‘No, never,’ said Dave, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping the sweat off his brow. ‘He’s been acting a little strange recently, because he’s caught in the crossfire between Linda and me. I’d better go and see if he has wandered off into the village.’
As Dave went off into the balmy evening to search the square, I poured myself a large glass of red wine and went to sit on the sofa in the dark coolness of the sitting room. I opened my book and began to read until, suddenly, I heard a creaking noise behind me. I almost spilt my glass of wine in fright as Jason jumped out of the enormous carved sideboard, which ran along an entire wall.
‘Fooled ya!’ he cried, a sly grin on his ratty face.
‘Yes, you did. Well done,’ I said. He flashed a malicious grin. I thought again of the axe and suddenly I was very glad that I was returning to the UK the next day.
Chapter 4
Full Moon
In the year that followed the signing of the acte final, Dave and I became really good friends. I realised that we actually did have a lot in common: we both loved France and we also shared a passion for dépôt-ventes – although I learned to always take a good book with me, as Dave could spend up to three hours looking at bits of old metal and furniture. He was the only heterosexual man I had ever known who liked to shop more than a woman.
That winter, we spent several weekends in France together. Often, if Ryanair was offering cheap flights, we would fly out together at a moment’s notice. It meant I could meet up with contractors and get quotes for the electrical rewiring, plumbing, replastering and the new kitchen floor. We would take day trips to nearby villages, sitting in cafes having long, deep conversations or enjoying cosy lunches and dinners in small bistros. We spent many nights by his crackling log fire, discussing our plans for our respective houses and poring over paint charts and books on French country interiors together. He loved to sit and drink Sauternes until the early hours of the morning, discussing his wife’s increasingly wayward behaviour. She was having a mid-life crisis, he said, and had started partying hard, going out to clubs every night and taking drugs. I lived in hope that he would bring Gerry along again but there was no news on that front – whenever I asked, Dave said that he hadn’t seen or heard anything from him – and so most of the time it was just the two of us and, occasionally, another male friend or two of Dave’s.
Dave seemed to have a limitless supply of male friends, all of them attractive and with good jobs – an architect, an investment banker, a commercial airline pilot and an advertising campaign director among them. Nearly all of them were single and they shared Dave’s love of deep conversation and seemed to have bonded with him on a very profound level. Yet, despite appearing to have successful careers and attractive personalities, I noticed that they were all a little morose, like they had been through the mill in some way. And when I asked Dave how he knew so-and-so, he was always very vague and it was difficult to get a straight answer.
We met up in London for drinks too, always with other people. Then one evening, we stayed rather too late in the usual wine bar in Mayfair and Dave missed his last train home to Kent. His problems with his wife had worsened by then and I got the impression that he had missed his train deliberately. He was very drunk. ‘You can come back to mine and crash in my spare room if you like,’ I said.
‘Can I? That sounds like a good idea,’ he said.
We took a taxi back to my place, saying very little. Then he looked, or rather wobbled, around the flat. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘You’ve got such great taste.’
‘Here’s the spare room,’ I said. ‘The bed’s already made up, so you can just crash in here.’
‘Stay up and have another drink with me,’ he said, reaching for my wrist. ‘I don’t want to go to bed just yet. I want to talk to you.’
Another drink was the last thing either of us needed, but I always enjoyed our conversations, so, against my better instincts, I went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of red wine. When I returned to the sitting room, he had taken off his jacket and shoes and was sprawled out on the sofa. I sat down opposite him.
‘So Gerry was a no-show again tonight?’ I said.
‘’Fraid so,’ said Dave. ‘His girlfriend is six weeks pregnant.’
Girlfriend? Pregnant? Six weeks? This was a triple hammer blow. Not only had my only potential love interest been snatched away from me, but he was about to become a father. There was absolutely no chance of installing Gerry and his laptop in my French attic now.
‘That was fast work,’ I said, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘I thought you said he didn’t have a girlfriend.’
