‘Go on.’
‘I’m suspended for a year. Then I need a psychologist’s report to get back in.’
‘What happened?’ My emotions had done a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. Sarah had experienced some sort of crisis and didn’t feel she could tell us, not then, and not in a fortnight on the road. She’d surely told Bernhard. And at this moment, I was living every parent’s fear. Don’t let it be drugs.
‘Technically…drugs.’
‘Shit, Sarah.’
‘I was having trouble concentrating and I thought maybe I had ADHD. So I got some Ritalin…’
‘Speed.’
‘It’s an accepted treatment for ADHD.’
‘So why didn’t you get a prescription?’
‘I should have, obviously, but I just wanted it for the exam, and I didn’t expect…’
‘To get caught.’
‘Snitched on by someone who thought they’d have one less person to compete with.’
‘What does your psychologist think?’
‘He was happy for me to do the walk. Thinks I’m too focused on my study and achieving and stuff.’ She laughed. ‘I’d love him to try telling Mum that.’
I shut up and we walked for perhaps fifteen minutes in silence.
‘He was right. My psych. The walk’s good. It’s screwing up the marathon training, but I’m feeling better. And it’s nice to help Camille. She’s struggling more than she lets on—she says she doesn’t have physical symptoms, but she’s lost confidence in her balance. It’ll come and go, same as the cognitive degeneration.’
‘Do you know much about MS?’
‘A bit. I read up and I’ve done more since. Online.’
‘Who’s going to pay if you walk on?’
‘I was hoping you might. But if not, Bernhard knows how to do it for just about nothing. He’s a lot smarter than you think he is.’
‘I’ve never doubted that he was smart.’
‘And we’re not in love or anything. We’re friends.’
‘I’ll think about it tonight.’
‘Dad, sometimes you just need to do what you want to do. This is the first time I’ve been happy for ages.’
The épicerie in Bramans was closed on Thursday afternoons—naturally—so Zoe’s organic ingredients, artfully stretched by Camille, were needed after all.
We sat in the falling light outside the fitted-out tent that was our shared accommodation, rugged up against the alpine cold. I held Zoe’s hand and wondered how to support Sarah without infantilising her, and let her do what made her happy without forgetting that it could change, and that in the past she’d had trouble coping when it did. I’d told Zoe about Sarah’s suspension, but not her intention to walk on. If she decided to stick to that, she could tell everyone herself.
I fell asleep thinking about something else Sarah had said. Sometimes you just need to do what makes you happy.
17
ZOE
I don’t know if it was Martin’s mood after Sarah’s bombshell about dropping out of medicine, or that I only had two more days with him, or that I was exhausted from the Alps. Maybe it was just the cold wind but I didn’t want to get out of bed and started thinking about getting a taxi. We hadn’t discussed what was going to happen when he left, and what deal we’d be making for the future.
Martin shook me out of feeling sorry for myself with a cup of hot chocolate, then made coffee for everyone. I put on the full cold-weather ensemble—thermal, tights, sweater, fleece and a black scarf that also worked as a hat and balaclava.
Martin laughed. ‘You look like you’re set for the Arctic.’
‘I need to stay warm.’
Walking—and climbing—took care of that. As we followed in the steps of Hannibal, wondering how he got elephants along the steep narrow paths, I was soon shedding the scarf.
‘Have you spoken to Sarah this morning?’ I asked. That elephant was definitely walking with us.
Martin shook his head. I guessed he’d have plenty of time on the train to England.
‘Maybe she just isn’t ready,’ I said. ‘I mean, she’s young. A year off might help her get her head straight before she goes back to college.’
‘Or gets lost like Bernhard. She worked so hard to get in.’
‘Medicine is a big deal. She needs to be sure it’s her path.’
Martin wasn’t really listening. ‘Probably why she came on the walk—so we’d have space around us when she broke the news.’
‘Not much you can do now. She’s an adult.’ Reminder to self: do not say that Sarah comes across like a self-entitled pain in the ass.
