46

MARTIN

Persuading Gilbert to get on board with Camille’s hostel plans hadn’t been difficult—nor had I expected it to be, though I was happy to take any credit on offer. Camille’s announcement had caught him by surprise, and it wasn’t in his nature to commit to anything until he’d thought about it. But his devotion to his wife was always going to win.

We’d talked about the positives: his business experience; his financial position, which was apparently strong enough to support the project; Camille doing something rather than passively waiting for the disease to progress. I sensed they were details—the clincher was that Camille would need him. Though I sensed that he hoped to get by on the prospect rather than the reality of a gîte.

Roberto’s B&B had a washing machine, so we washed everything we could. As Camille and I sat in the courtyard after dinner, resuming our attempts to find accommodation three days in the future, we were surrounded by drying clothes. They revealed a variety of approaches to hiking underwear. Camille had wrapped herself in a bath towel. It was hard to say which was more distracting.

I watched an email disappear into the ether, carrying with it a prayer that the hotel, which was not on any booking service, might still exist.

Gilbert brought out wine.

‘Last night we had sex,’ she said, as he returned inside.

‘You and Gilbert?’ I wanted to be sure my towel-clad companion hadn’t confabulated a story that would cause me a deal of grief.

‘Of course! You are always making jokes.’

‘In that little hut?’

‘Ah…the night before. In Campo Ligure. When we had our own apartment.’

‘If it had been the little hut, you wouldn’t have needed to tell me.’

‘No more jokes. I wanted to know what you think of this idea.’

‘I don’t think Gilbert would forgive me if I discouraged you. But—it’s none of my business. And you two are married. Unlike the rest of us.’

‘I am not concerned about sin. Not that one. But I don’t want to give him too much hope. I am not sure if we will be staying together.’

I avoided the cheap shot about the Catholic attitude to divorce. Camille was very decently trying to do the right thing by Gilbert. But…

‘I thought if you were going to establish a hostel, Gilbert would be a good man to have on the team.’

‘Possibly, but he only wishes to do this so he can stay with me.’

‘Isn’t that what you want a partner to do? Stay with you and help you achieve your dreams?’

We were interrupted by a message on my iPad: the email had bounced. I took time out to search again for a phone number and found it on a B&B directory of unknown vintage.

I punched in the number on my phone and passed it to Camille. She smiled: the line was still connected. There was a conversation in which no names or times appeared to have been exchanged.

‘No luck?’

Camille tapped her head. ‘I don’t think she is very capable. But she says just come and there will be a room.’

‘One room?’

‘Plenty of rooms. It will not be a problem. So perhaps I might begin having sex with Gilbert again. What do you think?’

I told her what I thought, again, and wondered which version of events to trust: surely she could remember whether or not she’d had sex for the first time in weeks a couple of nights earlier or whether she was just contemplating it. And I asked the more important question that had confounded both Zoe and me—and probably Sarah and Bernhard.

‘Can I ask what the problem is? With Gilbert?’

‘Of course.’ But she hesitated a long time before answering. ‘Gilbert is too…French.’

I don’t think any of us would have disagreed—I was just surprised that it would be a deal breaker for Camille. However, her answer carried a message: ‘And there’s nothing you can do about that.’

‘I had sex with him because he has stopped complaining about Italian wine.’ Back to past tense. ‘And, well, it is not unpleasant.’ She laughed. ‘Life is short.’

‘So you haven’t given up on him. If we could get him excited about Australian wine, maybe…’

‘Ah, you are joking with me again.’

Only just. He was such a nice guy, devoted but by no means a doormat—revise that, considering the hairdryer: a bit of a doormat—but still his own man, amiable, charming, uncomplaining…except about Italian wine. And he had dumped the hairdryer.

Camille hadn’t finished. ‘If Gilbert wasn’t here, do you think Zoe would get me to Rome?’

‘Of course. Zoe and me and Bernhard and Sarah. You’re not thinking of sending Gilbert home?’

‘No, but I am always wondering: did Zoe come for you or for me?’

It was a variant on the question Zoe had asked me when I decided to continue the walk. Her or Sarah? I had no doubt about my answer, but it gave me pause after I’d said it.

‘She didn’t think I was coming. She’s here for you.’