Unravelled (11 page)

“Knitting does not make you gay,” Angie said. “Brad Pitt knits.”

“A lot of men take good care of themselves these days. He’s a
metrosexual,
” Sophie explained.

Nicola shook her head. “He seems gay to me.”

“Me too,” I seconded. “And I’ve known him the longest.”

Sophie was sounding a bit huffy. “Has he ever told you he’s gay? Have you ever seen him with another man?”

“Well . . . no, but I’ve never seen him with a woman either. And remember when we were talking about our past relationships? He said his last
partner
was four years younger than him.”

“
Partner
’s not a gay term. Lots of people call their significant others their partners,” Sophie retorted.

“He said a name, too!” Angie said excitedly. “What was it?”

“
Terry,
” Sophie replied glumly.

“Well,” Nicola said, “I don’t mean to be cruel, Sophie, but Martin’s never seemed particularly
interested
in you, in that way. I mean, I’m sure he likes you very much, but just as a friend.”

“I don’t know...” Angie said. “I’ve sensed a little chemistry there.” Sophie blushed and looked positively gleeful. “He does help you with your knitting a lot.”

“He helps us all a lot!” I cried. “He’s the best knitter in the group.” I could feel colour rising in my cheeks and my pulse was beginning to pound. I wasn’t sure why I was so intent on proving Martin’s homosexuality. Was it because I didn’t want Sophie to chuck away her marriage for a gay guy? Or was it because I didn’t want to admit the possibility that Martin
was
straight, and just found me about as sexually attractive as Kathy Bates?

“Gay or straight,” Nicola said to Sophie, “I don’t think you should pursue anything with him. My parents had a very solid and loving relationship, and I really think that is the foundation that allowed me to become the person I am today. Flynn deserves to have that, too.”

Sophie remained mute but looked like she might cry. Angie gave her knee a comforting squeeze. “Well, whatever you choose to do, one thing’s for certain: We’ve got a mission, girls. We’ve got to find out if Martin likes girls or boys!”

Sixteen

THE DRIVE TO Whistler was spectacular. Well, it wasn’t
all
spectacular. We did have to navigate mile upon mile of strip malls and retail outlets before we hit the border. Then, we spent the next hour or so cruising past acres of flat, scrubby farmland. But once we reached Vancouver, made our way through the lush Stanley Park Causeway, and then on to the treacherous Sea-to-Sky Highway, the scenery became breathtaking. I pushed all thoughts of Colin, Sophie, and Martin’s ambiguous sexuality to the back of my mind as Jim’s car gripped the steep, winding mountain road with ease. I’d never really been
into
cars before, but then, I’d never been
in
a car like this. Its quiet power was almost a turn-on! Or maybe it was just Jim sitting a few inches away from me.

As we travelled, the stereo played. When Jim had first withdrawn his CD case, I had feared he was going to plug in The Eagles or The Doobie Brothers or some other ancient band that would only highlight the generation gap between us. But his selections ranged from unfamiliar but catchy jazz to the Gorillaz. As with everything he did, I was suitably impressed.

While spring had touched the city below, in the mountain village of Whistler, it was decidedly still winter. The highway became slushy and lined with deep snowbanks. It was also lined with hitchhikers, all dressed in their snow gear and carrying skis or snowboards. As shops and condominiums rose up beside us, Jim eased the BMW down the road, eventually taking a right at an intersection. “I came skiing here a few Christmases ago,” he said, explaining his familiarity with the town. “You’re going to love it.”

When we pulled up in front of the Fairmont Chateau Whistler, I couldn’t help but gasp. Nestled at the base of the spectacular mountains, the massive hotel looked like a castle. “I thought you’d like it,” Jim said, giving my knee a squeeze.

“It’s incredible,” I replied, sounding positively awestruck. I suddenly felt like an unsophisticated hick who’d never stayed anywhere nicer than a Motel 6. “Quaint,” I added, affecting a slightly blasé tone.

The interior was equally as impressive, successfully combining rustic charm and sumptuous luxury. I sat in an overstuffed armchair by the enormous stone fireplace as Jim checked us in. I was tired from the long drive, but filled with a kind of nervous elation. The next few minutes were pivotal in the future of our relationship: the moment when Jim returned and said, “your room” or “ours.” Angie’s words rang in my ears: “He’s going to want some. I guarantee it.” I didn’t really have a problem with giving him some—it was more the privacy issue I was concerned about. If we shared a room, I would eventually have to use the toilet. But I’d never be able to go with Jim only a few feet away from me! I mean, what if I farted, or made some other embarrassing noise? Well, there was really only that one embarrassing noise, but it would definitely kill the romantic mood. What if I heard Jim fart? How would I feel about that? It was a completely natural bodily function, but it was hardly a turn-on. Maybe if I turned the TV up really loud—

Jim approached, interrupting my reverie. As my heart pounded audibly, he handed me a key card. “We’re on the same floor but a few rooms apart. They didn’t have anything closer.”

