Odd Numbers Page 5

  Gael gave me a fond smile. “Our Simone, the Queen of Putting Things in a Box. How do I identify? As not bloody fussy. Cheers, girls!”

  The next day, I got up late and spent a good half an hour on my toilette before taking the tram to Lovisa’s place. The plan was to have breakfast with the rest of the party. Only Gael and Lovisa were at the apartment. Clark had not returned the night before and we exchanged knowing looks. Mika was not answering his phone, so perhaps the redhead had succeeded. I tried not to mind. If Lovisa could accept it, so should I.

  Gael made coffee and Lovisa made Pannukakku, or Finnish pancakes and we went out into the sunny autumnal streets of Geneva. We walked through the old town, as far as Place de Neuve and the Parc des Bastions, where we spent so many hours as students. The trees were changing colour and the weather fresh. We wandered through colonnades, between the giant chessboards and along the Reformation Wall reminiscing about who had done what, with whom and where.

  “Remember when the three of us went to the Berlin Wall? Those useless men couldn’t get out of bed that morning either. But that wall was a humbling sight.”

  Lovisa, her pure face sad as she surveyed the tourists taking photographs, lifted her shoulders to her ears. “I remember. It touched all three of us. A scar across a city, a country. Scars aren’t always bad. Sometimes, they act as a reminder, a lesson learned. Not that Berlin could ever forget.”

  I shivered a little and drew my scarf closer. We walked on to the lake, each wrapped up in our thoughts.

  “Gael? Can I ask you a question?”

  “Is it about my sex life again?”

  I smiled and shook my head, wondering if I really wanted to raise this, here and now. “No. This is not about sex.”

  “Then fire away, madame. What do you want to know?”

  I tried to keep my tone light. “That night. The second time you jumped in the lake, you hurt yourself, no? The backs of your legs got scratched. Did that leave a mark?”

  Gael’s smile faded as she thought about it. “No, it was only a graze.” She bumped her shoulder against Lovisa. “I remember you telling me it looked worse than it was and as ever, you were right. Backs of my legs, bum and shoulder blades scraped the ice, but no worse than falling over on tarmac. It healed far faster than the other stuff.”

  I didn’t need to ask what ‘the other stuff’ meant.

  Lovisa shook her head. “I recall there was a lot of blood, which made things much harder to explain when the police arrived. We were so very stupid.”

  She linked her arms into ours and we proceeded along the promenade like a wall of our own, cemented by mutual affection.

  My regard for these two women led me to continue. “You know, I have a scar.”

  “A scar from that night?” asked Gael.

  “Or do you mean emotionally?” Lovisa asked, her voice gentle.

  Without warning, my throat swelled and I stopped, tears seeping from under my tightly shut lids. I tried wiping them away with my gloves, but more took their place. Gael brushed maple leaves from a park bench and we sat, me in the middle.

  I didn’t attempt to speak. I took off my gloves and simply unbuckled my watch strap stretching my right arm towards them. Just below my wrist, there were two white marks, like tadpoles swimming up my forearm. Lovisa held my hand, her head tilted in enquiry.

  I spoke in stilted bursts, trying to swallow more tears. “Those marks were made by Dhan’s fingernails. When he came to the ice hole, I tried to stop him. He didn’t have a safety band so I caught his right arm and pulled him back. He was wet, sweaty and I couldn’t get a strong grip. He tore my hand away. He tore it as if we were fighting. He dug in his nails and crushed my hand to get me off him. Afterwards, the bruising was ugly, but in comparison to other traumas, I hardly noticed. The scars from where his nails cut deep are still there. I can’t understand why he did that.”

  I gulped and replaced my watch. They both leaned in close to comfort me.

  “OK,” said Lovisa. “Let’s say he was fighting. Not you. His fear. He finally decided he couldn’t miss out, grabbed his courage and decided to jump into the lake before he could change his mind. You tried to prevent him going through with it and in his panic or exhilaration, he didn’t realise how rough he was.”

  “That’s possible,” Gael agreed. “You have such delicate skin, you bruise like a peach if I as much as poke you in the arm.” She poked me in the arm.

