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Everything Love Is

Page 13

by Claire King


  ‘How are you?’ she said.

  ‘That’s supposed to be my line.’

  Amandine ran her finger along the mosaic around the table’s edge. ‘Sometimes, Baptiste, you have an amazing ability to complicate the simplest things.’

  For a moment I was doubtful; was I being complicated? No one else had ever challenged the way I did things. I ask how the client is, they talk, I listen. Why did everything with Amandine have to be so different, so unsettling? ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you?’

  ‘The stubble suits you.’ No. It certainly wasn’t me that was complicating things.

  The menu was written on a small chalkboard between us. I turned it to face Amandine, but she didn’t even look at it, flipping it around again. ‘You choose.’

  ‘Is there anything you don’t eat?’

  Softly, ‘I eat everything.’

  And everything looked appetising. I wanted her to taste it all. Even with my best efforts at restraint the waiter raised an eyebrow as I ordered far more tapas than we could reasonably manage between us: the patatas bravas, the chorizo, grilled aubergines, manchego, king prawns with aïoli, razor clams with parsley, anchovies, bruschetta, grilled mussels. Amandine said nothing, leaning back in her chair and taking in the surroundings. Above us a jumble of ironwork curls and bright blue shutters angled across the sky. Yellow paint peeled like lemon rind off the walls.

  I was glad when the wine arrived. ‘It makes a nice change to meet you off Candice,’ Amandine raised her glass. ‘I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but I think because it’s your office as well as your home, sometimes meeting there can feel neither one thing or the other.’ What did she mean by that? Was I being too informal? ‘And it’s lovely to discover somewhere new so close to where I live. It’s a romantic little spot.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ I looked around. It was true that most of the diners did seem to be in couples. ‘I picked it because it’s secluded.’

  Amandine laughed. ‘I’m sure most people do. If I bumped into anyone from work I’d have a lot of explaining to do.’

  One of the advantages of Candice for my clients was the discreet location, but then this lunch had been Amandine’s idea. I realised I should have put more consideration into the venue. ‘People come to all kinds of conclusions without thinking, or even looking properly,’ I said. ‘If you’re worried, feel free to tell them I’m an old friend.’

  Amandine put her elbow on the table and rested her face in a cupped hand. ‘If you’re to be an old friend then I need to know more about you.’

  I was drawn in by her smile. ‘OK, go on then, quick, ask me something.’

  Amandine didn’t hesitate. ‘Where did you grow up?’

  ‘In a village not far from Toulouse.’

  ‘How many times have you been in love?’

  ‘I said one question,’ I sighed.

  ‘No you didn’t. How many times, old friend?’

  ‘Never,’ I said.

  Amandine looked at me appraisingly. ‘Never? Are you sure?’

  ‘You’d think I would remember something like that.’

  She shrugged. ‘Sometimes we just don’t see love for what it is,’ she tucked her hair back behind her ears. Tiny diamonds glittered in her earlobes, ‘even when it’s right in front of us.’

  The sun pricked my eyes. I thought of the call of the mountains and of Sophie’s question in the bar. Sometimes life doesn’t let up until you hear what it’s trying to tell you. ‘Just because I’ve never been in love doesn’t mean I can’t recognise it,’ I said.

  ‘OK, what about that couple there?’ In the restaurant across the street, a man and a woman in their twenties, both wearing sunglasses, sat at an angle to each other sharing a heaped platter of seafood – all fleshy pinks and rocky greys, oysters, mussels, cockles, clams – and a large basket of fresh bread. The woman had slipped off her shoes (Spanish espadrilles, cobalt and green) and the soles of her feet were bare against the pavement. The two were not touching, no hands held across the table, nor feet touching underneath. ‘Are they in love, do you think, or are they just “old friends”?’

  Before I could reply, a second man arrived, greeted them both with warm embraces and animated exclamations. He asked the hurrying waiter for a glass but remained standing, leaning against the brick wall as he helped himself to wine from their carafe. The three fell easily into enthusiastic conversation, the couple smiling up at their friend and he making expansive gestures with ape-like arms.

