Odd Numbers

by JJ Marsh

  Many European languages and cultures place a special significance on the number three. Whether that is the holy Trinity, three witches, an Englishman and Irishman and a Scotsman walk into a bar, good things come in threes, knock three times or education, education, education. There’s also the concept of a trio when it comes to bad luck. The new millennium whacked me with one after another. The tragic death of a friend, for which I held myself partially responsible. The loss of my trust fund and consequently, my privileged position. Worst, the breakdown of a relationship I believed would last a lifetime. Each of these things would not have happened without poor judgement on my part. My instinct was not to be trusted.

  Yet even though it had betrayed me, my instinct stuck around. It was the reason I pursued the translation app and recovered all the money I had lost times ten. The lesson I had learned was unlikely to be forgotten. Listen to your instinct. Then test, check, recalibrate and refine until a gut feeling becomes a theory and the theory becomes a practice. Only then can I honour it with my trust.

  A gut feeling bothered me from the minute we agreed on an Alpine chalet for the 2019 celebrations. I examined my discomfort. Maybe it was the proximity to Geneva, which held such significance for each of us. Maybe it was the seclusion, high in the mountains, far from other people. Or perhaps it was simply the snow, the cold, the ice. Wherever we had celebrated our reunions on New Year’s Eve, we sought out warmth and water or a city so busy you didn’t notice the cold. It was ridiculous, if you thought about it. Individually, we often spent winter holidays skating, skiing, snowboarding or even staying in an igloo. But as a group we avoided the ice.

  It did me good to spend some time with Gael and Lovisa before we drove up to the mountains. Gael is like me, a pragmatist. Lovisa has convinced herself that she too has a purely practical perspective. She hasn’t. At the end of the day, she’s a tightly swaddled bundle of emotions, protecting no one more than herself. That is partly my fault. We were so convinced our bond could never be broken, it shocked us both when we found that not only could it break, it could never be repaired.

  No one else knew we were trying for a baby. Our pact was to say nothing until Lovisa had passed the first trimester. Only then would we announce our news and activate the plans we had hatched for our perfect future. All the answers to the inevitable questions such as ‘Aren’t you too young?’, ‘How will you manage?’ and ‘Are you sure about this?’ were already prepared. We were soul mates and would never love anyone else the same way as we did each other.

  But Lovisa miscarried once, twice, three times and on each occasion, we contained our heartbreak in private. It sounds strange but a positive pregnancy test, for me, was a little like being drunk. I was intoxicated by optimism, invincible and buoyant on visions of our future. Then the mother of my almost-child would emerge from the bathroom, her face white, eyes red and shake her head. That’s when my hope-hangover would kick in. How stupid have I been? Why are we deluding ourselves? That is the last time I dare to believe.

  Her cycle, which we both knew better than our study timetable, meant that she would be fertile during the last few days of the year. It seemed like a sign. We would make love in my home country and conceive a child in the final days of 1999 or the bright new start to the millennium. I would recover my financial status, we would graduate before the baby was born and start our lives as a young family filled with hope and happiness.

  Of all the things that happened in the aftermath, knowing that Lovisa arranged the termination of Simone’s pregnancy cut the deepest. Some things I can never forgive.

  In my heart, I still hold a lot of love for Lovisa. She accepted our dreams had gone up in smoke and never tried to rebuild them. I hope she’s happy.

  Although we made good time, crossing through France and re-entering Switzerland on the Alpine side, Simone had arrived at the chalet before us. Worst-case scenario. If there’s one person I know who cannot be alone, it is Simone. She was already nervous and jumpy by the time we arrived. As usual, Gael rolled her eyes, I changed the subject and Lovisa adopted her mantle of Mama Hen. My discomfort towards the chalet lessened as I took in the scale and atmosphere of the place. The kitchen was huge with a separate dining area featuring a chunky wooden table in the centre. The living room could have accommodated twenty people, with long leather sofas, sheepskin rugs, wooden beams and a fireplace the size of a Smart car.

