Chapter Twenty-Two
There’s a theory about post-disaster sex from a sociologist guy at the University of Washington.
It was given an airing at the time of the Twin Towers, but he’s also applied it to human behaviour before, during and in the aftermath of war.
It might even be relevant to what many people do following a death or a funeral.
Basically, the theory claims that at times of fear, vulnerability and sadness, we experience a heightened libido, making us want sex more than we might normally.
It might be biology at work, an atavistic instinct that fuels the urge to procreate in the face of a threat to survival.
Or it could simply be an affirmation of life, a subconscious fear that this moment might be our last, therefore we must reinforce our grip on existence before it’s too late.
Sex is the most elemental way we can do that.
It’s an interesting theory. It does not, however, apply to Luc and me.
We were desire; pure, pent-up, unfulfilled desire, a desire so frantic that I’m not sure how we managed to get up the stairs to Luc’s bedroom.
He wouldn’t let go of me, and I could not let go of him.
And there was something more. When I woke up the following morning, it was in the certain knowledge that we had made love in the literal sense of those two words.
It had never happened to me in my life before.
I’d had sex, but I had never made love. And this brought with it another realisation.
I never had been before, but now I was in love. I was in love with Luc Mandeville.
Downstairs, I found he’d left a note on the kitchen table.
Gone with the police. You were sleeping.
Luc. Then underneath this he’d scrawled a P.S.
in big capital letters. DON’T GET SERIOUS!
My mouth curved into a happy smile, not because the note, or rather its message, was in any way tender or romantic.
It was matter-of-fact, almost curt in its refusal to waste words.
I smiled because this confirmed the man I now believed I knew and loved.
If he’d added dinky little love hearts and a row of crosses for kisses, I might have been less happy.
Making myself some coffee, I phoned Carl.
‘Mum, I’m still here in the hospital. They won’t let me out.’
‘You’re not in prison, love.’
‘It feels as though I am.’
‘Well, these things always take time.’ I squinted up at the kitchen clock. ‘It’s only half past nine. I’m sure you’ll be soon on your way.’
‘Hey, Mum, I got a really cool message from Francesca last night. She said she’s, like, really, really sorry I got hurt and to make it up to me, she said I can have first go on the snowmobile Papa got us for ever and ever.’
‘There you go – she’s nice. But that reminds me. Listen, Carl, if Grandpa phones you, don’t tell him about your accident, will you? I don’t want him and your gran worrying unnecessarily.’
‘He already did,’ Carl said, sounding lofty. ‘And I didn’t.’
‘You clever boy. Go straight to the top of the class.’
He giggled. ‘That’s exactly what I hope I’m going to do when I get in the intermediate ski class tomorrow, if they ever let me out of prison…’
I hung up, smiling. I couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
I only had to think of Luc to feel bathed in soft, warm feathers.
The sun was shining in through the kitchen window; it was a beautiful day, warm, bright, the sky so blue, glorious.
I decided to go back upstairs and have a good, indulgent soak in the old bathroom.
If Luc came home while I was still in there, who knows what could happen?
Would the bath be big enough for the two of us?
A delicious shiver of anticipation ran through my body.
First off, however, I decided to be sensible.
Most of my clothes were in dire need of a wash, not to mention a serious clean pants crisis.
There was a machine in the downstairs shower room that Nicole and I had used to share. I’d stick a load in that.
Forty-five minutes later, having fought a battle – and won – with the French washing machine, had a bath and even washed and dried my hair, I was back sitting at the kitchen table, trying very hard not to feel deflated or even a touch anxious.
How long did it take to identify a body, for goodness sake?
Then I felt horribly guilty. Tom had died.
He deserved as much of Luc’s time as Luc had time to give.
Besides, it was foul for Luc having to go through such a business.
I should get up and do something, not replacement activity exactly, but something constructive.
I would have a look at the salon with a view to tidying it up.
On my way through the hall, however, the front door buzzer went.
Yawning, I ambled over, picked up the handset and asked who was there.
‘Caroline.’
