The One We Fell in Love With

by Paige Toon

  ‘When are you next going up?’ I ask.

  ‘In a few days’ time. I have a group of Australians coming.’

  ‘Tell me about the climb you did with Phoebe and Dad,’ I prompt.

  I’m glad to sit and listen to him, watching as he grows increasingly animated talking about his favourite hobby. It sounds like he got on well with Dad – they had a mutual respect for each other – although Remy did say it was sometimes a case of too many cooks.

  ‘I joined them on their preparation climb, in the lead-up to their Mont Blanc ascent. The White Lady was something they planned to do just the two of them,’ he explains. ‘Anyway, your father wanted to lead, but I was used to doing that.’ He smiles good-naturedly. ‘Phoebe encouraged me to let him have his way.’

  I laugh, remembering how pig-headed Dad could be at times. He wouldn’t have let a young upstart get one over him. ‘Well, he certainly had a lot of experience,’ I say diplomatically.

  ‘That wasn’t why I bowed down to him,’ Remy replies with a smirk. ‘I just didn’t want to piss off my girlfriend’s father.’

  We both laugh.

  It is the loveliest evening, which is surreal considering the tragedy that brought us together.

  ‘Your climbs do sound amazing,’ I say when he’s finished regaling me with stories.

  ‘You’ve really never been tempted?’ he asks.

  ‘I couldn’t think of anything worse.’

  He smiles. ‘Are you afraid of heights?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. Although I did feel incredibly unsteady at the top of the Aiguille du Midi. I was a bit freaked out,’ I admit. ‘I wanted to go across to Helbronner, but I needed to get back down again.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he says, looking disappointed on my behalf. ‘It is the most incredible journey, travelling over crevasses, surrounded by mountain peaks.’

  ‘Now you’re making me feel bad that I missed it,’ I say with a little laugh.

  ‘I’ll go back with you tomorrow, if you like?’

  I decide to take Remy up on his offer, so the next day, we return to the Aiguille du Midi. I still feel short of breath and a bit giddy, but I’m not nearly as anxious with him by my side.

  We catch one of the tiny, four-person egg-like cable cars to Italy, which glides over the glacier and wild crevasses below. I’m by no means relaxed, but I feel somewhat better equipped to be able to enjoy the view without worrying too much that I’m going to faint.

  In Helbronner, we visit the crystal museum before going to the café for lunch.

  ‘I forgot you used to live in Turin with an Italian girlfriend,’ I say after Remy orders in fluent Italian.

  He shakes his head as we take our food to a table. ‘I wish I had access to your diaries. You have an unfair advantage.’

  I laugh and sit down. ‘My diaries are horrendous. I was such a love-struck idiot as a teenager.’

  He raises one eyebrow.

  ‘I read them recently,’ I explain, cracking open my can of Diet Coke. ‘I went through a lot of crushes.’

  On the return journey, Remy asks me about Angus. ‘You say he didn’t climb.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he and Phoebe got on well?’

  ‘Very well,’ I reply. ‘They had a lot of fun together.’

  I sound a bit defensive, but I’m uncomfortable talking about Angus to Remy.

  ‘I don’t think Angus had anything to do with Phoebe stopping climbing,’ I say. ‘He never would have tried to prevent her from doing something that made her so happy. Now I think about it, it’s more likely that she stopped because Dad died. It probably upset her too much to go on her own.’

  Remy nods thoughtfully, staring out of the window.

  Sometimes I think it’s a blessing that Dad died before Phoebe. I don’t know how he would have coped, knowing that he set her on a track towards her death. But then, he understood the risks. They both did. To me, climbing is a selfish sport. To them, it was as fundamental as breathing.

  ‘Where were you when you lost her?’ I ask quietly, following Remy’s gaze across the jagged peaks, the snow catching the afternoon sunshine and reflecting it back to us blindingly.

  ‘I’ll show you when we get back to the Aiguille,’ he replies quietly.

  I feel like I’m going to throw up as we take the elevator to the top terrace, and I’m shaking as Remy leads me to the railings and puts his hand on my back, but he doesn’t make me wait before telling me what I need to know.

