by Sandy Barker
“Oh, I’ve noticed.” I kissed him, my tongue teasing his. “Ready for round two, Monsieur Caron?” His right hand trailed down my back, lingered on the curve of my bum, then cupped it firmly.
“Mais oui, ma chérie.” His mouth took mine hungrily, and neither of us cared that the water sloshed over the sides of the bath.
***
Some time later, I didn’t want to leave the bath, to break contact with Jean-Luc, but the water was getting cold. He must have been thinking the same thing, because he pulled me closer, then pushed the hot water tap into action with his toe.
I nestled into the crook of his arm, my fingers tracing a path over the features of his face. His thick black lashes resting on his cheeks, that proud French nose, the wide cheekbones, those full, soft lips, his brows, the line of his chin.
He is without a doubt the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And the best lover I’ve ever had, I thought. I wonder how he feels about friends with benefits.
He murmured softly with pleasure at my delicate caresses, and his eyes opened to stare into mine. He landed a soft kiss on my lips. “We should get out of this bath, chérie.” He held up his wrinkly fingertips. “We are like the prune, non?”
I sighed, resigned to leave our watery love nest, then climbed out and reached for a towel, wrapping it tautly around me. I shivered a little in the cool air, then turned to watch the magnificent man emerge from the water, his long limbs swathed in that smooth olive skin, slick with water. Before reaching for a towel, he self-consciously fixed his hair, which was such a sweet gesture, my heart leapt a little.
He briskly dried himself, then wrapped a towel around his waist, while I stood, transfixed, dripping onto the sodden bathmat. His hand ran through his damp hair again, and he fixed his eyes on mine. Without speaking, he knelt before me, and prised the towel from its loose knot above my breasts. He took two corners in his hands then ran the towel down the length of my left leg, drying me.
His face was a picture of concentration as he dried each leg in turn, then the crevice between them, my stomach, my back, the fabric soft against my skin as he slowly stood, following the curves and lines of my body with the towel, drying every part of me.
My face tipped to his and he finally met my eyes as he wrapped the towel around my shoulders and pulled me close to him.
“Catherine, tu es si belle,” he said quietly. There was something in his voice, the way it caught slightly, that tugged at my heart and I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. No. Stop it. This is sex, amazing sex—that’s all.
I wanted to believe that. I had to believe that. I was not going to fall in love with Jean-Luc.
But whatever I believed in that moment, I wanted him. My arms reached up and fastened behind his neck and I pulled him into a kiss. I didn’t even feel the towel drop to the floor as he scooped me up and carried me out of the bathroom.
It’s probably not surprising that we didn’t use the second bedroom.
***
There are times in your life when you’re so awestruck you run out of words and your heart leaps about in your chest with glee. I got to experience that with Jean-Luc the following day on our journey up—and down—the mountain.
Our plan was reasonably simple: catch a train to Kleine Scheidegg and hike back down to Lauterbrunnen. What I didn’t know, as I booked our train tickets online, was how incredible the excursion would be. Had I known beforehand, it would have zipped straight to the top of my bucket list.
The train that went to Kleine Scheidegg was possibly the cutest train in the world—boxy, red with yellow stripes, and giant picture windows. If she was in the cast of Thomas the Tank Engine, she (I was sure she was a she) would have been called “Inge”.
Jean-Luc gave me the window seat, chalking up another point for how good a friend he was. Just friends, just friends, just friends with benefits.
The slate-grey mountains surrounding us were craggy and pointed and, in many places, we could see the striations of the earth’s crust. They wore patchy blankets of white—in some places the snow seemed dense and deep, and in others the rock asserted itself, the snow just a dusting.
The mountains seemed to have been placed just so, a design to their haphazardness, as though they were modelled on the Toblerone and not the other way around. Quite honestly, I wouldn’t have put it past the Swiss. They are master engineers, and I knew that in some of those mountains were bunkers, stocked and ready for whatever apocalyptic antics the world’s politicians came up with.
In our foreground, was Swiss-green grass so vibrant it didn’t look real as it swathed the rolling foothills. Their roundness contrasted starkly with the mountains, as though someone had painted a giant incongruous backdrop behind them. There were dense pockets and loose smatterings of wildflowers, throw-rugs of white, with dots of blue, yellow and pink.
Not quite Richard Attenborough, but this English teacher does have a few descriptive words up her sleeve.
A little way into our journey, the couple in front of us opened their window, sliding the bottom half up, and the wash of fresh air was invigorating. It smelled like sunshine and grass and had a slightly sweet smell, perhaps the wildflowers.
“Well, this is lovely,” I said.
“It’s incredible.”
“You haven’t been here before, right? I didn’t ask you.”
“Here? No. I’ve been to Bern and to Zurich—for work. But, when you are interviewing and writing, there are not many opportunities to sightsee.”
“So, the travelling journalist’s glamorous life is not always so glamorous.”
He chuckled. “It is almost never glamorous. It is hotel rooms—often cheap ones, because half the time I pay for them myself—and trains and airports and me alone in my apartment.”
“What’s your apartment like?”
“It is … an apartment. Nice, I think.”
“‘Nice’? Really? From the writer?”
