Weak at the Knees (28 page)

“Oh, Rod, that’s fantastic. Thank you so much, really, thank you.”

“Will you wear it then?”

“Wild horses wouldn’t stop me from wearing this,” I reply, eyes twinkling cheekily.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” he says, grinning.

We both start laughing at the memory of our great sex and my laughter also masks my embarrassment at having been so big-headed to imagine that I was about to receive my second marriage proposal within the space of three days. I hold out my hand and he puts on my present, my very own deep waterproof, cunnilingus indicator, condom-holding watch.

He glances at his own wrist.

“Oh heck, I better get going or I’ll miss my flight.”

On the way back he tells me that I’m most welcome in Sydney any time and he reckons I’d love it there. “You never know,” I tell him, “I might arrive on your doorstep sooner than you think.” I mean, if it really is over with Olivier and if I never do get round to saying yes to Hugo, perhaps a new life in Australia would be just the thing. I take his address and promise to stay in touch.

*****

I’m lying in bed later that night, thinking back over the day’s events with a big smile on my face. Not just because of Rod’s surprise visit and gift, but because after I’d waved him off I plucked up the courage to do something else long overdue. I went to visit Mrs Slater. I’m relieved I did. It was a much-needed catharsis. Whether it works out with Olivier or not, whether it’s happy-ever-after tomorrow or not, whatever it is that happens in France will now be free of emotional Amber baggage.

She was so pleased to see me, even when I admitted to having been back for more than two months and failing to visit in all that time. There was a lemony baking aroma about the house, a smell I so associate with Amber that it made my skin prickle, as indeed did the sight of Pele. It was like Amber was there, everywhere. Mrs Slater made a pot of coffee which we took out into the back garden along with some of Amber’s favourite homemade custard tarts. She asked how I liked my coffee and if I’d enjoyed being a ski rep. I said that I like it black and that I’d had the time of my life in France. Then I asked if I could tell her a story.

Once upon a time, I said, a girl called Danni had a best friend called Amber. When they were fourteen they watched a film together, which was about a married man who had an affair with an American woman. When it had finished the friend Amber burst out crying because it had reminded her of how her father had deserted her and her Mum. She made her friend Danni promise never to end up with or get involved with a married man and she made Danni repeat the promise almost a year ago, in the Royal Free Hospital, before she died. But the problem was, Danni turned out not to be much of a friend at all because she met and fell in love with a married Frenchman and broke her promise to Amber. And even though that married man has a baby on the way and Danni came home with her tail between her legs, that feeling of letting Amber down and disappointing her never went away.

“So,” I said. “Do you think Amber’s turning in her grave? Do you think she hates me for everything I’ve done? If I was to go back and in the unlikely event end up with this man, do you think she would ever forgive me?”

Mrs Slater had brushed away one tear after another with the back of her hand as I told my story. Before answering she blew her nose and wiped her sad eyes dry. She looked beautiful as her mahogany hair caught the early evening sunlight.

“Danni, the only thing Amber would want is for you to be happy. I’m sure of it. She’d never have wanted you to torture yourself this way. She loved you too much. You were like a sister to her and she would have forgiven you everything.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I really do.”

“But don’t you think what I did was wrong? I feel embarrassed even talking to you about this, but Mr Slater left you for another woman and if this man left his wife for me it would be exactly the same. Wouldn’t I be doing a terrible thing?”

She placed her hand on my forearm.

“Much as I wish my story had ended differently, the only advice I would give to you is that you’ve only got one life. It’s too short to live with regrets. You’ve got to do what you think is right.”

We both started crying quite hard at this point, me in particular, sniffling away, reminiscing about Amber.

“I can’t believe it’s been almost a year,” I said.

“Me either.”

“There’s not a day goes by when I don’t think about her. I used to hear her speaking to me before I got involved with this man.”

“I’m sure she’ll speak to you now, if you want her to.”

I smiled wetly.

“I hope you’re right. I miss her so much, Mrs. Slater, so, so much.”

“I know you do,” she said, hugging me. “I know.” 

I’d have expected not to sleep. I’d have expected to have tossed and turned, head full of what-ifs, playing out different scenarios as I broke into a cold sweat. Bizarrely though, I’ve just had my best night’s sleep since coming back from France, a whopping ten hours in all. It’s nine in the morning. We’re leaving in an hour for the airport. Quite surprisingly my mother has asked if she can take me. I accepted the offer, most gratefully.

