A Heart Bent Out of Shape (8 page)

‘What will you do?’

‘I’ll end it.’

She went then, closing her door softly and going back into her room. Through the wall Hadley heard her door shut, and then a creak as she settled on to her bed. She sat for a moment, in the halo of lamplight, listening. But no more noises came from next door. No trilling telephone, no whispered secrets. She read back over the words that she had written before Kristina came to see her. They were flat and lifeless. She crossed them out, with fierce black lines.

seven

On Saturday afternoon Hadley walked down the hill into town. It was a pert October day: a pale sun, the slightest bluster of cloud and breathtakingly cold. She shivered in the mackintosh that she had bought as soon as her grant money cleared. With its nipped-in waist and stiff collar it gave her the continental air that she wanted. Unusually, for a weekend, Hadley was on her own. Just as she had said, Kristina had gone to Geneva to see Jacques. Her story had touched Hadley, for it was far-fetched enough to be perfectly true. She saw how when she spoke about Jacques the hazel flecks in her eyes shone amber and her lips pursed as if to kiss. Hadley had never seen anyone look so hopelessly in love. She decided that she’d buy Kristina some chocolates to brighten her spirits, to tell her that, through it all, life was still sweet. After all, she had no real advice to offer, no broken-hearted tale to share in return.

The streets were full of Saturday shoppers and there was a pervading air of grace about them; all sharp cheekbones, smartly tipped hats, and silk scarves tied with a flourish. Even their purchases seemed elegant, a
Tarte aux Pommes
in a slim white box, a pair of pointy-end baguettes, peeping from a basket. The lapdogs were out in force too, bumping at their owners’ ankles or tucked into the crooks of arms. Hadley weaved between them, her quick pace taking her nearly all the way to the waterfront.

Chocolaterie Amandine
had the air of an old-fashioned dispensing chemist, with a glass-topped counter and wooden shelves crowded with packets and jars. The smell inside was less sweet than she might have imagined; it hung heavily in the air, the kind of aroma you felt you ought to be able to see and feel. A bell had announced her arrival but the lady behind the counter was busy with an elderly gentleman. He appeared to be selecting chocolates one by one, ruminating on their taste and compatibility.
Merveilleux!
she heard him exclaim, as the last chocolate finally took its place in the gift box. He turned around with some satisfaction at that point, and Hadley saw his face. As he noticed her, a ripple of pleasure crossed it.

‘Hadley,’ he said. ‘You’re still here.’

‘I am,’ she said, ‘I’m in Lausanne for the whole year.’

‘Perhaps you told me that when we spoke. I fear I’m forgetful.’

‘You remembered my name.’

‘So I did. And I’m not really forgetful. I like to play at being elderly sometimes. It gives one terrific liberties.’

‘Well, Hugo Bézier, I remembered yours too.’

‘I’m immensely flattered. Now, where is your ebullient friend today?’

‘Off being ebullient in Geneva.’ As she said it, her lightness felt like a betrayal.

‘I don’t care so very much for
Genève
. You were right to stay behind.’

‘Who are the chocolates for?’ she asked.

‘What? Oh these?’ He regarded the box in his hand with a mildly quizzical expression. ‘They could be for you.’

‘Is that what you mean when you talk about taking liberties?’

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘I’m actually buying chocolates for Kristina. Said friend. What do you recommend?’

‘The selection of chocolates is a fine art.’

‘I noticed. You were taking your time about it. A true old master.’

His smile stirred. ‘Please, take these,’ he pushed the box gently into her hand. ‘I rarely eat them. I just enjoy choosing them.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Please. I’d be delighted.’

‘Do you mean them for Kristina?’

‘They’re for you.’

‘But would you mind, if I gave them to her?’

‘I think perhaps I would.’

‘No one’s ever given me chocolates like that before. Randomly, I mean. A stranger.’

‘A random stranger? I’m not sure I appreciate that description.’

‘Thank you, Hugo. Really.’

‘
C’est un plaisir
,’ he said, bowing a little.

‘Okay,’ said Hadley. ‘But I still need to pick some out for Kristina, though. Maybe you could help me choose?’

‘I’d be delighted.’

