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On Sunday morning I drag myself out of bed and mask my pallor with some makeup. Then I sneak out before Fabienne’s had time to emerge. I don’t want to bump into her. She was there yesterday. She saw it all.
The French don’t do early, so I’m alone on the street. The empty lanes and alleys confirm my isolation. The isolation that’s always there just below the surface. The maze of paths mock Coral’s pronouncement: ala – a path to oblivion.
My desire to feel a little bit French comes back like a cruel joke. After yesterday’s performance, I’m not even a little bit me.
Grabbing a pain au chocolat from the Sunday bakery, I walk through a deserted Place Plumereau to the American café – the only place that’s always open and does coffee in takeaway mugs. It’s a bitter brew but it’s caffeinated.
Today’s the day of the huge monthly brocante market that stretches the length of Boulevard Béranger. Numb to my surroundings, I wander down the hill in time to see over a kilometre of stalls being set up out of vans. On a bench in front of the town hall, amidst gardens of spring flowers, I try to empty my mind of soul-crushing thoughts.
I’ve got no idea what went wrong yesterday. Being Sleek is a signature seminar with a great message – to align business thinking with the wisdom of seals. It’s about curiosity and focus and innovation and risk. I’ve got a drawer full of testimonials from the first time, and I’m still the same polished performer. And I couldn’t have been more prepared. So how the hell did I plummet into ordinary? And why is the word so painful?
I hear Derek whispering, “Not enough magic.” The spring sun warms my face, but inside I’m succumbing to an old rage. Everyone wants to tell me how to be.
Yeah, says the voice in my head, they should just let you be ordinary.
Enough.
I get up and wander through the market, now open for business. Stalls line each side of the broad central pedestrian area, offering a caning service for old chairs, tables of odd glassware and whole canteens of vintage cutlery, toys, sundry bric-a-brac, mirrors and hat stands, leather bellows, posters and illustrated pages from books. Some stalls specialise in bijoux – jewellery – with glass cases divided into tiny segments. Others have pinned their brooches and rings and fob-watch chains to velvet cushions. I’m on a mission to find a pendant or a pair of earrings that aren’t ordinary. Maybe I’ll see some spoons for Fabienne.
I spend ages going from stall to stall, hoping for something to catch my eye. And around me the market fills with patrons doing the same. It’s when I’m poring over a cushion of unusual silver bangles that I hear a woman’s voice behind me.
“Tony!”
I stiffen, and stop myself turning around.
The guy behind the stall ignores the woman, and I cautiously examine him without lifting my head. Not very tall and rather stocky, good-looking in that devil-may-care French way – like the fuzzy photo on the wall of the Bay Bar?
“I knew I’d find you,” the woman says. “It’s been five years, Tony. The least you can do is speak to me.”
Again the man doesn’t respond. He continues to groom his stall as if no-one has addressed him, his body language relaxed, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The scene is so bizarre, it could be one of my trances but the woman behind me is real. I turn around and face her.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting with Genevieve in a café on Avenue de Grammont. The guy never once opened his mouth, even – or especially – when she spoke to him in halting French. I’ve ordered two glasses of vin rouge and a bowl of cacahuètes. It might not be midday yet but they serve wine all day around here – even for breakfast – and we both need a drink.
Genevieve’s in bad shape. “I know it’s him,” she keeps repeating. “His hair’s greyer, he’s a little heavier...but I know my own husband.”
I sigh. After five years of wondering what happened to him, no-one would blame her for pouncing on the first unsuspecting look-a-like.
“He doesn’t know you,” I say. “Even when you told him your name back there, his face was completely blank, as if he was sure you were mad.”
“Amnesia,” she says.
Now I understand why Derek called it convenient. Up till now I’ve also wondered if Gaston had lost his memory, but the word rings a false note. For Gaston and for me. It’s a moment of realisation that I’ll have to examine later.
“Amnesia only happens in bad movies,” I say. But she’s not going to let it go until we come up with another explanation. “Tell me what happened this morning. Before you stopped at that stall.”
She sips her wine. It seems to be taking the edge off her agitation. “I got up early. I knew it was the monthly market with all the brocante dealers, and I thought Hugo Luce was sure to be there. I wanted to look at the vans, and I saw it – his van. His business name from the phone book is painted on the side: Cuillères en Troglo.”