‘The divorce didn’t help.’
‘Maybe because you’re feeling guilty about it, you’ve been protecting her too much.’
‘She’s been living away from home.’
‘Paid for by you. Martin, she’s smart and sassy and twists you around her finger. And it’s making her a self-entitled pain in the ass’—shit—‘rather than a brilliant, thoughtful doctor or journalist or poet. But one that’s in charge of her own life.’
Maybe I was looking for a fight—maybe Martin was.
As the mist moved in and out over the mountain peaks, I thought of all the things I’d enjoyed over the last three weeks. Being in the moment, the challenges, the sharing, the return of physical fitness and awareness. And being with Martin. I couldn’t let it end on a bad note.
‘I’m sorry—’
‘No, I am,’ said Martin. We stopped and he gave me a gentle kiss. ‘I dragged Sarah along without thinking how impossible it would be for you both.’
‘Not impossible,’ I said, squeezing his gloved hand. ‘Just difficult. And it’s not like my daughters—well, Lauren at least—haven’t been difficult. I didn’t mean it about Sarah being a pain. But she’s pretty intimidating, you know.’
‘You should meet Julia.’ We laughed, and walked on with the air lighter between us.
As we reached the peak it was not someone but something that stood waiting for us—a wooden structure about the size of a phone booth. Not just the size of one: Téléphone was printed on the beam above the open side, though there was no actual phone. Martin pulled out his cell.
‘There’s signal up here. I think that’s the idea,’ he said as he stepped inside.
I joined him. As we both still had packs on it was a little cosy—a lot cosy.
‘Standing in a phone booth in the middle of nowhere.’ I was trying to imprint the moment. Possibly one of my last with Martin.
‘Not nowhere.’ Martin eased himself around to face the same direction as me. ‘France there.’ Then he pulled me back the other way. ‘Italy ahead.’
Rugged rocky peaks, an ice-blue lake below, valleys and peaks as far as I could see. Italian valleys and lakes. Whenever I’d imagined visiting Italy, I’d seen myself flying into Rome. Walking in was surreal.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, watching the breath come out of my mouth.
‘And now you have a chance to ring someone special and tell them.’
I untangled my arm and checked my watch. ‘Lauren will be getting up. Tessa’s still asleep.’ I paused. ‘I don’t need to call them.’
‘And I don’t need to ring Sarah.’
I didn’t have anyone in the world I needed. Or who needed me, other than maybe Camille. And the only person Martin had was the daughter I was telling him to let go of.
‘I said it before, and it’s still true, you know,’ said Martin. ‘I love you. I want to be with you.’
I watched the little puffs of Martin’s breath and held my own.
With our packs against the phone-booth walls, pushing us together, we kissed. A proper kiss, long and slow. A kiss that said the issues with a difficult daughter could be overcome, a transatlantic romance could work, even living in Sheffield might be okay, and that what we had between us was real and vibrant and worth fighting for.
And though I had no idea what it would mean in a practical sense, this time I wen
t with my heart. ‘I love you, too.’
18
MARTIN
The wind had picked up, and while Zoe took a photo from the peak I waited in the shelter of the phone booth, letting what she had said sink in. Then I did what we both had said we had no reason to do: pulled out my phone and made a call.
In our hurry to beat the deteriorating weather, we made a hash of getting off the mountain; the signage didn’t seem to match the written instructions, and my best guess sent us in the wrong direction. But our revised route took us past a refuge for cavers, with coffee and hot soup. We finished the day strolling beside lakes to La Grande-Croix—our final stop in France.
Sarah was generally pretty abstemious in the alcohol department, but she ordered a beer to my after-dinner chartreuse when we sat down to talk through the logistics of what would happen after we got to the border.
‘Regardless,’ I said, ‘you’ll have walked three weeks and pretty near five hundred kilometres. I’d think fewer people do that than run a marathon.’
‘Mum can add it to her brag book. But a thousand still to go.’