I feel amazingly calm as I pack a few bits together. I feel calm at the thought of confronting Olivier and finding out the absolute truths for once and for all. I feel strong and able to deal with whatever’s thrown at me. I’ve decided I can’t feel any worse than these last two months since returning home. Whatever the outcome, at least all the questions that have been racing around my head will be answered. Why didn’t Olivier tell me? When was he planning on telling me? How long had he known? If his wife hadn’t been pregnant would it have made a difference? I’m not sure where that last question takes me. Even if he admits that it would have made a difference, it’s too late now. All it will do is to make me feel better about myself and reassure me that I haven’t been imagining what the two of us had together. In twelve hours’ time, one way or another, there should be no more unfinished business. At least, that’s the plan.

That’s the only part of the plan I’ve really sorted. I’ve thought nothing else properly through. There’s a whole load of logistical details that could go horribly wrong. For starters, he might not even be there. Worse still,
she
might be there or they might
both
be there. I’ve not organised anywhere to stay and I won’t arrive till early evening. I’m going to hire a car from the airport, so worst case scenario is that I sleep in that. I refuse to let any of these details worry me though. I’m going to suck it and see. Whatever, there’s no way I’m going to call to warn him I’m coming. I want to catch him unawares, to get the most honest reaction possible.

I’m wearing what I consider to be my lucky outfit – my flare-bottom jeans with a tight-fitting white t-shirt. They’re the same clothes I had on when we first kissed and the same clothes I had on the first time we made love. I’m also taking his baggy navy crew-neck sweater which I grabbed as a keepsake just before leaving. I’m not taking it to give back, but to keep me warm on the plane. I won’t need it when I’m out there. It’s mid-summer and should be hot, dry and dusty. I’m travelling hand-baggage only, making no assumptions about what the resolution will be.  

“Danni,” Mum calls from downstairs. “We’ve got to leave in half an hour. I’m going to do some weeding at the back of the garden, but I’m expecting the milkman any moment. Could you answer the door for me when he rings? I owe him money and have left it out on the kitchen table.”

“Okay,” I call back.

My mother’s an avid gardener. Our postage-stamp size patch of green is her pride and joy, but sadly her passion hasn’t rubbed off on me in any way. The only thing I think gardens are good for is to lie in. I’m a self-confessed sun worshipper. That’s probably why I dislike England so much, because there’s rarely any sun to worship. I’ve just double-checked I’ve got my passport, euros, toothbrush and clean underwear when the doorbell rings. I dash downstairs, dump my bag and fetch the change my mother left in the kitchen. I open the door with a smile, expecting to see the milkman, but then freeze when I realise it’s not the milkman after all.

“Hello Danni.”

So much for the word ‘shock’ having been eliminated from my vocabulary! My jaw drops and my eyes stare unblinking. My clenched fist holding the milkman’s money subconsciously opens, jangling the mass of coins onto the floor. What the hell is
he
doing here and how did he know where I live?

*****

“Michel,” I finally gasp, gulping for air like a fish out of water. “What are you doing here?”

He smiles nervously.

“Sorry I didn’t call to warn you, but there is something I must tell you.”

This man’s never been to England and after our last contretemps he can hardly be here on a social. If he’s knocking at my door with something to tell me, it can only mean one thing. Anything else and surely he would have picked up the phone. There must have been a terrible accident. I feel giddy and want to throw up.

“What’s happened?” I whisper.

I’m scared and don’t actually want to know the answer. I’m a jinx, a curse on everything I touch and everyone I love. Michel reads my panic and puts his hand on my upper arm. 

“It’s ok, it’s nothing bad,” he reassures.

A glaze replaces my gaze. If it’s nothing bad, then do I really want to see this man who was truly horrid to me the last time we met? He’s already left a bitter taste in my mouth and I don’t want him putting any more spanners in the works. I look at my new diver’s watch which dwarfs my wrist. I’ve only got twenty-five minutes.

“Come in,” I say frostily. I walk into the kitchen, without even checking he’s behind me. I can see my mother through the kitchen window. She’s at the back of the garden, weeding on her knees wearing a heavy-duty pair of green gloves.

“Tea or coffee?” I offer.

“Tea please,” he smiles, “because I’m in England.”

“Earl Grey or regular?”

He looks at me blankly. I get out the PG tips and put the kettle on. I have no intention of telling him where I’m going, but he has to know that I don’t have long.