“That’s okay,” I said, relief flooding through me. Now I could fart with abandon! Not that I was feeling particularly gassy, but it was nice to have the option.

Alone in my small but elegant accommodation, I showered and reapplied my makeup. Jim and I were meeting for dinner in the hotel’s dining room at seven. As I carefully applied mascara, I thought about what this trip meant to our relationship. Up until now, we had been casually seeing each other, but a weekend away at a romantic ski resort was definitely taking things to the next level! Who knew the emotional strides we could take spending two days alone together in a foreign country? And separate rooms didn’t necessarily preclude us from having intimate relations. It just preserved the romance and mystery.

At 7:05 P.M., I joined Jim at a cozy table in the hotel’s fine dining room. “Hi,” I said huskily, as I approached.

Jim’s eyes lit up at the sight of me and he stood to pull out my chair. “Wow,” he whispered into my ear. “You’re breathtaking.”

“Oh...thanks,” I giggled shyly, pleased that my efforts were being appreciated. I always felt confident when I wore my black scoop-neck top, and the large gold hoop earrings I’d added made me feel sexy. Jim wore a white, button-down shirt open at the neck to reveal just a peek of manly chest hair. He looked incredibly handsome.

As I sipped the full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon Jim had ordered, I experienced a déjà vu sensation. While this relationship couldn’t have been more different from the one I’d shared with Colin, I recognized that familiar feeling of comfort and belonging. Of course, these were still early days, but I could sense a definite shift in our relationship dynamic. Despite the fluttering in my stomach when he looked at me, and the fact that we’d had little physical contact, it was happening. We were on our way to becoming a couple. I could feel it.

“I have a surprise for you,” Jim said, his eyes twinkling slyly.

“Oh?” I set my wineglass down, my hands a little shaky with anticipation. Jim must have bought me a gift to celebrate this new phase of coupledom.

“I hope you like it,” he said gleefully. Despite his maturity and sophistication, he looked positively boyish. “And I hope I’m not being presumptuous . . .”

Presumptuous? What was he going to give me: jewellery? A key to his house? Leather thong underwear?

“I’ve booked you a private ski lesson tomorrow morning.”

Keep smiling. Don’t look disappointed. Say something that sounds excited. “Great!” I managed. “Fun!”

“When you told me how disastrous your last experience was, I knew you had to try again.”

I had told the story about walking down Mount Baker carrying my skis to be funny, not as a cry for help. “Right.”

“I’m going to be tied up at the conference all day, so I wanted to make sure you were having a good time.”

“You’re so thoughtful.” Didn’t he know the hotel had an excellent spa? A movie channel? And room service? I decided to attempt an escape. “But I wanted to sit in on some of the lectures. I’m actually quite interested in environmental sustainability.” I wasn’t, really—although I did think it a very noble cause. But sitting in a comfortable conference room, sipping coffee and snacking on muffins had to be better than skiing!

“That’s really sweet of you to say,” Jim said, “but I’m not buying it. Even I find some of the speeches boring.” He reached across the table for my hand. “You’re in one of the most beautiful places on Earth. I want you to remember this trip as an amazing experience. Spend the day on the mountain, not cooped up in some conference room.”

“Okay,” I agreed weakly. “I’ll go skiing. It’ll be fun.”

And it was fun. My instructor, Greg, was an excellent teacher, although he wasn’t the blond, blue-eyed Nordic god I had envisioned. He was a malnourished twenty-year-old from Melbourne, who gave off the unmistakable odour of pot. I’d heard that it was practically legal to smoke pot in Canada, but I highly doubted it was legal to smoke pot and then teach someone how to careen down an icy mountain with a pair of sticks strapped to their feet. But Greg was so charming and enthusiastic, and he did seem to know what he was doing. And this time, I didn’t give up and take my skis off. This may have been due to the fact that Greg, sensing my fear, kept me on the bunny hill for the entire four-hour lesson. Nonetheless, I felt a real sense of accomplishment when I finally returned my rented skis, boots, and ski suit, and hobbled out of the shop. All the fresh air and exercise had proved invigorating. I decided to head into the village for a little shopping.

