17

ZOE

I don’t know if it was Martin’s mood after Sarah’s bombshell about dropping out of medicine, or that I only had two more days with him, or that I was exhausted from the Alps. Maybe it was just the cold wind but I didn’t want to get out of bed and started thinking about getting a taxi. We hadn’t discussed what was going to happen when he left, and what deal we’d be making for the future.

Martin shook me out of feeling sorry for myself with a cup of hot chocolate, then made coffee for everyone. I put on the full cold-weather ensemble—thermal, tights, sweater, fleece and a black scarf that also worked as a hat and balaclava.

Martin laughed. ‘You look like you’re set for the Arctic.’

‘I need to stay warm.’

Walking—and climbing—took care of that. As we followed in the steps of Hannibal, wondering how he got elephants along the steep narrow paths, I was soon shedding the scarf.

‘Have you spoken to Sarah this morning?’ I asked. That elephant was definitely walking with us.

Martin shook his head. I guessed he’d have plenty of time on the train to England.

‘Maybe she just isn’t ready,’ I said. ‘I mean, she’s young. A year off might help her get her head straight before she goes back to college.’

‘Or gets lost like Bernhard. She worked so hard to get in.’

‘Medicine is a big deal. She needs to be sure it’s her path.’

Martin wasn’t really listening. ‘Probably why she came on the walk—so we’d have space around us when she broke the news.’

‘Not much you can do now. She’s an adult.’ Reminder to self: do not say that Sarah comes across like a self-entitled pain in the ass.

‘The divorce didn’t help.’

‘Maybe because you’re feeling guilty about it, you’ve been protecting her too much.’

‘She’s been living away from home.’

‘Paid for by you. Martin, she’s smart and sassy and twists you around her finger. And it’s making her a self-entitled pain in the ass’—shit—‘rather than a brilliant, thoughtful doctor or journalist or poet. But one that’s in charge of her own life.’

Maybe I was looking for a fight—maybe Martin was.

As the mist moved in and out over the mountain peaks, I thought of all the things I’d enjoyed over the last three weeks. Being in the moment, the challenges, the sharing, the return of physical fitness and awareness. And being with Martin. I couldn’t let it end on a bad note.

‘I’m sorry—’

‘No, I am,’ said Martin. We stopped and he gave me a gentle kiss. ‘I dragged Sarah along without thinking how impossible it would be for you both.’

‘Not impossible,’ I said, squeezing his gloved hand. ‘Just difficult. And it’s not like my daughters—well, Lauren at least—haven’t been difficult. I didn’t mean it about Sarah being a pain. But she’s pretty intimidating, you know.’

‘You should meet Julia.’ We laughed, and walked on with the air lighter between us.

As we reached the peak it was not someone but something that stood waiting for us—a wooden structure about the size of a phone booth. Not just the size of one: Téléphone was printed on the beam above the open side, though there was no actual phone. Martin pulled out his cell.

‘There’s signal up here. I think that’s the idea,’ he said as he stepped inside.

I joined him. As we both still had packs on it was a little cosy—a lot cosy.

‘Standing in a phone booth in the middle of nowhere.’ I was trying to imprint the moment. Possibly one of my last with Martin.

‘Not nowhere.’ Martin eased himself around to face the same direction as me. ‘France there.’ Then he pulled me back the other way. ‘Italy ahead.’

Rugged rocky peaks, an ice-blue lake below, valleys and peaks as far as I could see. Italian valleys and lakes. Whenever I’d imagined visiting Italy, I’d seen myself flying into Rome. Walking in was surreal.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, watching the breath come out of my mouth.

‘And now you have a chance to ring someone special and tell them.’

I untangled my arm and checked my watch. ‘Lauren will be getting up. Tessa’s still asleep.’ I paused. ‘I don’t need to call them.’

‘And I don’t need to ring Sarah.’

I didn’t have anyone in the world I needed. Or who needed me, other than maybe Camille. And the only person Martin had was the daughter I was telling him to let go of.

‘I said it before, and it’s still true, you know,’ said Martin. ‘I love you. I want to be with you.’

I watched the little puffs of Martin’s breath and held my own.

With our packs against the phone-booth walls, pushing us together, we kissed. A proper kiss, long and slow. A kiss that said the issues with a difficult daughter could be overcome, a transatlantic romance could work, even living in Sheffield might be okay, and that what we had between us was real and vibrant and worth fighting for.

And though I had no idea what it would mean in a practical sense, this time I went with my heart. ‘I love you, too.’