Weak at the Knees (7 page)

“I always called Amber my friend down the road. But she wasn’t just my friend down the road. She was my best friend. The most special person I shall ever have the fortune to kno-

And that’s it. That’s all I can muster before breaking down into heaving, loud, embarrassing, public wails. I can see loads of people in the congregation have started blubbing now too so I don’t feel so bad. It doesn’t matter anyway because Mrs. Slater has come to the rescue, putting her arm around me, telling everybody about what a special friend I’d been to Amber, how inseperable we’d been since we were ten years old and how I was kind of like a daughter to her too. Now Mrs. Slater is blubbing as well and there’s not a dry eye to be had in the house.

*****

It’s the bit I’ve been dreading. They’ve turned Ella Fitzgerald back on. As the curtains close, swallowing up the coffin behind them, Ella croons to us, comforting us.

There’s a somebody I’m longin’ to see

I hope that he, turns out to be

Someone who’ll watch over me.

At first I felt lost without Amber. I didn’t know what to do with myself and couldn’t get a grip on life. For a couple of months I found myself aimlessly walking the streets of London, breathing in heavily polluted air, looking for answers. One time I managed to escape the traffic. I was standing in the middle of Hyde Park, staring at the Serpentine Lake, watching people rowing in circles, unable to steer their boats properly. I envied the fun they were having, the lightness of their experience, that they didn’t care they weren’t going anywhere. They were just going round and round, round and round. That’s how I felt. Like a hamster running in a treadmill, going round in circles, desperate for a break so that I could hop off and head in a new direction. “What do I do now Amber, what do I do?” I asked. Ever since I’d heard her speaking to me in the crematorium, I truly believed she was looking down on me, watching, trying to communicate the best she could. She didn’t tell me what to do. She just told me not to worry. I’d work it out.

I’d gone home that day, sat in front of the mirror with a pair of kitchen scissors and Hugo’s razor. My hair’s thick and skirts my waist. I split my mane in two and plaited each side. Then I took the left plait and placed it between the open scissors in my right hand. I examined my reflection, trying to imagine how I’d look bald, daring myself to squeeze the blades shut. I thought it might help me move on. If I shed my hair, started afresh, things would perhaps slot into place better. Only I couldn’t do it. Not only because I was scared to, but because I’d promised Amber to do it as long as she pulled through, to keep her company. If she wasn’t here to see it, it would only accentuate her absence, make it more unbearable. I was looking for inspiration, a thread – a focus to make things shift. It’s taken a while, but now I’ve got it. I know exactly what it is I need to do to move on, to force a change in my life. There’s no other way and my mother is mortified, but this is my life, not hers. I’ve decided Amber was right. Hugo’s not enough, can’t ever make me happy enough, so I’m taking heed of her advice. After eleven years on off, shall I shan’t I, I’m doing the deed. I’m leaving him.

*****

It amazes me how little of the stuff in Hugo’s flat is actually mine. Everything of any worth or substance is his. None of the kitchen crockery is mine (except for an old-fashioned set of scales with iron weights which Amber bought me for my last birthday) and all the high-tech TV, DVD, CD player paraphernalia is his too. Only ten measly CDs belong to me and I hardly ever play any of them. Most were presents I just added to the rack. The Beatles/
Abbey Road
(from Hugo, really for Hugo, but I’m keeping it); Coldplay/
Viva la Vida
(from Hugo and again, for Hugo); Susan Boyle, Michael Bublé, Olly Murs and One Direction CDs were all joke presents from Amber, but the latter has actually become one of my prized possessions. I’m loath to admit it, but I love One Direction, Harry Styles in particular, whilst Amber had a crush on Zayn Malik. If only I had a little niece or nephew who could accompany me to one of their gigs. Going to one at my age, unaccompanied, might look a tad sad.  

A whole deep boxful of books is mine. Hugo works too hard to read and when he does have time, sticking his nose into another book (even if non-legal) is the last thing he wants to do. All the furniture - tables, chairs, sofa suite, bed, chests of drawers-belong to him. A red, green and yellow Mexican hammock from the Yucatan I’d insisted (much to Hugo’s chagrin) on putting up in the far end of our (I mean his) extensive lounge is mine. He’d strongly objected, its ethnicity sticking out like a sore thumb in his white, minimalist modern décor, but I’d insisted. The ‘love swing’ as I liked to call it is one thing Hugo will definitely
not
be sad to see go. The rest of my stuff which I’ve packed into a mixture of suitcases and boxes is mainly clothes and toiletries. Oh, and shoes. I’m addicted to footwear. I tossed fifty-eight pairs into the biggest box the local Tescos had to offer.

I should feel saddened by the paltry possessions my twenty-six years has acquired to pack into cardboard boxes, but I don’t. I just feel numb. I’m neither sad to be leaving Hugo, nor happy. Perhaps I’ll never feel happy again. Perhaps when your best friend dies you can never, ever feel that lightness of being or pleasure at living, ever again. Who knows? But something in me is telling me I’ve got to do this, so do this I am, even though it means going back to live with my parents for a while, until I get another job. It’s hard to believe I’m twenty-six and am going back to my childhood home because there’s nowhere else to go.

I can drive, but I don’t own a car. I’ve either used public transport or Hugo’s silver Saab convertible. So today my mother’s reluctantly helping me out, sitting outside the Gothic mansion which houses Hugo’s flat in her maroon Honda Jazz, revving up the engine and waiting for me to come down with the last of my belongings.

Hugo’s in the flat. He wanted to be there when I left. He hasn’t taken this moving out business seriously. He thinks what I’m going through is inevitable. He expects me to eventually come back round to the idea of us. He doesn’t believe for one minute that this is it, the end. He’s already told me he’s not letting me out of his life
that
easily, but if I feel this is what I need to do now, then he will support me all the way. How damn reasonable is
that
?