‘You’re set on doing it?’
‘I told you. Yes.’
‘Bernhard aside, do you think it’s the best use of your time? I mean, as a medical person…Zoe tells me that Camille’s hoping for a miracle.’
‘Doctors don’t have all the answers.’ She laughed. ‘That’s what Camille says. If she believes…that can have an impact. But this is what she wants to do, right? With the time she’s got… with her time.’
I walked with Zoe to Susa—nice views, but we were on a road without a footpath all the way to the Italian border, where we regrouped and took photos. Gilbert, the wine man, seemed the most excited about what we’d achieved.
‘Burgundy to Piedmont,’ he said. ‘Burgundy is the greatest wine region in the world, but the whole world cannot drink Burgundy. The wines of Northern Italy are also considered excellent. We will see. And I have conquered the Alps.’ He thumped his heart to emphasise the point.
Within a few kilometres, we knew we were in another country. It wasn’t just the change of language: the first village, with its old buildings, winding streets and huge carvings of bats, was a world away from the modern, ski-focused towns on the French side.
‘I’m in Italy,’ said Zoe. ‘You’ve been here before?’
‘Rome and Tuscany. That’s the nice thing about living in England. It’s all on your doorstep.’
‘I think it’s more about attitude. If I moved to England, I guess I’d—’
I finished for her. ‘Have new eyes?’
‘Something like that.’
‘A bit like falling in love. Everything’s suddenly different.’ It was an awkward segue, but Zoe squeezed my hand.
‘Have you booked your tickets? said Zoe, as she tried to decode the instructions at the laundromat in Susa. ‘I think this washing machine is meant for animals.’
Tickets, plural. Sarah wanted to announce her onward plans at the farewell dinner Gilbert was organising tonight and right now I didn’t want them to interfere with what I had to say.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve been enjoying the walk. Especially the last couple of days. Thought I might keep going. To the end of the line.’
‘To Rome?’
‘If that’s okay with you.’
As we walked back to the hotel, hand in hand, we could see that the mountains we’d crossed were dusted with snow.
19
ZOE
I was still processing what Martin had said as Gilbert led the way to dinner. He’d talked forever to the hotel receptionist about which restaurant served the most authentic food. Tonight, I didn’t care if it had a Michelin star. Five Michelin stars.
I was in Italy for the first time; I’d walked three hundred miles, felt strong enough to do the seven hundred in front of us; and the man I loved had just chosen to be with me instead of going home with his daughter. Sarah had been the trickiest issue between us, and it felt like everything would be easier from here on in.
We had about eight more weeks, without the stress of Sarah, to work out how we would make it work. That moment in the phone booth when I realised that I didn’t need anyone—or they me, with the exception of Camille—had been liberating. Maybe the Chemin had set me free. I felt like I’d been away forever. I wasn’t missing home. I felt I was there.
A pretty alpine river, with grey-blue and white caps as the water hit smooth stones, divided Susa; the restaurant was on the other side, a short distance from our hotel. It was already bustling with families making noise and having fun. The walls were decorated with pots and pans and spoons from teaspoon size to a huge ladle. It fitted my idea of Italy—and my mood.
‘Something I need to talk to you about,’ said Martin, just to me, as we sat down.
‘You haven’t changed your mind?’
‘No. But you should know that Sarah…’
We were interrupted by the manager, a woman of about forty-five with much the same body shape as Gilbert, who spoke French and got into a discussion with him.
‘Your friend knows so much about wine!’ she said in English after a few minutes. Like we hadn’t noticed.
Gilbert made a weak attempt at modesty. ‘Wine is my business. But Italian wine—I have just a little book knowledge. My expertise is in Burgundy.’
‘In that case, monsieur, I have the perfect recommendations,’ said the manager, hand on Gilbert’s arm as she led him to the cellar. The rest of us stood up and watched through a window in the staircase as they browsed the racks.
‘She’s flirting,’ I said to Camille.
