by Sue Watson
‘I think you have to try different places the way you try on a suit – live in them for a while, see how they fit and wait for your heart to tell you,’ he was saying, as our two dining companions discreetly left the table. The way they were kissing and clinging to each other I could only guess why they were going below deck.
‘I like the suit philosophy,’ I smiled, catching his eyes grazing my cleavage then returning quickly to my face. I could see he appreciated what he saw and, what the hell, it gave me a frisson. I still had it then? ‘So what was it that made Sydney fit for you, what made your heart say yes?’ I asked, intrigued by this man who’d wandered halfway across the earth to find what he was looking for.
‘I think it was more, as you say, where my heart didn’t want to be.’
I must have looked slightly puzzled at this, so he went on to explain.
‘My wife,’ he started, ‘she died in Paris and my heart can’t stay there… It hurts too much inside my heart.’ He made a fist and gently touched his chest.
‘I’m so sorry, you are young to lose your wife.’ I was genuinely moved. However much it had hurt to say goodbye to Dan, saying a permanent goodbye like Pierre had to was unthinkable.
‘Yes, and she was young too, only forty. It was a few years ago now, but it doesn’t get any easier.’ His eyes glistened and I could see how deeply he was feeling. I thought of Dan and his brother and the impact death has on the living, shaping our lives, our futures, leaving its indelible mark on our forevers.
Pierre went on to tell me how he’d met his wife in an art gallery on the Left Bank and how she looked like a film star and the look on his face as he spoke brought tears to my eyes. I kept thinking how lucky she was to have someone who cared about her like this, but what made me want to cry was the knowledge that I’d had that too and I’d thrown it away.
‘I’m touched by your tears,’ he said, handing me his napkin (I wanted to blow my nose, but decided against it). ‘You really listen, Faye. People don’t listen to each other any more, you’re very special.’
I smiled and sipped on my champers, feeling very comfortable in this man’s company and enjoying the delicious breakfast. We stayed at the table and as the sun moved around, I discreetly lowered my towelling robe so I could allow some sun on my shoulders. I would be sun-kissed when I saw Dan the following day.
I continued to listen to this lovely man’s life story and he’d just got to the sad bit when I looked down to see my costume had slipped. The top half had come down over my breasts and I was completely topless! I screamed and grabbed my breasts, which made him jump, and reaching for my napkin attempted to cover myself. I apologised profusely and at his polite suggestion headed below deck to manage my errant décolletage.
Once alone in the magnificent bedroom, I took away the napkin and stood in front of the full-length mirror. It looked like something from a bad porn movie. On closer inspection, I realised that in my hurry that morning to put on the swimsuit I’d put it on back to front. This explained the low top from which my breasts had unleashed themselves and the baggy groin, which was meant for my bum. My face was hot with embarrassment. God only knows how long I’d been sat there like a bloody porn star, breasts swinging in the sea breeze, tearing at croissants seductively. Pierre’s eyes hadn’t grazed my cleavage, they’d been knocked out by my naked breasts – oh the shame!
I changed the costume around and, mortified, returned to the table, where Pierre was smiling politely like I hadn’t been topless for the past hour. I tried to think like Mandy, who did this regularly, as a welcome greeting to strangers in nightclubs, to make myself feel better, when actually I was mortified.
I apologised again and tried to explain, but once I’d started talking about my breasts and gesturing towards them, he looked confused, like I was inviting him to touch them, so I decided to quit while I was ahead.
Once the boob-flashing incident was put to bed, he asked me about me, which was nice.
‘Oh, I was married to a man who loved the smell of drain cleaner, he sniffed it like some people sniff glue,’ I sighed. ‘We drifted…’
‘And now?’
‘Now? Oh, where to begin? To cut a long story short, I left my husband four years ago, fell madly in love with a younger man. We ran away, came back, then I rejected his marriage proposal, he left to come here and twelve months later, I followed him and here I am. I know, mixed up, eh?’