‘He didn’t. It was someone that he was friends with in the therapy group and it all happened very fast.’
‘Therapy?’
Dave put his hand to his mouth and looked very embarrassed. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said. ‘Look, I really didn’t mean to tell you that. It just sort of slipped out. But now you know. That’s where Gerry and I met.’
‘You were in therapy too? Was it a drink problem?’ I asked. ‘Or drugs?’ I knew that both were rife in the advertising industry.
‘No. I was under a lot of pressure at work. Life was just getting on top of me.’
‘And Gerry? Why was he there?’
‘Depression.’
‘Ah.’ Suddenly, Dave’s gang of disparate but emotionally literate friends made sense.
‘That’s why I tried to warn you away from him,’ Dave continued. ‘He’s racked with self-doubt and constantly battling depression. He’s not ready for a relationship, let alone fatherhood. I’m worried about him to be honest.’
‘So all those other male friends of yours, did you meet them in therapy too?’
‘Most of them, yes. It saved some of our lives. You can’t help but form close bonds with the people that you meet there. The clinic encourages you to stay in touch afterwards, sort of as a support group, because we all know what each other has been through.’ This explained a lot.
‘So there. Now you know,’ said Dave. ‘So tell me, what secrets are you hiding?’
‘Nothing I want to talk about,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Listen,’ he said, suddenly sliding off the sofa and onto the floor, so that he was closer to me and almost suppliant at my feet. ‘I really think you should talk to someone.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you seem so… emotionally unavailable. I honestly think it would do you good to talk about it.’ Dave’s face was a picture of concern and, for a moment, I was worried that he was going to put his arms around me.
‘So what’s going on with Linda?’ I asked, embarrassed by the intensity of his gaze. Fortunately, he took the bait.
‘It’s really bad,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to the stage now where I actually hate her. There’s no going back for us…’
He made several more attempts to turn the conversation back to me that night but I managed to deflect the questions, no matter how astute they were. Eventually, I said I was going to bed. He said he wouldn’t be able to sleep just yet, so I left him in the sitting room with a half-full bottle of wine, flicking through my books of fashion photography. Before I went to bed I put a bottle of Evian and some headache tablets in the spare room. I figured he might need them the next morning.
A month or so later, I was sitting at my desk in London when I received a call from Dave. ‘Linda wants a divorce,’ he said, his voice shaky.
‘Are you sure?’
‘She’s taken out a restraining order on me and wants me to move my stuff out of the house by the end of the week.’
‘Oh God! It’s that bad?’
‘She claims that I hit her. In fact, she attacked me with a table lamp. She’s crazy. She’s doing everything she can to get me out of the house.’
‘And what about Jason?’
‘He’s staying with h
er for the time being. Though she doesn’t give a damn about him. All she cares about is clubbing and her new bloke. Jason might have to come and live with me once I’ve got myself sorted out.’
‘That’s terrible news,’ I said (and not just because I wouldn’t wish Jason on anyone).
‘We’ve decided to sell the house and split the profit,’ he continued. ‘If there is any. Most of the equity has already disappeared up her nose.’
‘Where are you going to live?’ I asked, suddenly worried that Dave might want to come and stay with me in London.
‘I suppose it will have to be France,’ he said.
‘But what about your job?’
‘Fuck the job. Anyway, I’m on compassionate leave.’
Dave’s lack of concern for his job was a little worrying. It was no secret that his debts were stacking up. In addition to the loans he had taken out to buy and furnish his house in France, he had also amassed significant credit card debts. The more miserable he felt, the more money he seemed to spend. ‘It seems to me there’s no point in working at all,’ he continued. ‘I’d be better off claiming unemployment benefit since anything I earn will just go to Linda in child support.’
This sounded like bad news for Gerry, from whom Dave had recently confessed to borrowing £5,000. ‘So the thing is, I need to hire a van and move my stuff out to France as soon as possible,’ he continued. ‘I was wondering if you would like to share it and split the cost?’ It seemed like a good idea. I had recently bought two bedside tables and a leather tub chair and they were currently obstructing the communal staircase.
