Weak at the Knees (29 page)
“I’ll see what I can do.”
My mother bustles in, snapping off her green gloves and saying that we’d better get a move on. Then she realises we’ve got company.
*****
I introduce them without explaining the relationship between Michel and Ohhhleeeaveeeeay. Michel charms her, saying she looks more like my older sister than my mother and even encouraging her to speak French. She manages an anglicised version of ‘merci beaucoup’. We drop him off at the local tube station and en route he tells me that he’s going to be staying with his ex-fiancée Jane for a few days. When he gets out the car, he asks where I’m going. I double tap my right nostril secretively.
“Michel,” I call after him as he walks into the station, “how did you get my address by the way?”
“Alexandre,” he shouts back.
*****
Mum’s abnormally subdued as we head for the airport. It’s probably my fault. She started off upbeat, saying Michel seemed like a very nice young man and asking why he’d come. But why he’d come was all so raw and exciting to me that I wasn’t ready to share it yet. So I’d said that he had something to tell me and then we’d lapsed into silence. We exchange nothing of any significance the entire trip.
Heart 106.2
keeps us entertained and its weather bulletin promises that London will soon be in the grip of an unlikely heat wave.
“I hope you don’t miss the hot spell,” says my mother.
“Oh, you never know,” I reply airily, not daring to tempt fate.
“Have you spoken to Hugo yet?”
“No, I thought I’d do that when I come home.”
Whatever happens, I still will have to come home. I’ve only got the clothes I’m wearing and one fresh pair of knickers. My head’s geeing up for the big meltdown from mum, who must be wondering whether Hugo will get a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. She pulls up outside Departures, undoes her seatbelt and turns to me.
“Regardless of what you might think, Danni, all I want is for you to be happy. I’m sorry if I’m always putting pressure on you about Hugo. I don’t mean to annoy you, it’s just I love you so much and-
“It’s okay,” I say, hugging her.
“If this is what you want, then I hope it works out for you, I really do. Your father and I can always come out for holidays and it gives me a good excuse to learn a foreign language.”
She clears her tears with the back of her hand. I pull away to undo my belt and then hug her again.
“Thanks Mum. That means a lot to me.”
There are tears even in my eyes as I get out the car, sling my rucksack onto my back and wave goodbye.
I might have been calm back in London, but now that I’m here and have parked at the end of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape track, I’m anything but calm. My heart is pounding loud in my ears, my hands are clammy and my stomach’s tied in more knots than a giant bag of pretzels. I’ve parked at the end of the track because I plan to use the walk and the fresh air to prepare myself. I take it slowly, kicking loose gravel and soaking up the dry heat and quiet. The mountains loom towards my left. They look wilder than they do in winter, snow now replaced by coarse foliage. Mountains can often seem ominously silent like sleeping giants, but this is a whole new level. They might have seen it all before and thought they knew how my story would end, so are they surprised to see me again? If only they could speak to me.
On the plane I kept playing different scenarios in my head. He’d open the door, initially startled expression turning to happy or shocked, angry or even sad. I imagined what I’d say and what he’d say and kept thinking up clever lines, hoping to remember them. But now that I’m approaching the final bend, a stone’s throw away, my mind’s gone blank. I can’t remember any of the scripts I prepared earlier. All I know is that I spent two months dreaming of an apology from Olivier for lying to me all that time and having had no intention of leaving his wife. Now though, I’m aware that it’s
me
who needs to apologise to
him
, for not trusting him and for not believing in him. Why on earth he thinks I left, Christ knows. I take a deep breath, drawing courage as well as oxygen from the air.
“Good luck,” says a voice in my ear.
I stop, turning full circle, but there’s nobody there, as I knew there probably wouldn’t be.
“Good luck,” says the voice again.
“Amber?” I whisper, tilting my head up to the sky. “Is that you?”
I feel warmth on my right shoulder and lift my hand to touch it.
“Thank you Amber,” I whisper, “you’ve no idea what that means to me.”
I take another deep breath and carry on walking. No sooner do I turn the corner than Asterix bounds towards me, barking and wagging his tail. I kneel down to stroke him and then look up to see if his master is about. And there he is, standing, leaning back against the outside wall by the front door, smoking a cigarette and staring.