“So,” I say, smiling awkwardly. “This is it.”

“No, this isn’t ‘it’,” he corrects me,” it’s ‘it’ for now.”

Instead of responding, I flash my keys, their jangle breaking up the silence.

“What shall I do with these?”

“Keep them if you like. I don’t mind you letting yourself in if you’re popping by, or if you just want somewhere else to go when your parents drive you crazy.”

“I think it’s best if I leave them here for now,” I say, trying not to offend. He’s been so supportive and understanding about our separation, probably because he doesn’t truly believe it’s over. I suddenly feel awkward. I mean, how does one leave one’s partner of eleven years? Should I kiss him, hug him, or create an argument so that we can both believe it’s for the best? You see, there’s been no animosity, rants or raves. It’s all so docile and feels too weird. There’s too much history, so I go for the hug. Hugo squeezes me tightly, comforting and then he pulls away, leaving a hand on each of my shoulders.

“Danni,” he faces me squarely, “you don’t have to listen to a word of what I’m going to tell you, but I’m going to tell you anyway. I love you too much and care about you too much to just let you go ahead and fuck up your life. You’re losing it Dan. You’re losing the plot. I know these last three months have been tough beyond belief, but I’m not going to sit back and watch you waste your life without a fight. That’s the last thing Amber would have wanted. It’s time to buck up, get a job or something. You might think it is, but leaving me isn’t the answer to all your problems. You’ve got to sort your life out, make her proud. Don’t let her down, do something with your life. Promise me you won’t just sit at home and wallow.”

I tell him I’ll do my best and then pick up the last of my bags and leave, without even looking back to see his expression. Not out of malice, but because I simply didn’t want to see. The strange thing is that not only do my eyes stay bone dry as I take my time walking down the three sets of stairs, but I also feel like a heavy weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

*****

I did nothing the rest of that day, except for unpack my clothes and shoes, bung the box of books in the attic, listen to my mother harp on about Hugo being the best thing in my life and I had to go and ruin even that. The next morning, I wake up a stranger in my parents’ home. Lying in my childhood single bed, I suddenly see two very clear paths. I can either wallow with self-pity for the twenty-six year-old unemployed, non homeowner loser that I have become, or I can take action and try to turn it all around. Hugo’s kick up the backside is ringing in my ears. Buck up, get a job and make her proud. That’s all very well, but how? There are thousands of unemployed graduates out there, most of them far more qualified than I am. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make her proud.

The next morning, over breakfast, I draw inspiration from a most unlikely source, the
Daily Telegraph
, which my parents get delivered to the house. There’s a consumer feature on the most popular school trips (art weekends, cruises, ski holidays etc), how overpriced they are and some of the companies who run them. The name SFS, Ski for Schools, jumps out at me. That’s who my school trip was with when I was fourteen. It’s a surprise even to me, because I was singularly ungifted at skiing even then, and ever since, when it’s come to holidays, I’ve chosen sun over snow, but I find myself googling for their phone number all the same.

Amber used to ski every year with her Mum and also waxed lyrical about how sensationally fresh the air was in the mountains and I should really give it another try. So, as I dial the number for SFS, it does feel like there is some strange method in my madness. The only way I can move on is to move away from Hugo and from London, from the pain. Seeing as Amber never got to live her dream of life abroad, life down under, life in fresher air, perhaps I can live it for her. We both got too sidetracked, so busy living life that we forgot to live our dreams. It might be too late for Amber, but it’s not too late for me. If I wait much longer it might be though.

Whilst calling SFS on impulse, to see if they can employ me to do a job abroad in the freshest of air doing a sport that Amber loved, might make perfect sense on an emotional level, on a practical level it’s  faintly ridiculous. By this time of year, early November, they’re unlikely to still be recruiting for this imminent winter season.

*****

I get put through to Lorraine, head of operations, and try to sell myself. I explain that I speak fluent French and have always wanted to be a ski rep (well, when I was fourteen the girl doing it looked like she was having fun) and also have plenty of experience working with children.

“You’ll never believe it,” she interrupts, “but one of my France reps has just pulled out. Are you by any chance able to come to meet me today?”

“No problem,” I reply, stunned. I’m a firm believer that timing is everything. 

I take down the address, get Mum’s permission to borrow her car and head straight off. After a twenty minute interview conducted in French, about my year abroad in Paris, my work experience with kids, my love of skiing (minor fib) and my having been skiing four times (major fib), Lorraine unbelievably offers me a job as a rep in a ski resort called Montgenèvre, which is in a pocket of the French Alps so close to the border with Italy that you can ski two countries in one day.

I thank her for the opportunity, uplifted by the whiff of a new beginning and fresh alpine air lease of life. She tells me there’s a training weekend nearby in a fortnight and a training week for the whole team in my resort two weeks later. A week after that the season would begin.

I leave the office gainfully employed, marvelling at the ease of it all. Over the next four weeks I get on better than ever with my parents, especially with my mother, because my sojourn in their place is now only short-term. Over the next four weeks, twice a week, I take myself to the nearest dry ski slope in Hemel Hempstead to brush up on my skiing technique. Over the next four weeks I don’t for one minute regret leaving Hugo and wouldn’t trade in this blissful, newfound feeling of freedom for the world. Over the next four weeks I sporadically wonder how I could feel so much for eleven years and now feel so little. Over the next four weeks I’m constantly looking up at the sky, which is where I imagine Amber to be, floating above a big puffy white cloud, chatting to her about my new job. Over the next four weeks I keep asking her a rhetorical question. I am doing the right thing, aren’t I? Each time she tells me she’s exceptionally proud of me.