He shrugged. ‘Faye, love is always very mixed up, that’s part of the joy. If it was simple, we wouldn’t want it – us humans tire of love too quickly,’ he sighed, and I suspected he’d had his share of disappointments in love since losing his wife.
Before I could probe further François arrived with hot coffee, which Pierre thanked him for, and then poured as I watched him hold the cup gently, offering me cream and sugar like it were gold. He had this way of making you feel special, cared for, like he’d look after me, and it reminded me how I used to feel about Dan when we were together. Now, it felt different with Dan, slightly overwrought, stressful, and I worried because I’d pushed him away, he’d learned to live happily without me. If he had, then I couldn’t stick around, but watching Pierre pour my coffee with such care and attention made me sad. If Dan weren’t in my head and my heart, this might have been the beginning of something lovely here in the sunshine with this man who wanted to please me.
‘So, what do you do?’ I asked. Judging by this yacht I guessed he must be a millionaire.
‘I made my fortune selling Lithuanian hair dye to the UK market,’ he smiled, taking a sip of his coffee.
‘Small world!’ I gasped and was quick to explain how his products were working on the ground. I told him how none of us could read the names of the hair dyes and how Sue had originally christened them all with her own interpretive names that had stuck even after she’d left. He loved Sarcastic Scarlet the best, it made him laugh out loud – but then he looked straight at me and said, ‘This is fate.’
‘What?’ I said, realising we were alone, and Pierre had his hand on mine. Then I recalled a film starring Nicole Kidman stranded on a yacht in the middle of the sea with a madman and quickly moved my hand away.
Pierre immediately apologised and became ‘corporate’, explaining that he was keen to visit the salon personally.
‘The new owner will be delighted if you call,’ I said, giving him Mandy’s number, knowing she would be able to handle this French millionaire with style, and probably finish off what I’d started with the topless greeting. One could only imagine what his impression of English women would be based on his encounters with me and Mandy.
The sun moved across the sky and we continued to talk about everything and anything. And later, we enjoyed a light afternoon tea with more champagne and Pierre offered to show me the best sunset in Australia. I hoped this wasn’t a euphemism and smiled; I was comfortable with him but also aware that I was literally captive on his boat and being a keen watcher of crime dramas I could see how this might end on TV or film. But Pierre’s hospitality was generous and extravagant, and by now it was clear he was quite captivated by my working-class stories of day-to-day life in a British hairdressing salon. Things were lost in translation when I tried to explain Mandy’s slutdropping but decided to draw the line on ‘Vajazzle Week’ – he’d heard enough. He was drinking in everything I said and, I have to admit, I was flattered by his undivided attention, because since I’d arrived in Oz, I’d felt like more of a hindrance to Dan.
Unlike Dan, Pierre wasn’t constantly being called and texted by his baby mama, he wasn’t rushing off to change nappies and no one’s temperature needed to be constantly checked and fretted over (by me as much as Dan). Yes, sitting on a yacht with a millionaire was truly relaxing after being with Dan and Clover the day before and it made me wonder all the more about whether there was room in his life for me anymore.
‘This is lovely,’ I said, relaxing into it and gazing around as Pierre pointed out landmarks in the distance. The sky wa
s blue, the sea was all around us, there was no phone signal, no interruptions except once or twice from François, who merely wanted to top up our tea/coffee/champagne and I began to think how lovely this life could be.
I glanced over at Pierre as he talked and imagined it was Dan sitting in the open-necked shirt, champagne on ice, no phone signal, firm thighs in tight denim, blond, messy, sun-kissed hair… and I had to stop before I did something untoward.
A couple of hours later, after more champagne and the re-emergence of Angelina and Michael, I could once again see dry land. I wondered what my day would have been like if I hadn’t washed up on this fabulous yacht and gone diving, as planned. I could go diving again, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and maybe, as Pierre had said, it was fate? My skin was tingling from the sun and sea air and I felt like I was saying goodbye to a friend as Pierre and I said our goodbyes on deck.
