Odd Numbers

by JJ Marsh

  Both absorbed in our own thoughts, we didn’t talk much. Until out of the blue, while she was rubbing a garlic clove around the caquelon, she spoke.

  “A Swiss chalet was a good idea, Gael. But there is something very wrong with this one.”

  When Simone was making a drama, she became high-pitched and easy to dismiss as a diva. When she was serious, her voice dropped, she dispensed with all the theatrics and used few words.

  This was undoubtedly serious. I waited for her to continue.

  She didn’t.

  Chapter 14: Simone, 2015

  I often wondered if I would ever develop that sense of a biological clock, the minutes ticking away and a sense of urgency regarding motherhood. It never happened. I cannot say if that is directly related to the fact that I terminated my first and only pregnancy, or simply a natural state of affairs. Both my sisters have produced children and I quite like my nieces and nephews. More than I like most children at least. Yet they do not fill me with an ache or a longing or even a sense of loss. Mostly, I like seeing them but when it is time to say goodbye, I breathe a profound sigh of relief. My apartment seems like a haven of peace, cleanliness, order and freedom in comparison to my sisters’ chaotic households.

  My lack of enthusiasm towards becoming a mother turned into a combination of reluctance and dread when the prospect arose of becoming a stepmother. Claude ticked all the boxes: wealthy, handsome, charming, attentive, cultured and widowed. So there would be no ex-wife looking on the horizon, a blight on our glittering future. The only drawback, or perhaps I should say two drawbacks, were his children. From day one, we engaged in fierce competition for Claude’s attention. They were around fourteen, maybe fifteen, so not exactly children. The boy was older than the girl, but it was she who was the calculating, sly schemer. Had it not been for her, I might have formed a reasonable relationship with her brother. But it was not to be.

  From the moment their father returned home from the office, they demanded all his focus. Some evenings, I was unable to complete a single sentence without interruption until we finally closed the bedroom door. Even then, at the most inconvenient moments, a knock would come or a plaintive call from one of their bedrooms. Usually it was her. I put all my efforts into persuading their father that they should go to boarding school. English boarding schools were suddenly very popular since the success of Harry Potter. They could learn fluent English, practise British sports such as cricket or croquet, polish their manners and have midnight feasts in the dormitories with all their little friends.

  Claude could see the logic behind my arguments, but his sentimental side took precedence every time. “They lost their mother at a young age, chérie; I cannot send them away from their father.” It drove me to distraction. The tough negotiator who played hardball at work, who was never satisfied with second place even playing tennis with friends, was manipulated and played for a fool by two mini tyrants. My respect for him dwindled as did my willingness for any form of intimacy.

  As they got older, they grew even more obnoxious. His daughter turned sixteen and I offered to take her shopping, to buy her clothes suitable for a young woman. It was a disaster. She wanted padded bras, high heels, tight trousers and short skirts. Everything I selected was deemed worthy of nothing more than an eye roll. After several hours of bad-tempered disagreement we arrived home with all the elements you would find in the wardrobe of a common prostitute. Worse, she started flirting with her father. Asking his opinion on her clothes, snuggling onto his lap, giggling at the most facile of his comments as if he were a towering wit.

  The boy, on the other hand, began lying, claiming all kinds of viciousness on my part. I have no idea how he achieved it but would show his father bruises on his upper arm and accuse me of physical aggression. I never touched the toxic little beast, mainly out of revulsion. Claude was placed in the position of referee. My word against that of his son. The girl would always back her brother and testify against me. Finally, my credit card went missing and on telephoning the bank to report the loss, I discovered huge amounts had been spent on sports clothes, games, concert tickets and an Xbox. I tore his bedroom apart while he was school and found most of the corresponding items. It transpired that he had spent over 9,000 Swiss Francs online, treating himself and his friends courtesy of my account.

  The marriage, not the strongest to start with, could not take the strain. We divorced in the summer of 2015 and thanks to a watertight pre-nup and Lovisa’s support, I got my settlement and my freedom all at once. I found an apartment ten minutes from Lovisa and embraced the new lifestyle. I never saw Claude or his hateful offspring again.