  The reunion couldn’t really begin until Clark arrived and we still had received no response to our messages. We lounged around drinking hot chocolate and eating cakes for an hour and then I wanted to explore. The chalet was both authentic and modern. Wooden walls and roofs with under-floor heating, traditional throws on top of winter duvets and power showers in every bathroom. Built into the slope of the mountain, the place had ski access from the top floor. I offered to take one of the bedrooms on that level, along with Clark, when he arrived. It suited me perfectly. Some distance from the living area and on the same level as the ski exit. My spirits rose as I unpacked and tried making some calls to Bratislava. The connection was unreliable but I did manage to wish my team a happy New Year.

  Because of my height, I always travel with my own blanket. Regular duvets, sleeping bags, throws and so on always fall short. Not only that, but they are usually too hot. That’s the reason a handmade cotton blanket accompanies me everywhere I go. That afternoon, I removed the duvet, rolled it into a ball and tucked it into the wardrobe. Then I flapped out my personal blanket and laid it on the bottom sheet. That’s how I can be sure that at five o’clock in the afternoon there was nothing in my bed.

  Up the stairway squeaks and shouts ricocheted off the wooden walls. Out of the window, tail-lights of a taxi were disappearing down the lane. Clark must have arrived. I put on my slippers and made my way downstairs, a smile already spreading across my face. Lovisa emerged from her bedroom in a bathroom, pink and moist as if from a seashell, her face as happy as my own. We hurried downstairs together to say hello to Number Five.

  We greeted, we acclimatised and we drank gin. I showed Clark his room and left him to unpack. I ducked into my own room to check my phone which was on charge and returned downstairs.

  After a wonderful evening of laughter and companionship and far too much cheese, we had reconnected. Clark displayed his usual energy, jumping up to change the music almost every other track. The fire, travelling and heavy meal weighed on us all, so one by one we made our way upstairs to fall into our respective beds. I cleaned my teeth, slightly drunk, fondue stuffed and content. These occasions, which I nearly always dread, do something good for my soul. I turned off the light, pulled back my blanket and just before I got into bed, I noticed something glinting in my mattress. The curtains were open, and the moon shone through the window. I picked up what looked like a coin, my brain slow to make sense of this silver disc lying on the sheet. Reaching for the lamp, I flicked on the switch and saw I was holding a chocolate coin encased in silver. On my bed there were many more in various different sizes.

  Unease penetrated my muddled mind. Collecting them all together I placed them in a pile on the bedside table. Then I counted. There were thirty. Thirty pieces of silver.

  Mouth dry and skin prickling, I checked under the bed, in the wardrobe, outside on the hallway, in the equipment cupboard and in the bathroom. I double checked the lock on the exit to the ski slope. Everything was as it should be. I returned to my room, locked the door and closed the curtains. Then I lay under my handmade blanket and stared at the ceiling in the darkness.

  Chapter 19: Gael, now

  As a result of my night-time cogitations, I was up last. The others were all in the kitchen, drinking coffee and eating yet more bread. Lovisa handed me a glass of orange juice.

  “How did you sleep?” she asked.

  I blinked at the table. “You are not telling me you bunch of maniacs are having cheese for breakfast? After last night? I’m never eating or drinking ever again.”

  They all laughed and Simone pus
hed the plate of cheese and ham slices towards me.

  “You need to load up on proteins and carbs before skiing,” she said.

  “Stuff protein, stuff carbs and bollocks to skiing,” I said, pouring myself a coffee. “You know how I feel about winter sports. You go ahead and chuck yourself off the mountainside. Get your noses burnt, break your ankles, see if I care. I’m going to stay here, curled up beside the fire, like the sensible person I am. Something told me this would happen, staying with a bunch of snow bunnies.”

  Mika placed a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you at least walk with us to the start of the ski run? It’s a beautiful day and you’ll feel much better with some fresh Alpine air into your lungs.”

  “Yes, come with us,” Simone encouraged. “We won’t be long, just a few hours on the slopes this morning. We’ll be back by lunchtime, ready to start preparations on the banquet.”