  ‘Maybe they’re brother and sister.’

  Amandine sat back. ‘Nonsense. It’s clear they’re in love, regardless of if they are old friends or not.’ She ran a fingertip around the rim of her wine glass. ‘Why can’t you admit it?’

  A jolt. A chemical rush through my blood from head to toe. A quickening heart. A longing for the familiar security of Candice. ‘Maybe they are,’ I said, ‘or maybe it’s a professional relationship.’ I put my wine glass down for fear of dropping it. Or maybe it’s both, I thought.

  ‘Excuse me.’ The waiter began to rearrange our table, moving the salt cellar to the periphery, tightening the liaison between wine glasses and cutlery, making room for plates. Then the dishes were spread before us, filling the air with the rising scents of garlic, sulphur, lemon and grilled meat.

  ‘Mmm, it all looks delicious,’ Amandine said, the momentary tension falling from her shoulders as easily as if she had shrugged off a coat. ‘It’s hard to know where to start.’ Her hand hesitated over the plates of food, then she pierced an anchovy with her fork. Olive oil, red with chilli, glistened on its skin and she leaned in to catch the drips in her mouth. I watched as she sat back and chewed slowly, pleasure settling on her face. She replaced her fork on the table, took a sip of wine and smiled. ‘Well? Don’t be shy.’

  We ate slowly and in silence for a while, allowing me to put my personal feelings aside, gather my thoughts, think analytically and plan my approach. Right from the start, Amandine had told me she was looking for love. Knowing from experience that that wouldn’t address something deeper, I had tried my best to steer her in another direction. But I’d failed, and now it was obvious that she was projecting her desire on to me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered, but I had a job to do and I knew her feelings had no substance; they were symptomatic of something deeper. I couldn’t allow either of us to be distracted by such a trick of nature. There was the option to skirt around the issue, especially tempting since I was part of it, but sometimes we have to face these things head on.

  ‘So,’ I said eventually, wiping my fingers, ‘let’s talk about sex.’

  Amandine clasped her hands above the table. ‘Is that the end of foreplay then?’

  ‘You tell me. We can’t play games for ever. I’d like you to feel you can be open with me, but you’re holding something back.’

  Amandine affected incredulity. ‘You think it’s me that’s holding back?’

  ‘I do,’ I said firmly, ‘yes. So just be honest. What exactly is it you’re looking for, Amandine. If not happiness, then what do you expect from love? What is this mysterious quality that you need to take your breath away?’

  ‘You think when I said I want my breath taken away I meant sex?’

  ‘I don’t know what you meant,’ I said. I genuinely didn’t.

  ‘You’re unbelievable.’ Amandine’s fingers closed over the tiny silver ladybird hanging from her necklace and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again she was looking straight at me, her turquoise eyes brighter than ever. ‘It’s not sex,’ she said. She bit her lip. ‘Well, not just sex. I think there can be an intimacy so profound between lovers that they become empaths, one for the other. Can you imagine how exhilarating it must be to step out of ourselves and truly feel for another person?’

  ‘You crave intimacy?’

  ‘I crave connection.’

  ‘You’d let your happiness depend on someone else’s?’

  ‘You wouldn’
t?’ Amandine shook her head. ‘Look, you’re the expert,’ she said, ‘but I think you’re looking at it the wrong way. You’re so concerned with finding the happiness inside ourselves that you refuse to believe we can also find it outside ourselves. Why can’t there be both?’

  ‘How many kinds of happiness do you think there are?’

  ‘More than we have words for.’

  ‘But true happiness—’

  ‘Is an idea that only serves to make us feel unhappy.’

  ‘So then why are you …’

  She held up a finger. ‘Listen. I agree there’s a kind of contentment inside ourselves that only we can find. And I agree that without that everything else can only brush the surface. But if you have that already it should liberate you, it should make you bolder, not more afraid.’

  Perhaps Amandine should be doing my job. ‘And you feel you have that already?’

