Chapter 14
14
EMMA
Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve ever enjoyed waking up as much as I did this morning. For the first few seconds.
I was in a really deep sleep and had no idea where I was at first, other than very comfortable and very content, and then I began to remember – Callum, yesterday evening, last night, Callum – and then I realised that I was in his lovely strong arms and then I lifted my head and looked at him and then he kissed me.
And then he basically told me that from his side this is just a holiday fling.
Which… hurt, even though it wasn’t new news. Except, because it wasn’t new news, I realised, as I looked into his beautiful eyes, that it shouldn’t have hurt me.
And, in the end, I thought that if that’s all it is I’ll take it, because saying goodbye to him – if that’s what has to happen – will hurt no matter what. So I might as well enjoy myself with him while I can. And then, yes, lust did then take over. And I said okay.
And then … Oh. My. Goodness.
The best sex anyone’s ever had in the history of the world ever.
And I’ll just say it happened a lot more than once and leave it there.
I still feel like screaming out loud when I think about it.
Literally mind-blowing.
Afterwards, Callum was so gorgeous and lovely and cuddly and held me so tight that I did wonder whether maybe he didn’t really mean what he said about it being just for now. Or maybe that’s stupid wishful thinking, but whatever. For the moment, I have his company and his… well, it feels like love. Obviously it isn’t love if he doesn’t think this can be forever. But it’s certainly very nice.
Now, we’re sitting outside a beachfront café eating brunch – basically focaccia and salami with a lot of strong coffee – smiling soppily at each other and commenting lazily on what’s in front of us.
‘I wouldn’t like to be a seagull,’ I say. ‘Just flying around and eating the whole time. I think it would be boring.’
‘Better than being a goat, though,’ Callum says very seriously, indicating the hillside in the distance behind, where we saw goats yesterday. ‘They don’t even get to fly and they just eat the same thing the whole time.’
‘True. And flying would be cool,’ I agree. ‘And swooping. Spying and eavesdropping.’
‘With their little seagull ears?’
‘Exactly.’ I think for a moment. ‘I’d like to be an amazing mountain climber, though, like a goat.’
‘That’s a very good point. And they do always look happy.’
Our highly intellectual conversation wends its way through a lot of similarly highly intellectual conversational topics.
We don’t mention anything serious or relationshippy at all again.
As Callum takes a final bite of a little raspberry tart, washes it down with coffee, and leans back in his chair with his legs stretched out, I reflect that, apart from his one comment about the fling when we woke up this morning, he shows no sign whatsoever of wanting to talk about real life.
And I actually also have no wish to go there.
Today feels too other-world perfect to spoil it with mundane matters like… this is my baggage, what’s yours… or where are we really going, if anywhere, from here, like did you actually mean what you said before you then made love to me as though you were… yes, making love ?
I know now without a shadow of a doubt – it’s just come to me suddenly – where I’d like to go with Callum: marriage, kids, the works. And, yes, I’ve only re-known him for just over forty-eight hours (how is it even possible that it’s been such a short time?), but we were together for three years and I know the bones of him, his personality, his temperament, his morals, him , so, so well. And I don’t think I’ve ever stopped loving him.
I don’t want to think about this. I don’t want to contemplate Callum not feeling the same way.
I open my mouth to speak, to get away from my thoughts, just as Callum rolls his shoulders and says, ‘Shall we get the bill and have a quick walk along the beach before we get going?’
‘Good idea.’ I beam. I love that word we .
As we stroll, hand in hand, I push away all thoughts about the future. I’m here with Callum and it’s blissful, and I do at least now know why he didn’t get back in touch and that in itself is huge. And at the very, very least, I’ll have these few days as the most perfect memory. And maybe that will be all this is: a beautiful (and sex-filled) closure to a first love.
If so, that will be that and I’ll have to accept it.
In this moment, I’m just going to enjoy myself with Callum.
I pull his hand. ‘Let’s paddle.’
