Chapter 19
SARAH
I’ve taken some painkillers, had a sleep, and am sitting back where I started by the time Hal and Sébastien arrive, looking dishevelled but pleased with themselves. I’ve dressed in canvas shorts and a floral T-shirt, and my feet – well, foot – is in a trainer.
Over the years, I’ve found that illness can be very much mind over matter. I don’t mean to say that this is psychosomatic, but unless something’s completely debilitating, I’ve learned the best way to rise above it is to ignore it, act as you would otherwise and hope that it goes away.
Before Louis, I used to enjoy the odd sick day off school – when I could convince my parents of the need. Three hours of This Morning followed by whatever DVD we had available. Treats and hot chocolate and a long, warm bath. Your classic ‘duvet day’.
When you’re a mum, there isn’t any sick day, because nobody can really step in for you.
I’m not saying that I didn’t get any support – Dad, in particular, would take Louis and let me have a nap when I really needed it.
But the truth is, the buck still stopped with me.
Even at seventeen. And I suppose I haven’t been ‘allowed’ to be ill since.
Now, of course, the pressure’s off. I can give in if I want. But it’s become second nature to push through. Also, I know I’ve been a bit snappy with Hal, so want to make it up to him in some way.
By evening I’ve topped up again on the painkillers, gratefully eaten a few slices of the pizza Hal ordered from the on-site kiosk, and I’m feeling pleasantly at one with the world.
The leg is hardly bothering me at all, and the strange sickly feeling I developed earlier seems to have diminished.
The night market in Ruoms starts in half an hour and it’s just four kilometres away, so the journey shouldn’t be too arduous, even with Sébastien’s head stuck between our seats.
We manage to park on a road just a hundred yards or so from the market square, which is a miracle in itself, but one I’m so grateful for.
Both men help me clamber out of the van, which would have made me feel like a fragile maiden from days of yore if it weren’t for the enormous boot and the fact that Hal went rather red in the face with effort when helping to lift me down the final step.
Once on the pavement, we make our way towards the halo of light that hangs over the market, noticing as we draw closer the smell of roasted meat and crêpes in the air. There’s accordion music playing somewhere behind the crowds, overwritten by the sound of enthusiastic chatter and laughter.
Despite my worries about Louis and the lack of energy I’ve had since breaking my leg, I feel myself lift as we walk towards the milling crowd and the golden glow from the many stalls decked out with local produce.
Ruoms is truly beautiful – the traditional stone buildings are well pointed and smart, and the newer ones blend in, with their combination of stone and magnolia-painted frontage.
The market square is wide and paved, and the stalls are white-tented and uniform in design.
After the modernity of the campsite and its generic facilities, it feels a little more as if we’ve strolled back into the ‘real’ France.
We each begin to browse the stalls that appeal most to us: Sébastien starts sniffing handmade candles and of course Hal heads straight for the cheese stall.
I almost join him, but the smell emanating from the various cheeses feels a little heady and I decide after this afternoon that it’s not a good idea.
There’s a stand with handmade jewellery, delicate slivers of precious stone set in silver designs, and I pick up a necklace to study it more closely. I’m drawn to a small pendant made of green stone, set in the shape of a heart, and lift it slightly to study its smooth surface, its delicate shape.
‘C’est pour la guérison,’ the woman at the stall says. She looked to be about twenty-five, with the kind of thick, long, glossy black hair that many women would kill for.
‘Sorry!’ I say, holding my hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’m English.’
She nods, almost kindly, as if she sympathises with my plight. ‘I think this is a good stone for you,’ she says slowly. ‘It is peridots, for healing.’
For a moment, I am stunned. How does she know I haven’t been feeling well? I’ve never particularly believed in psychic power, but a ripple of nervousness courses through me at her words. ‘How—’ I begin.
‘For your leg,’ she says gesturing, and I almost laugh. She’s right, you don’t need to be psychic to understand that I do have something that needs to be healed.
I pay the seven euros she’s asking for and fasten the chain around my neck. Moving on, I see the source of the music, a woman on a violin playing alongside a man with an accordion. The music is upbeat and vibrant, folksy and utterly French, so I stop for a minute, nodding my head along.
My phone buzzes, so I pull it from the pocket of my shorts to find a message from Peter. They’re an hour behind in the UK, so it will be 6.30 p.m. there. I suppose it’s an acceptable time for a work message.