Two hours later, I returned to my hotel room carrying several shopping bags. I’d bought myself an overpriced, but gorgeous, fitted black cardigan. And really, with the exchange rate, it probably wasn’t
that
expensive. I’d also bought four packs of homemade maple fudge to take back to my knitting circle. And, of course, a thank-you gift for Jim was in order. As close as I felt we were becoming, it was evident just how little I knew about him when it came to selecting his gift. What did you buy the sophisticated bachelor who had everything? What kind of gift said: Thank you for the ski holiday; not: I am rapidly becoming obsessed with you and think it’s time we started sharing a toothbrush? I finally settled on a black ski toque, emblazoned with the Whistler logo. It was trivial enough not to be creepy, and yet still relevant enough to be thoughtful. And I sincerely hoped that perhaps he could wear it on a future ski vacation together. Four or five more ski lessons and I felt confident I’d be able to hit the black diamond runs.

Jim would not return from his meetings for several hours, so I dug my knitting project out of my suitcase. Propping myself on the bed amidst the plethora of pillows, I sat back and began to knit. Without the distracting conversation of my fellow stitch ’n bitchers, I was making far fewer mistakes. I tried to keep my mind focused on the process, instead of roaming to that enjoyable but highly unproductive Zen space. It seemed to be working. I had knitted five nearly flawless rows when my stomach began to rumble, and I realized I hadn’t eaten in over six hours. Of course, after the enormous gooey pecan cinnamon bun I’d enjoyed for breakfast, I had intended to skip lunch, but a morning on the slopes had given me an appetite that I couldn’t ignore. I would just have something light. Jim and I were joining some of his colleagues at a fancy French restaurant in the village for dinner.

Room service was an appealing option, but I didn’t have any Canadian money and was uncomfortable taking advantage of Jim’s hospitality by charging it to the room. I decided to head downstairs and have lunch in the attached bistro. Freshening up and changing into jeans and my new cardigan, I made my way to the elevator.

When I reached the lobby, I popped into the gift shop and bought an
US
magazine to entertain me during my solo dining. I didn’t feel shy and awkward when I asked for a table for one in the quiet restaurant. There was no chance I’d run into any ghosts from my past here. Even if Newlywed happened to be honeymooning here, I’d simply explain that I was on a romantic get-away with my sophisticated, top-of-his-field boyfriend who was tied up in meetings. She may not have been impressed by my latte expense account, but this was sure to have an impact.

The warm beet salad with blue cheese and walnuts was delicious, but wouldn’t exactly qualify as filling. Draining my glass of Shiraz, I paid the bill and prepared to leave. But when I tried to stand, I fell back in my chair. Oh my god! What had happened to my legs? Every muscle in my calves and thighs had seized up alarmingly. My hips had lost any semblance of flexibility! Finally, mustering all the strength in my arms, I managed to lift myself from the chair. As I walked painfully through the restaurant, I felt like one of those old-fashioned Barbie dolls whose shiny plastic legs were only capable of moving forward and backward. Embarrassed, I quickly hobbled to the gift shop and bought a packet of muscle relaxants.

Back in the room, I gratefully sank, straight legged, onto the bed, simultaneously popping two of the tablets. “Ohhhhhhh gawd,” I groaned, painfully lifting my feet from the floor. These pills had better work quickly. Jim and I were joining his colleagues in less than three hours. I couldn’t very well accompany him doing my C-3PO imitation.

At that moment, the phone rang. I gingerly turned on my side to answer it.

“Hi hon,” Jim said.
Hon:
definitely very coupley. “How was skiing?”

“It was wonderful,” I said, “but now I can’t move.”

His voice was full of concern. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m stiff!”

He chuckled, sounding relieved. “You poor thing.”

“It’s not funny,” I moaned. “Seriously, I can’t move.” He continued to chuckle. “You won’t be laughing so hard when I meet your colleagues and they think I’m doing the robot.”

“Have you tried a hot bath?”

“No, I just got back to the room.”

“Okay. I’m going to be tied up here for another couple of hours. Draw yourself a nice hot bath and I’ll come by and check on you when I get back.”

I did as he suggested, filling the large oval bathtub with steaming hot water and lavender bubble bath. I was just about to step in when I heard a knock at the door. “Room service,” a muffled male voice called. Pulling on the luxurious white velour robe, I managed to scurry to the door.

“I didn’t order anything,” I said, peering through the peep-hole to make sure it was really room service and not some ski resort strangler or the like.

The waiter called back, “Mr. Davidson’s compliments, ma’am.”

I opened the door, and the fresh-faced server wheeled a cart inside. It was laden with a bottle of red wine and an antipasto tray, bearing an array of cheeses, olives, cold meats, and marinated vegetables. Oh my god! Jim was so thoughtful! I forgot my aching muscles for a moment as a girlish swell of ardour filled me. I felt incredibly lucky to have met this amazing, thoughtful, and caring man. He was almost too good to be true.