‘Faye, you have made this day very special for me,’ he said, holding both my shoulders and looking at me. ‘Would it be pushy of me to ask what you are doing for dinner this evening?’
I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, what are the chances of me randomly hijacking a millionaire’s yacht and him asking me out? My immediate reaction was to say no, but I looked at him and realised I had no plans, and I didn’t want to say goodbye yet. This didn’t have to be anything more than just two new friends going to dinner, did it? I was a grown woman with my own life and I was alone in Sydney, the man I loved was with his baby, so why not? And besides, how could I say no as Pierre had been so kind and gracious about my unannounced and uninvited arrival on his expansive, sunny deck? So I said, yes, I’d love to meet up again and I gave him my hotel address.
‘Wonderful,’ he said, his face beaming. ‘I’ll pick you up at 8 p.m? Is that okay with you?’
I nodded, delighted at the prospect, but feeling a little guilty about Dan. The niggle of guilt grew when I returned to the hotel and picked out a dress I’d planned to wear for Dan. But he was busy, and if I’d learned one thing recently, it was that waiting around for other people isn’t always the best way to spend your time on this earth.
So I dressed and sat on the balcony, wondering if I might be getting myself into something I’d later regret. I even considered calling Pierre and cancelling. I could tell him I wasn’t well, that I loved someone else, but it would be presumptuous because I was only going out for dinner. He wasn’t asking me to marry him, so what did it matter who I loved? And why not? I couldn’t wait to tell Emma, so I called her from my hotel balcony.
‘Oh, Mum, that sounds amazing and no, you’re not doing anything wrong. It sounds like Dan has stuff to deal with before either of you commit to anything and I can’t pretend I don’t want a millionaire for a stepfather,’ she said, laughing.
‘Oh, it’s not like that – he’s lonely, his wife died. And I don’t care how much money he has, I’m not interested,’ I said, honestly. She seemed relieved at that and warned me to keep in textual contact with her throughout the evening.
‘Remember that film with Nicole Kidman?’ she warned before the signal went and I lost her.
It was now 7.30 p.m. and I still had the chance to back out of this if I wanted to, so I called Dan. I just wanted to try and speak with him, tell him what I was going to do and see how he felt about it. But it went straight to answerphone. I called again and again over the next twenty minutes, but still he didn’t pick up. So I texted, saying how I’d been on a yacht all day and had an adventure I didn’t expect and was now going for dinner with ‘the people’ I’d met. I know it was a lie, but I didn’t want him to think I’d given up on us to dine with a French millionaire. But then I thought about how he’d slept with another woman not long after we’d parted and it made me pick up my clutch bag and head down to reception in my new floaty white dress.
Pierre arrived at the hotel on the dot in a beautiful big black shiny car and whisked me off to one of the best, newest, trendiest French restaurants in Sydney.
‘You will love the lamb,’ he was saying in the car.
I looked across at him; he was lovely, not traditionally handsome, but likeable, with kind eyes and a nice, gentle humour. I watched him as he spoke, pointing out various landmarks from our seat in the back, and I wondered, for a moment, just a fleeting moment, what it would be like to kiss him.
We arrived at the restaurant and climbed out of the car at an unassuming little place with a dark timber façade and linen curtains at the windows. Once inside, I was transported by the fragrance – pungent garlic and rosemary filled the air, with an echo of alcohol and roasting meat. It was gorgeous, and the place wasn’t posh or stuffy, it was warm and cosy, like being at a friend’s house. A rich friend, but a friend nonetheless. We were greeted like royalty and I felt like a film star on Oscars night.
We were seated at a very discreet table and within seconds the first good bottle of red arrived, and later in the meal he even ordered some of the local Aussie beer, which was cold and delicious and perfect with the baked trout we’d ordered, silky against the crispy skin.
‘How do you think they cooked this trout?’ I asked Pierre, knowing this would be the first thought from Dan if he were tasting this wonderful dish.