We end up going into the sea in our clothes (and then if I’m honest doing some things that I never thought I’d do in the open air but there’s no one around and I’m sure people can’t see things under water – thank goodness there were no snorkellers) before lying on the sand to dry off and then going back to the van.
‘Are we still thinking Chamonix for the next stop?’ Callum asks as we set off.
‘I’ve been wondering that myself,’ I admit. ‘How long’s Google Maps saying?’
‘Four hours forty-five minutes from here.’
‘So realistically that’s nine hours if we’re lucky.’
I am not, it turns out, as fast on the motorway as sat navs predict that I will be. I’ve started doubling their estimates to be safe.
‘Yeah.’ Callum nods. And that’s a testament to how good a mood he must be in today, because at any other time in the two days we’ve been on this trip together, he would immediately have made the point that if I drove faster we’d get places faster. Like: no shit, really ? I’m aware that I’m not the fastest driver on the road. He’s being a lot more tolerant now, and I like that.
‘Maybe we should stop somewhere halfway between here and there. Where do you think would be good?’
I realise with a little shock that this is literally the first decision about this trip I’m asking someone else to help me make, and it feels good.
I was very ready to strike out by myself when I first set out, but now I’m very happy to have some company. Callum’s company, anyway.
We decide to stop for the night just off the motorway in a village in a forested national park in the foothills of the Alps, still in Italy.
Once we’ve made the decision, Callum says, ‘I should book a hotel now while we’re driving. We don’t want to arrive and discover that there’s nowhere to stay because it’s a village with no hotels or there’s just one and it’s completely full.’
I agree and he does some googling.
‘Okay, there are a few hotels in the vicinity. The nicest one does have space for us. I was thinking.’ He clears his throat. ‘In the interests of.’ He clears his throat again.
I’m pretty sure that he’s referring to how many bedrooms we book. I know what I’d like to do but I do not want to say, just in case it isn’t what Callum’s getting at.
And then he gets the words out: ‘Would you like to share a room?’
I would love to share a room.
‘Let me think about that,’ I tease. ‘Yeah, only if you promise to let me choose my side of the bed and also let me have as many bedclothes as I like.’
I get cold at night; Callum does not.
‘ Or ,’ he says, ‘I could very kindly warm you up myself.’
‘Oh yes, I think that could work very well. Done.’
He makes the booking and then we listen to music again, and sing, and Callum is indeed blatantly in an extremely tolerant mood, because he only mentions about five times, instead of about fifty, the fact that I do occasionally (all the time; I can’t remember the words of songs to save my life) sing la a lot.
It’s so nice. I love being in the van with him, bowling along the Italian motorway. It’s like we’re in a moving home, looking out on the rest of the world, just the two of us, bound together by proximity. (And love, at least in my case, but I don’t want to go there.)
We don’t talk a lot, we just sing and smile and occasionally comment vaguely on the scenery.
We stop once, and even a small service station with bad food and very smelly and not-very-clean loos seems like a lovely destination when I’m with Callum.
During the early evening, when we’re still on the motorway, there’s a brief but heavy rain shower.
‘Just turning my windscreen wipers on.’ I do it with a flourish.
‘Nicely done. You wouldn’t ever want to drive a wiper-less vehicle,’ Callum says.
I smile. I love that we now have mild in-jokes from this trip. In many ways it’s as though the last twelve years never happened – we’ve slipped so fast back into our old Callum-and-Emma, Emma-and-Callum relationship.
Actually, I don’t think we’ve slipped back into our old relationship; I think this could be a better version. Every single evening from a couple of months in after we first met, when I’d realised that the one-offs were not actually one-offs, I always used to be a little bit worried that any minute Callum was going to do something truly outrageous. I don’t have that fear now. He seems a lot more grown-up, in a very good way, and now obviously I do have the background fear that he’s going to stick to his ‘this is only for now’ thing, but in the moment I’m just loving being with him. Maybe… if something longer term happens… maybe the break could have been a good thing (if a little long); maybe it allowed us both space to grow.