In the end they selected pralines that were shaped like rose blooms. Nine of them, placed in a perfectly square box and tied with a red ribbon. Once outside the shop Hugo bent and kissed her three times. The left cheek, the right cheek, the left again.

‘The Swiss way,’ he said.

‘Are you going for one of your cognacs now?’ she asked.

‘Certainly.’ He looked at her, his eyes as dark as treacle. He doffed his hat as he turned. ‘I’d ask you to accompany me,’ he said, ‘but I fear that
would
be a liberty on my part.’

She watched him walk slowly off in the direction of the Hôtel
Le Nouveau Monde. Before he was gone from sight she took the lid from the box he’d given her and popped a chocolate in her mouth. It was curved like a seashell and dissolved on her tongue, as sweetly as a kiss.

Hadley didn’t see Kristina until later that evening. She heard the jangle of her keys and the scrape of her door just as she was lying on her bed reading. She gave Kristina a few minutes then went out and tapped on her door.

‘Kristina!’ she called.

There was no answer and she tapped again.

She heard muffled steps and then Kristina appeared in her nightclothes. Thick woollen socks, leggings and a long sort of T-shirt. It bore a picture of a
pierrot
, the mournful-looking clown of French folklore, perched on a moon. Stars pricked the sky behind him.

‘Hello,’ Hadley said, ‘are you going to bed already?’

Kristina leant against the doorframe and shut her eyes for a moment. Her lids were dusky pink. ‘Geneva,’ she said. ‘I said I’d go and I did.’

‘And?’

Kristina shook her head. ‘The usual.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t control a thing in my life, you know, Hadley. Everything just happens to me.’

‘And Jacques . . .’

‘He said he loves what we have.’

‘But, that’s good, isn’t it? Sort of?’

‘It’s not the same as loving me, is it?’

‘Did you say that to him?’

She scratched the side of her arm, absently. ‘I tried to,’ she said. ‘But, Hadley, he’s very difficult to resist, in a lot of ways. I mean, I’ve been with him all day and I’m exhausted, completely exhausted.’

Hadley’s face must have moved – maybe her eyes widened, or the corners of her lips twitched into something like a smile – because Kristina flapped her hands and laughed, suddenly not seeming very tired at all.

‘No, I don’t mean that! I don’t mean that! But yes, of course, that
too
.
But emotionally he’s so exhausting. He puts it all on me. He says it’s up to me if we carry on or not.’

‘But isn’t that good? To be in charge of your own destiny?’

‘I’m not though, am I? Love doesn’t work like that. Anyway, I want to be wanted. Isn’t that what everyone wants? Isn’t that what you want?’

‘I wanted to cheer you up,’ said Hadley. ‘I got these for you.’

She held out the box of chocolates. Kristina smiled sadly, and shook her head.

‘Oh, Hadley, you’re such a sweetheart. But I can’t take them. I don’t deserve them. I always knew what I was getting into. It’s all my own fault. You know what? I’ll never tell him this but I will tell you. The first time I saw Jacques, I thought he was the most handsome man in all the world.’ She paused. ‘And he made me feel like the most beautiful woman.’

‘Why wouldn’t you tell him that?’

‘I don’t know. Because I’m me. I doubt I ever say what I really mean. I talk rubbish, half the time.’

‘That’s not true. Kristina, please take the chocolates, I chose them for you especially.’

‘And you’re so sweet, but you keep them,’ said Kristina, her voice thick with a yawn. ‘It’s my mess, isn’t it? I’ll just have to figure it out. Look, I need to sleep now, I’m so whacked. See you tomorrow, though? At lunchtime, maybe?’

Hadley went back to her room and plonked down on her bed again. She removed the bow from the box, and the little circular sticker that sealed the ribbon. She took a chocolate and held it between her finger and thumb. It was shaped like a rose, with dark shining petals. Kristina seemed to move in a slightly different realm to the rest of them: a romantic dash from one foreign city to another, to face the truth of an illicit love affair. That kind of thing didn’t happen in Hadley’s world. As to Kristina’s own judgement of herself, whether the words she spoke were straight as arrows or a parade of shiny white lies, Hadley didn’t over-think it. She wrapped the chocolates up again and set them carefully on her desk, to give to her another day.

