Chapter 18
HAL
It’s a ten-kilometre hike to the river.
Sébastien tells me this, conversationally, as if it’s no big deal.
‘Ten kilometres?’ I gasp, already a little out of breath.
‘Yes, wanna jog?’ he asks.
‘No. Honestly. Walking is fine.’
I’m still not sure whether he was teasing me, and enjoying seeing my horror, or whether he simply assumes that, as a man of a similar age, I must have a similar fitness level. Clearly, nothing could be further from the truth.
My original plan for the swim had been to drive to one of the riverside beaches and dip my toes in, gradually immerse myself, then do a few strokes if I felt like it.
Turns out that as well as acting like a labrador in the car, Sébastien is determined to act like one when it comes to getting wet.
He’s going to work up a sweat then dive into the cool water at Vallon-Pont-d’Arc to refresh himself, before walking back.
When we were talking this morning, I’d suggested driving; reasoning that we’d be fresher and could swim more if we didn’t expend our energy en route, but Sébastien was so surprised that I didn’t want to walk that I found myself saying that actually, I love walking most of the time, and that ten kilometres was nothing.
I like to think of myself as quite fit. I wear a tracker watch and do try to get in my steps when I can.
But half-walking, half-trotting by Sébastien’s side has left me in no doubt that I’m not in great shape.
My heart is hammering and my T-shirt is already sticking to my back.
Sébastien walks on, unperturbed, and seemingly unaware that his pace would leave many an Olympic walker far behind.
The only saving grace is that I’d have felt a little mean leaving Sarah without Betty. She’s intending to work the whole morning in any case, but it’s nice to think that if she wants a rest or a coffee, she has the trusty camper at her side.
‘Sarah is an interesting woman,’ Sébastien says out of nowhere.
We’re around halfway to Vallon and have been walking in silence for the past five minutes. Mainly because I’m finding it harder and harder to talk and breathe at the same time. ‘Yeah,’ I manage.
‘Beautiful, too,’ he muses, almost to himself.
‘Uh huh,’ I say. He’s not wrong. The same passage of time that’s turned our boy into a man led to my developing a dad bod and silver flecks in my hair, but has been kind to Sarah.
Her face – always pretty – has elongated and become more defined.
The only sign of her age is at the corners of her eyes and for some reason, what serves to make me look twenty years older only makes her eyes stand out more and sparkle.
She’s about three times fitter than I ever was – goes to the gym most mornings, or did before she broke her leg.
Maybe when we were at school, we were sort of in the same league. But now she’s so far out of mine, I’d need about ￡30,000 of plastic surgery to be even vaguely in the same place when it comes to attractiveness.
I vow to get my act together once home. If Sébastien can have calf muscles and arm muscles like he does in his mid-thirties, I should be able to do something about my paunch at least. (I don’t usually notice men’s calf muscles, but Sébastien’s are almost obscenely defined on his tanned legs, and his arms make mine appear more like anaemic twigs – worst of all, he seems to actually enjoy exercise.
He doesn’t sweat it out at the gym, or follow a special eating plan.
He simply immerses himself in nature and comes up looking like some sort of Adonis.
If I spent even one night in the woods, I’d probably look like a yeti).
‘But you say you are not together.’ Sébastien stops abruptly and turns towards me. I’m so focused on putting one sweaty, reluctant foot in front of another by now that I almost collide with him.
‘No. Not for years. I’m with someone else,’ I lie. I’m not sure exactly why I say this – there’s something defensive about it as if I have to prove myself to Sébastien. Yes, I am a man. Yes, maybe I could be with Sarah, but I’m with someone else. So there, Mr Big Calves.
(I have to remind myself again at this point that it’s me who invited Sébastien along with us. And that despite everything, he’s a pretty good guy. We bonded this morning over bacon sandwiches. It’s probably the exhaustion I’m feeling that’s making me resent him a little).
‘OK,’ he nods, as if gradually digesting the information. Then he begins to walk again. ‘I would like to get to know her more, I think.’
‘Oh! Well, yeah. She’s great.’
‘I mean, as a lover,’ he says, looking at me meaningfully as if to make sure there is no doubt.
I scuttle along, trying to keep pace as his strides increase. ‘A lover?’ I squeak.
‘Yes,’ he says, almost to himself now, ‘I would like to know Sarah much better.’
‘Listen,’ I tell him, half panting. ‘You don’t want to do that.’ I have no idea where the words came from. But I tell myself it’s what Sarah would want me to say. She’s already annoyed that Sébastien has joined us on our trip; she won’t want to have to fend off his unwanted advances.
‘No?’ He raises a quizzical eyebrow, but doesn’t break stride.
‘She’s…’ I rack my brain for something to say. ‘Highly strung.’
‘And this means?’
‘Um, she gets annoyed, stressed. Emotional. A lot.’ I close my eyes briefly, a flood of guilt washing through my chest. But I’m doing it for her, I remind myself.
He nods. ‘So she is passionate,’ he says. ‘Ah, I realise this is not for everyone. But I like my women to be fiery, reactive. They make the most wonderful lovers.’
I put my hand on his arm before he can resume walking.
‘That’s not all. I mean, she’s also a workaholic.
’ I roll my eyes. ‘Think about her now, working while we’re doing all this.
’ Although in all honesty, I’d give anything to be sitting on a sunlounger, even if I did have to make a work call or two.