‘OK. When were you thinking of going?’ I asked.
‘Tomorrow. Can you book the ferry?’
Dave picked me up the following morning, behind the wheel of a big white van. He was wearing beige cotton trousers and a black polo shirt with a large toothpaste stain on the front. ‘I’m really sorry but the van’s already pretty full,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise how much stuff I had.’ When he slid back the side door I was expecting to see books and furniture but to my astonishment, it was almost entirely filled with board games.
‘Bloody hell, Dave, what’s all this?’
‘I collect vintage board games,’ he said, a little defensively, as a box toppled off the pile, scattering plastic soldiers everywhere. ‘And battle memorabilia. Some of this stuff is quite valuable.’
‘But where are you going to put it when we get to France?’
‘I’ve just bought my neighbour’s barn. It was only five thousand euros,’ he said. ‘A bargain.’
‘You’ve bought a barn?’ I repeated, incredulous. ‘Where did you get the money?’
‘I borrowed it. I think we might just fit in your bedside tables but there isn’t going to be room for the tub chair.’
We were allocated a complimentary cabin for the crossing (earlier in the year Dave had insisted that we join the Brittany Ferries Property Owners Club, pretending to be a couple to save on buying separate membership). He said he was tired and went off to the cabin to sleep. I sat in the cafe with all the retired fifty- and sixty-somethings heading for their second homes and read a book for most of the seven-hour journey. Dave only emerged when the ferry docked at Caen and I noticed for the first time how dreadful he looked – unshaven and crumpled, as if he hadn’t slept for a few nights. ‘It’s a long drive in the dark,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK to do it?’
‘We don’t have any option. I’ve got to turn around and bring the van back tomorrow,’ he replied.
It was a full moon that night as we headed south towards the cathedral town of Sees. Dave talked about the sadness of love turning to hate – silently I envied him as I wished I could hate Eric – and his general disappointment at how his life had turned out. ‘This is not how my life was supposed to be at forty,’ he complained.
‘I’m so with you on that,’ I said.
‘So what did happen between you and Eric?’ he asked me, somewhere between Sees and Alençon.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘We’ve got five hours.’
Maybe it was the influence of the full moon or perhaps because I felt bonded with him in misery, but as we drove along in the moonlight, I finally told him – not the whole story but an edited version. Deep down, I think I had wanted to confide in him for a long time. As we hurtled through the darkness, past the war graves of Normandy and with soft music playing on the radio, I explained how Eric had pursued me with breathtaking audacity and ruthless Gallic determination. A few days after our first date, he handed me a letter, which said, among other things:
‘I’m sorry to be so insistent in saying what I feel for you, because I know I have no right to say it but I find it very difficult to keep it to myself. I am in love with you.’
I remember cringing at his flowery prose and throwing the letter in the bin. How having just split from my boyfriend of seven years, I wasn’t interested in anything serious. I tried to finish with Eric several times but he refused to accept that the fledgling relationship was over, declaring on the verge of tears that he had never loved anyone the way he loved me.
‘Was he a good shag?’ Dave asked, suddenly, accelerating past a huge lorry.
‘Being in bed with Eric was like winning the sexual lottery,’ I replied, though I spared Dave the details (the beach in Thailand, the tree in Windsor Great Park, the cliff top in the Great Orme and the car park of Watford Gap services on the M1). I told him how Eric’s persistence – the phone calls, the letters and the tearful pleas – finally wore me down. How, six months after we met, I capitulated and invited Eric to move into my flat ‘on a temporary basis’. I recalled the joy of returning late from my job on the hideously bitchy magazine to find that the lights were on and someone was home – with a bottle of wine and dinner waiting.