Kristina and Jacques continued to see one another, and Hadley watched their romance from the sidelines. Sometimes Kristina’s cheeks were sore from crying. Other times it was as though she was angry. Her face had a stiff set to it, her jaw tightly clamped.
You know what he said, that he ‘thinks he’s falling in love’ with me. What does that even mean? You either are or you aren’t. It’s just the idea of me, so no matter what I do I can’t change how he feels, because you can’t do a thing about someone else’s ideas. You know?
And Hadley didn’t, not really. Once Kristina said she blamed Lausanne. She said she’d had no idea that Jacques would be just along the lake in Geneva; their fates were entwined, their fortunes running too close together.
Maybe I should just go
, Kristina said,
I could transfer to Paris or Lyon, or back to Copenhagen, I wouldn’t even care. Anywhere but here
.
But
Hadley saw her come back from days in Montreux, her eyes shining sea-blue and in her hands a clutch of shopping bags bearing the names of designer boutiques. She talked of dinners in the vineyard villages where they sipped champagne from crystal glasses and afterwards a helter-skelter drive down the narrow, winding roads. And one day she wore a new necklace, a piece of jet on a twisted golden chain. She sat in the kitchen at Les Ormes, unconsciously turning it between her fingers, touching the cool edges of the stone to her lips.

‘I’d hate it if you left,’ said Hadley, watching her.

‘You’re the only reason I’d stay,’ said Kristina, her face serious, and Hadley knew then that it was true. Only the finest thread held Kristina in Lausanne.

She tried not to be jealous of the time that Kristina spent away. Perhaps she would have minded less if Jacques weren’t so much of a figment; to her he was just an idea of a person, not quite real at all, for Kristina only ever spoke about him in tantalising snatches, shrouded with mystery. When Hadley found herself alone, which seemed to be more and more often, her thoughts frequently turned to Joel Wilson. Her own figment. And just as Kristina did with Jacques, she kept him for herself. Not that she would have known what to say to Kristina, but somehow Joel was proving himself important. She knew Kristina would have liked his lectures. The drama he bottled and served them. The importance and the frivolity, as he talked about the ache of old sorrows then the dangerous beauty of a grass-green glass of absinthe, all in the same breath. It would have been fun, winging their way into class together, talking it all over afterwards, with cigarettes and martinis, as the rest of the day fell away behind them. But their studies took them in different directions and some part of Hadley revelled in this. For all the pleasure she took in sharing, there was something to be said for a secret.

Hadley let the American Literature course shape her early weeks, and colour her days. She read everything Joel recommended, seduced by his telling of the Lost Generation, their stories of post-war abandon and excess. The broken men and brittle women, days eased by love affairs and the swill of liquor at the bottom of a glass that never empties. She read of cafés with steamed windows and smoke-clouded corners, and the writers who wrote in them, ensconced in full view, courting attention and flaunting their notebooks. She read of jaunts to the races, wild horses with rippling necks and flying manes, and the reckless, hopeful gambles of men. She read of whole towns, gripped with frenzy, the narrow-hipped bullfighters who pranced at the very edges of death, the startling emotions roused in all those who could stand to watch. She read about the fast kisses and desperate clinches, the mistresses and the masters of nothing, the women who could melt a man just by looking at him, the men who could drive a woman to madness just by turning away. She read about the ill behaviour of expatriates, people suspended in time, taking the best of a place and giving it their worst. She read of Paris and Antibes, no more than a train ride away from Lausanne; so easily she could imagine tucking into a carriage and flashing along the lake, through the mountains then into the flat lands and all the russet and emerald of a French autumn. She had never been to Paris, much less the South of France, but who needed them anyway? Lausanne was like a blend of the two, with its expansive boulevards and frosted buildings, exotic sprays of palm and silver stretches of water. Hadley thought of those last rain-sodden pages of
A Farewell to Arms
, the torrents of sorrow, and wondered why more stories weren’t set in the shine of Lausanne.

In class, when Joel talked of the great literary traditions of expatriates, she pictured her and Kristina tripping about the city together; pleasure seekers, in every sense. Sometimes she replaced the image of Kristina with that of Joel. She saw his arm draped around her shoulders, a dauntless smile at his lips. She imagined them sharing Lausanne’s secrets with each other, and in this way her imagination ran on and on until, eventually, it ran out.

eight

‘It’s beautiful, right? If you like that sort
of thing?’