“Listen,” I tell him, motioning for him to take a seat. “My mum’s taking me to the airport in twenty minutes.”

“I don’t need long.”

I cast him a stony look.

“What have you come to say?”

“I owe you an apology,” he starts. “I should have come sooner, because there’s something you should know. Actually, there are two things you should know.”

He pauses, for effect. My heart’s pounding. I encourage him to hurry up with my eyes, because the suspense is unbearable. He draws a long breath, bracing himself.

“My brother’s wife was never pregnant and he has left her.”

*****

I stand catatonic for an age, letting what he just said sink in. It’s simultaneously beautiful and ugly. Why did Michel lie and why, if it’s the truth, has Olivier not contacted me? Underneath my composed veneer a bubbling rage is starting to surface.

“Sorry?” I finally spit, low and controlled. “I’m not sure I heard you right.”

“I think you did.”

“So you lied to get me to leave?”

“Actually, no, I didn’t lie,” he sighs. “It’s a long story.”

I nod for him to continue.

“His wife had come to me in confidence a couple of weeks’ earlier, suspecting him of having an affair and asking if I knew anything about it. I’d reassured her that I thought it was most unlikely and had heard nothing. Then his wife asked me whether, if she was pregnant, Olivier would stay with her even if he’d been planning on leaving her. I told her yes, I did think he’d stay.”

“And you told me she was pregnant based on that conversation?”

“Yes, although I shouldn’t have. She’d asked me to keep it quiet because she hadn’t told Olivier yet.”

“So why did you tell me, if it was confidential?”

He looks away, embarrassed.

“Because I wanted you to leave,” he confesses. “I couldn’t bear the thought of my brother being unfaithful, least of all with you.”

“So when did she tell Olivier she was pregnant?”

“She didn’t tell him,” he pauses. “I did, the night after you left.”

I must remember never to tell Michel anything in confidence and oh no, that means Olivier hadn’t known a
thing
about her being pregnant before I walked out, without so much as leaving a note of explanation. This does not make me look good. Why on earth would he have thought I’d left?

“Did you tell him I’d left because you’d told me his wife was pregnant?”

He focuses on his cup of tea.

“No, I didn’t want him to know that I was responsible for you leaving. I just told him I knew what he was up to and that I’d found you in the house and you decided to leave for your own reasons. I told him it would be best to leave you alone and that he better do the right thing by his wife and sort his life out.”

“But you said his wife was never pregnant?”

“That’s right. It all ended up being a lie, to hang onto him. That’s one of the reasons he left her.”

“Why else did he leave her?”

Michel looks me directly in the eye.

“He left her because he was in love with somebody else.”

Then he
was
in love with me, but why hasn’t he been in touch?

“When did all this happen, when did they split?”

“About six weeks ago.”

Six weeks and I’m only hearing it now, from the
wrong
Monsieur du Pape.

“Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

He looks downcast and apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Danni. I’m not proud of myself. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you and Olivier to get back together. You know how I feel about you. The longer I didn’t tell you the easier it was to leave it. And I thought I was doing the right thing and that he’d get back with his wife.

“So why are you telling me now?”

“It kept going over and over in my head, making me feel more and more guilty. I could see that Olivier was really suffering and I started to think that maybe the two of you really could make a go of it and that I shouldn’t keep you apart just because of how I feel about you. In the end it was driving me so crazy there was only one thing for it. I had to come to see you to tell you the truth.”

“But Michel, if Olivier’s left his wife, why hasn’t he tried to contact me himself?”

“That’s a good question to which I don’t know the answer. You’ll have to ask him.”

I check my watch. Five minutes left. I glance out the window. Mum’s at the end of the garden, tying up two full green bin liners. I turn back to Michel, a mountain rescuer, whose very presence in the kitchen of my parents’ white, terraced Hendon house is somewhat incongruous. I can’t decide whether to slap him for not owning up sooner or to kiss him for bearing such potentially life-changing information. I opt for the latter, walking over to where he’s sitting and leaning over to kiss his forehead.

“Thank you for coming all this way, Michel, and for having the courage to tell me.”

He shrugs his shoulders apologetically.

“I just hope you’ll forgive me. And if you do ever see my brother again, which I hope you do, please don’t tell him I told you any of this. He doesn’t know I’m here and he still doesn’t know that I was responsible for you leaving in the first place.”