‘This’d better be good,’ I say quietly to myself as I open it.
Peter
Hope I didn’t overstep the mark the other day.
I’d actually forgotten about Peter’s declaration the last time we spoke, and wish I hadn’t opened the message. But I have, and he’ll see it, so I have to reply.
Sarah
It’s OK. Unexpected.
Peter
Want to go to dinner when you get back?
Sarah
Peter, I’m not sure.
Peter
Just as friends. We can talk about everything properly.
Sarah
OK.
I’m not 100 per cent sure whether that’s such a good idea. Going to dinner to talk about Peter’s feelings sounds excruciating. He’s a nice man though, and we’ve eaten together many times before. Hopefully we can get things back on a professional level.
I mean, he’s a good man. Perfect, on paper. But that’s the frustrating thing about love, isn’t it? It’s the least practical of the emotions. You can will the feeling all you like, but if it’s not there, it’s not there.
How much easier life might be if I could fall in love with the colleague who’s been by ‘work husband’ for so many years?
We get on, we understand each other. He knows my work and I know his.
But when I imagine touching him, kissing him, the idea makes me shudder.
Not because Peter is gross – ostensibly he’s pretty good-looking.
But because it would be like kissing a brother.
I glance over at the cheese stall. Hal’s in intense conversation with the owner over what appears to be a tiny chunk of hard cheese on a cocktail stick.
He’s acquired an unfortunate tan (or burn, I suppose) today, and the back of his neck has turned red-raw.
He’s showered since the swimming, but hasn’t bothered to do anything to his hair since, so it’s sticking up in disarray, and he’s wearing some beige shorts with an ill-advised Hawaiian-style shirt.
Sébastien walks up next to him, and his athletic, tanned body throws Hal’s into sharp relief, making it look even softer, less toned than it had before. Hal shows him the piece of cheese and soon they’re all in conversation about it.
I imagine both of their pictures on an online dating site. I’d probably swipe right for Seb and poor Hal would get consigned to the reject pile. Yet in reality, I feel nothing for Sébastien at all. If I had to choose, it would be Hal’s lips on mine, his arms around me.
The thought that slipped into my mind unbidden makes me uncomfortable. It’s only because I’m comparing them, I think. It doesn’t mean I want to be with Hal, kiss Hal. I’m just playing a mental game of Snog, Marry, Avoid.
I snatch my gaze away, but the sharp turn of my head is my undoing. My vision flickers for a moment and I put my hand on the edge of the market stall to steady myself. ‘Are you OK, madame?’ a woman asks.
I nod. I have a pathological desire not to be helped in any situation. I don’t think it’s a pride thing. It’s more a determination to be independent. Perhaps because usually, the buck stops with me.
In any case, I know what’s wrong this time.
I took my medication, which the packet even said can cause dizziness.
And I’m a bit dehydrated. Plus, it’s hotter this evening that I gave it credit for.
The sky is dark, but the air feels thick and cloying.
I’m amazed that nobody else seems to feel it, the muggy, suffocating atmosphere.
I long to crack a window, let some air in.
Only I’m already outside. And something is very, very wrong.
Suddenly I’m hyperaware of the people around me, the chatter, the body heat.
I spot a kiosk selling hot and cold drinks a little farther down and decide to head for it, hobbling on my crutch determinedly.
It’s only a few metres away, and there are white plastic chairs and the promise of cold, refreshing water.
That’s all I need. I’ll be OK after that.
I’m halfway there when the buzzing starts. A kind of radio static noise that buzzes in my ears and vibrates through my body. My vision begins to change, and it’s as if someone’s popped on the vignette filter on social media – the edges are dark and the centre begins to turn sepia.
But other than grab the arm of a stranger for support, there’s not much I can do but step on through it, aim for the chair. Just a few more steps, just a few more.
The buzzing intensifies and suddenly my whole body feels unsteady. I take a deep breath and lean against my crutch, trying to ground myself as my vision flickers like a broken TV, desperate to rediscover signal but failing miserably.
The only good thing is that when I hit the ground, my face smacking against the paving slab, I’m unconscious. I don’t hear the gasp of those around me as they make room. I don’t see the woman who kneels at my side and checks my pulse. And I don’t hear Hal call my name as he runs towards me.