Pierre shrugged. ‘Who knows? But if you like, I can ask the chef and he can teach you? I could pay him to give you a lesson.’
‘Oh no, I just wondered.’ It was lovely of him to offer, but I didn’t want a lesson, I wanted to talk. So many new flavours, I wanted to discuss each mouthful, talk about the ingredients, the recipes, like Dan and I always did. He would be working out the ocean flavours of the mussels we’d had to start, I thought to myself, as I sipped wine and watched Pierre instruct the waiter that he wanted ‘the vintage champagne’.
He smiled across at me, and I waited for something, anything, a glimmer of recognition – that we were alike, we could relate. I felt nothing.
*
Later, the car came for us and we took coffee outside in a beautiful garden. He’d obviously arranged it specially because we were the only ones there. It was perfect, romantic – like something in a magazine, a film – the kind of place you dream of. He was looking at me: no phone, no baby, no one calling him from work to ask about the boiling point of sodding peas. And I couldn’t have asked for anything more wonderful. So why, when I looked out onto the spiky green, the night sky scattered with stars, could I feel my eyes filling with tears?
‘Faye, you are upset?’ I heard him say beside me.
I shook my head. ‘I’m so sorry, Pierre, I think I need to go back to my hotel,’ I heard myself say in the beautifully manicured darkness.
He’d brought me to this beautiful place, the French restaurant with its cosy, delicious ambience. That night I’d tasted new flavours – and I’d also tasted old money and it tasted pretty good. It was an evening I would always remember because it was unlike any other in my life – and he was so unlike any other man. If things had been different, who knew what adventures I could have with Pierre, and who knew what kind of life that might lead to? But it turned out that I wasn’t as free as I’d thought I was. And just by being here with this man I was reminded how much I still loved Dan.
All the flavours I longed to taste, the mountains I wanted to climb and the seas I wanted to cross would mean nothing if I wasn’t with Dan. He was loving and funny and annoying and his laid-back vibe drove me to distraction, along with his infuriating inability to confront the tougher things in life. But I loved all of him, even the flaws – and as Pierre had said earlier that day, love wasn’t simple, it was complicated and mixed up. It’s what keeps us humans interested. Dan was the right fit for my heart and there was nothing I could do about that. Tonight, I realised, I was in the right place with the wrong man, and all the vintage champagne in the world wasn’t going to change that.
23
Love, Lust or a Tropical Flush?
I woke the next morning feeling sad about Pierre, but glad I’d stopped anything before it sta
rted. I’d been flattered by the attentions of this lovely man and who knew what might have happened if things had been different? But that evening proved to me that I couldn’t move on even if I wanted to. My heart was only interested in one man, and I had to try and see if there was enough love left on both sides to go for it and try and make things work. It wouldn’t be easy, Dan was being pulled every which way, but perhaps if we could find a short stretch of time to be alone together without all the distractions, we could see if it was possible to get back to being us again. We’d both changed, but that didn’t mean we didn’t fit together anymore.
I gazed out of the window of my hotel room, contemplated giving Dan a call, then thought better of it. He was the one with all the life going on around him, I didn’t want to call him in the middle of a breakfast service or just as Clover fell asleep in his arms. I knew how that felt from when Rosie was tiny – it was a nightmare to wake her suddenly.
I tried to stop thinking about him and Clover and collected the Sydney Morning Herald from outside my door, along with a continental breakfast. Sitting on the balcony with my coffee and croissant, I opened the Cuisine section to see Dan staring right back at me from his café kitchen. I wondered if the gods, or the fates (or even those rising Capricorns Sue had threatened me with) were trying to tell me something.
In the photo, he was standing with both hands on a kitchen counter, looking straight at the camera, master of his universe. The background was blurry, filled with running waiters and waitresses, a young, bustling place and, according to the lovestruck journalist, was filled with the fragrance of baking bread and fresh herbs. How I longed to see him there. I felt like I’d been in on his dream from its early days, when we’d first met, and it seemed so unfair that I couldn’t at least take a peek.