Moving the handset away from my ear, I looked at it in dismay. Caroline! What could Caroline possibly want? I couldn’t think of anyone I’d less rather see. I looked frantically about me. Perhaps I could simply go and hide somewhere.
Except, ‘Let me in!’ came another ventriloquist squawk. Drawing a hugely deep breath, I replaced the handset, pressed the entry button and opened the front door to witness Caroline leaping up the steps like a free runner.
‘What are you smirking at?’ she snapped as she marched straight past me into the hall.
‘Nothing.’
She turned to look me up and down, at which point she registered what I had already observed and had made me smile – sorry, smirk: that we were wearing exactly the same sort of clothes.
Blue jeans, white shirt and a navy-blue jumper slung round our separate shoulders.
Only difference? Caroline was wearing what were doubtless the family pearls about her neck, and her jeans were designer whereas mine came from H&M.
However, from her expression, it didn’t look as though we were destined for a cosy little girlie giggle over our sartorial coincidence.
‘Would you like to come into the kitchen?’ I asked politely. ‘I’m afraid the salon is in rather a mess, but I can make you some coffee if you’d like one.’
‘I didn’t come here to drink coffee.’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘No, I did not. I came here to order you to leave. Your job here is finished.’
I contemplated her. ‘I rather think that’s a matter for Luc, don’t you?’ I said coolly.
‘Luc?’ she echoed, scowling. Then, ‘Luc?’ she spat. ‘Who the devil do you think you are calling him that? You’re only the bloody cook! He’s Mr Mandeville to you.’
‘Fine.’ I was not going to argue. ‘But whatever you want me to call him, he’s not here. He’s gone to the mortuary. I don’t expect you know, but there was a terrible accident last night.’
‘Of course I know! I know everything about it. Jules told me.’
Ah, the Nice bush telegraph, I thought, but wisely said nothing. She swept on regardless anyway.
‘So if you’re referring to that idiot Tom, then good riddance I say. Saves Luc the bother of sacking the fool.’
‘For heaven’s sake.’ I was shocked out of equanimity. ‘A man’s dead.’
Her face twisted with contempt. ‘Oh, don’t come the hypocrite with me. You don’t give a damn. I tell things how they are and it’s high time you did the same.’
There was a short pause while she continued to glare at me, breathing hard through her mouth like someone with sinusitis. I turned away from her.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘How dare you turn your back on me?’ Seizing my arm, she yanked me back round to face her.
You know, there comes a point in any confrontation where if it gets physical, you’re done for. However, much as I would have dearly loved to karate chop Caroline in the pearls, there was no way I was going down that road.
‘Don’t do that,’ I said coldly, looking down at her hand on my arm, at which point, somewhat to my surprise, she removed it. But she hadn’t finished.
‘I’ll have you know we’re getting married, Luc and me,’ she said.
Luc and me? Surely that should have been ‘Luc and I?’ I nearly corrected the woman, only saving myself at the last second. You could imagine the fallout. It would have been Luc’s fault. His mania for proper English had infected me.
‘Is that so?’ I said diffidently.
‘Yes, it is so, or at least it was until you stuck your oar in. Not that you matter. But I know your game. From the moment you arrived, you’ve been trying to get your little feet under the table.’
‘Actually, I’ve got quite big feet.’
‘Oh, fuck you!’ she shrieked in my face and took a step towards me.
For one hideous moment, I thought she was actually going to hit me.
But maybe assault was a bit too far for Caroline, even in meltdown.
‘You and your stupid jokes,’ she drawled, her voice dripping with scorn.
‘Do you know something? That’s precisely what everybody thinks you are – a joke. You’re a fucking joke!’
In silence, I steadily regarded her. There were a number of things I could have said but there wasn’t any point.
We’d reached the end of the line. Oddly, however, Caroline seemed to appreciate this herself, as, with a final obscenity screamed in my face, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the hall, slamming the front door so violently behind her that the entry phone emitted its last squeak in this life and fell off the wall.
My legs suddenly feeling a bit wobbly, I staggered over to the staircase and, clutching the banister for support, lowered myself slowly down to sit on the bottom step.