Love Is a Thief (23 page)

Julien suddenly clapped his hands together and said, ‘Then it’s agreed!’ before grabbing my hand and pulling me along next to him; down the deserted piste; down to a lone chairlift; down towards the very limits of my powers of personal restraint.

We arrived at the chairlift to find about 50 other ski instructors already there, waiting to be whisked up the dark mountain. Julien and I took a chairlift together, alone. He immediately slid across the seat until he was next to me. He put his arm tight around me.

‘I don’t want you to be cold, Kate,’ he said as he pretended to check the zip of my coat was pulled up, that my hat was on properly, that I was as close as possible to his kissable bloody lips. ‘So you write,’ he said as he tucked some of
my hair up into my hat. His face was so close to mine that we were talking nose to nose.

‘Yes, about love.’

‘That’s my favourite subject.’ He smiled, exhaling as he looked longingly at me. He was the exact opposite of Peter Parker the gay fridge magnet.

‘So, Julien,’ I said, eyes fixed straight ahead, ‘have you ever lost anything because you fell in love?’

‘If I lose something because of love it’s normally the love itself.’ He smiled at me. ‘I don’t have a lot to lose, Kate.’ Good looks, athletic body, ability to ski to an Olympic standard—could he be more glass half empty?

‘So what did you lose, Kate?’ he said, pulling me closer again.

‘Well, I think that I lost this,’ I said, gesturing to the view of the mountains, but Julien carried on staring at me, so I sat in silent meditation for the rest of the journey up. As we reached the top of the lift he grabbed me by my hand.

‘Let’s go over here,’ he said as we slid off the chairlift, pulling me past the group of assembling ski instructors, stopping some 40 metres away on a darkened cliff edge.

‘Kate, you are very honoured,’ he said, unclipping our skis. ‘This is a very special place. Come, I invite you to join me on my rock. Please take a seat.’ He pointed at an
actual
rock.

‘Shouldn’t we wait over there?’ I urged, backing away.

‘No, no, we have time. I have a present for you. Come.’

I sighed and followed him over; there was only so long I was going to be able to fight it. I was a flame. French ski instructors were moths. Or perhaps it was the other way
around. However it worked I always ended up in bed with one. It was an unwritten universal rule, like gravity and post-35 cellulite. So I sat down on his rock (not a metaphor) and he sat down beside me as close as he could physically manage and put one arm around me, pulling me in to him. We were huddled so close together I felt myself quite naturally curling into his embrace, beginning to rest my head into his shoulder, turning my head into his neck. How could I be so physically overly familiar with someone I had literally just met? It’s just, he was so like.

‘Kate, look,’ he whispered in my ear. He turned my face to look out at the view, pointing down the mountain. I followed his gaze. The ski resort was about 1000 metres below, lit up against the darkness of the night like a tiny Ewok village. And the mountains in front of us stretched for miles; hundreds upon hundreds of peaks, the last of the setting sun far away in the distance. I touched my hand to my breastbone and thought of Mary. For the first time in as long as I could remember, looking at this view, I felt peaceful.

‘Here,’ Julien said, handing me a small plastic cup. ‘It might be a little warm,’ he apologised as he unzipped his jacket and took out a bottle of champagne (it’s a mystery, all the things they can keep in there). He poured me a glass then gently rubbed my back to take the edge off the cold.

‘So, Kate, do you like who you are when you are ‘ere?’ He gestured to the view in front of us. I looked from his beautiful face to the view.

‘I love who I am when I am here.’