  “Or,” said Lovisa, “you might want to take a drive into town. There are a few more things we need to get and you can take the car. That’s OK, isn’t it, Mika?”

  “Sure. But you don’t have to run errands, Gael. I’m happy to go after we finish skiing. Lovisa has already prepared the shopping list.”

  “Lovisa would,” I said, crossing my eyes at her. “Yeah, fine, I’ll do the shopping. How far away is the next best thing to civilisation?”

  “There’s a village about half an hour away, but they’re not likely to stock the kind of thing we need. I recommend you drive to Saint-Maurice. They got some decent supermarkets there.”

  While they all went off to get changed into various shades of pastel ski-suits, I sat at the table, refilling my coffee cup and peeling a clementine I couldn’t finish. The chalet was a ski-in, ski-out, which meant they could open the door on the top floor and ski right out across the countryside. I took my coffee up two flights of stairs to join much laughter and clattering and cheered to see them whoosh-whoosh away over the slopes. They did look the part, I had to admit. After waving them off in the sunshine, I closed the door and crossed the landing to look down the lane. Two floors up I should be able to spot the cottage whose light I’d seen the night before. As far as I could see in the sparkling morning sun, no chalet, farm or any other form of habitation was visible.

  “Arr, ‘twas pixie lights, me dear,” I told myself in a cod West Country accent. “The mountain spirits are playing tricks upon a maid.” The chill wound its way around my ankles and I returned to the warmth of our kitchen to clear away the breakfast things.

  About an hour later, I heard the upstairs door slam shut. Intruders were unlikely in such a remote location, but you could never be too careful. I hurtled up the stairs two at a time. Just inside the doors stood Clark, trying to remove his outdoor gear.

  His face twisted in pain. “Ow! Shit!”

  “Clark? What happened?”

  “I fell, hit my shoulder and it hurts like hell. I can’t get this suit off. I’m gonna need your help here, Gael. Can you pull on the sleeve?”

  I took hold of the cuff and very gently drew it towards me. Clark winced and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

  I stopped. “OK, this isn’t working. How about I hold on tight to the sleeve and you pull away from me? That way, you’re in control of how much it hurts.”

  With much grimacing and foul language, he managed to extricate himself from the top half of the suit. There was a light sheen of sweat on his face and he looked worryingly pale.

  “Sit down,” I said, and guided him to one of the wooden benches. I ran downstairs again to fetch a slug of brandy and set to work removing the bottom half of his suit and his ski boots. “There. Do you think you need to see a doctor?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s dislocated, just a torn muscle. I’m gonna take a hot shower. Could you help me take this top off?”

  With great care, I slipped off the silken undershirt he was wearing and helped him to his feet. “Here’s the plan. I’ll wait till you get out of the shower and see how you feel. If you’re better, I’ll leave you here and go do the shopping. If not, you’d better come with me and see we can find a doctor.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Do you think you could find me some painkillers? I didn’t bring any.”

  “Of course. Lovisa always brings a full medical cabinet wherever she goes.”

  Sure enough, in the bathroom on the first floor, I located Lovisa’s sponge bag and next to it a white plastic box with a red cross on the front. When Clark emerged, bare-chested and wearing jeans, I was waiting with two Ponstan Forte and a glass of water. He swallowed them down and faced me.

  “The shower did jack shit. It’s still agony. This is more than a sprain so I’m coming with you to get this checked out.”

  Together, we managed to get him zipped into a fleece and a warm jacket. I put his feet into socks and boots and we made our way downstairs and out to the hire car. To my disbelief, the passenger side front tyre was flat. I swore violently and sent Clark back inside while I changed the wheel. There are advantages to being a petrol head.

  By the time I had jacked up the car, taken off the wheel and replaced it with the spare, my hands were frozen and filthy. I looked behind me and saw Clark peering through the kitchen window of the chalet. I gave him the thumbs up and out he came, locking the door behind him. Two minutes later we were finally on the road.