He shrugged. “It was once the, uh, attic (nearly a ‘look-up word’, I noted) and the floor below, and the building is old—nineteenth century—so there have been some adaptations (knowing he meant ‘renovations’, I didn’t correct him). I spent the first few months hitting my head on the rafters. The edges of the bedroom are quite low. But it has good light and large windows and I like it.”
I pictured him in his attic flat, typing away at a small desk under a gable window, and I longed to see it.
“And, you know, it is mine, so …”
“You own it?”
“Well, me and the bank, non?”
“Wow. I rent. With two other people.” I wasn’t sure why I’d volunteered information about my flatmates as it was very close to dangerous territory and I didn’t want to discuss Alex with him. So, my lover before you is the guy who lives in my flat.
I steered the conversation away from Jane and Alex. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to buy in London—a schoolteacher’s salary and all that.”
“Well, Paris is probably similar. I was fortunate. Well, unfortunate. My grandmother, when she died, she left a substantial amount to Cecile and me. Of course, I would rather have my grandmother with us. She was quite a formidable woman. She would have liked you, I think.”
I smiled at him. “Really?”
“Yes, she was forthright,” he said, using the word I’d taught him the night before, “and very funny. I think she would have seen those things in you.”
So, I was forthright and funny. I didn’t mind the description, especially “forthright”—because that was not how most people characterised my propensity to speak my mind.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet her.”
“Yes, well, if you had ever come to visit …” He was teasing, but the words stung a little. Yes, I had been young and it would have been hard to save up the money to go to France—especially in the late 90s when airfares from Australia to anywhere in the world were ridiculously expensive—but I could have. Maybe if I hadn’t met Scott, I would have g
one to France and seen Jean-Luc and met his whole family, including his grandmother.
“What was her name?”
“Eleanor. We called her Grand-mère Ellie.”
“Ellie,” I said quietly to myself. “I’m sorry I never came.” Another thing to regret.
“You do not need to apologise—again.”
“I wanted to come.” I glanced at him and he was nodding, a small frown on his face. “You know, I asked my mum to send me one of your letters.” I didn’t mention it was the final one, and I’m not sure why I thought it was a good idea to bring it up at all.
“Oh, yes?” He seemed curious, maybe even amused.
“Yes. I have it here. She scanned it.” I unlocked my phone and scrolled to the PDF attached to Mum’s email. He held out his hand to read it. “Before you do, I want you to tell me which parts were supposed to be my clues for the whole … you know …”
“For the childhood love?” His depiction of his younger self’s feelings surprised me. It seemed like he was playing them down.
“Uh, yes, exactly.” I handed him the phone and watched his face as he read. His eyes crinkled in a smile and his lips pursed a few times, clearly from amusement at what he’d written. He scrolled to the top and I watched his eyes scan back over the letter.
“Here,” he said, pointing to the part about the cute Australian girl. “Here.” He showed me the invitation to come to France. “And here.” He pointed to how he’d signed off with many kisses. “And, I think all of it.”
“Oh, really? The whole thing was pretty much a love letter?”
“Oui,” he said, definitively. He handed me the phone.
“Uh, so we did say the part about the Australian girl and the kisses, but the whole thing?” I teased.
“We?” he countered. Oops.
“Fine, I’m sprung, but after what you said in Rome, I needed help, so I asked the girls. I thought maybe I’d missed something.”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “You did miss something. You missed all the clues. And that is only one letter.”
I bit my bottom lip. “Will you at least concede that it’s a little, um, unclear?” The word seemed to translate.
He lifted his hand, his thumb and forefinger close together. “Oui, a little.”
I rolled my eyes and nudged him with my right side. “Right, sure.”
“I think the young Jean-Luc thought he was very clever and a great wooer of women.”
“Hah!” We shared a smile at his expense.
“And I think the young Catherine was a little self-absorbed and clueless,” I added.
“Oui, c’est vrai.” That’s true.
“Hey!” I backhanded his shoulder.
“Désolé, désolé!” Sorry, sorry.
“I’ll désolé you.”
He reached for my hand and I let him hold it, our fingers laced together. I leant into him and watched out the window as the most beautiful landscape I’d ever seen unfolded.
“I have something for you, too, when we go back,” he said quietly. “One of your letters.” My stomach clenched. I didn’t want to read that wretched letter, but all I could say was, “Oh.” I had to put it out of my mind, or it could ruin the rest of the day, possibly the rest of my time with him. I’d face the music—I owed him that—but not right then.
The train arrived in Kleine Scheidegg less than an hour after departing from Lauterbrunnen and we disembarked into a sunny morning in the low twenties. We both donned sunglasses and stood on the platform looking around. I supposed it could be called a town, but really it was just a small collection of buildings—nice buildings, but not much more.
Its main purpose was to serve as the junction between the train line we’d ridden and the line which went to the top of the mountain, Jungfrau. I’d thought about going to the top. It was an optional excursion some people on the tour were doing, but it cost more than a hundred pounds and that was two designer handbags if I got them at TK Maxx.
“Shall we look around before we hike down?” asked Jean Luc.