I’m focused on the man himself. “Did you see Hugo?”
“No. I hung around the van but he’d already unloaded. So I started looking at the bijoux stalls. Then I saw Tony.”
It seems like a no-brainer now.
“Hugo. You saw Hugo, but you got confused when he looked like Gaston. They’ve got the same name, they look the same – they must be brothers. Maybe even twins. Your boys are twins, so Gaston could be one too.”
This seems compelling, but Genevieve says, “He never told me he had a brother.”
“You said he never talked about his past. He might have lots of siblings.”
“So why didn’t he say something when I said Tony’s name?”
I think about this. “Because he’s got a brother called Gaston. Tony is his American name, isn’t it?”
She nods.
“Tony sounds nothing like Gaston, especially with an American accent. He probably thought you were just another loud-mouthed tourist trying to get something cheap.”
She starts to cry. “And now I’ve blown my chances to ask him about Tony.”
I don’t know what to say, because she’s right. After that scene, Hugo Luce will be sure to stonewall her if Genevieve tries to approach him again.
“He’s still in the market,” she says. “You could speak to him.”
I should have seen this coming. I sip my wine to give myself time to think. I could prepare a sentence in French that tells him I’m looking for Gaston. But he probably wouldn’t tell me if Gaston is still alive, and he’s not going to give me his phone number.
I explain this to Genevieve, then add, “We’ve already guessed that they’re related. We just don’t know if Gaston’s living around here. And I don’t think Hugo will tell us.”
She pulls out a tissue and blows her nose. We finish our wine in silence. Then I notice a change in her posture. She’s had an idea.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, wondering if I want to know.
“Follow him,” she says.
***
Fabienne isn’t home so I’ve got space to reflect on my revelation about the amnesia. I pull sandwich ingredients out of the fridge and put them inside a baguette. If I haven’t got amnesia, why can’t I remember where I was those two weeks?
I munch on my sandwich and the answer comes: I don’t want to remember.
That’s a shock. Why? Surely the need to remember has focused my mind ever since I turned up on the beach?
I usually avoid what Davina calls ‘delving into the murky depths’, but it seems that’s no longer an option. My memory loss has made me afraid. Afraid of losing myself again. It’s driven me out of my home and halfway across the world, following subconscious clues. Clues that will retrieve my missing parts, solve the mystery of where I was for two weeks.
Or have I been running away from the clues and they’re the ones chasing me? I don’t want to remember because...I don’t want to confront that truth. The truth would draw me back to where it happened. To Bantry’s Bluff, the beach with the curse.
Just the thought of returning to that beach brings back my fear of disappearing again. The path to oblivion.
What if next time I don’t come back?
***
I’m not surprised when Alister sends a text suggesting dinner. I’m still feeling mortified about yesterday’s performance, but the heat’s going out of it. Somehow settling for ordinary seems easier than unpacking what went wrong. This acquiescence surprises me, but I don’t want to unpack that either. The encounter with Genevieve has given me something else to think about. A secret. Do I share it with Alister?
We meet for a drink in the square. Alister doesn’t mention the seminar, probably because he senses how fragile I am. He’s used to capricious success gurus and I’m getting the kid-glove treatment. Until the gloves come off.
He asks where I want to eat, so, in accordance with our last meal, I take him to the humblest place I can think of – Tours’ answer to the Pearl. We sit outside at a tiny folding table and try to make sense of the Chinese menu in French. When we’ve finally made our selections, the distractions are over.
“What would you like to talk about?” he asks.
I start one of my mental lists of forbidden topics. I’m dreaming about caves. I’ve divined a cave to visit using an antique spoon. I keep turning the tables on Andrew but I fear further revenge. My seminar was dull with a capital ‘D’. The next one will be the same unless something gives. Genevieve’s in Tours. She’s abandoned the twins to her rehabbed sister while she follows a guy who looks like her ex.
“Have you signed up any female gurus yet?” I say instead.
The question surprises us both. He wanted to sign me up, but I found good reasons to refuse. Do I really want to know that he’s found someone else? Someone who isn’t ordinary?