  ‘There,’ he says, pointing. ‘We were on Mont Blanc du Tacul, just in front of Mont Blanc.’

  My throat has swollen up painfully, so all I can do is stare.

  ‘She joined our group on a preparation climb for Mont Blanc,’ he tells me gently, ‘like the one we did with your father. We were planning to turn around at the top of Mont Blanc du Tacul and come back here.’

  I nod again. Tears are streaming down my cheeks and it’s a wonder they’re not freezing into tracks in the cold air.

  When I thought about doing this trip, it occurred to me that I could bring some pages of Phoebe’s diary to scatter on the wind. But now the idea seems too melodramatic, so I stand there in silence and remember her instead.

  I remember her sitting on the grass in the park, making daisy chains to drape around my neck...

  I remember her climbing up the rock wall in Sale, looking down at the rest of us with a deliriously proud grin on her face...

  I remember her running into the bedroom that we shared in London and waggling her bottom at me, while wearing those damned unicorn knickers that we all fought over...

  I remember her laughing...

  I remember her crying...

  I remember my sister, my beloved sister, one part of me, despite how different we were, and when I open my mouth to say goodbye, a sob comes out instead, and it’s Remy I turn to for comfort.

  ‘Thank you for being here for me,’ I whisper. ‘I honestly don’t know how I would have coped doing this alone.’

  ‘I’m happy I had a chance to meet you, Rose. I really do wish you and your sister all the best. You can come back and see me anytime.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, but I know in my heart that it’s time to shut the book on this chapter.

  I call Mum a couple of days later, before I leave Argentière.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ she squawks down the phone, making me flinch. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Eliza and Angus were together?’

  In the midst of my own dramas, I’d forgotten the ones that were going on at home.

  ‘Has she told you, then?’ I say wryly.

  ‘She’s moving in with him! Into his room, not yours, his!’

  I laugh. ‘I know, Mum.’

  ‘And you’re okay about it?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, I’m okay about it,’ I confirm. Not happy, just okay. But I hope that will change with time.

  ‘Well, that’s something, at least.’

  ‘What did Judy say?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s very apprehensive,’ Mum replies, and I feel a pang of sympathy for Eliza because I know she was worried about Judy’s reaction. ‘I think she’s concerned that Angus is trying to replace Phoebe, but—’

  ‘He’s not,’ I interrupt. ‘Who are we kidding? Phoebe can’t be replaced and Eliza is her own, unique person. Angus has always cared about her. And Phoebe knew it. She understood it. In fact, she even felt a little bit guilty about it because she got to Angus first and she knew Eliza was heartbroken.’

  ‘You sound like you know an awful lot about it,’ Mum says, disconcerted.

  More than I should, that’s for sure.

  ‘I just want everyone to be happy,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘Because I do, too. And,’ she adds, ‘so does Judy. She and Angus had a proper heart-to-heart and she’s given them her blessing.’

  I’m really pleased to hear it.

  ‘So,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Have you been into the bakery l
ately?’

  ‘Oh, I meant to tell you!’ she exclaims. ‘I met Toby’s mother!’

  ‘You didn’t?’ I gasp.

  ‘I did! She was outside in the garden when I went to check on the plants. She seemed nice, if a little shy. She said to pass on her regards to you.’

  I’m astonished. Delighted. And as soon as we hang up, I find myself calling Toby’s mobile.

  ‘You took your time about it,’ he says when I tell him it’s me, and the sound of his deep, dry voice makes me feel instantly jittery.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask with a smile. ‘I heard your mum has been into the bakery?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says warmly. ‘It’s been pretty amazing, the turnaround.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘I sort of lost it with her a few days after you left. Ended up shouting my head off.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah, I felt really bad about it at the time,’ he says heavily. ‘But, I don’t know, it seemed to spur her on. She seems determined to do what she can to get better.’

  ‘I’m so pleased to hear it.’

  ‘It’s a lot down to you,’ he says seriously.

  ‘No, I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘You did. More than you know.’

