In Love with a Gentleman (25 page)

“I have no clue what you mean,” I say brusquely.

“Are you two still together?”

I look up with irritation from my game. “Catherine, you of all people should know that relationships don’t always go smoothly. Sometimes there are things people have to work on.”

Catherine pauses while she gathers her thoughts. Then she cautiously answers, “If you mean that I saw something needed to be addressed in your relationship, then, yes, Lea, I do understand. If you love Ethan as much as I love Christian, then I can only say it’s worth it and I wish you lots of luck. I hope you two figure it out. I know what you’re going through right now.”

I’m quite moved. In the past few months, I’ve worried that my relationship with Catherine hasn’t been quite the same. I’m happy to see that she’s so openly on my side. I smile thankfully at her.

“I’m happy I came with you, girls,” I say. “You’re my dearest friends.”

“Now confess what you’re doing on your phone,” Inez says, immediately lightening up the serious mood.

“I’m crossing the licorice bridge under which a monster lurks,” I say. “And, if you must know, a few days ago I helped a unicorn get his horn. I’m quite proud of myself. It was a total bitch.”

Now there’s no holding back. The mood changes suddenly, and we’re laughing so hard we can hardly stop.

Our rental house in Polperro is on a hillside overlooking the harbor. You can see the bay and out to sea. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. The house must belong to a sailor. Engravings of sailboats hang on the walls, but apart from that, the furnishings are very simple. There are only two colors, white and blue, so the interior doesn’t distract from the fantastic view. Seagulls soar playfully and screech wildly in front of the paned window. Moss-covered steps lead to an overgrown garden, and far below, the multicolored roofs of little houses crowd around the harbor. On the other side of the bay, green meadows stretch across the top of high cliffs, which disappear in the distance.

In the middle of the rustic kitchen is a natural wood table with simple benches. Catherine and her sister brought groceries, which we quickly put away in the fridge and cabinets. Inez wants to prepare dinner, but the rest of us protest immediately. “No,” we say almost simultaneously, “let’s go down to the harbor.”

We walk down over a thousand steps on the way to the village, which we instantly find very charming. Old, crooked houses line the narrow cobblestone streets. Everything is so lovingly maintained. Pots of pansies and daisies sit on narrow windowsills. There are only a few cars since the streets are so narrow. We wander down to the harbor. In the evening sun, it looks as though it is filled with liquid gold, and small anchored boats dance gaily on the waves.

“God, that is beautiful,” Inez sighs.

“Come on,” Denise says. “Let’s walk along the coast a little. Let’s see if there’s a beach.”

As it turns out, there are no wide white beaches of the type our fellow Bretons expected. Instead, we discover narrow coves beneath high cliffs. Catherine climbs over the stones along the cliff that towers over the first cove, washed by the waves.

“I’ll be damned,” she says. “There are winkles here.”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“She means periwinkles,” Denise says as she hurries to her sister’s side.

“Hurray!” Catherine says. “Does anybody have a plastic bag?”

Inez has an empty shopping bag in the pocket of her anorak. Both sisters practically rip it out of her hand. They squat on the ground and begin to collect little snails that are suctioned to the rocks.

“Hey! What are you doing there?” I ask.

“Gathering dinner,” Catherine says happily.

“You will never, ever get me to consume those creatures,” I protest.

Inez, who apparently knows her seafood better than I, says, “Just wait, Lea. They know what they’re doing.”

Half an hour later, we walk back with the bag containing countless live snails, their shells rattling against each other.

“I’m ready to do this,” I say, “but only under one condition: I must have something strong to drink. Otherwise I’ll never get those things down my throat.”

Denise laughs. “You’re just afraid you’ll swallow a live one and want to kill them with alcohol. But I assure you I’ll cook them at such a high temperature they’ll be as dead as a salmon in a fishmonger’s basket.”

Great, now I’m really queasy. For my sake, we buy a bottle of whiskey. We also pick up a crusty loaf of French bread.

“The one who eats the most winkles can sleep in tomorrow morning,” Denise says. “The others must go to the bakery and pick up bread for breakfast.”

I’m pretty sure that’s a prize I can’t win. I suggest that we extend the rule to include whoever drinks the most whiskey.