  I couldn’t smile. “You didn’t see his face, Gael. At that moment, he hated me.”

  “Look, I’m not defending the stupid bastard. He jumped in like a madman and ended up dead. We all know this was on Dhan.”

  “Yes, it was. What I am trying to say is that it was more than a moment of intoxication. He was so determined, so ruthless ... oh, I can’t explain. You weren’t there.”

  Gael’s face closed down and she took her arm from my shoulders.

  I reached out and touched her coat. “I’m sorry, that’s not fair, I meant ...”

  Lovisa slid her gloved hand into mine. “Simone, we’ll never know what was in his mind that night, and trying to guess his reasoning only prevents us from moving on. We’re still getting over what happened, because it was only seven years ago. Moments like this surprise us when we least expect it and are more likely to recur when we’re all together. We understand. Now, my backside is frozen. Let’s go find a coffee shop to warm ourselves up. What do you say, Gael?”

  Gael bounced to her feet. “I say bollocks to a coffee shop. I want to find an old-style wine bar and drink a bottle of their cheapest vintage.” She offered a hand to pull me to my feet. “Come on, let’s go local, drink white wine and eat an obscene amount of cheese. It’s the only way to treat a hangover.”

  In January, I got the chance to work as a simultaneous translator at the United Nations, covering someone’s paternity leave. The job I’d always wanted. There was no way I was letting that get away. I worked like a crazy person, reading all the background material, studying the speakers’ styles, meditating to improve my concentration and being unforgettably charming to everyone in the department. It worked. Three months later, the head of translations offered me a full-time position and suggested we might try a few positions of our own. I accepted the job but demurred on the affair, citing my husband. I didn’t mention the divorce and still wore my wedding ring. Women in particular tended to relax when they thought I was married and it had the added advantage of putting men off. Not all; some saw it as a challenge.

  All I wanted was a nice place to live and a job at which I excelled. Men only messed things up. Anyway, romance was the last thing on my mind. In my life, I had only ever loved one person and that would never change.

  Chapter 8: Clark, 2009

  Ten years. It was always going to be a weird one. I toyed with the idea of giving the occasion a miss, as I’ve only been married a year and quite like hanging out with my wife. To be honest, I’m pretty damn sure that some of my friends blame far too much of their current dysfunctional behaviour on the death of a friend ten years earlier. Perspective, people, you know? At some stage, we’re all going to have to move on with our lives. Some of us already have.

  Cass knows about the tradition and why it started. Because she is the coolest woman on the planet, she told me to go. She and the Kiwi crowd will crash a party at someone’s house in Earl’s Court, like they do every year. One of the things I love about that woman is she doesn’t know the meaning of passive aggressive. If Cass says, ‘it’s fine’, then it’s fine. If it isn’t, she’ll tell you straight. One time I wanted her to come with me to a lecture at Festival Hall on the Haida Gwaii, their culture and language. She said she’d enjoy that as much as I’d enjoy going to the Famous Three Kings pub to watch the Wallabies playing the Springboks. I got it. I attended the lecture on my own and wrote it up while she went to the pub for the rugby.

  She does her thing, I do mine. And one of mine is the ex-uni crowd every other New Year’s Eve. I suspect this t
ime might well be the last.

  In 2009 it was Simone’s turn to organise, though it should have been Gael’s. She missed out because of the reunion. She didn’t complain. She never does. Part of me thinks Gael and I were twins separated at birth. If I was a woman, I’d wanna be Gael. She just gets it. You can tell her anything and she doesn’t judge you. Cass thinks I’m secretly in love with her, but still says ‘Go to Mallorca with your mates!’ and doesn’t get weird over it. I’m not in love with Gael, but I do love her. Kinda like a sister you’d protect and look out for and all. Though she’s the last person who needs protecting.

  Mallorca, Simone said. No way, we said. You’re gonna be surprised, she said. No, knowing Simone, she probably said something like ‘I think you will find yourselves surprised’ because she went to finishing school. She was right. When I go somewhere fantastic, I tell people. Hey, man, I found this great bar, funky restaurant, cool island. You should check it out. I’ve never told anyone but Cass about Deià. No one but us and the residents should ever know about this magical, unspoilt, quirky corner of an island. Otherwise they’d all come and ruin it, then the poets and artists and dancers would leave for somewhere we don’t know.