  We both fall silent and I hug my knees to my chest. I have to remind myself that nothing has changed – he’s still too young for me – but I can’t ignore how much I’ve missed talking to him.

  ‘Where are you now?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m in Chamonix. Well, Argentière, the next village along. I’ve been here for a few days, but I’m going to Geneva tomorrow.’

  ‘How’s it been?’

  ‘Surprisingly therapeutic,’ I reply.

  ‘You thought it would be, right?’

  ‘I hoped, but I was worried I’d screwed up by coming here.’ He listens as I fill him in.

  ‘It’s so picturesque,’ I say. ‘You should see the view from my chalet.’

  ‘Send me a selfie of you on the balcony,’ he prompts.

  ‘Okay, I will do as soon as I get off the phone.’

  In the background, I hear a couple of lads shouting.

  ‘Where are you?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘At the park,’ he replies.

  ‘Send me a selfie, too,’ I say before I can think better of it.

  We end our call and I go out onto the balcony and hold my phone aloft, trying to catch the snowy, sunlit tops of the mountains in the background. I check the photo and press send, and a moment later receive his.

  He’s lying on the grass in the late afternoon sunshine. His face is bathed in a golden glow and his dark eyes have flecks of toffee-brown in them as he stares into the lens. I shiver. Another text comes in from him, a response to the photo I sent.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he says.

  I shiver again and force myself to put my phone away.

  ‘I don’t know what your problem is,’ Eliza says to me on the phone as I stand outside a shop in Geneva. I’ve been inside taking photos of shelves bursting with cuckoo clocks, cowbells and penknives, and now I’ve just stupidly admitted that I can’t stop thinking about Toby.

  ‘He’s twenty-two, now, anyway,’ she comments. ‘They had balloons up when I went into Jennifer’s yesterday.’

  ‘Shit! I can’t believe I forgot his birthday!’

  ‘Don’t worry, the new girl was showering him with attention.’

  ‘What’s she like?’ I ask nervily.

  ‘Ha! Gotcha,’ she says, instantly cottoning on to my jealousy. I squirm in my seat. ‘Late thirties, very mumsy. Can’t see it happening.’

  ‘The point is,’ I say, trying to regain control of the conversation, ‘Mum struggled for years to get pregnant, and my biological clock is ticking, too.’

  ‘You’re not even thirty!’ she exclaims.

  ‘But Toby’s nowhere near ready to settle down.’

  ‘No, I don’t imagine he is, but Jesus, Rose, what’s the big rush? Why are you so desperate to shack up and have kids? People do that a lot later in life now.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You have Angus.’

  ‘Angus and I aren’t in any hurry,’ she states firmly. ‘Your problem is that you think you can plan how your life is going to pan out. You’re like Phoebe in that respect. But love doesn’t have an order. It happens when it happens.’

  ‘I’m not in love. I just have a stupid crush.’ Another one.

  ‘Whatever. You have to work this out on your own.’

  In the next couple of months, I travel through Germany, Holland, Belgium, France, Portugal, Spain and Italy. I visit the Bauhaus museum in Berlin, ride a bicycle along the canals in Amsterdam and eat too much chocolate in Bruges. The Sistine Chapel is closed, but I tour the Vatican in Rome, window shop in the grand arcades of Milan and snigger at the size of the statues’ willies in Florence, trying my best to look impressed at the mastery of Michelangelo’s David. I eat too many tapas at the Mercado San Miguel in Madrid and tone my legs walking up most of the seven hills in hot and sticky Lisbon, and I sit on a beach in Biarritz, watching the surfers with the Pyrenees mountains in the background.

  It’s a small world when you’re riding the train tracks of Europe, and I bump into the same people more than once. At first I feel out of place – like I don’t belong with so many youngsters on their gap years – but soon I find I have things in common with people and make friends, regardless of age.

  I speak to Eliza regularly, and she seems as keen as I am to strengthen our sisterly bond. She’s now a personal assistant to the head of an indie record label and she loves the role, but they work her to the bone. She doesn’t mind – she’s much happier being surrounded by musos instead of demanding, unappreciative customers. She’s also thrilled that Joe wants her to continue to play regular gigs – I’ve asked Angus to record a couple of songs next time and email them to me.