  She glanced down at her plate and then back up at me. ‘I think I must, yes. Do you?’

  The waiter was at our side again. ‘How is everything?’

  Not good, I wanted to tell him. I’m drowning. But instead we both nodded politely and praised the food.

  ‘Baptiste,’ Amandine said quietly as he left, ‘for weeks now you’ve tried not to encourage me. You’ve done everything in your power to persuade me that falling in love is a bad idea. You’ve challenged me, you’ve offered me alternatives. Someone less confident might think there was something wrong with them. But you’re never going to convince me. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what falling in love means. Maybe it’s because you are scared of love. But I’m not. So give it up and let’s move on.’

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of people made miserable by love.’

  ‘So what?’ She squeezed lemon over a razor clam, teasing it from its shell and eating it whole. ‘A lot of people don’t like shellfish,’ she said. ‘But does that mean you shouldn’t try it? If you’ve never tasted it for yourself, how would you know? It would be a pity not to taste what life has to offer.’ She waved her hand at the half-eaten meal before us. ‘It’s obvious you have the appetite.’

  ‘I couldn’t help myself,’ I said. ‘There were so many good things on the menu. But it wasn’t for me. I wanted you to enjoy it all.’

  Amandine reflected briefly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can believe that. You find your satisfaction in others’ pleasure.’

  ‘You say that as though it’s a bad thing.’

  ‘Passion runs both ways.’ I thought of Sophie and smiled. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing. You remind me of someone I know.’

  Amandine scrutinised my expression for a moment, then looked down at her hands. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you asked what the mysterious thing is that I’m looking for. This is it. I think when two people genuinely pool their lives, something stronger is forged, something fundamental that can ride out both waves of happiness and tides of sorrow. How could that not take anyone’s breath away?’

  I was out of my depth. The table felt unsteady under my hands and the ground seemed to tremble underfoot. ‘Amandine, I want you to be happy. Truly. But if that’s what you believe it takes, I wouldn’t know where to start. I’m not sure I can be of much help.’

  Amandine looked exasperated. ‘Let’s not do this again,’ she said. I couldn’t let it go, though. Where had she got this idea? Had she imagined it? Experienced it for herself? Had she already tasted this connection she craved? When I asked her, she folded her arms. ‘With a man, no, not even close. But …’ her defensiveness turned to uncertainty. ‘I don’t suppose you ride horses?’ I shook my head. ‘Pity. It’s not a bad comparison.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘There’s more goes on between a horse and rider than meets the eye. With a good horse it takes just the slightest shift in your weight, the slightest pressure on its mouth or its flank, and the horse understands. It responds. You move together, both bound and liberated. Neither of you is truly in control, neither of you passive. Complicit. That’s how I imagine it should be. And then, when you see the field stretching ahead, the horse tenses beneath you and you feel its desire, asking if it’s OK. You lean forward slightly and release, just barely, the reins. And together you can fly.’

  Her face was radiant with pleasure. It was the first time I’d seen her look genuinely happy. I was finally glimpsing beyond the surface of Amandine Rousseau. I had never ridden a horse, but she just as easily could have been talking about me playing the piano. The way it responds under my hands, the way I can channel my emotions through it in such a way that someone else could understand them without me having to say a word. ‘Riding is important to you,’ I said.

  Amandine dropped her shoulders, the light in her eyes fading. ‘It was once. I rode all the time when I was younger.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘And even before that I was horse crazy. I had posters of ponies all over my room. Wild ones, mostly, in Iceland, Mongolia and of course the horses down in the Camargue. I fell in love with those animals just from the photos. I dreamed of travelling to see them one day. I still haven’t got round to it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Life gets in the way of these kinds of fancies. I haven’t really thought about it for years. Of course I could still go, at least to the Camargue, it’s only a morning’s drive away, there’s no excuse really.’

  ‘You still ride though?’

  A sigh of resignation. ‘Not for years. I can’t afford broken bones these days.’