*****
I smile weakly. His face is blank and gives nothing away. My heart’s skipped so many beats it’s a miracle I’m still upright as Olivier’s gaze bores a hole in my head and makes my legs tremble. Close-up he looks as beautiful as ever, as wild as the mountains and more unkempt than before, boasting a good few days’ worth of midnight shadow. Somehow it makes his eyes appear even bluer and more piercing. I look right into them, trying to read what’s going on his head, but glean nothing. I lean back against the wall next to him, pleased for the support.
“Salut ma biche,” I say, turning my head to him.
He’s silent. He looks straight ahead, ignoring me and dragging deeply on his cigarette, making me nervous. How I wish he’d rush me off my feet, spin me around and welcome me back with open arms instead.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I continue, undeterred. The truth would be preferable, that Michel told me his wife was pregnant and that’s why I left. Only I don’t want to land Michel in it. He did, after all, come all the way to London. “I made a whole load of assumptions,” I continue, “that I shouldn’t have made about your wife. Something happened which I can’t explain. Anyway, I didn’t believe that you would ever leave your wife, so I decided to go before I got hurt. I now know I shouldn’t have. I now wish I hadn’t.”
He draws on his cigarette again, long and hard, before finally deigning to look at me.
“I have left. My wife, that is,” he says simply.
I’m about to say that I know, but I check myself, because I’m not meant to know. Instead I ask the key question that’s been bothering me.
“Why didn’t you try to tell me then?”
“I assumed from the way you left in such a hurry and without leaving any numbers or explanation, that you didn’t want to be contacted. I kept hoping that
you’d
try to get in touch with
me.
When you didn’t, I thought it was best to leave you alone. I felt bad enough about ruining my wife’s life and didn’t want to be responsible for destroying yours as well. I’ve already done far too much damage.”
“Looks like we both made wrong assumptions then,” I say.
He turns his whole body towards me and looks me straight in the eye. He’s now close enough for me to melt in his proximity, to drown in his eyes and to remember why I’d missed him with every fibre and ounce of my being.
“So why have you come back then ma biche?”
He called me ‘ma biche’. Surely that means I’m forgiven? I suddenly remember one of the lines I prepared earlier.
“I left a couple of things behind in my hurry to leave,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“Well, the first was my birthday present.”
“And the second?”
The second line sounded better in my head on the plane, but I’m going to go for it anyway, even though it’s a tad corny.
“The second thing I left behind,” I say matter-of-factly, “is you.”
Asterix has started circling around our feet, barking. Perhaps he too has seen
You’ve Got Mail
and knows the canine role in the kiss at the end of the movie. I’m waiting for Olivier to play his part in my glossy Hollywood finale, but it would seem he hasn’t seen as many sickly sweet movies as I have and hasn’t picked up on his cue. If it takes much longer I shall have to prompt him. Then at long last, even though I don’t hear it, the Director must have yelled ‘Action’.
LA FIN
When Jo was ten years old she wrote a short story about losing a loved one. Her mother and big sister were so moved by the tale that it made them cry. Having reduced them to tears she vowed that the next time she wrote a story it would make them smile instead. Happily she succeeded and with this success grew an addiction for wanting to reach out and touch people with words. Jo lives in London with her husband and three children where she works as a TV and print journalist. She tells life stories and can often be found travelling the globe researching the next big holiday hotspots for readers to enjoy. Since becoming a mother anything even remotely sad makes her cry. She's a sucker for a good romance and tear-jerker movies are the worst. She's that woman in the cinema, struggling to muffle audible wails as everyone else turns round to stare. P.S Jo's pretty certain one of her daughters has inherited this gene.
P.S I think one of my daughters has inherited this gene.
If you’d like to know when new books are released and to see the playlist for Weak at the Knees please drop by my website
http://www.jokessel.com
Also by
Jo Kessel
Lover in Law:
One Last Thing...
Thank you for taking the time to read
Weak at the Knees
. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. When you turn the page, Kindle will give you the opportunity to rate the book and share your thoughts through an automatic feed to your Facebook and Twitter accounts. If you believe your friends would enjoy this book, I'd be honoured if you'd post your thoughts and put a review on Amazon or Goodreads or wherever else you like to go to find books. If it turns out to make a difference in their lives, they'll be forever grateful to you. As will I.
best
Jo
