Weak at the Knees (8 page)

It’s the beginning of December and an Australian, a fellow rep called Rod, is picking me up to take me to the French Alps for our training week. I’d clocked his accent and fair hair straight away at the training weekend a fortnight ago. He was Amber’s type through and through. So even though I really should have travelled with this lovely girl called Gina who will be my live-in colleague in Montgenèvre (also blonde and really reminds me of someone but I can’t work out who), I’d wangled it so that Rod would take me instead. 

Mum, Dad, Hugo and I are all standing at the front door, watching Rod as he parks his white Volvo hatchback outside my parents’ house. Hugo’s face drops when Rod gets out the car. All of a sudden he’s regretting ever giving me that kick up the backside, encouraging me to move on. A real-life Crocodile Dundee wasn’t the ‘on’ he had in mind. Hugo does not look happy. Even though he’s pretty tall and pretty handsome, ‘pretty’ is the word that sums him up. It would be fair to say that he’s verging on the effeminate. Rod, on the other hand, is all man. He’s taller, broader, with dreamily defined triceps and blond ringlets that brush his shoulders. As Rod approaches, Hugo squares up to make him feel taller.

“G’day everyone,” chirps Rod, with a lazy ease. “You all set Denny?”

“Yep, I think so. I should get Brownie points for following your instructions so to the tee. Look!” I exclaim, pointing to my luggage. “I can’t believe how impossibly light I’m travelling.”

Rod casts his gaze towards my three bulging rucksacks, one giant-sized suitcase, boot bag and skis and raises his eyebrows questioningly, clearly at odds with my definition of travelling light. If bag carrying were an Olympic sport, he would win gold. He scoops up my booty in a flourish, two rucksacks over his right shoulder, third rucksack and skis hooked on his left elbow, giant suitcase in right hand, boot bag in the left. Hugo and Dad watch on, sheer incredulity and emasculation preventing them from offering to help.

“Right then,” says Rod, so comfortable with his load that he can even turn his wrist to look at his watch. “We’re running a bit late, so I’ll pack this lot in the car whilst you say your g’byes. Nice meeting you all.”

“I better get going,” I grin broadly. My expression is the opposite of everyone else’s. I feel happy, like I’m doing the right thing for the first time in ages and am setting off on a new adventure. The rest of them look downcast and downtrodden. I turn to Dad and give him a tight hug. “Have a great time my love,” he tries to keep his tone light, “and try not to break anything.”

I nod.

Then it’s Mum’s turn. She’s finding this difficult. Mrs Slater just lost her daughter and my mother probably feels like she’s losing hers. Even though I’m sure she knows how lucky she is in comparison, that at least her daughter is
coming
home, it doesn’t make her loss feel much easier. She dabs her eyes before pulling me into her chest. “I’d never have let you borrow my car that day if I’d known this was where it would lead to. Please make sure you come back safe and sound.”

I nod again.

Hugo’s looking bereft, like he’s scored an own-goal and I empathise. He’s been there for me through thick and thin and now this. He has to watch me drive off with a stranger who’s the antithesis of him and clearly a threat. I give him an extra special squeeze. “Be safe,” he whispers.

Now they’ve all said it. “Be safe.” The simplest, most basic, most human of desires for someone you love, made especially pertinent by the recent loss of such a young life. Safety can never be guaranteed. We’re all walking on wobbly tightropes.

“I’ll do my best,” I whisper back, then give them all a lasting, cheeky smile, walk down the garden path with a skip in my step and settle into Rod’s less than clean, battered motor. At 5pm on December 5
^th
everyone waves as Mr. Billabong, five pairs of skis on the roof-rack and I motor away. As we pass Amber’s house I bid farewell to the concrete memory of my friend and keep her spiritual side with me as we head towards Dover.

*****

I steal a sideways peek at the man behind the steering wheel, admiring his physique and toned t-shirted arms. He’s wearing an elaborate diver’s watch. Hugo has something similar, but it’s all fake macho, because even a Mum doing the school run in a Land Rover stands more chance of one day using her vehicle for its actual purpose.  

“Do you dive?” I ask

He checks his watch.

“Yes, it’s one of my passions. I’ve just come back from diving in Eilat as a matter of fact.”

“Did that watch come in handy there?”

“You bet. It stays waterproof even fifty meters below. I’ll have you know that this is no ordinary watch though. If you’re very lucky I might show you what it can do sometime.”

We lapse into a silence during which I wonder what Rod makes of me. I’d thought carefully about what to wear, being honest enough with myself to realise that I actually wanted to make an impression. I’d settled on mixing and matching ski and street fashion. All Saints dark jeans, flatform Skecher trainers suitable for snow, a tight-fitting black jumper and a navy Quicksilver fleece knotted over my shoulders.

Rod checks the time as we bomb down the M20. Our channel crossing’s booked for in an hour’s time. “We’re going to miss our ferry if we don’t speed up.” As he accelerates I note a police car in the left-hand lane. Our speedometer is pushing 95 mph.

“Maybe you should slow down,” I warn him. “There’s a car full of coppers up ahead. I’m sure it’d be fine if we caught the ferry scheduled after ours.”