  I spoke to Angus before I left the Alps and gently brought him up to date with everything Remy said. It was a heart-wrenching conversation and I’m not sure that it answered all of his questions, but I think he’s coming to terms with it and is ready to lay Phoebe to rest. He’s committed to Eliza, one hundred per cent.

  I talk to Mum too, of course, and I also frequently text and call Toby. I’ve given up trying to control my attraction to him. Who knows where we’ll be in a year when I return? For now, we’re friends, and I’m not going to fight it.

  Eventually I end up back in Paris, ready for my flight to Brisbane the next day.

  Eliza calls me when I’m at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re so close and I can’t see you,’ she says.

  ‘You should’ve come over here for the weekend,’ I say, trying to swallow my mouthful of pain au chocolat. I’m eating on the run.

  ‘Why didn’t you suggest it!’ she cries, sounding traumatised.

  I laugh. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s only just occurred to me, to be honest.’

  ‘It’s going to be horrible without you here at Christmas,’ she says miserably.

  ‘It’s going to be hard for me, too,’ I agree.

  I’ve tried not to think about it too much. The first Christmas without Phoebe was unbearable. The second will be almost as challenging, but with every year that passes, we just have to believe that it will get easier.

  ‘Have you spoken to Toby recently?’ she asks.

  ‘Last night. We speak quite regularly. Why?’

  ‘Still think it’s a crush?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Eliza.’ I feel my face start to warm.

  ‘Don’t be so prickly, Rose,’ she teases.

  ‘Bugger off,’ I reply, making her hoot with laughter. ‘I do like talking to him,’ I admit when she composes herself. ‘And I miss him much more than I could ever have imagined I would.’

  ‘But do you fancy him?’ she asks in a cheeky voice.

  ‘He can be quite flirty on the phone,’ I confide. ‘I don’t discourage
him, but I probably should.’

  ‘You like it too much.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I feel like my face is about to catch alight.

  ‘Good,’ she says, and I can practically hear her smile cracking her features.

  I end the call soon afterwards because the tower is swaying slightly and it’s making me feel nauseous. The world seems keen to let me know that I’m not so great at heights, after all.

  Toby rings me an hour later as I’m wandering alongside the river on my way to a museum.

  ‘We only spoke last night,’ I say, but I’m smiling as I locate a bench to perch on.

  ‘Eliza said you’re missing me.’

  ‘Has she been into the bakery?’ It’s Saturday.

  ‘She comes in all the damn time, giving me grief.’

  I laugh. ‘Do you ever think she’s me when she walks through the door?’

  ‘Never,’ he replies quite seriously. ‘But I wish she was you. I miss you.’

  ‘I miss you too, but, Toby...’ I sigh. ‘You know I’m going to be away for a long time, right? Who knows what’s going to happen. You shouldn’t wait for me.’ Even as I say it, I feel a wave of nausea about the idea of him being with someone else.

  ‘Do you miss me?’ he asks after a long pause.

  ‘Of course.’ I sit up straighter. ‘You’re not in Paris, are you?’

  ‘Do you wish I was?’

  ‘Are you here?’ I scan the crowds urgently.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he tells me, and I’m unprepared for the disappointment I feel. ‘Sorry. It’s my mum’s birthday,’ he explains. ‘We’re having a small family celebration at the bakery tonight. She’s not ready to go out to a restaurant or anything yet.’

  ‘Oh. That sounds really lovely.’ I try to sound like I mean it because I do. I have no idea why I feel like crying.

  ‘What time is your flight tomorrow?’ he asks.

  ‘Nine forty-five in the evening.’

  ‘Will you text me when you get there?’

  ‘Sure.’ My mobile bill alone will wipe out my budget if I keep making phone calls once I’m Down Under.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks gently.

  ‘I’m fine!’ Honestly, though, my throat is swollen and if I try to say more than two words, he’ll hear how choked I sound.

  ‘Rose,’ he says quietly.