‘He will not have noticed.’
‘You think?’
‘I know. I wish he would flirt back.’
‘Really?’
‘He is too…insulated.’
‘Insular?’
‘What I said.’
Gilbert returned and demonstrated what Camille had accused him of. ‘We will be drinking wine made from the Nebbiolo grape, not one of the six noble grape varieties—’
‘Which I’m guessing are all French,’ said Martin.
‘Riesling is German,’ said Gilbert, smiling at Bernhard but as unaware of Martin’s kidding as he was of the manager’s attention.
‘These wines will be quite different from a Bordeaux or Burgundy. Or even a wine from the south. We will begin with a Barbaresco…’
‘Keep an open mind, everyone,’ said Martin. ‘We can do this.’
The menu was a breath of fresh air. The menus of Haut-Savoie had become a little predictable—I didn’t need to see another tartiflette. Martin ordered octopus, venison and pasta with a game sauce; I had pasta with artichokes and a salad of corn, tomatoes and egg. It was the best restaurant meal I’d had on the walk.
Gilbert wasn’t impressed by either of the wines, despite the second being decanted with a lot of ceremony.
‘A toast,’ he said as we started our secondi, ‘to everyone, for getting Camille and me over the Alps.’
‘To all of us, for making it,’ Martin said.
‘But now, sadly, we must also toast those returning home,’ said Gilbert.
Martin cleared his throat. ‘I have an announcement to make. I’m going to keep walking. If everyone’s all right with that.’ He looked at me and squeezed my hand. I had to blink back tears. And stop myself looking too happy. I didn’t want to rub it in: Sarah was watching.
Gilbert broke out in a huge smile. Putting his glass down, he embraced Martin and there may have been tears in his eyes, too. ‘My friend, this is wonderful news—of course you are welcome.’
Camille looked at me. Was she disappointed? She would have been expecting not to have to share me with Martin anymore. But now that I thought of what it would have been like, I was happy the group hadn’t gotten too small. Without the cushioning effect of other pilgrims to hang with, as I’d had on the Camino de Santiago, bigger was better.
‘Another announcement,’ said
Sarah. She looked at Bernhard and then Camille, and Martin squeezed my hand hard. ‘Bernhard and I want to go to Rome with you too. If that’s okay.’ Martin’s expression said: ‘I tried to tell you.’ Right.
Camille stood up and hugged Sarah.
If there were tears in my eyes this time, it was for a different reason.
20
MARTIN
On the way home, Sarah asked two good, if awkward, questions: why was I was continuing, and didn’t I have to go back to work?
Zoe asked them again when we got back to our room, and I gave the best answer I could: ‘It’s complicated, and I’ve had too much to drink to talk sensibly.’
Zoe had also exceeded her usual limit, but it had the opposite effect: she wanted answers now: ‘It’s not like it’s going to take long.’
‘Second question first. I applied for personal leave. From the mountaintop. It’s up to the dean and HR whether I get it.’
‘Holy shit—you’ve put your job on the line. How—’
‘And what chance it’ll be granted? And what will I do if it isn’t? And how easy is it for a mid-fifties academic with only three years in his new discipline to get another job? I said, it’s complicated.’
‘What about why you’re walking on? You let me think it was because you wanted to be with me. But now I find out you’re following Sarah.’
‘Don’t forget the third possibility. To finish the job. Maybe it’s D: all of the above. We can talk about it tomorrow, which we wouldn’t be able to do if I was taking a train.’
‘In which case, I wouldn’t have these questions.’
‘Would you have preferred that?’
‘No, but…’
‘Let’s go to sleep. Unless…’
‘Goodnight.’
Breakfast included not only fruit and cereal but the best croissants I’d ever eaten—in Italy. Gilbert disagreed and accused me of being a philistine: ‘They’re full of jam!’ They were indeed. Apricot—albicocca. I made a mental note of the word in the hope I’d need it again.
Two Steps Onward Page 7