“I’m always looking for new talent,” he says, “so I attend local seminars wherever I go.”
“And?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Professional interest.”
“Well, I’ve seen a potential success guru but she wasn’t very good. Her seminar was –”
“Don’t say it.”
He puts down his wine. “If you won’t listen to the truth, Selkie, then your career’s already on the skids.”
Bloody hell.
“Yesterday’s seminar was downright forgettable. Those participants won’t be buzzing on social media, so your word-of-mouth will be zip. If you keep boring your audience with your perfect-but-lifeless delivery, you’ll be a has-been before you’ve begun.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. My face goes red and I think I’m going to cry. It’s not supposed to be like this. Alister’s supposed to admire me from afar and I’m supposed to feel sceptical about it.
“What charmed everyone the first time,” he continues, “was your wild unpredictability, your fresh take on tired principles, your ability to read the room and inject the audience with inspiration. Yesterday the only thing you were inspiring was a rush for the exits, and the only thing you were reading was your notes. For the next one I challenge you to tear up the cheat-sheet and...wing it.”
Alister doesn’t take his eyes off me. He’s giving me tough love and I hate it. I’m thinking of making a run for it, but the food arrives. The waiter is blocking my exit so I do the next best thing – slurp too much wine and stuff my face with comfort food.
Alister does the same but with much more finesse. My table antics have amused him in the past, but tonight he’s playing hardball. He’s not going to walk me home until I’ve said something in response. Just as well this place does a great Beijing-style bombe alaska. We’re going to be here for a while.
“Genevieve’s in Tours,” I blurt. “I saw her at the brocante market.”
I can tell he’s shocked, but he’s not going to let me off the hook. “Has that got anything to do with what I just said?”
“No.” That’s the point.
“What are you afraid of?”
“Losing control.” It just pops out.
“That’s a relief.”
“What?”
“The truth. Now we’ve got something to talk about. All presenters are afraid of losing control. It’s a fear you’ve got to move beyond. You lost control in your very first seminar – with powerful results – and now you’re trying to claw it back. Wrong move.”
But I’m remembering my missing memory. During my first seminar I disappeared into Being Sleek and I still don’t remember what happened. It’s why I wanted to control it this time. So I didn’t get lost again. If I keep losing parts of myself every time I run a seminar, it will be worse than my missing two weeks. Eventually there’ll be nothing left.
Alister’s got more to say about letting go – about how a great seminar always has elements of surprise. He’s dishing out the kind of talk I usually dish out to him, so we’re even. It’s the only thing we are even on, since he’s a big-shot millionaire and I’m still a pretender in a power suit, but it’s an imbalance I’m used to. I start to relax.
“Will you be there on Wednesday?” I ask. My next seminar.
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the bombe alaska in Beijing.”
It’s not the answer I wanted, but if he’s there I’ll have to accept his challenge. He knows that and so do I.
“Great,” I say.
“And you’ll take up my challenge for what reason?”
“Because I hate you.”
“And?”
“Because I want it. For myself.”
It’s the right answer and I mean it. If I present another seminar like yesterday I’ll disappear for a different reason – into the pit called ordinary.
We order a dessert wine and when it’s in the glasses, Alister pulls a small parcel out of his pocket and pushes it across the table.
“I saw this at the brocante market. Something quirky that made me think of you.”
I don’t know what to say. He’s never given me a gift and I’m not sure how I feel – about being ‘quirky’ or what it implies about our relationship.
“I don’t know, Alister. It’s not a peace offering, is it? After the shit sandwich?”
“Shit sandwiches don’t come with peace offerings.”
“Good. But I still feel awkward about accepting it.”
“It doesn’t have to mean anything big, Selkie. It reminded me of you so I bought it. For ten euros.”
The low value clinches it. No diamonds. And no gift wrapping.
I rip open the brown paper bag and what’s inside makes me gasp. It’s a silver bangle fashioned from a French spoon, flattened and curved to go around the wrist. It’s what the guy we think was Hugo was selling on his stall. I’d just realised his bangles were spoons when Genevieve’s voice interrupted.
I blink down at it, remembering all the crazy connections that have followed me across the world. Does Alister remember there was a spoon in my collection of seven? But he’s reaching across and slipping the bangle over my hand. His touch feels good and I don’t pull away.