Callum is actually very good at giving directions from Google Maps (which is genuinely harder than you’d think based on how shockingly bad at it Samira was when she joined me for a week in Austria) and we reach the hotel without making any wrong turnings.
‘Oh wow,’ I say, when the very smiley owner shows us our room.
Callum’s booked us a luxury suite, and there’s a heavy emphasis on the luxury . Our room has a very large and comfortable four-poster bed, and everything (the bed included) is decorated in sumptuous pale blue and green velvets and silky fabric, with a pattern of tiny flowers, which goes beautifully with the dark blue walls and cream woodwork. We also have a sitting room, painted cream, containing a dark blue velvet sofa of the ideal squishiness, and a huge TV. Our en-suite bathroom is Paris-Ritz-style opulent, and goes perfectly with the cosy grandness of the room. And the view from the windows (on three sides because we’re in a turrety bit of the building) is to die for: we can see the Alps stretching away into the distance, lots of grassy hillside with trees and bushes and the occasional village or hamlet dotted around.
‘I love this.’ I’m almost speechless with delight. ‘I want to move in permanently. It’s perfect.’ This would be the most idyllic honeymoon location. And, oops, I hope I’m not blushing when I realise that being here with Callum has sent my thoughts straight to weddings and honeymoons.
The owner beams at me. ‘I’m so pleased that you like it.’ She points to a side table in the sitting room and says, ‘We have champagne on ice for you. We can serve dinner downstairs in the dining room or we can do room service. Whichever you prefer?’
It’s always nice to dine in a restaurant and meet new people, but on this occasion I would infinitely prefer to stay in the room and make the most of it… and more importantly of Callum. But he booked the hotel, having insisted again that he should be the one to pay, so it should be his decision.
‘I think, perhaps, room service?’ He’s looking at me with his eyebrows raised in query. ‘If you like? I’m very happy to go down to the restaurant if you prefer.’
‘Room service would be perfect,’ I say quickly, cheering internally.
We didn’t have a lot to eat at the service station so we order starters, mains and dessert. We sit on our terrace and enjoy the view for the first two courses and we do actually eat them, but before we get to our dessert we’re trying out the bed.
It’s a good bed and we put it to excellent use.
Later, when we’re wrapped in sheets, eating strawberries and delectable little biscuits, Callum kisses me on the mouth and says, ‘I…’ Followed by what I would swear sounds like an ‘L’ sound.
I wait, with bated breath, because for a moment I had a really strong sense that he might be about to say he loved me. But he doesn’t say anything else; he kind of clamps his mouth shut. Which is fine. It’s too soon. Probably.
Maybe in fact he wasn’t about to say he loved me. The shape of his mouth, though, was definitely just like he was going to form the word ‘love’. And I can’t imagine he would have gone so weird in the moment if he’d been about to say a word that starts similarly.
I’m trying to think of sentences that he might feasibly have said that would start like that, like, ‘I lump things together,’ or ‘I lunge when I’m exercising,’ or… and then he takes both our bowls and kisses me really hard and hungrily, and I stop thinking about anything at all, including L words.
We wake up the next day having had an idyllic night in the idyllic surroundings we’re in.
We share an idyllic room-service breakfast.
The whole day – our morning walking round the hotel’s lovely gardens after we’ve got up very late, followed by a slow journey up to Chamonix through stunning Alpine scenery and the end of the afternoon and early evening walking around the picturesque town – is perfect.
We’re very tactile the whole time, just as though we’re a regular, very loved-up, couple.
We talk but we don’t talk . It’s all banter, little stories, some very naughty innuendos that make me go, ‘ Callum ,’ before trying to beat him with some of my own. There’s nothing deep and meaningful. Just like a solid, loved-up couple might be on holiday, because they know where they are with each other. And just like two people who are in a holiday fling might be because they know where they are too: nowhere.