  My preparations for New Year’s Eve began in September and no one knew. Lovisa was away on one of her missions, my return to full-time employment was scheduled for January and I told my friends I needed a holiday, to get over the failure of my marriage. Instead, I booked myself six weeks in a clinic outside Zürich. None of the procedures I underwent would qualify as major surgery as I wanted it to appear as subtle as possible. Nevertheless, subtlety costs money. I sold 90% of the jewellery Claude had given me in order to pay for some truly specialist work. After I had healed I spent another month in a wellness centre, investing the same amount of care on my body as I had done my face. By the time I returned to Geneva, I was closer to my twenty-five year old self than I had been for years.

  Next I did my research. Thankfully for my bank balance, this required less cash and more time. The file on his company, his partners, his girlfriends, his family and his interests expanded and developed nuance and depth. I pored over his social media presence, making notes on books, music, films and political opinions. Under the guise of reminiscing about the good old days, I invited Lovisa around to dinner twice while she was back in Switzerland. She gave me some very useful insights, although she did not know it. Women have a code of conduct. It is not written or expressed in words but we all know it and abide by its tenets. If you confide any kind of personal detail in another woman, she is duty-bound to reciprocate. It may not be the same subject or problem but the intimacy of friendship is bound by the same laws as the intimacy of sex. Quid pro quo. I talked about my fear of never pleasing a man in bed. How I had dressed up for Dhan as his French maid and exaggerated my accent, how I had overcome my embarrassment regarding oral sex with Jacques, and how the constant threat of interruption had rendered my private life with Claude a tense and unsatisfying experience.

  If I believed in an almighty presence bestowing personal qualities on an individual, I would say Lovisa got my share of the maternal instinct. She was sympathetic and kind, offering advice in a generic sense. When I pressed her for personal experience, playing the flustered and embarrassed naïf, she talked about some of her encounters while working as a volunteer and eventually alluded to a few lessons she had learned in her first serious relationship. Finally, I struck gold.

  This time, I was going to get it right.

  I had spotted Mika on the first day at university, but I got distracted. All those handsome third-years, each accomplished, sophisticated and about to take on the world, were irresistible. I was a hummingbird drawn to blossoming flowers. Chasing after the impossible, I missed the potential in my own year. After one short-lived flirtation and another embarrassing series of dates, it struck me these men were after bigger fish and I should work my own pool. When I did pay attention to my peers, Clark stood out in terms of looks and physique. I invited him for coffee to discuss the difficulties of translating a literary text. The moment I heard him speak French, I crossed him off my list and wondered how soon I could escape. Then Dhan shoved his way into our conversation, with his charm and his eyebrows and his compliments.

  His French was worse than Clark’s, but he made me laugh. By the time he introduced me to Lovisa and Mika, we were already a couple, as were they. Mikhael Vakala, first son of one of the wealthiest families in the Czech Republic. Tall, wiry and softly spoken as he was, I wondered how he could be friends with the boisterou
s Dhan and extrovert Clark. He ticked every box, apart from the single one, but that was a matter of time. I had to do everything in my power to bring us together. It was meant to be.

  The first time I actively made a pass at Mika was when we were in Kefalonia. Clark, Mika and I sat on the beach long after Gael and Lovisa had departed. I said I was cold and curled up beside him. He put his arm around me and pulled me close while arguing with Clark about the war in Iraq.

  Later that night, I crept into his room. He said no. It was too soon and he couldn’t bear to hurt Lovisa. I cried and asked him if he found me attractive because maybe one day ... He said maybe, guided me out of his room and locked the door.

  In Berlin, I didn’t even try because Gael’s sister was all over him like some kind of nasty rash. When we all attended the ten-year anniversary of our intake in Geneva, I asked him outright if there could ever be something between us. We were outside on a balcony and I was wearing a golden body-con dress which proved to everyone nothing had changed. Mika is such a decent man. He held me, kissed me on both cheeks and said he didn’t know. That only increased my determination.