Joel was standing at the window of his office with his hands in his pockets. His view took in the sweep of university lawn; the lake appeared like a distant silver thread, the mountains were lost in mist. Hadley was sitting in the low and sagging guest chair, watching him.

‘Who wouldn’t?’ she answered, scrabbling for an elegant posture in a chair that seemed intent on defying it.

She was there for a tutorial, but so far their conversation had darted around, and was yet to settle on the topic of her essay. She kept glancing at the clock, conscious of the limits of her time-slot, but Joel seemed oblivious to any such constraint.

‘It’s easy to feel like an outsider here, is what I mean,’ he said. ‘Too much of the picturesque and nothing seems real.’

She didn’t think of Joel Wilson as a temporary resident. You wouldn’t catch him wrestling with maps on blustery street corners, or passing the wrong coins over a
boulangerie
counter. She imagined him in a lakeside apartment, the walls lined with bookshelves and a jazz record turning on an old-style player. It would be the kind of place that a woman could only hope to leave traces in; a silky pair of pants caught just under the foot of the bed, a single earring beneath the bathroom mirror. No children, no dog.

‘Could you imagine living your whole life in a place like this?’ he said.

‘Very easily,’ she replied. ‘I thought I’d feel like an outsider here and I don’t.’

‘Really? You don’t?’

‘Well, do you?’

‘Absolutely. But I’ve never really minded that.’

‘I only wish I didn’t have to count the days. There’s a date stamped on my residence permit, it says when I have to leave. Do you have that? I hate it. Every day I’m reminded that I’m only here temporarily. That it won’t last.’

‘Maybe it’s good to be reminded of that from time to time. Carpe diem,
non
?’

‘I guess so. That’s a nice way of looking at it, anyway.’

He moved away from the window and took the chair opposite her. Hadley’s eyes strayed beyond him, her attention caught by a poster on his wall. It was in the same style as the postcard she bought in the alpine village, that flat-painted vintage look, proclaiming all the joys of leisure, the golden age of travel. It offered up a world that was both superficial and of substance; one made of primary colours and sunshine and the Swiss Riviera. Striped parasols marked the lake shore, blue mountains rose up from behind fuzzy-headed palm trees, and turreted hotels were beatific and imposing.

‘I like your poster,’ she said.

‘Oh, that? It was here when I came. They put it up to welcome me.’

‘That was nice of them.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘I’ve a postcard in the same kind of style.’

‘Of course you have,’ he said, ‘it’s the perfect world. Tempered with distance, of course; we know that nowhere is as blissful as all that, so obviously our admiration is a little tongue in cheek.’

‘I use it as a bookmark. I don’t need a poster, because all I have to do is look out of my window and the view is just as beautiful as anything that a doe-eyed artist might paint.’

‘Is that right?’ he said. There was amusement brewing, showing in crinkles either side of his eyes, and at the edges of his mouth. It gave him a roguish but amiable look. ‘I’m going to have some trouble with you, I see. You’re one of those romantics, aren’t you?’

She laughed. ‘At my age, it’d be sad if I wasn’t.’

‘Why did you want to come here? To Lausanne?’ he asked her. And she knew already that she’d give him a real answer.

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

She hadn’t meant it dumbly, and she could tell by the way he looked at her that he didn’t take it that way.

‘Because someone thought I couldn’t. Maybe a little bit because of that. And they were probably right to, because, God, I’d never thought of doing anything like this before.’

‘That’s a good reason. But I doubt it’s the only one.’

‘Oh no?’

‘You wanted to try on a different life,’ he said. ‘You liked the one you had but you couldn’t help wondering if there was more out there.’

‘How do you know that? I mean, why do you
say
that?’

‘And is there? More out there?’

‘I think there might be,’ said Hadley, trying not to smile.

His eyes fixed on hers and they were like two blue marbles, the pupils sharp as a cat’s. She blinked.

‘You didn’t like your college back home, did you? Sorry, your
university
?’

‘Oh, I did,’ she said, ‘I liked it well enough.’

