out to eat. He took me to this gorgeous hideaway of a rustic mountain restaurant, supposedly the best in the col. It was packed and he knew the patron. We were also spotted by a couple of his acquaintances and seeing as everyone knows everyone around here within at least a thirty kilometre radius, he was clearly taking a big risk. We had a memorable evening. He gave me the wine list and I picked a Châteauneuf-du-Pape. We shared my first raclette, a traditional mountain dish where a special cheese is held near a flame and melted slices are served alongside boiled potatoes in their skins, garnished with pickled onions and gherkins. It might not sound much, but it was truly delicious. We took our time, savouring the ambience, food and wine, which reinforced my understanding of how the French live to eat and the English often eat to live. After the meal he gave me my present, a book of
Abba Gold
piano music, because he’d remembered that I liked Abba, and he’d even remembered that
Take a Chance on Me
was playing when we first kissed. Then, after the waiter had served us two Irish coffees, he put his hands on the middle of the table.

“Danni,” he said, “we need to talk.”

My jaw suddenly tightened, full of tension. I had a horrible feeling I wasn’t going to like what I was about to hear.

*****

“Ma biche,” he said, wearing his serious face.

I nodded, heart thumping and palms getting moister by the second.

“I don’t want you to imagine for one minute that I’ve not been thinking about our future.”

My expression remained blank but my actions said it all, my middle finger never leaving my mouth as I chewed the sides of my nail away.

“I know your work finishes in a weeks’ time and I know that you have to vacate your flat too. I know it’s up to me to do something about it and I’m sorry that I’ve not been particularly proactive. But this is serious Danni. If you hadn’t come along then perhaps I’d still be happy with what I’ve already got. Before I met you I thought I had everything. So you’ve got to be honest with me and honest with yourself. If I’m going to leave my wife, which won’t be an easy thing to do, then I need to be sure that this is absolutely what you want. Not just for the next couple of years, or until you get bored and decide you want to go back to London, but for good.”

The tension in my jaw disappeared as my incisors released my finger. This was going better than I’d dared to hope.

“Olivier, I promise you this is absolutely what I want. I’ve never felt like I belonged in England and I love it here in France. As far as the future goes, all I can promise you is that right now I know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

I thought about saying ‘don’t put the onus on me.’ He’s got to leave his wife because he wants to, not because I’ve given him cast-iron life-long guarantees. Besides, in my book nobody can say forever for sure. Amber said we’d grow old together, and have children at the same time. She didn’t mean to lie, it’s just you can’t always predict the future. But I didn’t tell him any of this in case it gave him cold feet.

“It’s just that you’re so young and you’ve still got your whole life ahead of you,” he said, repeating what he once told me at the beginning of our relationship. “This is a very different life than the one you’d lead in London.”

“Even if twenty-seven really is young,” I smiled, “I’ve got an old head on these shoulders. I wouldn’t have got involved with you in the first place unless I’d thought these things through in some way. I want to work, but I’m not overly ambitious. I’m after a quieter life than in London, and most importantly I want to be with you. But I’m not going to stay here as your mistress. I’m not going to stay unless you leave your wife.”

He took my hands in his and said he’d never expected me to do that for a minute, that he wanted to be with me too. He told me to leave it with him and to trust him. He told me that he and his wife routinely ‘did diaries’ and that a while back they’d both agreed to take the next week (my last week) off, so that they could spend some time together. They weren’t going anywhere, but Olivier couldn’t possibly get out of it. Besides, he needed that time now to sort things out. He warned me that most probably we wouldn’t get to see each other much over the next seven days, but not to worry, he’d call and it would all be for the best. We’d got the bill and gone back to my place where he wasted no time in undressing me, praising my new pink lingerie and duly dispatching it to the floor. After we made love, I fell asleep with a contented smile, feeling safe in the wrap of his arms.

*****

I haven’t seen or spoken to him since. Unless I do very soon, I’ll be going home tomorrow. I have no choice. Every day since my birthday I’ve jumped when the phone’s rung, be it my mobile or landline. Every day since my birthday I’ve been that little bit more disappointed that it wasn’t him. Every day since my birthday I’ve stood on the balcony sporadically, praying that I’ll see his black VW Golf winding its way towards the resort. Every day since my birthday he’s not come.

I know why he’s not called. I know why he’s not come. It’s his father. He had a heart attack the day after my birthday. He was rushed to hospital and the prognosis isn’t great. The reason I know is because Alexandre told Gina and Michel has taken indefinite time off work. But Olivier hasn’t called to tell me and because he hasn’t called, I don’t feel I can call him. He knows where I am if he wants me.

I feel crushed. Squashed and deflated. I still have a tiny glimmer of hope, a tiny part of me that dares to believe this can still have a glossy, Hollywood ending. I’m like a hot-air balloon that’s running out of gas. At the moment I’m still trying to gently float down to a safe landing, but with every minute and hour that passes, I’m gaining velocity. The ground looks ever closer and dangerously hard.

Gina finds me on the balcony. She thinks I’m staring at nothing in particular, but I’m not. I’m focusing on every single car that comes up the road, trying to make every Peugeot, every Renault and every Citroen morph into his VW Golf.

“I’ve got something for you Dan,” she says.

Her right hand is clutching the pair of psychedelic leggings I gave
her
to cheer her up when Pierre brought their brief dalliance to an untimely end.

“I want to make you happy and am hoping these will do the trick. It worked for me. I now consider these lucky leggings.”

I smile ruefully, as if the gift’s a booby prize. Gina’s always been so positive about me and Olivier. I’m praying that she hasn’t swapped sides, because if
she’s
lost hope, than maybe I should too.

“Do you think the leggings can give me my happy ending?” I ask.

“I hope so,” she answers.

My chest sinks even further towards my ribs. It’s certainty I’m after, not just hope.

“He’s not going to come, is he?” I say.

“You’ve got no idea what’s happened,” she’s ever the diplomat. “His father might have died, it might be impossible for him to get away. There might be a very good explanation for why he’s not contacted you. It doesn’t add up. None of it does. Him taking you out for your birthday, the conversation you had. There is still hope.”

“Do you really think that?”

“Yes, I do.”

It shouldn’t matter what other people say or think, because deep down, we all know what our own truth is, even if we don’t want to believe it. But Gina’s words of encouragement give me false hope and make me feel better. I take a deep breath and pull myself together.

“Right then,” I say, “let’s go skiing one last time to, to say goodbye to these mountains.”

We put on our ski gear and helmets and head for the slopes, battling through the late season thick slushy snow the locals call
la soupe
. As I say a mental goodbye to the pistes on our last run down, I’m not quite sure if it’s goodbye for now, or just plain goodbye.

*****

We spend that evening alternating between packing and saying au revoir to a constant trickle of visitors, locals who seem genuinely sad to see us go. Half the mountain rescue team are present (Alexandre is desperately trying to get Gina to reconsider) as is half of ski school. Olivier is notable by his absence. My cheek muscles are already tight from pulling a fake smile all night when the doorbell rings, at 10pm. I rush to get it, full of hope and want to cry when I see who is there.

“Salut Michel.”

I try to hide my disappointment.