We’re walking through a little square, hand in hand, and I suddenly say, ‘Oh my goodness, you’ve done no work all day. Will it not matter? Your job? Do you not have stuff you have to do?’ And then I continue with: ‘What do you actually do, in fact? In your law job?’ Which doesn’t feel like an intrusive question, because most people are perfectly happy to tell most other people what their jobs consist of. Like, for example, I must have collected (and mainly forgotten but that is not the point) details about at least twenty new acquaintances’ occupations during the course of this trip.
Callum hesitates for just a second, but I notice the hesitation, because it seems odd.
And then he says, ‘Yes, I’m a lawyer. Solicitor. I work for quite a big firm. In London.’ Then he says, very, very much as though he’s changing the subject, ‘Wow, look at that view.’
And, yes, the view – of the snow-capped Mont Blanc – is stunning and absolutely comment-worthy but that was just weird. Why doesn’t Callum want to talk about his job? Does he not want to share any details at all of his life with me? I mean, his job . That isn’t even that personal. Now that I’ve re-met him and I know he’s a lawyer, I could probably find him online quite easily. It isn’t classified information. It’s like his instinct is just to shut the conversation down when we get anywhere near personal.
No. This is ridiculous. I’m being paranoid. There’s no reason that people should just info-dump on each other. And maybe he has a work issue that he just doesn’t want to talk about, or he’s feeling a bit worried about not having done any work and he wants to put it out of his mind and just enjoy our surprise holiday together. There could be all sorts of not-at-all-bad reasons that he doesn’t want to discuss his job with me.
I look over at the mountains and agree that the view is spectacular and then we carry on wandering and I wonder whether I imagined things getting weird there for a moment.
Our night in Chamonix is perfect. As are the next two days and nights on the road.
It’s like we’re in an out-of-this-world bubble.
The bubble feeling is heightened because we obviously aren’t seeing anyone we know, and I’m not really hugely in touch with anyone either; I do obviously check in with my mum and sister and best friends when they message me, but I almost consciously tailor my replies so that they give an impression of: ‘I’m very busy having an amazing time and am certainly not having sex with the ex to end all exes, nothing to see here, and I’ll be home in maybe a week’s time and when I do get home I’ll fill you in on all my touristy but not at all sexual experiences’.
Callum and I continue to talk a lot but not about big life issues, just a lot of very lovely nothing-chat, during which I feel, actually, that we’re getting to know the real us even better. We knew each other well before, but that was the young us. The older us are the same people but with a lot more life experience and that makes a difference. And I continue to feel that we’re better together now.
We discuss important things like why food does taste better if you’re looking at a nice view (in my head Callum is the nicest view of all), whether it’s okay to wear the same socks two days running if you only wear them for half an hour each time and keep them tucked inside your shoes the rest of the time (no it is not, Callum) and why we say Mont Blanc with no ‘the’, but the French call it Le Mont Blanc, and our discussions do grow heated, but we do not touch on important important issues.
On the second evening, the last before we head towards Paris, we stay in a B we can have a really good time in a group.
The rest of the evening is lovely and our night in yet another grand four-poster bed is amazing. (We pull the bed’s curtains around us because neither of us fancies being watched by the stuffed rodents that are crowded onto every conceivable surface and very much not my favourite form of taxidermy.)
It’s quite late when we arrive in Paris on the third day.
‘I’m agog to see what else you booked,’ I say, as Callum directs me into one of the few car parks in Central Paris that the van will fit into height-wise.
He asked me this morning if he could book a surprise evening for us and I said yes, that would be lovely, and in the last few minutes, when I’ve had any time around dodging the scary traffic, I’ve been wondering in a lovely anticipatory way what we’re going to be doing.
When we emerge blinking from the greyness of the car park into the bright late afternoon light, Callum says, ‘The hotel’s just round the corner.’
‘That’s so close.’
I’m very impressed.
‘Oh my goodness,’ I say a minute later when we get round the corner and see the hotel. It’s in a very historic-looking building, with a big revolving door with a liveried man standing outside. It’s all very black and gold and shiny. There are well-kept window boxes containing gorgeous bright purple and red flowers. There’s classic-but-discreet lettering. It’s so fancy.