  I dated Jacques for a few months, whom everyone loved except me. Then there was Claude, whom everyone hated except me. This year would be different. It was my turn to organise and I had chosen a beautiful apartment just a few steps from the Trevi Fountain. Via Gael, I knew Mika’s last relationship had failed because his Czech chick wanted children and he did not. I was single, he was single and the time was right. In two years’ time, we would all be forty. It was time to accept the inevitable and acknowledge that our history bound us together. Our troubled past would make our perfect future. Who else could make him as happy as me?

  Rome was the perfect backdrop to a seduction. I chose the location, I spoke the language, I planned the restaurants and I allocated the rooms. This was my time. We wandered through the alleyways of Trastevere, we took a cab to the peak and looked over the five hills of Rome; we ate pasta in Piazza Navona, drank limoncello in the shadow of the Coliseum and danced around the statues as the bells struck midnight. I linked arms with Clark and Mika as we admired the way Lovisa and Gael threw themselves around the square with their respective partners.

  It was two in the morning by the time we found our apartment by the Trevi Fountain and tramped four floors up, everyone exhausted in the happiest kind of way. Gael and Clark fell onto the sofa, curled up in each other’s arms and giggling at something or other. I suggested another bottle of champagne to general cheers. Lovisa was the first to surrender to bed. She kissed us all and wished us once again a happy New Year. We closed the door to the living room so as not to disturb her. I kicked off my shoes, my feet tired from dancing and tramping the streets. I poured champagne into four glasses and presented Gael and Clark with one each. Mika was standing by the window, staring out at the view. I handed him his glass, we toasted the advent of 2016 and smiled into each other’s glassy eyes. To my annoyance, he took his glass and collapsed onto the sofa on the other side of Gael.

  Clark was proposing another toast. “To my chosen family. To our dad, Mika. He’s the grown-up we all want to be. To Lovisa, our mom, who nurtures us like her own chicks. To Gael, the big sister we love. To Simone, our little sister who arranged this fantastic Roman weekend. And to me, the adopted American made to feel at home. Cheers!”

  I moved across the room and sat on the arm of the sofa next to Mika. We toasted one another, argued about Clark’s descriptions of us and leaned in to a comfortable space. My cheek rested on Mika’s shoulder and the knuckles of my left hand brushed his knee. I yawned and looked over my shoulder at the three of them.

  “I’m ready for bed. It’s been a wonderful day and thank you so much for being here. This has not been an easy year for me so to say goodbye in your company is wonderful.”

  Clark clambered to his feet and held out his arms. “Give us a hug, Simone. Great location, great apartment, great night. Sleep well and see you in the morning.”

  Gael blew me a kiss. “Goodnight, princess. Happy New Year and thank you for bringing us all to Rome.”

  I blew a kiss back and looked at Mika with a meaningful stare. He rose to his feet and took my face in his hands.

  “Our lovely Simone. You look prettier than ever. Go, get your beauty sleep and thank you for a memorable evening.” He kissed me on the forehead, as if I was his niece. I looked at him from under my lashes.

  “Goodnight, everyone,” I said and slipped out of the living room door. I pulled it closed after me but kept the handle down, so that it remained the smallest bit ajar and waited to hear if Mika would say his farewells and follow. Inside the room, there was silence.

  Then I heard Gael’s voice, speaking sotto voce. “You missed your cue there.”

  Mika dropped his voice too. “I know.”

  Clark started laughing but he too spoke quietly. “Oh man. What do you want? An embossed invitation?”

  I heard Mika’s voice, back to full strength. “What I do want? A tequila slammer!”

  Gael shrieked with laughter. “A tequila slammer? How old are you?”

  Feet thundered away from me and into the kitchen. The refrigerator jangled open and Clark shouted, “We’re never too old!”

  I closed the door and went to bed. I didn’t lock my room but already knew I would not be disturbed.