‘But you thought it’d be the start of the rest of your life and it wasn’t.’

‘Do you do this to every student, this mental examination? And anyway, shouldn’t we be talking about my essay?’

‘No. And yes.’

Hadley looked away first. ‘Okay. You’re right. It wasn’t what I thought it’d be. I stayed at home, you see. I went to my local university. I thought it’d feel different and it didn’t.’

‘And yet it brought you here.’

‘It brought me here.’

‘Now I feel a terrible sense of responsibility,’ said Joel.

‘You’re doing okay, so far,’ she said. ‘I mean, I love your course. It’s all I can think about. All I want to read is Hemingway.’

‘A common complaint.’

‘I didn’t expect to come to Switzerland and fall in love with an American.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘Writer,’ she added quickly. ‘An American writer.’

He made her a coffee after that. He handed it to her in a chipped brown mug that she curled her hands around, self-conscious suddenly, as she brought her lips to its rim. He studied the opening pages of her essay.

‘
An End to Love in the novels of Ernest Hemingway
,’ he read. ‘You could write twenty essays on that. But make sure you talk about beginnings too. The beginnings were always fabulous.’

Her tutorial ran over, twice the length of her scheduled slot, and she left knowing exactly what she wanted to write about. A Swiss boy with smooth dark hair and rimless glasses was sitting on the plastic chair outside Joel’s office. He was next in line and looked up expectantly as Hadley came out, a crease of irritation showing in his brow.

‘Sorry,’ she smiled, ‘he said you can go right in.’

She held the door open and he stalked through, his satchel spilling books. She heard Joel say, ‘Marcus, take a seat,’ in a voice that conveyed no particular enthusiasm, one that was, perhaps, imbued with the lightest dash of disappointment.

‘We don’t have long,’ she heard him say, ‘so, let’s get to it.’

Two days after her tutorial, Hadley saw Joel Wilson again in the English Language Bookshop just off Place de la Riponne
.
The store was a recent discovery of hers. It had no particular air of romance, no creaking floorboards or towering stacks of antiquarian books, but it possessed a
je ne sais quoi
, a certain something that meant she couldn’t quite keep away. Perhaps it was the extensive Hemingway and Fitzgerald collection; the whole back wall housed shelf upon shelf of American Literature, and Hadley always lingered longest in this section. She ran her fingers down the spines lovingly, as though she could glean the secrets that lay within by touch alone. She was holding a copy of
A Moveable Feast
when he came in. She had planned to meet Kristina there but she had arrived early, and as the bell on the door clanged she looked up, her face set to a smile. Joel Wilson stepped inside and smiled back. The wind outside had thrown his hair across his face and he patted it down.

‘Well, look at that for a welcoming smile,’ he said.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said, ‘I actually thought you were someone else. I’m meeting my friend here.’

‘Ah, so that explains the expectant look. You should be more careful where you train that thing. Took my breath away, Hadley Dunn. What’s that you’ve got there?’

Hadley held up
A Moveable Feast
.

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t read it?’

‘Of course I have,’ she said quickly, without adding that she had only read it that summer, and until then she hadn’t known how full of ‘Hadley’ the book was. She remembered the exact moment when she read the line where Hemingway said that he wished he had never loved anyone but her. Her mouth had dropped clean open, and she’d felt a tugging in her chest. Just because everybody said it was flawed, didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Faced with Joel Wilson, all she could say was, ‘I’m buying it for my friend.’

‘You are?’ She noticed the creases at his eyes as he smiled. They deepened as he laughed.

‘What is it?’ she asked, smiling with him.

‘Oh, nothing. Just, I used to give that book to any girl I ever dated. If she liked it then I knew we were on the right road. If she didn’t, well, game over. It was a juvenile sort of a test but the results were pretty foolproof.’

Hadley turned the book in her hand. ‘So you didn’t want to be with anyone who wasn’t exactly like you?’ she said.

‘I was eighteen, and stupid with it.’

She pictured a young Joel Wilson, smooth faced, slighter of build, perhaps, but with the same deep dark eyes, the same flickering blue. And the same slow drawn smile. That Joel hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m nineteen and I’m giving it to someone because I like it. And if she doesn’t, then that’s fine too.’