“Nah Denny, we’re alright. I can do whatever speed I like in your country because your police can only fine people with a British address and seeing as I don’t actually live here, I’m kind of untouchable.”

Rod’s knowledge of this legal loophole is impressive – I wonder if even Hugo knows this. We speed cockily past the police car and as we do I point towards my driver and mouth: “He’s Australian!”

It’s delinquent, juvenile behaviour, admittedly, but I don’t care. I feel light and carefree which makes such a pleasant change from the constant overwhelming feeling of heaviness - heavy in the heart about Amber and heavy in my relationship with Hugo. For once I want to be wild and reckless, let my hair down, live life a little, love a little and not look back at my life constantly thinking ‘what if?’ Because something like your best friend dying makes you realise that life’s too short.

*****

Whenever I arrive in France, even if it’s only the northern coast, Calais or Boulogne, I get excited. It may only be a thin stretch of water dividing our country from theirs, but everything feels so much sexier to me as soon as I hit Gallic soil. Driving on the other side of the road, the architecture, French road signs, shop names. So far, because I was in charge of getting us straight to the motorway and mistakenly took us through Calais instead (map reading isn’t my forte) we’ve passed a boulangerie, a boucherie, a pharmacie and a supermarché. We’re now driving parallel to the TGV high-speed railway line. To me, the fact they’ve
got
the TGV across their whole country and we still don’t, says it all. Their whole system is fuelled by more energy and adrenaline than ours. Even their language is faster and perhaps a spot of living in the fast lane will do me good.

It’s past midnight. We’ve already been driving on the right-hand side for a couple of hours, but it’s not till now that I get really excited, because I can see Paris in the distance. I spent a year there as part of my university degree and fell in love with the city. Amber and I had the best weekend there ever when she once came to stay. She’d taken the train from Rome, which is where she was at the time. We’d covered every inch and bridge of the city on foot. The pedestrian Quartier Latin, the students’ district, the left bank, the right bank, Boulevard Haussmann, the Louvre, the Musée D’Orsay. We spent an hour in the beautiful gardens of the Rodin museum, taking photos of each other by the famous statue, trying to replicate the thinker pose - squatting, with an elbow on one knee, looking still and contemplative.    

“Ooh,” I squeal, pointing to what, in the distance, resembles a twinkling giant wedding cake. “Look, it’s the Sacré Coeur.”

Rod quick-glances in the direction of my pointing digit, squinting.

“The what?” he asks. 

“Do you see that illuminated building at the top of that hill? It’s a famous church in Montmartre which is my favourite place in the whole of Paris. It’s the artists’ district, where Toulouse Lautrec used to live. It featured in
Moulin Rouge
, an Australian-made film starring Nicole Kidman. Did you ever see that?”

“I did. I loved it.”

“I thought it was off-the-wall genius. Come think of it, you make lots of great movies.” After a little contemplation I name a string of Australian movies, all colourful and original. “
Strictly Ballroom
,
Muriel’s Wedding
,
Priscilla, Queen of the Desert
,
The Dish
…”

“You’re a bit of a movie buff, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I reply. “My best friend and I used to go to the cinema religiously, every Saturday afternoon.”

Talking about Amber is dangerous territory. I want to bring her up in conversation, to keep her memory alive. It’s just that it all still feels unnervingly raw and painful. I don’t want to cry. I’ve already cried for China, enough to flood the Yangtze. I want to move on. But as Paris fades into the distance I go quiet and start reminiscing about my best friend. At first they’re nice thoughts, happy together in Paris thoughts. Then the sad, missing her desperately, why did it have to happen ones start seeping in. A lone tear is about to plop out my left eye when I hear her. Don’t cry, she says. Be happy. This is going to be a fantastic adventure. I’m here. I’m watching you and at last I can see you’re developing good taste!

To shield the fact that I’m on the brink of losing it I start rummaging around in the plastic bag of goodies we just stocked up on from a French service station. I’m not in the slightest bit hungry or thirsty, but it works as a distraction.

“So,” asks Rod whilst I’m still rummaging, “do you speak fluent French?”

“Pretty much,” I reply, returning to upright, clasping a packet of biscuits in my right hand, surreptitiously wiping my slightly moist eye with the other.

“I wish I could speak another language.”

“You already do,” I joke, putting on an accent. “It’s called Austryyyyyyy-lian.”

“Very funny,” he pulls a face.

“I thought you had to speak another language to get the job.”

“Only if you’re a rep, but I’m a ski guide, so it’s less important. Plus I’m going to be working in Austria, where they all seem to speak good English anyway. So,” he changes the subject, “was that your other half back at your house?”

“Oh, you mean Hugo,” I reply casually. “No, he’s my ex.”

Hugo had gone crazy when I’d told him about the job. He said I was running away and needed to stay in London, face the music in London and learn to live without Amber in London. I, on the other hand, was absolutely certain I was doing the right thing putting a healthy distance between haunting Amber memories, Hugo and myself. Besides (although I didn’t tell him this) getting a job had been his great idea in the first place, so he was hardly in a position to criticise.

“Care to enlarge?”

“Not really. Only that he’s very much an ex.”