We’re ushered inside by the liveried man and over to the polished dark wood reception desk. Inside, there’s a lot of gold and shiny marble floor tiles and panelled walls. You’d think it would be overwhelming, but it isn’t; it’s just gorgeous.
‘This is lovely,’ I say.
‘I know.’ Callum’s smug smile is very endearing. ‘Wait until you see the pool.’ He did suggest that I put a costume in the bag I packed for tonight, so I did think there might be a pool but I did not think the hotel would be like this .
The bedroom is more of the same classic luxury. (Since the first time we shared, we’ve been in the same room every night as a matter of course without even discussing it.)
The first thing we do, after we’ve bounced a bit on the bed (and then stolen a quick cuddle) and exclaimed about the very fancy bathroom and exclusive view over a very beautiful square, is go for a swim in the rooftop infinity pool.
After a few lengths and some messing around with Callum, I climb out to have a little rest on one of the loungers. I wrap myself in one of the super-deep-pile towels they’ve provided for guests and lie back and watch him.
These past few days we’ve seen a lot of amazing scenery and wonderful architecture, as well as some cool, quirky things, some of which I won’t necessarily ever have the opportunity to see again, and most of the time I’ve had to force myself to look at the sights rather than at Callum. The actual real-life thing of not being able to get enough of someone.
As I watch him now, he’s powering through the pool in a very efficient front crawl, and I feel myself shivering with pleasure at the thought that I get to spend all this time with him, be with him, talk to him, love him.
He executes a very professional-looking turn at the end of his lap; he’s good .
Did I know he was such a good swimmer? I’m not sure I did. Now I think about it, I don’t think we ever went proper swimming in the three years we were together – well, we can’t have done; I would have remembered – and I thought he only did football and tennis, sports-wise.
I like that we still have stuff like this to learn about each other. What I don’t like so much, I realise, is that we still haven’t caught up on all the big life stuff that’s happened over the past twelve years, and I feel as though it’s more Callum than me now stopping us from having those conversations.
But maybe he’s right. Maybe that would spoil this holiday together.
We can talk about it all when we get back to London. I am now, I realise, pretty sure that we’re going to be together when we get home. I know that Callum said that definitely wouldn’t be the case, but that was before we’d spent so much amazing time together.
I think maybe he was scared that one – or both – of us would get hurt and that’s why he said the fling thing, but surely now he can see that that wouldn’t be the case. I mean, we are good together.
‘Come back in for a few more minutes?’ Callum calls and I nod and stand up, before sliding back into the pool and stopping with the thinking.
After our swim, we shower (together) in our en-suite, and then I put on my favourite dress (Callum said we’re going to eat dinner somewhere nice) and almost skip downstairs with him due to the happiness practically bubbling out of me.
He’s organised the most wonderful evening. I told him a few days ago about how the only other time I’ve been to Paris I was fourteen and on a school trip and missed everything that the teachers had arranged for us because I spent most of it being sick in the bathroom in our youth hostel after a dodgy chicken sandwich on the ferry. So he’s booked us into some touristy things.
We take a bateau mouche along the river, we wander the historic streets and I do actually take my eyes off Callum long enough to fall in love with Paris too, and then we take a cab to the Eiffel Tower, where Callum’s booked for us to have dinner in the second-floor restaurant, from where the views are fantastic.
Over dinner we again talk about everything but also, as usual, it’s very much nothing.
And then, as we sip coffees and eat the most amazing little truffle chocolates, Callum puts his cup down and leans in.
He looks me very intently in the eyes, and I suddenly get the feeling that he’s about to say something that’s a lot more everything than nothing. I put my own cup down.
‘Emma, you need to know that I love you,’ he says, taking both my hands in his. ‘More than words can ever say.’
My heart makes the most gigantic leap inside me, almost into my mouth.
