Page 38 of Road Trip to the Riviera
The only saving grace is that I’d have felt a little mean leaving Sarah without Betty. She’s intending to work the whole morning in any case, but it’s nice to think that if she wants a rest or a coffee, she has the trusty camper at her side.
‘Sarah is an interesting woman,’ Sébastien says out of nowhere.
We’re around halfway to Vallon and have been walking in silence for the past five minutes. Mainly because I’m finding it harder and harder to talk and breathe at the same time. ‘Yeah,’ I manage.
‘Beautiful, too,’ he muses, almost to himself.
‘Uh huh,’ I say. He’s not wrong. The same passage of time that’s turned our boy into a man led to my developing a dad bod and silver flecks in my hair, but has been kind to Sarah. Her face – always pretty – has elongated and become more defined. The only sign of her age is at the corners of her eyes and for some reason, what serves to make me look twenty years older only makes her eyes stand out more and sparkle. She’s about three times fitter than I ever was – goes to the gym most mornings, or did before she broke her leg.
Maybe when we were at school, we were sort of in the same league. But now she’s so far out of mine, I’d need about £30,000 of plastic surgery to be even vaguely in the same place when it comes to attractiveness.
I vow to get my act together once home. If Sébastien can have calf muscles and arm muscles like he does in his mid-thirties, I should be able to do something about my paunch at least. (I don’t usually notice men’s calf muscles, but Sébastien’s are almost obscenely defined on his tanned legs, and his arms make mine appear more like anaemic twigs – worst of all, he seems to actually enjoy exercise. He doesn’t sweat it out at the gym, or follow a special eating plan. He simply immerses himself in nature and comes up looking like some sort of Adonis. If I spent even one night in the woods, I’d probably look like a yeti).
‘But you say you are not together.’ Sébastien stops abruptly and turns towards me. I’m so focused on putting one sweaty, reluctant foot in front of another by now that I almost collide with him.
‘No. Not for years. I’m with someone else,’ I lie. I’m not sure exactly why I say this – there’s something defensive about it as if I have to prove myself to Sébastien. Yes, I am a man. Yes, maybe I could be with Sarah, but I’m with someone else. So there, Mr Big Calves.
(I have to remind myself again at this point that it’s me who invited Sébastien along with us. And that despite everything, he’s a pretty good guy. We bonded this morning over bacon sandwiches. It’s probably the exhaustion I’m feeling that’s making me resent him a little).
‘OK,’ he nods, as if gradually digesting the information. Then he begins to walk again. ‘I would like to get to know her more, I think.’
‘Oh! Well, yeah. She’s great.’
‘I mean, as a lover,’ he says, looking at me meaningfully as if to make sure there is no doubt.
I scuttle along, trying to keep pace as his strides increase. ‘A lover?’ I squeak.
‘Yes,’ he says, almost to himself now, ‘I would like to know Sarah much better.’
‘Listen,’ I tell him, half panting. ‘You don’t want to do that.’ I have no idea where the words came from. But I tell myself it’s what Sarah would want me to say. She’s already annoyed that Sébastien has joined us on our trip; she won’t want to have to fend off his unwanted advances.
‘No?’ He raises a quizzical eyebrow, but doesn’t break stride.
‘She’s…’ I rack my brain for something to say. ‘Highly strung.’
‘And this means?’
‘Um, she gets annoyed, stressed. Emotional. A lot.’ I close my eyes briefly, a flood of guilt washing through my chest. But I’m doing it for her, I remind myself.
He nods. ‘So she is passionate,’ he says. ‘Ah, I realise this is not for everyone. But I like my women to be fiery, reactive. They make the most wonderful lovers.’
I put my hand on his arm before he can resume walking. ‘That’s not all. I mean, she’s also a workaholic.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Think about her now, working while we’re doing all this.’ Although in all honesty, I’d give anything to be sitting on a sunlounger, even if I did have to make a work call or two.
‘She works too much?’
‘Yes! Yes.’ This will no doubt be the opposite of what Sébastien wants. He practically lives in the woods, after all. Hardly a great pairing for a hotshot lawyer.
‘But this is wonderful,’ he tells me, now beaming. ‘We fit together. You cannot have two ambitious persons, or two who are more chilled like me. It is what I was saying about puzzles. You have to fit.’ He puts his hands together, interlacing his fingers as if to emphasise.
I resist the urge to slap them apart. ‘She hates exercise.’
‘That is good. I like mostly to take my exercise alone.’
‘She’s not keen on French culture.’
‘Ah, it is not for everyone. But I could teach her, help her to understand. Then she will love France just as much as I do.’
We walk on for a few more minutes. The sun is out in force now and beating down on the back of my neck. I can feel my skin starting to burn, despite the layer of sun cream I applied this morning. My heart is still hammering, my body drenched in sweat.