‘Then my job is done,’ he said before stroking the side of
my face, his lips hovering less than an inch from my face. I felt as if I were dissolving into him, into the moment, into the rock where we sat, and I am sure beautiful Julien knew this. I must have been the gazillionth girl he’d captured, put on his rock and fed slightly warm booze to. Not that I was complaining; chilled champagne is overrated.
¹⁰

Julien and I stayed on that rock for a long time, him wrapped all around me, me making no attempt to fight him off. We stayed long after the other ski instructors had lit their flares; long after they had skied off, one after the other, a slow-moving snake of fire curving down the dark mountain; long after the fireworks exploded thousands of feet below. I had to keep reminding myself that I was in fact on a work assignment paid for by my financially obsessed boss. Chad would be expecting a world-class article from me, or at least a largely fictitious interpretation of what may or may not be a run-of-the-mill middle-aged lady’s ski holiday, but I definitely couldn’t leave empty-handed, empty-headed, with another ski instructor notch on what was an already well-carved post. Although … over 11,000
True Love
readers had written in advising Pirate Kate to enjoy as many other pirates as feasibly possible before settling on just one ship, so in a way I was working by not working.

‘Maybe we should ski down the mountain now, Julien?’ Good girl. ‘I think I should do some work before tomorrow.’ Chad would be proud.

‘Kate, you can work another time—you can work all the time. This is for now, this moment, this view, us ‘ere alone. Be here, with me. Just be. It’s important to live a bit in the
moment, is it not?’ Damn him, yes, it was. And it was one of my newest mantras. ‘Kate, we are safe to ski down a bit later. I know the mountain,’ he reassured me, leaning in for a kiss. ‘I promise you, Kate, I promise, I
really
know the mountain at night.’ I
really
knew the mountain at night too and it involved kissing, and over-the-thermal touching and very occasionally a bit of frost bite on the bum.

¹⁰
It’s not; it’s not overrated. It’s bloody lovely. Especially when cold.

mirror mirror on the wall

the following day | french alps

F
rench boys
do
breakfast. I woke to fresh espresso, to croissants, to a little flower left on my pillow and a note telling me I was wonderful and to meet him on the mountain.

French boys
do
the morning after. As soon as Julien saw me on the piste he skied straight over. He beamed at me as if I were a marvellous creation he’d been toiling over all night, which was sort of true.

French boys
do
compliments. I spent the entire morning being told I was the best thing
ever
and that everything I did was
brilliant
.

French boys
do
epiphanies. Or at least they can stimulate epiphanies, and when I say that I am not trying to be crude.

I had spent all morning skiing with Julien and Sue, watching him teach her, watching her grow in confidence and self-belief. Sue literally whooping with joy every time she made a turn.

‘I can do it!’ she kept yelling to me. ‘I can bloody well
do it! Woohoo!’ she’d shout before losing control, skiing off towards a tree and bursting out laughing as she fell to the floor.

After her lesson Julien asked if I wanted to help him teach a beginner ski group. As I held the hands of the different students, helping them make their first turns, picking them up when they fell off the button lift, reassuring them that everyone has to be crap before they can be great, I finally started to feel
The Thing
.

The Thing
is what Mary feels when she’s fixing cars;
The Thing
is what Annie-pants feels when she sees clothes; The Thing is what Leah feels when she does her therapies or Beatrice feels when she plays the piano. In the ski lessons I felt content in a way that wasn’t connected to anyone else, couldn’t be taken away by anyone else, wasn’t dependent on anyone else. The mountains, the ski lessons, the ski-instructor boyfriends. I was starting to develop a theory and it involved a mirror mirror on the wall.

Because what if we are attracted to people whose qualities or lifestyle we actually desire for ourselves; qualities or skills that perhaps we have not embraced in ourselves? So we choose to date or marry someone who does have these qualities, skills and achievements, as if proximity will be enough. Sue had serially dated ridiculously capable physically accomplished men; Mary married and then watched Len work on cars; I dated a bilingual ski instructor but I never went off and became fluent in French myself or qualified to teach skiing. I happily lived with Gabriel, enjoying his life choices rather than making them my own. A bit like being a Gatsby-esque nosey neighbour living adjacent
to my dream house and dream life, or an overbearing parent living vicariously through the successes of her kids, or a sycophantic fan who sleeps every night with a discarded cigarette butt that may or may not have been smoked by her star. Julien was a
Sign Post
, just as Gabriel had been before him. They were the mirror showing me the reflection of what I think I had wanted for myself all along.

important disclaimer:
Just because you realise something is a mirror doesn’t mean you have to give it up straight away. Mirrors and sign posts can be fun. I for example may have re-looked at the mirror (Julien) one or two times (more) before flying back to London. Well, it was a watershed moment, wasn’t it? The first kiss after Gabriel, the first intimate naked moment after Gabriel, the first other things that are not appropriate for the page.