  Chapter 15: Gael, now

  Once all the ingredients were prepared, I left Simone in the kitchen boiling potatoes while I set the table. The decorations were all-out Swiss, with lined bread basket, white napkins embroidered with edelweiss, a classic Swiss white wine – Chasselas – an old favourite, a bottle of kirsch to aid digestion, red fondue forks and plates with an Alpine cow motif. The caquelon itself, still in the kitchen, was also bright red with a Swiss flag border around the rim. The mise en place was going to look like some kind of still from an in-flight magazine designed to tempt people to the mountains.

  Clark came downstairs first and whistled when he saw my handiwork. “The only thing that’s missing is your dirndl!”

  “Now there I draw the line. But you can get your lederhosen out if you want.”

  Simone stuck her head out of the kitchen with a frown. “We’re in Switzerland, not Munich and this is hardly the Oktoberfest.”

  “Sorry, madame!”

  She gave a nod and withdrew to the kitchen.

  Clark looked at me, stretching his ears from his head. “Hearing of a bat,” he whispered. “Right, I’ll get some more logs in from outside.”

  I knew he’d be disappointed that the chalet had a whole wall of firewood-ready logs stacked against the wall. Outdoor Man wanted to chop them himself.

  Mika came charging down the stairs while Clark was collecting wood. His energy and restlessness always brings an electricity to the room. “Wow! Look at this! Authentic or what? I’d better go check Simone’s not messing up the fondue. She should have waited for the expert.”

  “You’re going to end up getting stabbed with a fondue fork,” I warned him as he disappeared into the kitchen.

  I took a minute to run upstairs and change into something not-grey or made of jersey, and smeared a lick of Vaseline over my eyebrows, which was as far as my make-up routine went. The smell of melted cheese permeated the whole house and I couldn’t wait to eat. I rushed back down and opened the first bottle of wine for an aperitif as Mika returned from the kitchen with an earthenware bowl of potatoes.

  “Seems she has everything under control. Dinner’s up in two minutes,” he said, lighting the warmer to keep the fondue bubbling. He looked up with a smile as Lovisa descended, her nose lifted to inhale the air, dressed in a blue and white trouser suit. The Ice Queen of C&A.

  Clark came through the front door with a huge basket of logs, his hair covered with a light dusting of snow. “It’s so quiet out there! You can almost hear the snow falling.”

  Simone carried in the caquelon and we set it on the frame, adjusting the heat to keep the cheese bubbling. It sm
elt blissful now, but tomorrow morning, it would be a different story.

  As always, the first evening together was an opportunity to catch up and reconnect with each other’s lives. Clark asked Lovisa about her job, which was a smart move. Because she does such sobering, meaningful work, it always puts a downer on the frivolities of the evening if we get around to discussing that after a couple of bottles of wine. She knows better than to go into the nitty-gritty of what she’s up against and keeps it upbeat, but real. Then Simone asked Mika about his stratospheric success, which opened the floodgates. I’d heard it already and wanted to get on to something more gossip-worthy, but Mika’s passion for his subject was endearing.

  We stuck bread cubes or potatoes onto our forks, stirred them into the cheese and ate. A fondue needs a rhythm, someone should always be stirring. So Clark did double duty while Mika was explaining the reasons why his app had taken off. I fetched the wine from the fridge and played waitress. When I returned, Simone was telling the others about the man she had met.

  “Ooh, goody, we’re finally talking about sex,” I said, taking my place.

  Simone laughed. “No sex. At least not yet. It’s a difficult one because we work for the same organisation. What’s that expression about dipping your ink? Anyway, I find him great company and he’s asked me to accompany him to Milan in January to assist on his refugee council presentation. That might be the moment.” Her cheeks were pink and the light in her eyes was less femme fatale and more love-struck.

  “Hooray for Simone getting her leg over!” I cheered. “What’s his name?”

  She giggled. “Vincent. You’d like him, Gael; he has a similar sense of humour.”