  We rented a finca, a kind of ex-farmhouse with no pool but a path down to the sea. The beach wasn’t private although to look at it you’d think so. The building was on a promontory with sea views from every window, and the sea spray crashing against the rocks was as hypnotic as a firework display. I loved it. As with everything I love, I wanted to share it with Cass, but she was in a pub in Kensington. That year, Simone brought a boyfriend – Jacques. He fitted in as if we’d known him for ten years. She should have stuck with that one. The nasty bastard she eventually married had millions, three houses and two teenage kids, but Jacques, man, Jacques could play the saxophone.

  Boyfriends, wives, siblings, fine with me. But that year Gael invited her parents. We always said we could bring whoever we liked, but seriously, parents? Secretly, we all dreaded minding our manners with the older generation and privately muttered about her taking liberties. As it turned out, Kevin and Aoife were terrific company. Storytellers both, they had us all in stitches at every mealtime. They were interested in all of us and not afraid to ask direct questions. Aoife wanted to know if I was going to marry my girlfriend when I showed her a picture of Cass on my phone. When I told her I wasn’t sure if I was ready to settle down, she laughed.

  “Well, young fella, if what I hear is true, you must have a whole barn of wild oats if you’ve still more to sow.”

  Mika laughed so hard at that he actually cried.

  The other thing that made it work was music. Kevin and Aoife were a well-honed double act who could make you laugh and weep. The local bar owner was also Irish, from Kerry, and pretty much claimed them as his own from the first night we walked in. Kevin played guitar, Aoife sang and Gael amazed us all with her skill on the bodhrán. Jacques joined in with his sax and the result was eclectic, bizarre and the best fun I’d had in years. We had the most entertaining New Year’s Eve ever and I was ashamed of myself for ever thinking it should be our last.

  Other people were the centre of attention and naturally I expected Simone to get mad and sulky. She didn’t. She laughed, clapped and joined in as if she was happy. Who knows, maybe she was. By the pool, I wore my shades, pretending to read and watching the performance. She tinkled with laughter at some whispered comment from Jacques, trailed her fingers over his chest, sashayed past us to dive into the water, emerged wet and sleek, and with her wet bikini still clinging to her body, offered us more sangria.

  I recognised these moves. She was out to seduce. But it wasn’t Jacques and it certainly wasn’t me. She had her sights set and locked on Mika. Poor bastard.

  One day while we were still at university, I sat through my first morning lecture, absorbing no more information than the fact I was about to have a massive migraine. I walked home, closed the drapes and got into bed fully clothed. I guess I slept on and off for around three hours. When I awoke, that cotton-wool feeling was still there, but the pain had ceased. It was the middle of the day and Dhan and Simone wouldn’t be home for hours yet. I shucked off my clothes and, treading with kittenish delicacy so as not to disturb my head, I shuffled my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.

  The second I turned the corner, I could hear her voice. I stopped, not wanting to march in stark naked on Dhan and his girlfriend. But it couldn’t be Dhan she was addressing as she was speaking French, fast and slangy. I understood the gist.

  “What you don’t understand is the background. He’s funny, entertaining, the guy you’re happy to introduce to your friends without embarrassment. He goes crazy for the French Maid routine and in bed, his enthusiasm makes up for a lack of technique. What I meant earlier was this. He is a practice run.”

  Another female voice, slightly lower in pitch. “What about the Canadian? I would give him a practice run.”

  “He’s an American! He comes from Alaska and is not worth a second glance. A total brânleur. No wonder those two share a flat. Classic go-nowhere, do-nothing losers, with poor hygiene. Listen to me, chouchou, you and I deserve better.”

  The other girl mumbled something inaudible.

  Simone laughed, with a hard, brassy tone I’d not noticed before. “Consider these days as the nursery slopes. We are refining our skills.”

