Weak at the Knees (15 page)

I don’t want to tell him, in case I end up crying, but I give it a go. I tell him about my best friend who was like a sister to me dying six months ago. I tell him her name, bringing it out into the open. He says it’s a very pretty name. I tell him how wonderful she was, how close we were, how I believe she’s looking down on me, is with me always. And that pushes me to the brink, makes my eyes well, because if Amber’s looking down on me, then she can see me now. I look down so he can’t see my tears, and catch the time on my watch and gasp with horror. It’s 12.30pm. I’m so late that I’ve already missed lunch in the Club de Vacances and Gina’s sure to be annoyed that she’s had to cover me for so long should any of my group have had an accident.

Olivier drives me back to Grain de Beauté. I thank him for the hot chocolate and the piano. Then I scuttle out of the passenger seat like a frightened rabbit, without so much as even giving him a kiss goodbye. It’s not until I get into Gina’s car, turn on the ignition and put my newly manicured hands on the steering wheel, that I decide to blame Grandma for leading me to a path of temptation. I mean, if she’d never mentioned the hands thing, if I hadn’t remembered it when I saw the beauty salon, most probably I’d have just driven on by. I’d have never bumped into the cheese shepherd, never have met his master, never gone to his home, never ever have actually let the thought of doing the unthinkable slip idly into my thick skull and tickle my membrane like an itch.

I am contrite, ready to eat humble pie ad nauseam, as I drive back up the mountain. Who was I to judge Gina so, to get on my high horse so, to transfer my sense of morality onto her so, when I can see for myself how easy it is to be tempted. Although the line of adulterous temptation isn’t one that I think I’m prepared to cross, that’s a decision I can only make for me, not for her. She’s free to do as she pleases. I can see how hard it could be to resist, how easy it could be to be weak in the face of attraction. Amber’s ethical code and my ethical code, our sense of right and wrong doesn’t have to match Gina’s. That doesn’t mean I should like her any the less for it. She’s a free spirit, a free agent. I’ve always hated judgmental people, so it’s best not to turn into one.

It’s 1.30pm when I get back to the flat. I’m an hour and a half late, fully expecting to be shouted at, fully expecting Gina to still be in a foul mood, to be angry with me, like I was with her when I left. As I shut the door quietly I’m relieved to hear the sound of humming wafting in my direction. More curiously, so is the smell of liquorice. I walk towards the kitchen.

“Gina?”

“I’m cooking,” she trills.

So she is, looking the part, standing by the stove, sporting a floppy white chef’s hat just like Pierre’s, stirring a wooden spoon in a  large saucepan. She floats a smile at me. By the look of it this morning’s argument is the last thing on her mind. I temporarily forget the plea for forgiveness I’d prepared in the car.

“What on earth are you doing?” I ask.

“What does it look like?”

I peer in the pan. It’s loaded with thin, round carrot slices. They’ve been tossed in butter and are splattered with little black bits. I walk to our corkboard and point to the relevant line on our schedule.

“I see what you’re doing, what I’m interested in is why? Look,” I point to the printout, “it says here ‘
no cooking allowed in flat unless v. special circumstances
’.”

She raises a defensive palm in the air.

“That’s right,” she says. “Note
very special circumstances
. Now don’t say anything, but Pierre’s coming round for dinner tonight. I know you don’t approve, but it’s my life, so please try not to interfere. I’m after a bit of fun, not marriage.”

I take a deep breath. Saying sorry when part of you still doesn’t totally agree isn’t easy.

“I understand if you never want to forgive me after the things I said this morning,” I start, “and I know I was totally out of order. You never asked my opinion, so I shouldn’t have given it to you. A lot of the stuff I said was about me, not you. I was bringing a whole load of my own personal baggage to the table which I’d rather not go into right now if you don’t mind. Maybe one day I will, but for now I just hope that we can still be friends and that you’ll forgive me some time this century.”

Gina opens her arms out wide.

“Definitely still friends,” she says, welcoming me into a hug. As we sway back and forth in a girlie embrace, I catch another glimpse of the carrots.

“So, is Pierre vegetarian?”

“No,” she says. She holds
Sauces for Seduction
under my nose, opened on a page entitled ‘Anise’. “I thought I’d try something from it.”

“But this isn’t a sauce.”

“No, but it is apparently an excellent aphrodisiac. According to this, carrots tossed in butter and fried with aniseed is ideal foreplay food.”

“Can I try?”

“Please do. I’d like to know what you think.”

I take a fork out the draw, spear a lone carrot and chew thoughtfully, like John Torode in
Masterchef
. I decide they’ve been given way too much heat and aniseed, but circumstances dictate it would be more politic to lie.

“Mm,” I say, “they’re delicious. Sure to drive Pierre wild.”

“Really?”

I laugh.

“Really,” I reassure her.

She stirs the orange mass one last time and switches off the hob.