“Definitely, and I want morning tea first.” Jean-Luc’s idea of breakfast leant towards “Parisian”—sans the cigarette, but essentially just a cappuccino. Our apartment, as I was dangerously calling it in my head, was stocked with the bare essentials of coffee pods and milk, but no teabags and nothing much else by way of breakfast. In short, I was starving and desperate for some tea.
We homed in on the aptly named Chalet Restaurant Lounge, where I resisted the urge to order Glühwein, the spiced mulled wine which I associated with Christmas markets, and settled instead for tea and a slice of apfelstrudel. I was fairly certain I could never move to Switzerland as I would soon run out of money. Tea and a pastry came to the equivalent of £8.50, or a decent meal at Nando’s.
I savoured my breakfast and stared out the window as I ate and drank, pinching myself that I was halfway up a Swiss mountain. Jean-Luc had another coffee and stole little pieces of my strudel. As I’ve mentioned, I don’t like to share, so after the third time I slapped his hand.
“Go and get your own or leave mine alone.” He smiled at me cheekily. I took the moment to appreciate that he was just as beautiful as the scenery, maybe more. How could Vanessa divorce him? It was a perilous thought, one that hinted at a future and falling in love. I pushed it aside.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I said, as I crumpled up my napkin and stood up.
“I need the toilet also,” he said. I felt a little foolish for being shy about needing a wee. When we were teenagers, we spent so much time together that I’d boldly announce it, then leave the room before he had a chance to reply.
We both headed to our respective bathrooms and reconvened on the deck of the restaurant. Jean-Luc was waiting for me when I came out.
“Ready?” he asked, looking up from his phone.
“Yes.” I looked around for what I hoped would be obvious trail signage.
“It’s this way,” he said, pointing. He held up his phone briefly. “I looked it up.”
“You mean, you cheated?”
“I mean, I looked it up so we don’t get lost on a mountain.” He raised that eyebrow at me.
“Good point,” I conceded.
I’d dressed for hiking as best I could from the clothes I’d packed. I was wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and my sneakers. I wore my messenger bag across my body, in it a bottle of water, a cardigan in case it got chilly, and my usual bag stuff—minus my Kindle, as I didn’t think there would be many opportunities to stop and read.
On the trail, heading in both directions, were some seriously kitted-out hikers—proper hiking boots, walking poles, which looked a lot like ski poles, Camelbacks, windbreakers and hiking trousers made from that expensive quick-dry fabric. In comparison, Jean-Luc and I looked like we were heading out for a picnic, not hiking down a mountain. I hoped we weren’t going to hit any rough terrain.
I needn’t have worried, because the Swiss do many things well and, as I soon discovered, hiking trails are one of them. The path was firmly packed and clearly marked. There were no tripping hazards and a gentle slope took us all the way down the mountain. Not long into the walk, I realised that it was everyone else, in their hundreds of pounds’ worth of gear, who was overdressed.
Jean-Luc was kind enough to let me set the pace. His legs were much longer than mine, and I really didn’t want to have to half-jog down the mountain just to keep up with him. Still, it was a good opportunity to work off some of the gelato, pizza, bread, and cheese which made up ninety per cent of what I was eating, so it was a brisk pace.
We were in the midst of a conversation about our respective jobs, when Jean-Luc asked, “So, do you think you will ever go back to Australia?”
“You mean to live?”
“Oui.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“I wondered if you could still teach there.”
“I suppose. I mean, my qualifications are from there, but I’d have to registe
r with the state education board and get certified. I could, but I’m not sure why you asked.”
“I think about it sometimes, going back to Australia.”
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes. I mean, I had a home there—only for a year, but still … I think it would be interesting to live there again. Practise my English.”
“Your English is great.”
“It is rusty.”
“Hardly.”
Wait, is he thinking about us going back to Australia together?
That was the thing about hiking and breathing boundless gulps of fresh mountain air—great for thinking, which was either terrific or troubling. For me, at that moment, thinking too much was probably inadvisable. Because of the great gaping rabbit hole on the edge of which I was balancing precariously.
“Have you thought of living anywhere else in the world?” I asked, steering the conversation away from Australia.
“I have thought about going back to Central America.”
“Wait, you’ve been there, or you’ve lived there?”
“We lived there—a short while, only six months.”
“And ‘we’ is …?”
“Vanessa and me.”
“Oh.”
“She was doing research there. She is an anthropologist.” Of course she is. Beautiful and brilliant. An image of the stunning Vanessa—the one from his Facebook friends—imposed itself on my mind. She dressed like Lara Croft and made incredible discoveries in the jungles of Peru. Peru was in Central America, right?
Well, since he brought her up …
“And you said you’re still friends?”
“Yes.” No further explanation or additional information. Men were so obtuse sometimes. Didn’t he know I was fishing?
“So, what does that mean? Do you see each other often?”
Not content to balance on the edge of the rabbit hole, I was now pirouetting around it—wearing rollerblades. Conversationally speaking, it was perilous ground, but I couldn’t help myself.
His reply seemed to take forever and I imagined that the writer Jean-Luc was forming a faultless response. “Not so much. Perhaps two or three times a year.” Well, that was nothing—amiable, but not excessive. I could live with that.