On my last night staying in France, after looking in the mirror a few more times, self-indulgent I know, then taking a few photos of the mirror while he slept (for Grandma, obviously) I fell into the deepest sleep I think I’d had since leaving Gabriel. In the arms of Julien, a man who, if I am honest, wasn’t the greatest conversationalist on planet earth, I felt as if I had finally turned a corner. Or at least I did, for about 4½ hours …

voices in the night

T
he call came in the middle of the night. My mobile ringing off the hook. Julien stirred next to me, my hotel room in total darkness. I fumbled for the phone, sending a glass of water to the floor.

‘Hello?’ My voice was barely there.

‘Kate?’

‘Who is this?’

His voice a whisper.

‘You sound just the same, Kate. It’s so good to hear your voice, so good.’

My heart was thumping in my chest.

‘I miss your voice, Kate. I miss you.’ A breath. ‘Are you there, Kate? It’s me, it’s Gabriel.’

The voice of the man I loved. He was crying. French words more like weeping French breath.

‘I don’t know what happen, Kate. I don’t know what happen.’ A breath. ‘Why aren’t you here? Why did you leave me? I miss you.’ A whisper. ‘I miss you.’

Silence. I’m holding my breath. Eyes wide open. The darkness of the room.

‘She’s pregnant, Kate.’

I felt the words puncture.

‘She’s pregnant.’ A breath. ‘She wants to keep it.’

More silence.

‘I don’t know what to do, Kate. I miss you. I miss you, Kate. I don’t know why you are not here.’ Silence. ‘She is here. I have to go.’

The phone line goes dead. As does a piece of my heart. And I tumble helplessly back to the place I’d existed before the kiss of Julien.

Back to the reality of my life without Gabriel.

some things are better on ice

‘My relationship just ended. I can’t imagine ever meeting anyone else, or even wanting to. But I have always wanted to have kids. This is already such a painful time. My ex-boyfriend was my best friend in the whole world. I have lost him and possibly I have lost the chance of having a family. It is a second heartbreak on a gigantic scale.’
(Milene, 33)

‘I didn’t plan it this way. My relationship ended after 11 years when we were both 35. He has since gone on to meet someone else and have kids but my time had passed. I am now unable to have children. Nature doesn’t wait until we find that we are ready.’
(Anon, 48)

‘Having children was always something I just assumed I’d do. I’ve enjoyed every part of my life to date; the travelling, my work, my friends. But I can’t say I ever found The One. So I feel like I’ve been left with a number of really unappealing options, like deciding to get pregnant
now, alone, or letting myself get pregnant in the wrong relationship, of which there have been many, or never getting pregnant at all.’
(Aggie, 37)

harley street | london

Dong.

As with so many things in life, the moment you think you can’t have something it’s all you can bloody well think about.

Dong.

The morning after the midnight call from Gabriel I flew straight back to London on a mission. I had one thing and one thing only on my mind.

Dong.

I knew I couldn’t let the end of my last relationship, or rather the timing of that end, remove any chance I had of having children. I might not be ready now, maybe not for years, but love (or the misplaced love I felt for another) wasn’t going to steal away something I might want for my future.

Dong.

So as my biological clock made a colossal DONG I decided to create space in the future for the
possibility
of starting a family. Actually I wasn’t going to create space in the future, I was going to create space in a deep freeze so that the family I hoped to have one day could live in frozen safety until the time was right for release. It seemed to draw parallels with the plight of
Han Solo
in
Return of the Jedi
when he was put indefinitely on ice by the giant glow worm that was Jabba the Hutt. I hoped for the sake of my
future children that their defrost didn’t coincide with an inter-galactic war or result in estranged siblings with an unnatural level of attraction for one another.