In the kitchen, Catherine sets a big pot of water on the stove. As soon as it starts to boil, she drops the snails in. Inez distributes plates and paper napkins and cuts the bread, arranging the slices in the bread basket. I open the bottle of whiskey and take a big gulp of liquid courage.

Shortly afterward, we are all sitting around the table, the big pot filled with snails in the center. Catherine’s drained off the water.

“What now?” I ask. I have no appetite for snails, but I’m pretty hungry.

“Now we need a sewing kit,” Catherine says.

“Huh?”

Inez knows what to do. She leaps to her feet and opens the cabinet drawers in the living room. She comes back triumphantly with a pin cushion.

“Okay, ladies! Choose your weapons!” Denise jokes.

I look on with fascination as Catherine, Denise, and Inez grip their needles. Catherine picks up one of the cooked snails, pokes the needle in the opening, and, with a flick of the wrist, twists out one of the snails. It looks like a little brown rubber spiral. With one fell swoop, it lands in Catherine’s mouth. She rolls her eyes with pleasure. “Outstanding!” she says, and reaches for another snail.

Okay
, I say to myself,
I can do this
. I take another slug of whiskey—now out of a glass—and reach for a snail and needle. Then I follow Catherine’s example. In the end, I eat more bread than mollusks for dinner, but it’s all right with the other girls; it means there’s more for them. As the pot empties, all of us are pretty tipsy, especially me. Just when I’m thinking I’ll have only one . . . more . . . glass . . .

My phone rings. I fumble around for a while before I press the right button.

It’s Ethan. “Lea,” he says.

“Yes,” I say, and hiccup.

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”
Hiccup.

“Mosquito, what are you doing? Where are you? Tell me! I’m coming to pick you up. Damn! I should have known you’d get into mischief without me.”

“No . . . No, I’m not.”
Hiccup
. “And . . . I’m not gonna say where . . .” I end the call and put the phone on the table. I lay my head down next to it. Somehow, I end up in bed.

The next morning someone wakes me up by whispering in my ear, “You won. We’re going to the bakery.”

Then I go back to sleep until I’m too cold because someone ripped open the bedroom window. “She urgently needs fresh air,” I hear someone say. It smells like the sea and seaweed. A seagull screeches so loudly my skull threatens to explode. After a long time, I work up the nerve to open my eyes. I look out over the sparkling sea.

Catherine says, “How are you, Lea? Are you coming with us?”

“Where?” I moan.

“Over there.” She points to the green slopes above the cliffs. “We’re going to take a walk.”

Denise is waiting in the kitchen with a cup of especially strong coffee, and Inez hands me the bread basket. An hour later, I’m feeling much better. The fresh sea air does me good, and the landscape is breathtaking. We walk on a narrow footpath through the brightly colored broom shrubs blooming with yellow flowers. On both sides of the path, whole fields of violets in full bloom send out an intoxicating aroma. The deep-blue sky arches over the sparkling blue sea. I’m so happy I didn’t stay in bed.

Again and again, I stop to admire the view. I take out my smartphone and snap one photo after another. I immediately send my parents one as an e-mail attachment. I post the best ones on Facebook. My friends will see the enchanting place I’m visiting, and because Ethan isn’t on Facebook, he’ll be none the wiser—although it would be so romantic if he tracked me down and found me. I imagine him bending down on one knee, taking my hand and kissing it, and saying, “Forgive me, my beloved,” all in full view of my girlfriends. That would be so wonderful, and so like a Rosamunde Pilcher romance that I would melt on the spot, marry him, and live happily ever after.

But the voice inside me sneers,
Dream on, Lea. You know it’s not that easy. There’s still a lot to be done. Otherwise you’ll end up in exactly the same spot you were in before, and not one step further
. I don’t know whether it’s my hangover or thinking about my relationship, but I suddenly feel listless and miserable.

Catherine turns around and notices the expression on my face. “Are you okay, Lea? Should we turn around?”

“No, it’s okay,” I say, and walk with determination.

“You’re not exactly happy, huh?” she asks softly.

“No, I’m not.”

“Because of Ethan?”

I nod. “Can you share a couple of tricks with me on how you were able to change Christian and make him treat you better?”

Catherine shrugs. “It was actually pretty easy. I traveled to England and stayed for a while. He missed me and saw how well I got along without him, and voilà!”