  Although I drove as carefully as I could, the journey was torture for Clark. Every bump and turn caused him pain. And driving down a snowy mountain road, there are plenty of bumps and turns. When we hit the motorway, things went more smoothly and I asked him to check on his phone for a likely doctor’s surgery in Saint-Maurice. As it turned out, we had to go to the emergency room at the small city hospital. I waited with him for half an hour until my stomach started to rumble. I checked the time and was horrified to see it was half past one. The shops were due to close at four o’clock and I still wanted to get a replacement tyre as well as all the shopping. We agreed that I would go and deal with all that crap while he waited to be seen. Then I would collect him and take him back to the chalet.

  It seemed the entire population of France had forgotten one crucial element of their New Year’s Eve preparations and had all come to Saint-Maurice to buy it. First I had a heated exchange with the guy in the Volvo garage who told me it was impossible to provide a spare wheel at such short notice. I told him that if he didn’t it would be on his conscience if I and my sick boyfriend were trapped in a remote chalet with no transport. With extremely bad grace he told me to come back in an hour and took the damaged tyre off my hands.

  Next up in the afternoon’s never-ending joys was a trip to the supermarket. I drove round and round the car park, waiting for someone to vacate a space. When I spotted one and shot into the spot, I had a ferocious altercation with a guy in a Land Rover who swore he’d been indicating first. But I was already in and ready to physically fight the bloke to keep my spot. He called me an ungentlemanly name and drove off with an unnecessary squeal of tyres. The Co-op was packed, I couldn’t find half the ingredients we needed and then I stood in an immense queue, watching the minutes tick away until the garage closed, waiting to pay for my basket full of frivolous, wasteful extras. I may have called Lovisa an ungentlemanly name as I scrunched her list into a ball in my pocket.

  Clark sent me a message to say he was ready, but he would have to wait till I’d been to the garage. The bad-tempered owner was even worse tempered because I was late. He also told me there was nothing wrong with the original tyre. It had simply been deflated. He had re-inflated it, tested it and I could take it away. I thanked him and asked him how much it would cost. He waved me away and wished me a happy New Year. The one bright spot in a litany of miseries.

  The second bright spot was Clark. He had indeed dislocated his shoulder, but the doctor had been able to realign the joint, give him some heavy duty painkillers and put his arm in a sling. It meant he would not be able to drink alcohol as well as take the pills, but he should rec
over in a couple of days. It was getting dark by the time we left Saint-Maurice and we messaged the others to let them know we were en route. We had eaten nothing since breakfast and were starving hungry. I stopped at a petrol station and bought us each a slice of quiche and a bottle of water, which did wonders for lifting our mood.

  I turned off the motorway and took the turning to the little village, passing through towards the forest and up the mountain. If the journey out had seemed torturous, the return trip seemed twice as long in the dark. I put the lights on full beam and drove cautiously along the narrow lanes. This was not my idea of fun. I recalled the previous day, when Mika had driven this route, also in the dusk with not a word of complaint.

  Clark hadn’t said a word since we finished scoffing our snack, allowing me to concentrate on driving in these conditions. Then he spoke.

  “Gael, I need to tell you something.”

  “What?” I asked, wishing whatever it was could wait for another time.

  “You know I had a lot of casual sex back in the day.”

  My mind whirred around a well-worn track. Clark was going to tell me he was HIV positive.

  “Back in the day?” I asked, with a smile, but didn’t take my eyes from the terrain ahead.

  “Touché. The truth is a lot of that was compensating for the fact I couldn’t have the one I wanted. For three years, I was obsessed with the same person and I knew, even though there was love between us, it was a different kind of love.”

  “Before I pull over, burst into tears and propose, you’re not talking about me, right?”

  He gave a sad little laugh. “No, I’m not talking about you. I think the love we have for each other is mutual. I gotta say, though, the couple of times we ended up in the sack ...”

  “... do not need to be resurrected. I swear to God, Clark, if you start giving me points out of ten, you can walk from here.” I changed down a gear to crawl up the hill. “I think I know who it was. Our absent friend. Let me guess, this started after the weekend in Montreux.”