  I retraced my steps into my bedroom, closed and locked the door. One word echoed around my head: ‘brânleur’. Roughly translated as wanker.

  She was playing him. I had no idea how to break the news, but Dhan had to know.

  In the end, I did it with the help of Alanis Morissette. Two of the guys in our band had connections with the Montreux Jazz Festival. When I heard the rumour Morissette was headlining, I called in some favours and grabbed two tickets. Jagged Little Pill was a constant in our flat and seeing her perform live was the best birthday present I could give him. The plan was all set. At my suggestion, Gael and Lovisa would invite Simone to some kind of girls’ night. Mika offered to chip in by paying for a decent hotel and I booked trains. On the night of Dhan’s birthday, I’d spring the surprise on him and Simone. There was no way she could worm her way into that. Les jeux sont faits.

  He was ecstatic. The double whammy was seeing Simone’s nose way out of joint. She joined in the high-fives and congrats around the table, even if her exultations fell far below those of Mika and Lovisa.

  Gael played it like a maestro. “Montreux? Oh, Dhan, what a bummer. You could always stay here if that Morissette female bores you to tears. Simone and I have plans to see Merci la Vie at Beaux Artes, eat seafood and slag off men. Can I tempt you?”

  “You can tempt me!” said Lovisa, and the conversation fractured along gender lines.

  Three weeks later, Dhan and I each packed an overnight bag and boarded the train to Montreux, full of excitement and well-armed for two days at a music festival. Clean underwear, change of shirt, two grams of cocaine, a bottle of tequila and some cold beers for the journey. Essential, as the train took well over an hour. We were reasonably well lubricated by the time we stepped off the CFF Interregio train, intent on two days of partying.

  We dumped our bags at the hotel and hit the streets. Music was everywhere, with crowds milling from boulevard to lakeside garden to outdoor cafés. We people-watched from a terrace, grinning at first-timers fizzing with the novelty and old hands projecting sophistication, while we ate Rösti and drank more beer. Dhan told me about the gigs he’d seen in London, I shared my momentous events as a student in Montreal and we wandered through the throngs to get a view of the lake. Same lake we saw every day in Geneva, but an angle I hadn’t tried before.

  At the hotel, we took in the generosity of Mika’s gesture. Two deluxe rooms in a four-star place with fruit bowls, a complimentary bottle of champagne and king-sized beds. That Czech champ, in his understated way, had pulled out all the stops. We showered, changed, drank the bubbles and snorted coke up to our eyeballs
. Then, high as kites, we set off for the evening’s entertainment. The atmosphere was fantastic, the weather balmy and we were right at the heart of it. I know because we kept telling each other the same thing.

  The gig was at Miles Davis Hall and fewer than ten minutes’ walk from our hotel. It took us over an hour to get there. I don’t even recall what took so long, but we certainly stopped to refuel, more than twice. At least I had remembered the tickets.

  My memories of the rest of the night are hazy. Dancing and singing along with Alanis, Dhan and me yelling ‘She’s amazing’ about three hundred times, and clapping and cheering till my hands hurt. Afterwards, we stumbled around the streets and got chatting to a couple who’d been at the same concert. We had a few drinks with them and then decided to go back to the hotel and drink tequila on the balcony. I kept reminding myself to tell Dhan about Simone, but somehow the urgency had gone. Although both our rooms had balconies, Dhan had the better view, so we cracked open the bottle, raided the mini-bar for mixers and sat reliving the night while gazing at the view. We tried to be quiet, but kept getting excited. Finally the phone rang. It was the manager telling us in no uncertain terms on behalf of all the guests to get inside and close the door.

  For some reason, we thought this was the funniest thing we’d ever heard. We shut the balcony windows and collapsed in a giggling heap on the bed. I poured us another drink and we sat up against the pillows, extolling the virtues of tequila and Coke. By then we were talking about the fizzy drink as we had long since run out of the powder. I found some Dutch courage and told Dhan what I had overheard. That seemed to sober him for a second. Then he said, “I don’t give a fuck about Simone,” and started laughing all over again. In my relief, I joined in and was soon helpless with laughter, tears rolling down my cheeks.