“By the way, Danni, where did you go, why are you so late?”

I’m flummoxed. I don’t want to lie and I don’t want to tell the truth. I’m working out how to not commit either way, about to show her my manicure, when I’m saved, quite literally. There’s somebody at the door.

*****

It’s Michel, who greets me with a kiss on each cheek.

“I can’t stay long,” he says, “I just wondered if you would like to come for a drink tonight.”

I hesitate. I fully intend to vacate the flat for Gina, but going out with Michel tonight when I’ve been sipping hot chocolate with his brother today, feels a little odd. Whatever, I suddenly remember that I don’t need to think up an excuse.

“Sorry, no can do. My group’s playing Broom Ball at 8pm. I need to be there to referee.”

“What’s ‘broom ball’?”

“It’s like ice-hockey, only using household brooms instead of sticks and trainers instead of skates. It’s lethal but fun. At least the children like it anyway.”

“And after Broom Ball are you free?”

“No, it usually finishes quite late. Can we maybe do it another time instead?”

It crosses my mind that I should say something about bumping into his brother earlier, but I decide against it. Even though there’s nothing to hide, I instinctively feel that I should keep quiet about my trip to the Châteauneuf du Pape. But what if Olivier doesn’t keep quiet? What if he tells Michel? Michel’s going to come back to me and ask why I didn’t mention it. Christ, this is exactly why it’s not worth getting involved with a married man. It’s messy already and there’s nothing to be messy about!

Michel’s about to leave when he stops, inhales deeply, pauses and then sniffs again.

“Have you two girls been on the Pernod?”

Pernod is a French spirit made from aniseed. It’s an acquired taste and is mixed with water to make a drink, served in a tall glass. I can see from Gina’s expression that she doesn’t want Michel to know what she’s up to.

“Not us,” I say. “We can’t stand the stuff. Must be Pierre cooking something up next door.”

*****

Exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster of the day, I go to my room and lie on my bed.

“Danni.”

Gina’s voice sounds slightly odd as she calls my name.

“Yes?” I call back.  

“Danni?”

Gina calls again.

“What do you want?” I call back again.

Gina speaks from the other side of my shut door. “Dan, are you okay in there?”

“I’m fine. What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“You must do, you keep calling my name.”

“No I don’t. I haven’t said a word.”

“Yes you did and you were loud too.”

“I promise you I didn’t. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Forget it. I must be hearing things.”

The floorboards creak as Gina moves away from the door, but the voice calling doesn’t stop. This time it’s quieter and more directly in my ear: “Danni?”

My heart starts thumping.

“Amber, is that you?” I whisper. As usual, when I speak to her, I look up. This time I see ceiling instead of the sky and there’s paint peeling off it.

Silence.

“Amber, please say something. Let me know you’re there.”

“I’m here.”

Silence. I can’t bring myself to speak. I know why she’s come.

“I saw you today.”

“I know you did,” I speak quietly.

“What do you think you were doing?”

“I can imagine how it might have looked, but I promise you, it’s all under control.”

“That’s not how it looked to me.”

“Yes, well, looks can be deceiving. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Well, I hope you’re right.”

I want to lighten the mood.

“But you’ve got to admit Ambs, he is pretty gorgeous and he does have the most amazing blue eyes.”

“I’ll give you the gorgeous, especially the eyes. But he’s married Danni.”

“I hear you Ambs. How are you anyway?”

My ceiling’s peppered with unsightly cracks, so I hope that’s not where she is.

No answer.

“Amber, are you still there?”

No answer again. I’m guessing she came for one reason and one reason alone. She came to deliver her message of warning. Now that’s been done there’s no need to stick around. I bury my head in the pillow and try to snooze.

*****

The next morning has started badly. First I caught Gina and Pierre in bed together. Next I realised I could barely walk. My body is one major ache, pain and bruise from being roped into playing broom ball as well as refereeing last night, because one of the teams was a player short. I’m standing at the boulangerie kiosk, starting to feel a little bit brighter thanks to the glorious sunshine. I’m alternately digging for change in my jean pocket and rubbing my bruised right thigh, when this soft, sexy voice wafts towards me, sending a shiver of pleasure down my neck.

“Salut ma biche.”

I know who it is without looking, but I turn anyway and instantly wish I hadn’t because I blush crimson again at the sight of him. My heartbeat has accelerated faster than a Lamborghini. I look down to check if my furry friend is there too.

“No cheese shepherd today?” I ask.

Olivier’s eyes twinkle at me, melt me.

“No, Asterix has to stay at home when I’m working.”

“He’s a beautiful dog,” I say.

My head is telling me to scuttle off, out of harms way, but my feet are firmly planted and unwilling to move. Olivier looks at his watch. “I have to go, I’m late, but I’m pleased I caught you. There’s a big ski school meeting at 5pm and my last lesson finishes about four, so I was wondering about popping by for a drink if you’re free.”