‘She works too much?’
‘Yes! Yes.’ This will no doubt be the opposite of what Sébastien wants. He practically lives in the woods, after all. Hardly a great pairing for a hotshot lawyer.
‘But this is wonderful,’ he tells me, now beaming. ‘We fit together. You cannot have two ambitious persons, or two who are more chilled like me. It is what I was saying about puzzles. You have to fit.’ He puts his hands together, interlacing his fingers as if to emphasise.
I resist the urge to slap them apart. ‘She hates exercise.’
‘That is good. I like mostly to take my exercise alone.’
‘She’s not keen on French culture.’
‘Ah, it is not for everyone. But I could teach her, help her to understand. Then she will love France just as much as I do.’
We walk on for a few more minutes. The sun is out in force now and beating down on the back of my neck. I can feel my skin starting to burn, despite the layer of sun cream I applied this morning. My heart is still hammering, my body drenched in sweat.
Despite the fact that we’re in an area famed for its rustic landscapes, volcanic rock, gorges and rivers, the road we’re walking along is ordinary to its core.
A strip of tarmac, flanked either side by high grass and bushes, over which it’s impossible to see anything of interest. I’m trying to keep track of how far we’ve come, but it feels as if the road might stretch on forever at this point.
‘Jealous!’ I say out of the blue.
Sébastien glances at me, confused.
‘Sarah. She gets jealous,’ I explain between ragged breaths. ‘She’s very controlling. You wouldn’t like it.’
He stops again, and this time I do bump into him a little bit.
‘Hal,’ he says, regarding me with his big, brown eyes. ‘I think I know what this is.’
‘You do?’
‘You do not want me to do this?’
‘What? No! Of course. Go ahead!’ I say, trying my best to give him an encouraging smile.
‘Why are you doing that?’
‘What?’
‘Baring your teeth,’ he says. ‘Like a wolf.’
Am I? ‘I’m smiling!’ I tell him. I touch my mouth as if to confirm, and let my lips slide back over my teeth.
His brow knits together and then, as though someone has given him a dose of instant Botox, smooths out. He grins and nods enthusiastically. ‘I understand! You love her.’
‘What? No! Of course not!’
‘But you do not want anyone else to be with her. You say she is beautiful. You have been lovers before and friends for decades…’ He counts off the evidence on his long, tanned fingers. His nails are perfectly short and white, I notice, as if he’s a fan of manicures rather than wild sleeping.
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean…’
‘It’s more than that, though,’ he says thoughtfully, resuming his walk. ‘When I see you with her. You’re attentive, careful. You look at her sometimes as if she is the sun.’
I don’t point out that you’re not actually meant to look directly at the sun because of blindness. ‘Do I?’
‘Hal,’ he stops and puts his arms on my shoulders, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘You love her.’
‘No, of course I don’t.’
‘You love her.’
‘But why would you—’
He nods. ‘You love her, Hal.’
And whether it’s just that I’m very suggestible, or the fact that I’m ten minutes away from heatstroke, or something to do with well-defined calves, or whether it’s Sébastien’s soothing tone and big brown eyes, something sinks inside me and I realise he just might be right.
‘I do,’ I say, incredulous. ‘I really do.’ Then, ‘Oh My God, don’t tell her! ’
He laughs, but before I can ask him why, we turn the corner and suddenly everything opens out.
We’re in front of a gentle river, flowing over rocks and widening to form a vast pool in front of a beach-like area made of grey, smooth stones.
People are lying on towels or sitting on sunloungers they’ve brought with them.
Some children are splashing in the shallows, and there are a few determined swimmers making their way under the bridge that spans the whole river.
The sun beats down on the water, creating a pattern of shimmers and dips, and the thick, warm air takes on a thinner, fresher feel as it’s cooled by the water.
As soon as we’re on the edge of the rocks, Sébastien strips to a pair of tiny red trunks that give me flashbacks, and drops his backpack and clothing as if he has no further need of them.
He strides to the water’s edge and, after peering over and checking the depth, slips into the water as easily as an otter.
His head emerges, hair flattened by moisture, and he’s laughing.
‘Hal!’ he cries, seemingly oblivious to the ten or so people between us. ‘Take off your clothes!’
I get out my towel and try to drape it around myself as best I can. Like Sébastien, I’ve worn my swimming shorts under my regular shorts, so there’s really no risk of exposure. But old habits die hard – something about removing clothing in public brings out the wilting wallflower in me.
But at last, I’m ready. I put my clothes in a neat pile close to Sébastien’s and try as best I can to make my way across the rocks.
Sébastien, of course, made this look effortless.
I look more like a kid walking on hot tarmac or a mime acting out a tiptoe.
It’s worth it though, when I get to the water.
I dip in a foot, then lower my leg slightly, before stepping fully in.
A couple of paces, and I’m up to my chest. I push forward in a gentle breaststroke and it’s as if the water is caressing me.
There’s a gentle current, a warmth to the top layer and a delicious coolness underneath.
I swim to where Sébastien is and flip over onto my back, and we both float and gaze up at the clear blue sky. We’re both otters now.
An incredible feeling of peace comes over me.
I think about Sarah, about what Sébastien said.
Could he be right? And something about that place and the soothing water and the fact that every ache and pain and stinging burnt patch on my body feels comfortable and caressed helps me to finally admit that yes – maybe I actually do.