56

MARTIN

Six weeks and a day into our pilgrimage, well over halfway to Rome, we were still in the Apennines, still walking alone through wild and sometimes spectacular scenery, and staying in run-down hotels with erratic heating, idiosyncratic service and solid Italian cooking.

Tonight’s accommodation, slightly off-route near Bergugliara, operated primarily as a pizzeria. No point trying to sell Gilbert on this one as a project; I doubted it was what Camille had in mind, either. Perhaps her gîte would one day be the competition for the pizzeria, but there were advantages in being the only game in town. And serving pizza.

Camille and I spent a good two hours sorting accommodation for the next few days: it was mainly a matter of stringing together the few available places into walking days of reasonable length. More work for me than Camille, but she seemed happy to be involved and was good at refusing to take no for an answer when she got on the phone. She was fun to work with and seemed to have forgiven me for my enquiries about the mechanics of stand-up sex. Afterwards, I was careful to not let Zoe think I was having too much fun.

Tonight, there was an additional item on my agenda, which I was looking forward to with more relish than I should have.

‘Ever been to Morocco?’ I asked.

Her expression told me everything I needed to know. Jim had replied to my email. His and Camille’s separate mentions of the Fez medina, his presence at dinner chez Camille, and his recollection of Jesus overlooking the marital bed were not coincidental. To be fair, the last might have been gleaned in the course of his professional work; his reply, perfectly candid, indicated that their affair had been limited to a mad weekend in Fez.

‘How long have you known this?’ said Camille.

‘Only today. I had an email from Jim.’

She could see where I was heading. ‘Unlike Gilbert, I was discreet.’

‘I know about it. And…’ I pointed skywards.

She sighed. Loudly. ‘You win the argument. I will forgive Gilbert. I will tell him, and that will make him happy. Also you and Zoe.’

It was the result I’d wanted, but I wasn’t convinced we’d won the war.

After pizzas that even Zoe the American conceded were as good as any she’d eaten, I tackled Sarah. There had been a signal moment when we’d arrived with Bernhard and Sarah, and the host had asked for payment in advance. Before I could pay for both rooms as I usually did, Bernhard put a credit card on the counter.

‘I’ll pay for ours,’ he said.

‘I think you’ve got extra spending money for the rest of the walk,’ Zoe had said as we climbed the stairs to our room. When had we last seen a lift? It was always the final climb of the day.

‘You don’t think that was a one-off?’

I didn’t need to wait for Zoe’s answer. Bernhard’s body language had said: ‘From here on, I pay for Sarah. You are no longer the primary male in her life. I, Bernhard fucking Müller, arrogant millennial berk from Stuttgart and your one-time business partner, have, with a flip of my credit card, usurped the role you held for twenty years. Up yours, Martin Eden.’

I’d shared my interpretation with Zoe and she’d laughed. ‘You couldn’t be more patriarchal if you tried. They have decided to pay their own way. Your twenty-year-old daughter is finally showing some signs of breaking free. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

Actually, it wasn’t particularly what I wanted. I wanted her to get her head straight and her life straight. Independence was a secondary issue. We’d had a day of Bernhard waxing lyrical about cheap renewables in Africa, and she’d hung on every word. I’d joined the dots. Breaking free could mean spending the remainder of her year off as his helpmeet in a third-world country…because helpmeet was all she’d be. Bernhard, qualified or not, was the engineer.

On the other hand, it would probably look good on her CV when she applied for re-entry to the medical course. Three months supporting a person with complex physical and mental problems, six months doing charity work in a developing country: if they still cared for passion and decency in the medical world, she’d be well set.

Sarah steered me to the bar, where we established that I was still permitted to purchase drinks for her.

‘I’m not about to go to Africa, Dad.’

‘It’s what you and Bernhard have been talking about all day. I just assumed…’

‘No. But what do you think of his ideas?’

Deep breath. Don’t let your attitude to Bernhard get in the way. ‘Actually, I think it’s something that needs to be done. I think,

for an untrained guy—and I’m not insulting him, but he’s a twenty-two-year-old—’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘With a business degree. He could be a good engineer, and if he went to Africa with a qualification in that field, maybe a master’s specialising in renewables or the mechanics of the turbines, he’d be able to do a lot more than an ordinary volunteer-abroad type.’

I was thinking aloud, but I liked what I was coming up with. Bernhard might find himself thanking me one day.

‘Exactly what we were thinking, Dad. Me too.’

‘You mean you agree with me?’

‘That too, but I’m saying I want to study engineering as well. With Bernhard. That’s our plan.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased. I mean, me sort of following in your footsteps.’

‘You don’t want to finish medicine first?’

‘You know, that’s what everybody says to you. “Lay down foundations first; do what you want to do later.” Then I see—no offence, Dad—people like you, in their fifties, still preparing or waiting until later instead of doing what they want to do. Like they’re going to live forever or something.’

Sarah’s point was fair, but it was going to be an interesting conversation with Julia.

On the way up to bed, having done my best to interfere with the direction of everybody else’s lives, I did some thinking about my own.