57

ZOE

The walk to Passo dei Casoni was mostly a wide forest road surrounded by thick bracken, high along the ridge. The weather was traditional mountain climate; foggy and windy at times, but we were never long without a view.

The day ended up in another hunters’ haven, with long tables not yet cleared from lunch. We were all in cold-weather walking clothes, as they’d turned the heating off. As we finished and headed upstairs for warm showers, Sarah must have noticed me grimace.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, no problem.’

‘Meaning mind my own business, right?’

Right. I took a breath. ‘It’s taken a while, but I can honestly say, I’m pleased—really pleased—that you came on the walk.’

Sarah took a moment to process this. ‘You know, I’m okay with you and Dad. I just wasn’t…well, I wasn’t prepared for you two still, like, sorting it out.’

I had to smile, partly because in the last couple days I felt I had sorted it out, at least in my head. ‘Old people are meant to know what they’re doing, right?’

She laughed. ‘Something like that. But tell me what’s hurting. I owe you one for the blisters.’

‘I just had a twinge…something weird. No big deal.’

She waited. She’d probably make a good physician.

‘Tingling and numbness, and I had burning in my leg which has come back. Maybe just sciatica.’ Which, according to Dr Google, probably meant a disc herniation. Not great, but better than cancer—or multiple sclerosis.

‘Where?’

I pointed to the side of my leg.

Sarah frowned. ‘It’s not sciatica. Sorry…I don’t know.’

So, probably something worse.

Camille was already in the bathroom when I got there, but there were two shower stalls and I took the other.

‘I have decided,’ said Camille over the sound of running water.

Oh shit. What now?

‘I will forgive Gilbert. And he will be the manager of the hostel.’

If I hadn’t been naked and on the other side of a wall, I would have thrown my arms around her.

‘He will be so happy,’ I said.

‘There is too much work…too much work I do not wish to do, that Gilbert will manage.’

Martin had been right. We’d got through to her. But her tone made me glad I hadn’t been able to hug her.

‘All relationships are a compromise,’ I said. ‘I mean…I’ve decided I’ll just damn well make Sheffield work, at least as long as that’s where Martin has a job. Which means leaving one of the great cities of the world.’

‘Yes,’ said Camille, emerging from the shower with her hair in a towel. ‘But you compromise for love. I am obliged to compromise for the practical.’

Dinner was with the family in their cluttered kitchen—less space to heat—complete with an actual phone booth and a parrot in a cage. We were seated as couples at non-matching tables, with a litre of wine on each.

It was different talking at dinner than on the trail. I was struggling to shed the cloak of sadness and regret that Camille had left me with. I wished she could love Gilbert.

‘She’ll get her joy out of saving pilgrims, spiritually,’ said Martin. ‘Marriages aren’t all hearts and flowers. At least if she’s forgiven Gilbert, they can move on, maybe find something as good or better than what most people have.’

‘Camille would say, “Why do I have to settle for that?” Sarah and Bernhard wouldn’t.’

‘You say that, but I spoke to Sarah last night, and it was all about joint plans and supporting each other. I was a bit humbled.’

‘Doesn’t sound like you…I’m kidding. Go on.’

‘Let me tell you a story about Jonathan.’

Martin’s military friend. A general or colonel who lived in a ‘pile’. I had only found out recently that it wasn’t a dump but rather a grand old mansion. Alone. He’d fit right in here in Liguria.

‘Jonathan’s family—the one he grew up in—were loaded, but his parents were always tight,’ said Martin.

‘So, drinking problems?’

No, British English problems on my part, Martin explained, laughing. Money issues. Of the first-world kind.

‘And he really wanted a train set. You know, the sort that needs a whole room to set up—points and level crossings and flyovers?’

I knew what he meant. Vaguely.

‘He had a basic set and got pieces for his birthday and Christmas, but even a carriage cost weeks of pocket money…’

‘So, now he’s bought himself one? That’s what he does in his pile?’

Martin shook his head. ‘That’s the tragedy. He keeps buying bits—probably has enough to set up several rooms. But he just stacks the boxes up and says he’ll get around to it one day.’

I wondered where Martin was going with this.

‘Sarah made me think of it,’ he said. ‘She accused me of spending my time planning, dreaming about things and not actually doing them.’

‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘Maybe before the Camino…but then you followed your architecture dream.’

Martin shrugged. ‘I suspect that was like Jonathan collecting his trains. It was an old dream. Maybe not what I really wanted. As I said, I may be in the Architecture School but I’m doing basically the same as I was in engineering. Anyway, I just wanted to say, I’ve been going on about dreams and everything, and I know Sheffield doesn’t…float your boat.’

‘I’m really okay with Sheffield. I can cope with a pea souper.’

‘Pea souper? It’s not the sixties. And you’re talking about London. Sheffield versus London is a bit like San Francisco versus LA.’

‘You’re comparing San Francisco to Sheffield?’

‘What I’m trying to say is that I’d be happy to live anywhere that’ll have me. LA, San Francisco—Santiago de Compostela, if you want. As long as it’s with you.’

He poured wine from the carafe into his glass while he watched my reaction. I was smiling. I had everything I wanted. But somewhere inside me I felt a small shudder.

And when I looked at my email before I went to bed, the shudder became a quake. The Chronicle had rejected my cartoons.