“The jeweller makes them himself,” he says, “from old coffee spoons. It’s solid silver. And very French.”
I look down at my wrist and fall in love with it. I can deal with the premonitions later.
“Thank you, Alister. It’s very special.” In more ways than he knows.
He pours us both more wine. “Now tell me about Genevieve.”
When he hears what I’ve got to say, he’s furious and I regret telling him. Then, in trying to make him understand her motivation, I describe the incident at the bangle stall and only make things worse.
“Her French is terrible,” he says. “And that guy with the bangles had trouble understanding mine. He’s got no English. He isn’t Gaston.”
I don’t tell him about Hugo. It’s Genevieve’s story and I’ve already said too much.
“How do you know all this?” he asks.
“We went for a drink. Genevieve was pretty upset.”
“I’m not happy about this, Selkie. Gennie’s trying to involve you in this mad scheme to find Gaston and it’s none of your business. Or mine.”
“It’s just a coincidence that we bumped into each other.”
“Is it? Does she know where you’re staying?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She’ll be able to find you at the seminar venue. Make sure she doesn’t follow you home. Don’t stop at your front door until you’re sure the coast is clear.”
He’s remembering how she waited outside my office, but he’s overreacting. Genevieve isn’t going to cause me trouble.
***
My fears about the next seminar give me sleepless nights. Winging it is something you can’t prepare for. You have to live in the moment – and jump. But the whole losing control thing is bigger than I thought. Why am I so afraid? I’m not going to disappear like I did at Bantry’s Bluff – not in a seminar room in France in front of two hundred people. But the snippets of my missing memory haunt my dreams – the moonlight, the dancing, the caress of rough fingers. It’s what Keith called an amnesia loop: my fear of the truth is keeping me endlessly circling through what I already know. Like Rupert. Then there’s the troglodyte and his shadow – forever hiding from me what he’s painting on the wall.
By Tuesday night I’ve worked myself up into such a phobia about going to sleep that I do something I’ve never done before. I buy some sleeping pills. They work.
After a deep sleep, I open my eyes to see a note on my pillow. The handwriting is elegant. It’s signed by Fabienne.
I hear your alarm. You do not wake up. I make a drum with a saucepan. I slap your face. You open your eyes then close them. Three times. Mais ne paniques pas – I look after them till you arrive. A warm-upping for your seminar.
What?
The clock on the wall says it all. Ten o’clock. Being Sleek started an hour ago. I fall out of bed.
After the shortest shower in history, I throw on my red suit and hit the pedestrian precinct, repeating her words like a mantra: ne paniques pas. Don’t panic.
By the time I’ve downed a coffee en route and walked the brisk fifteen minutes to the Vinci centre, my head has cleared. I can only imagine what went through Fabienne’s mind when she couldn’t wake me up. I didn’t need a stomach pump but I did need another couple of hours. And she’s given me that with her warm-up. Part of me is so grateful for the rescue that I want to cry, but the other part is hating her for being so bloody versatile. Artistic, beautiful, French. Is there anything she isn’t good at?
Before I enter the seminar room, I rearrange my face to look like this morning was planned. People are sitting at tables spread with art materials and Fabienne is moving around making encouraging noises. I walk up to her and we kiss on both cheeks.
“You’re a superstar,” I whisper.
“De rien,” she says. No worries.
I wander from table to table, introducing myself and finding out what people are doing. The exercise is to mind-map – using whatever materials inspire them – their aspirations for the workshop and beyond. It will flow beautifully into Being Sleek, however it plays out. After this stunning start, I just hope I can bury my fear of letting go and follow through.
“Ten minutes more,” Fabienne says in her gorgeous accented English. “Then we hear what you are all making.”
What a package she is. Her energy is relaxed and again I notice the way she moves, her lithe grace. I look at Alister, who’s been doing the exercise with everyone else, and catch an admiring expression on his face. He used to look at me that way.
When the ten minutes are up, she nods at me to take over. I introduce myself and call for volunteers to share what they’ve created. Hands go up, but one participant gets to his feet uninvited. I don’t recognise him at first – even though his photo is still on my phone – but I do recognise his nametag. Reece.