‘It’s a romance, you do know that, right? A poetic imagining.’

‘I thought it was sort of a memoir.’

‘A pretty picture of one, that’s for sure. Or not-so-pretty, if you ever got on the wrong side of him.’

‘I love all the lounging about in cafés. The way he talks about the mountains. And Shakespeare and Company, which just sounds too perfect to be true.’

‘Well, that probably all happened. And we could get on a train and go to Shakespeare and Company right now.’

‘It still exists?’

‘It definitely does. What else do you like?’

‘The way he writes about writing. What it takes, and what it gives back.’

‘What about the way he writes about love?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Hadley, ‘that’s harder. Will we be studying it, as part of the course?’

‘What,
A Moveable Feast
? Or love?’

‘According to you, you can’t have one without the other.’

He laughed. ‘Touché,’ he said. ‘While we’re on the subject, I enjoyed your essay, Hadley.’

‘Did you?’

‘It was very good.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, then, ‘it really helped to talk it through with you. I enjoyed writing it after that.’

‘I could tell. Now I’ve read the whole thing, my only problem’s with your title, “An End to Love”. I was expecting something suitably world-weary, but you didn’t write that kind of essay.’

‘I didn’t want to write that kind of essay.’

‘You find hope, apparently, in the most unusual places. I like that,’ he said, ‘keep it up.’

The owner of the shop tapped Joel on the shoulder then, and Hadley carried on browsing. She felt herself glowing, inside and out. She glanced back, watching as Joel fell to speaking in garrulous French. She realised that when he spoke the language, he pouted, his lips appearing softer and more pronounced. She laughed suddenly, and turned quickly back, hurrying to a different part of the shop.

‘Oh what, you don’t like my French?’ he called after her.

All she could picture was the way his lips pursed, how he cocked his head to one side with a whole new set of gestures. She pretended to leaf through a different book, as irrepressible laughter came in waves.

‘So, you think I’m ridiculous?’ he said. His voice was close to her ear and she turned around slowly, regaining composure. In his hands were two carrier bags bursting with books that he must have ordered. Hadley looked into his face and inexplicably wanted to laugh again.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s not you, it’s me. It must be the altitude. It’s making me hysterical.’

‘Women,’ he shook his head, his face creasing with amusement. ‘I’ll never understand them.’

She watched him as he left, thinking about the way he’d said ‘women’ and not ‘girls’. She noticed the way the shop owner was looking at her, and she smiled and turned away. She felt a little drunk. When the door clanged again she half thought it was Joel coming back in, but this time it was Kristina.

‘Oh, you’re here already,’ she said, ‘I thought I was early.’

‘You are, I was just
really
early.’

‘What is it? You’re grinning like a maniac.’

‘Oh, I’m just pleased. I found what I was looking for. I wanted to get you this.’ Hadley handed her the copy of
A Moveable Feast
.

Kristina’s cheeks coloured. She glanced away. ‘Oh, Hadley, I’ve already got it.’

‘You have? I thought you said you’d never read any Hemingway?’

‘Well no,’ said Kristina, shifting on her feet, ‘I haven’t before, but you’re always going on about him so I thought maybe it was about time that I did.’

Hadley thought of Joel Wilson and his once-upon-a-time girl test. She loved knowing that about him. People so rarely offered the small details of their lives.

‘Well, did you like it?’ she said.

‘I haven’t really started it yet,’ Kristina said. ‘I keep reading the first few lines then something always happens to distract me. I just can’t get into it.’

Hadley bit down a smile. She imagined Joel saying ‘fail’, and maybe writing a note in a pad, a cross next to a name.

‘Not everyone likes Hemingway,’ she said, taking Kristina’s arm. ‘I’m glad I checked before I got it. Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ll buy us some
vin chaud
instead.’

A little over a week later, she saw Joel Wilson at the city baths. Hadley had taken to swimming in the evenings, and she liked the atmosphere of the pool. People chatted in the shallows and loitered at the sides in couples and small groups; it was Lausanne’s watery indoor meeting point. Often Kristina joined her, but sometimes she changed her mind and went to see Jacques instead. That night the two of them ran into each other just as Hadley was leaving her room.