50 Reasons to Say Goodbye (9 page)

“Thanks for the drink,” I say.

I feel a stirring between my own legs. I cross them.

He smiles at me, holds out a hand. “Fabrizio,” he says.

“Mark.”

He's so big he blocks any view I might have of anything. It's not so bad, except that I feel so tiny; I sit up straighter.

I try to think of something to say. “Are you here on holiday?” It's banal but I say it anyway.

He shrugs, he grins.

I try in French,
“Vous êtes ici en vacances?”
He shrugs again.

I order a beer for my new friend. He says something long, something complicated to me in Italian.

I shrug; I smile. “Sorry?” I say.

He sips his beer and thinks for a while.

“You like me,” he says hesitantly.

I grin; I nod. “I don't really know you, but, sure, you seem very nice,” I say.

He smiles, he shrugs. I ask if he prefers English or French. “Italiano,” he says.

I smile; I shrug.

“So, you like me,” he says again earnestly.

“Jees, how do you say cute in Italian?”
I wonder. “Molto, cuto … erh, mignono?” I say.

He shrugs; frowns, and I give up on any hope of subtlety. “Yes,” I say.

He asks something else in Italian. He winks at me, it is an earnest question and he seems embarrassed to ask it. I hear something like
amora
. I guess it means love. I compute the possibilities;
I love it here don't you? I want to make love to you?

The sax player holds a hat in front of me and I put ten francs in it. He winks at me, shoots me a cheeky grin, and moves on. I subconsciously notice that he really
is
cute.

“Sex,” says Fabrizio leaning in. He nods and arches his eyebrows, points at himself, then at me then away to his left.

I feel myself blush. Without being able to make a joke of it I don't know how to respond so I shrug. Fabrizio looks sad.

I think,
“I may never, ever, have another chance to sleep with someone who looks like this.”
I nod. “Si,” I say.

Fabrizio grins, then stops, rolls his eyes and opens his hands to the sky. He actually says, “Mamma Mia!”

A woman is pushing through the tables towards us – long, ironed, jet-black hair. She's wearing a semitransparent grey cotton dress. It is very lacy, very short.

Fabrizio grins at her, so I smile too. Her legs are encased in thigh-high leather boots. Thick makeup and heavy gold jewellery top off the outfit. Fabrizio stands, turns to greet her, kissing her on the lips, placing, I note, one hand on her buttocks.

He introduces me. “Rosa, Mark.”

Wide-eyed, I shake her hand. As we shake she licks her lips and very slowly, quite deliberately, she winks at me. A waft of cheap perfume whacks me in the face.

I look back at Fabrizio questioningly; I am confused.

He too winks at me, grins and raises his eyebrows silently forming a question. I look between their grinning faces.

I shake my head from side to side, silently forming the answer.

As I walk away I remember the cute sax player, but he's long gone.

The disco spotlights roll across an empty dance floor.

I grimace. “Yves!” I say. “It's completely empty!”

He grabs my arm, steers me to the bar. “I know, I know, it'll fill up.”

You can ring my bell
is belting from the sound-system.

“Gee, I haven't heard that one in a while,” I say.

“Gin and tonic?” he asks me.

I nod; he orders the drinks.

“Look, if it hasn't livened up by the time he gets here we can just go somewhere else, OK?” he says.

I nod again. “But why
here
anyway?”

Yves shrugs. “Robert likes it; you'll like him, he's so lovely … I can't wait for you to meet, by far the best I've ever had – I think I may marry him!”

“And let's face it Yves, you've had a few.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him.

“Yes, well remember, as far as Robert is concerned, I'm a complete virgin.”

He hands me my drink. “Yeah, yeah,” I say.

People drift into the club. A few freestylers occupy the dance floor. The music is moving through the eighties, they're playing
I'm so excited
. I start to move my shoulders to the rhythm as I sip at my drink.

Yves is swinging his hips; I can tell he wants to dance. He plonks his drink down, grabs my arm. “Come on, I love this,” he says.