‘I love you too,’ I tell him. I’m bordering on tearful. There isn’t a shadow of a doubt in my mind that I love him, deeply, irrevocably, forever. I recovered from him, eventually, after the end of our relationship, and I moved on, but now I know that I never stopped loving him, I just learned to live without him. And now I think I’ve unlearnt that, very fast. ‘I’m so glad that we re-met like this.’
Callum – a little bit weirdly – doesn’t reply, but maybe he’s just struggling to find words around the emotion we’re both feeling. That must be it; I see his Adam’s apple working as he sits there silently and his eyes moisten a tiny bit. I can feel tears spiking at the backs of my own eyes, and I sniff.
I’m opening my mouth to say what a wonderful evening this has been (and probably something else about loving Callum because it’s the kind of sentiment that you can’t stop repeating once you’ve started it) when the moment is annoyingly broken as I’m clunked on the head by the very weighty handbag of the woman on the next table as she stands to leave. (What does she have in there? I honestly think it must be a gun or something.)
‘Ow.’ I’m no longer gazing into Callum’s eyes; I’m slightly seeing stars.
‘Shall we get the bill?’ Callum asks and I nod, suddenly keen to get back to the hotel and be alone and cement our declaration by making love, which I think will be huge, given that it’s the first time since we reconnected that we’ve told each other we love each other.
We walk back to the hotel with our arms round each other. It’s quite a long walk but it passes quickly. We talk a bit, about things like gargoyles on buildings and famous places that we pass, the bakeries, chocolateries and macaron shops, with their saliva-inducing displays, and amazing little shops, like one that’s entirely devoted to stunning ribbons, and we also wander in silence at times, during which all I think about is the fact that we’ve now told each other that we love each other .
When we wake up in the morning, I feel normal at first, and then I feel the weight of Callum spooned round me and I remember last night, and I don’t feel normal any more; I feel like the luckiest woman alive. I lie there just smiling .
But then, instead of kissing me or doing any of the other things that he’s been doing when we wake up each morning, Callum clears his throat behind me. It’s a weird throat-clearing for the situation we’re in. It’s the kind of throat-clearing you do when you have something to say in a work meeting or something. You wouldn’t think a throat-clearing sound could alarm you, but I do feel a little alarmed.
‘Callum?’ I ask.
‘I need to get back to London,’ he says. ‘Fast. A work thing. There’s a train from the Gare du Nord late morning today, and my PA’s booked me onto it. I just found out.’
‘Oh.’ I feel instantly incredibly deflated but then I think no, that’s okay. He wasn’t expecting to be on holiday at all, so we’ve been very lucky to have this time together. Obviously it was always going to be finite. We can just see each other when I get back, whenever we’re both free. Hopefully sooner rather than later but we do both have our own lives. The main thing is that we love each other and I’m sure we’re going to find a way to join our actual lives, not just our holiday lives, together.
‘So I’m just going to get into the shower.’ He pulls his arms from round me and as he gets out of bed he doesn’t kiss me, which feels a bit (very) odd, but he’s clearly in a rush, which is totally understandable.
I enjoy watching him walk naked across the room to the bathroom. It’s a view you could happily see every day for the rest of your life. And, oh my goodness, hopefully I will. He’s changed a little from how he was when we were young, as I have. I want to see all the rest of the changes; I want to grow middle-aged with him and then old with him. I want him in my life forever.
I drift back into sleep thinking of Callum.
I think the sound of the bathroom door opening wakes me up; I’m disorientated again for a moment when I re-wake, and then face-splittingly-wide-smiled happy when I remember.
Me and Callum. Callum and me. We’re in love.
Callum’s in a suit.
‘Suits you, sir,’ I say, still smiling.
He doesn’t smile back and my own smile starts to drop. He’s looking… odd . Like, quite frowny. Oh my God. Is he regretting telling me that he loved me? Did he not… mean it?
I swallow. I can barely deal with all the terror I’m feeling right now. Does he not want to see me again when we’re both back in London?
And then he sits down on the bed. At the other end. Beyond my feet.
And he says, ‘I have something to tell you.’
His face is very serious and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not going to enjoy hearing whatever he has to say.