Shit.
“I didn’t fly all the way from Australia,” he says, as my legs start to wobble, “to play with...crayons.”
The room that was buzzing a moment ago is stunned into silence.
“We were promised a seminar from a business guru – a ‘success siren’ if you believe all the hype – but instead we get a childish drawing exercise from a...retired clown.”
The room lets out a collective gasp.
Fabienne’s background is news to me, but he’s obviously spent the last hour googling her. The bastard. He flew over with the intention of shafting me in front of my audience, and by sleeping in and needing a rescue I’ve played right into his hands.
The audience is a frozen tableau, waiting for my response. Reece Chapman has folded his arms and fixed a smirk on his face – sticking to what he’s good at.
It’s the moment of truth for me – to prove my mettle in front of a group I’ve only just met – but my mind is blank. Was Fabienne ever a clown? To make ends meet? Andrew’s image of me with a ball on my nose flies past. Nothing I do now can make anything worse. It’s time to take up Alister’s challenge. I jump.
“Mr Chapman.” By using his surname I hope that some will realise I know this joker. He’s my ex-husband’s lawyer, I want to scream. “You’ve reminded the group that if anyone is unhappy with the workshop, they may leave at any time and have their fee refunded. No questions asked. But your critical comments – about the mind-mapping and Fabienne herself – require a response to everyone here. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay and hear me out.”
He’d be churlish not to agree, undermining his chance to take half the room with him, which is no doubt his plan. I’ve got him where I want him, but how do I retrieve the situation? He’s confident I can’t. Too confident. It infuses me with courage.
“Firstly, I’d like to remind you all that Being Sleek is a blue-sky workshop and the mind-mapping is designed to help you think creatively about your business life. ‘Outside the box’ is a cliché but it does explain why you’re here. You want more than old thinking can give you – you want to give more and get more back. If you’re not sure about this morning’s exercise, remember that the money-back guarantee applies if you’re still not satisfied at the end of the workshop. You’ve booked your flights, paid your accommodation – all tax deductible – why not keep an open mind and see the workshop through? In Mr Chapman’s case, he’ll receive a double refund to cover his return airfares to Australia. Fair enough, Mr Chapman?”
The audience visibly settles, while Reece glares at me.
“Doesn’t change the fact that you misrepresented who’d be running the workshop,” he says. “In my country that’s fraud.”
“I’m coming to that. Fabienne, please tell us why Mr Chapman called you a clown just now.”
First rule of negotiation – never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. It’s a big risk, but I’ve already jumped.
“Of course,” Fabienne says. She turns to the room and lifts her chin. “It is ten years I am a member of the Cirque de Soleil. First as an acrobat, on the high wire, then as a movement coach and body artist.”
Bloody hell. Something warm rushes through my veins as I pretend I knew the answer all along.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve just spent an hour with a guru. Fabienne Bouchard has a demonstrated history of,” I tick off my fingers, “dedication, focus, balance and flexibility.” They laugh. “She performed at the highest level and without a hitch over and over again – a model to emulate in any business. It’s essential to learn from experts outside our field, and that’s why Fabienne is here. She’s a living example of Being Sleek. These days she’s an artist by invitation from the city of Tours. She’s just returned from an invitation-only exhibition in Tuscany. So you’ve also spent the morning with an expert in creative thinking.”
I turn to Reece Chapman. “This is obviously not the right workshop for you, Mr Chapman.” You’re the clown, I whisper under my breath. “You owe Fabienne an apology.”
As he storms out alone, the oppressive atmosphere lifts and hands go up wanting to share their mind-maps. Thanks to Reece Chapman, I’ve been winging it with panache.
I look across at Alister and suspect he’s just stopped holding his breath.
Fabienne stays and Being Sleek flows. My planning is at my fingertips, but my knuckles are no longer white. Not only do I witness what magic means, but my fear dissolves as I hear the voice that Nigel once told me to listen for – a shushing whisper that guides me with a wordless touch.
By the end of the day, it’s caressed me into a sense of profound belonging. My memory hasn’t returned in a cataclysmic flash, but the knowingness in my bones is back. Something about creativity. Something about home. Something about...bliss.