It’s funny how, looking back, it is the not the glamorous stuff – the Christmas shopping trip to New York, Kirs in the Hôtel Costes in Paris or skiing in the French Alps – that makes me miss Eric the most, but the more mundane moments: bike rides on a Sunday afternoon, walking home from the local pub in the evening, standing side by side at the kitchen sink, chatting while we did the washing up. We even survived a trip to IKEA together – the true test, I once read, of whether a couple are compatible. He even managed to look like he enjoyed the experience, unlike my previous (public school) boyfriend, who emerged shaking with anger and muttering darkly about his dislike of ‘chavs’.
For a short while the balance of power must have been in perfect equilibrium, and for a brief period we both loved each other equally. He used to talk about what our children would be like and joked that if we had a girl it would be trouble for him, as he would have to deal with a miniature version of me. By that time he had grown on me to the extent that I had decided to spend the rest of my life with him. Somehow he must have sensed the shift in the balance of power. And cruelly – having begged me to marry him countless times – that was when he started to pull back.
He had started to work occasionally for a friend with a tour company, shepherding American tourists around France. The tours were always themed: Chateaux of the Loire, Vineyards of Bordeaux, that sort of thing. The evening he returned from ‘Van Gogh’s Provence’ he was in a very strange mood. He gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek – strange in itself as he always kissed me full on the lips – sat down at my laptop, logged on to his emails and spent the next couple of hours typing furiously. I had planned for us to go out to dinner since we hadn’t seen each other for a week and as I sat watching him type, I grew more and more angry. In the end, I ordered in pizza and we ate in sulky silence. This was followed by a huge argument. It was only a few days before he told me (in bed) that it was over between us and he was planning to move out. There are moments that change your life for ever. This was one of mine. ‘You can leave right now then,’ I said defiantly, knowing that the decis
ion and the power no longer lay with me. And so he left in the middle of the night. I have no idea where he went but he returned with a minicab to move his stuff out the next day.
After he left, my heart and my body were overwhelmed, swamped by grief, my eyes permanently red and swollen. I was plagued by a recurring dream in which I am alone and driving down a long, dark country road. I drive and drive, thinking, hoping, that I am going to arrive somewhere but I never do. I am stuck on this dark road and there is no way to escape.
A few weeks after he moved out, he came back to collect his post. I watched from the upstairs window as he walked away and told myself that if he looked back, this would be a sign. Well, he did look back. He looked up and saw my tear-streaked face in the window. For ages, I took comfort in this, told myself that it meant something, but it didn’t. I never saw him again.
I remember the bitterness spilling over into everyday life. Total strangers bore the brunt of my anger and misery: the British Gas customer services department; call centres too numerous to mention and the cold caller who phoned trying to sell me plumbing insurance. My life seemed to be a constant round of conflict and anger. Friends, who couldn’t cope with the scale of my grief, melted away like the polar ice caps. For the first time in my life, I felt truly alone.
For weeks, I was immobilised by illness and misery, barely able to leave the flat. Then, almost a year after he left, I received an email from him. He hoped I was well but wanted to warn me that he was going to close our joint email account – one of the few things he paid for during our relationship – as he no longer used it. If I still needed it, I would have to switch it to my name within forty-eight hours. It was signed ‘Best wishes, Eric.’ It was sent on my thirty-sixth birthday.
For the first time, I felt a flash of anger rather than just sadness and regret: he knew that I relied on that email account for work. How could he give me just forty-eight hours’ notice before closing it down? And choose my birthday to do it? I phoned the Internet supplier and discovered that since Eric’s was the master name on the account he could not be removed. However, I could take over the payment and they gave me a new password. It was a couple of days before it dawned on me, with a sickening sense of excitement, that I could access his old emails. Intuition told me that this was a dangerous thing to do, but nothing prepared me for what I found. For the past six months, Eric had been corresponding with a woman called Suzanne Dance, a schoolteacher he had met on a ‘Provence, Grasse and Fine French Perfumery’ tour. From the passionate nature of the emails, it was clear to me that they had been having an affair.
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