Hand on your heart
is starting. I hate Kylie, especially the old stuff from the Stock Aitken Waterman days. “Nearly into the nineties!” I shout.

Yves grins wildly, flails his arms around like
someone who has never thought about how he looks, or never got to dance to this stuff first time around, never learnt how to do it properly or even better not to do it at all. I'm embarrassed, but the dance floor fills, slowly cramping his style.

They play
Pump Up The Jam
. I actually start to enjoy myself, groove my hips to the music. I close my eyes to shut out the people standing around the edge of the dance floor and to shut out the grotesque image of Yves dancing with himself in front of a mirror.

Suddenly he grabs my arm and I open my eyes. In front of me, immobile in the midst of the flashing and the twirling is a man. He has clipped brown hair, impossibly blue, almost turquoise eyes, a half smile spread across his lips. He's unshaven and he's smiling at me.

It seems that the world around us has stopped, or maybe that the world around continues to swirl and swing and flash, but I, and he, and the space between us has stopped.

My heart is pumping, pulsing blood through my veins at triple speed. I actually worry for a split second that this is the start of a heart attack.

The man leans in to kiss me on the cheek; the contact is electric, incredible, ecstatic. We stare at each other, amazed.

“Robert,” says Yves. “Meet my friend Mark.”

Goose bumps spread across my arms as we stare at each other.

“Hi!” I say as nonchalantly as I can manage.

“Hello,” he says. His voice lifts almost imperceptibly at the end, but I hear it.

I look at Yves, who is grinning at me. “Isn't he lovely?” he asks.

I nod. Speechless. “I'll erm, go get a drink, I think …” I stammer.

Yves hasn't heard me over the music, so I point to the bar and lift an imaginary drink to my lips.

As I watch them from the bar, my heartbeat slows to a normal rhythm. I drink another gin and tonic even though I shouldn't; I have to drive home, but I need it.

Yves is clowning around on the dance floor, imitating John Travolta. Robert looks embarrassed, he's dancing with his eyes closed, grooving sedately. He glances over at me and grins, raising an eyebrow. I smile back.

Yves grabs him from the side, pulls him in, kisses him. I go to the toilet.

On the way back I meet Yves going in. “Isn't he lovely?” he asks again.

I nod, “Yeah, he's really cute.”

“And intelligent. I'm in
love
,” he confides with a little nod.

I dance a little but the dance floor has become crowded. When I brush against Robert, he stares into my eyes with a little too much intensity, so I head back to the bar where I smoke and drink Coke instead.

As we leave, Robert lays an arm around my waist. “Yves said maybe you could drop me off,” he says.

I wriggle free and look to Yves for confirmation. “I'm working at six tomorrow,” he says, shrugging. “Robert lives right on your route.”

I wince; I nod. “Yeah, sure,” I say through gritted teeth.

On the street corner, Yves kisses Robert goodbye.

There is a deathly silence between us. Robert tap taps his fingers on the top of the glove compartment as I drive along the empty three lanes of the Promenade des Anglais. “So how long have you known Yves?” he asks.

I laugh, “Oh forever – maybe four years. He was the first person I met here.”

He nods. “He's nice,” he says. “Were you two ever …?”

I laugh. “No, never. He really likes
you
though.”

Robert laughs.

I change down, start to slow for the traffic lights, glance sideways at him. “What?” I ask.

“Oh, it's just that it'll never work out between me and Yves,” he says.

I swallow and pull up at the lights. “Why? You said you liked him.”

Robert coughs. “Oh I do, but Yves is just after something cool, you know, no commitment, no complications, he's like that,” he says. “I'm different really, and well, actually, I really like
you
.”

I breathe out heavily; I scratch my ear. My heart starts to pound again, I can feel him looking at me and I wish the lights would change. When he slides a hand onto my thigh, I roll my head, sigh and push his hand away.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It's just, I mean you
are
going out with my friend,” I say. “And Yves always
says
he just wants something cool, but …”

“You can go,” says Robert.

I look at him uncomprehendingly.

He nods at the lights. “It's green, you can go …”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, pulling away.