  ‘After how you just described it?’ I recalled the scar I had seen on her foot. ‘Did you have an accident that put you off?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I fell off plenty of times but never really hurt myself. But if I took a fall these days I’m sure I wouldn’t bounce as easily as I did when I was a girl. It’s called growing up.’

  We give up these elements of ourselves so easily, I thought, and then spend our adult lives grieving for them. Something within me would die if I ever stopped playing the piano. ‘Isn’t growing up about learning what’s important to us?’ I said. ‘What’s really stopping you?’

  For a fleeting instant, Amandine’s composure failed her, and I saw a conflict in her eyes that I didn’t understand. ‘Nothing. Not really. You’re right.’ Her smile was an indication that the discussion was over, the closing chord of a melody. I thought of her melody on the piano, unfinished, unresolved.

  ‘Go riding this week,’ I said. ‘Promise me.’

  Amandine sat tall, her hand reaching to touch the exposed skin above her breasts where her blood had risen to the surface. ‘I’ll take a chance if you will,’ she replied. Then something caught her eye, and without turning her body she shifted her gaze over to the couple across the street. ‘They’re watching us!’ she whispered, as though they could hear. I glanced over at them. Their friend had left. They had finished their meal and were drinking coffee. The woman was angled forward, her bare feet now resting on his shoes, their hands clasped across the table in a shaft of light that slanted away across the cobbles. I had the uncanny sensation of looking in a mirror. They were looking at us.

  What did they think of us? I wondered. What must we look like to them?

  25

  A cloud had settled over everything. My laundry flapped damply on the line I had stretched across the bow. Even on the brighter winter days it never dried properly and I would eventually have to bring it in by the wood stove. There were months of steamy windows ahead, until the crisp March mornings would open them again and bear in the deeply satisfying sound of shirts snapping in the fresh spring air.

  Etienne and I sat in silence on the gloomy deck, listening to the lick of the water, watching the low clouds swimming in the soupy sky and the scraggy late ducklings scudding across the water in the wind. The deck was all shades of grey. Candice was as deciduous as her surroundings, life retreating into her core to overwinter. In winter I ate downstairs by the stove, allowing upstairs to become my conservatory. With the temperature falling fast, that morning I
had brought my garden inside, picking off the last ripe fruit before covering the lemon tree against the cold and retiring the geraniums to the table inside the wheelhouse. This process always seemed to make the wildlife indignant, and sometimes in a certain light butterflies would fly up to the window of the wheelhouse and flutter against the pane of glass, unable to land.

  It was on days like these when the joggers, walkers and cyclists would all hurry by Candice without a second glance. She was just another houseboat moored along a muddy towpath in a small damp corner of a suburb. The yearning would not return to their eyes until spring, when I took the plants back out on deck and their light would fall all around the boat, reds and violets and greens. In summer I was living the dream. In winter I became an eccentric. People see what they want to see.

  ‘What is it?’ Etienne asked. He lit the cigarette that he’d been rolling. I liked that his habit forced us outside, and although I’d never been a smoker and nor had my parents, I loved the smell of his tobacco on the cold air. Etienne didn’t care for tea and had made us strong black coffee, short measures dressed in a thick caramel froth.

  ‘It looks like rain today,’ I said into the whispers of steam trapped and swirling in the high walls of the too-large cup. Etienne said nothing. With rare exceptions, weather was not a legitimate conversation between us. He waited. The coffee at the bottom of my cup was grainy. I swirled it around, inhaled the essence of the grounds.

  ‘Baptiste?’

  I unwrapped my scarf and wrapped it again, a little tighter this time. ‘Someone told me,’ I said finally, ‘that when two people are in love, they can feel as much for each other as for themselves. That they sense each other. Do you feel like that with René?’

  Etienne regarded me with dark eyes. He let smoke drift slowly from his lips, out across the water. ‘Hmmm.’ After a few moments, when he had put out his cigarette, he said, ‘If you’re asking me to explain how love feels, you’ll be disappointed. Many smarter men than me have failed.’

  ‘Just in your experience.’

 

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