“Oh, Catherine,” I complain, “if it were only that easy!”

“You’re doing fine,” she says. “You’re apart for the time being, and he apparently misses you, or he wouldn’t have called yesterday.”

I scrunch up my face. “He didn’t exactly get the impression I was doing well without him.”

“No, he didn’t,” Catherine says. Her eyes dance, and suddenly she snorts and roars with laughter. I laugh now, too. It does me good. My heart feels lighter in the presence of my cheerful friend.

Then Catherine becomes serious again and says, “You’re putting in a lot of effort, Lea. You can’t take on all the responsibility for improving your relationship with Ethan. I understand you’re head over heels in love with him, but you need to just relax and wait. In my opinion, from the moment you met him, you invested way too much effort and put too much pressure on yourself. Just say to yourself: if things between Ethan and me are good, then everything will be fine, and if they aren’t, then it wasn’t meant to be.”

Her advice sounds so sensible. I take a deep breath and say, “Thanks, Catherine.”

“It’s okay. Come on, let’s walk some more. The others have already gone on ahead.”

I need to do my exam reading, so I’ve downloaded an e-reader app. But whenever I reach for my phone with the intent to study, I magically end up playing a game instead. While my friends sit around together, cozily reading, knitting, or chatting, my eyes burn a hole through the display, as if the future of the world depends on the outcome of my game.

“You’re a bit uncommunicative when you’re on that thing,” Inez protests. “What are you doing? Are you still stuck on the licorice bridge?”

I grin at them. “Yes. It’s terrible. I
hate
this game. Look here, if I don’t watch out, the new pieces of chocolate grow, and then it’s all over. It’s practically impossible to beat this stupid level.”

“Someone needs to make a video so that you can see how you look when you play these games,” Catherine says. “You’re not exactly relaxed.”

“Why do you let yourself get so upset over a stupid game?” Denise asks. “Simply uninstall it, and you’re done.”

I press my lips together. Then I say, “Because I know I can do it. If I stay with it long enough, I can win.” I’d like them to shut up so I can concentrate.

The girls become quiet for a moment and look at each other. They seem to be sending each other nonverbal signals, like:
Lea’s gone crazy.

Catherine says warily, “And what are you going to do when you’ve crossed the licorice bridge?”

I look up and say excitedly, “Oh, then I’ll go to the next level!”

“Phew!” Denise says. “And then the next one, and the next . . . And in the meantime, you’ll end up with a stomach ulcer. You’re so agitated!”

Inez lifts an eyebrow and looks at me sternly. “Do you know what I think, Lea? You’re a game addict. I’ve heard about it before, but I never saw it in action with one of my own friends. It’s kind of creepy.”

“Oh bullshit,” I say. “I only do it because it’s fun and helps me relax.”

“At the risk of repeating myself,” Catherine says, “you don’t seem very relaxed at all.”

“Yeah, because I have to concentrate.”

Inez looks over my shoulder while I play. Good, now she can see for herself how great the game is and can understand why I have so much fun playing it.

But after a while she says, “You know that it’s purely a game of chance, right? It’s designed so that you think you’re doing something skillful, but in reality those multicolored pieces fall completely by chance.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “Look, if I combine these four here, then . . .”

All at once, little game pieces fall down, blinking and glittering. A message appears on the display screen: “Congratulations! Level complete!” I must confess, it does look as though it was completely random. Not good.

But it doesn’t matter. I throw myself back onto the sofa and yell jubilantly, “Finally,
finally
, I’ve done it! Come on, let’s go down to the village pub and I’ll buy everybody a beer. We need to celebrate!”

But Inez is unimpressed. She scoffs, “I’m telling you, Lea, it was random luck. I’ve seen it. I don’t understand how you can waste so much time on this shit.”

I look at her with dismay. “You really think I’m an addict?”

Denise says, “Yes. You’re a game addict, Lea, even if you don’t want to admit it. Okay, girls, whoever thinks Lea is a game addict, raise your hand.”

Everyone raises their hands and looks at me reproachfully.

Catherine sees I’m shocked by this. “Come on, Lea,” she says softly. “I’ll make you a deal: uninstall this stupid game right here and now, and we’ll buy
you
a drink. What do you think about that?”