He puts his hand back on my leg. “But I don't love Yves,” he says, “and I do really like you.”

I shake my head. “I can't,” I say. “I can't do that to Yves. I'm sorry. Maybe another time, another place …”

Robert pulls his hand back. “Yves is a wanker. He doesn't know
what
he wants,” he says.

I stare at the road.
Je t'aime moi non plus
is playing on
the radio, Jane Birkin is grunting and groaning.

“Yeah, well, I just happen to
like
that wanker,” I say.

I swing around the corner, head down to the port.

“You can drop me here,” says Robert.

“Sure, where abouts do you live?”

“You can drop me here,” he repeats coldly.

I pull in, lightly bumping the kerb.

Robert gets out of the car, then leans back in. He grabs my head, kisses me lightly on the lips. “See you around,” he says.

I watch him walk away. I actually open my mouth; actually start to breathe his name to call him back. But I don't.

I push through the door into the bar, my coat over my head against the rain. “My God!” I exclaim as I remove the coat. Madonna is thumping out of the sound system. “I haven't seen rain like that for a while,” I add, glancing around – the room is empty.

A single guy sits at the bar, the barman is handing him a beer. He grins at me. “Nice weather huh?” he says.

I hang up my wet coat and wipe the drips from my forehead with my sleeve. I pull my cigarettes from my pocket; pull a stool up next to the other client. He's smallish, delicate build – maybe one metre seventy-five. Brown hair, little round glasses, black trousers, and a white shirt – cute in a compact kind of a way.

“Jesus it's quiet,” I say looking around the emptiness of the bar.

Gilles nods. “The rain,” he says morosely.

The guy next to me clears his throat. “It's not the quantity that counts, it's the quality,” he says. He has an unusual accent I can't place. He doesn't sound French.

I smile at him. “True enough,” I say.

“Gilles! A beer for my friend,” he says.

Gilles nods, pulls another bottle of Stella from the fridge, and in a single elegant movement uncaps it, swings it onto the bar and lifts away an empty bottle.

“I said it's not the quantity that counts,” the man repeats. “It's the quality.” He sounds a little drunk.

I grin at Gilles, raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. You're quite right,” I say.

“English?” asks the man, “or American?”

“English,” I say. I pull a magazine towards me
across the counter and start to flick through it.

“English is good,” he says. “I like English.”

I glance at him. “Thanks,” I say. I look back at the magazine, turn the pages over. It's really too dark in here to be able to read any of the small text but I pretend.

“My ex-boyfriend was English,” he says. He leans in towards me conspiratorially, glances back at Gilles, then continues, “he had a huge dick.”

I frown; I nod. “That's nice,” I say.

“Michael, leave the man alone,” Gilles tells him.

He sits up straight. “I met him in Zurich,” he continues. “I'm Swiss.” He places a hand on my leg.

I move my knee and his hand falls to his side. “So, you live here?” he asks me.

I nod. “Yes,” I say.

“Thass good,” he slurs, nodding at me and staring blankly.

I sigh.

“Another beer?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Nah, you're OK thanks.” I wave the bottle at him to indicate that it is still full.

He leans on the bar then back towards me again. “I like the English,” he says again.

I smother a laugh. “I know,” I say. “Thanks. You said.”

I look over at Gilles. “Do you think it will fill up?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “Only if the rain stops,” he says.

“Gissanother beer,” says Michael.

Gilles leans, looks into his eyes. “You sure?” he asks. “You seem to be sinking them at one hell of a rate.”

The man nods. His mouth pouts. “Iss a bar isn't it? Anyway I wanna get pissed,” he says.

As Gilles turns to the fridge behind him and reaches up for another bottle of beer, the door to the bar opens behind me.

I turn to look. A man enters; early thirties – blond, fit. He's wearing a white t-shirt; it says:
I'm not gay but my boyfriend is.
It's soaked; it sticks to his torso. Rain drips from his hair, which he pushes from his eyes as he crosses the bar towards us.

Gilles glances at him. “Just in time,” he says under his breath.