“You do love Lennon.”
“I do. Man was a genius.”
I clink my empty coffee cup against Joan’s empty coffee cup. “Amen to that.”
—
I can’t help but google the Upper Class cabin when I get back indoors and this puts me on the path of googling holidays. I haven’t been away properly since last February, when I went to Thailand with George. I cringe inwardly thinking about this, closing my eyes tightly to shut out the recent memory of where that all led to, and vow that this time I’m not going to go on holiday with anyone.
Solo holidays in February produce a multitude of results, but I’m strangely drawn to a skiing holiday. I’ve never been before. I don’t know how to ski. But I feel that a fresh year should bring with it a challenge, and none more so than learning something new. I’m going to go away alone for the first time ever, and I’m going to learn to ski. I will probably break my arm while on a slope, and this is all completely out of my comfort zone, but it’s different and I feel invigorated just thinking about booking it. I need to be out of my comfort zone for once.
I drop an email to HR asking for time off and then get a quotetogether for the dates I want to book. I am going to join a ski school, ski to my heart’s content, eat tartiflette, drink red wine, make friends with strangers, join in all the activities they organize as part of the solo tour package, and I am going to let life and fate take hold of me for as long as they both want. No, I’m going to let life and fate take hold of me for as long asIwant.
Chapter 36
February
I’ve come toa complete stop on the easiest of blue runs as I field a call from Miranda about her hen-do. I feel like a skiing wanker, poles gripped in my left hand, mobile phone clamped to my ear with my right, goggles positioned on my forehead. I want desperately to say, “Yah, yah” very loudly in response to whatever she says so that I feel properly ski-posh, but I resist. Just.
The wedding countdown is firmly on. Miranda is crossing days off her calendar as if she’s a prison convict waiting to be released. I get a text every day with the new countdown, which unnerves me because I have spent the past few days necking so much yummy hot wine with the other solo travelers at lunch that I think I’m going to need yet another bridesmaid-dress fitting when I get home. I make a note that I will not order the cheese board for dessert for the third time in a row. I will not order a pudding, full stop. But I’m so ravenous after a day of gliding up and down the blue runs (I’m so nearly on reds, so nearly) that I need to eat everything on the menu for dinner.
Tonight’s solo activity (I’m so glad they don’t call it a “singles” holiday) is a quiz night, and the eight of us on the tour are automatically a team against all the other tables. In our hotel there are other couples and families who have blatantly pulled theirchildren out of school, because it’s not half-term, I checked. The prices are sky-high in half-term and I wasn’t paying that.
I’ve made friends with one of the other solo skiers, a guy called John who’s quite sweet, and we made plans to join each other in the afternoon twice to ski after ski school had finished for the morning. But I am now so averse to getting involved with men on holiday (I have previous form on this) that, after I sensed him getting a bit too flirty—not unpleasantly so, just a bit sure of himself—I made certain that I included a really quiet thirtysomething called Nicole, who seemed to be struggling to find her place in the group.
But for now I have Miranda in my ear, as Nicole tries not to listen while we watch some six-year-olds in ski school glide past us without the use of poles.
“Smug little fuckers,” I hear not-so-quiet-Nicole say with a laugh and I know we’re going to get on.
“They have a low center of gravity,” I whisper to her while Miranda gives me the lowdown on the wedding, which she’s practically hand-picked from the pages of all those bridal magazines.
“So,” Miranda says, changing the subject, “is it like a real-life version of Tinder—this singles holiday? Like some kind of reality-TV show: lots of singles in a ski resort, let’s see who shags who?”
“Miranda!” I chastise. “Of course not.”
This actually was my main worry, that it would be asingles hoping to minglekind of thing. My shutters would have come firmly down on that.
John is cute, funny, and we connected over the last few days. But I could sense the old Hannah coming back into play, and I put a stop to where things were going so fast that poor John looked a bit stunned. I watch him now, eyeing up one of the female ski instructors, and know he’s moved on. Nicole and I have already made plans to go on a wine-tasting tour tomorrow to give the skiing a break, to give our feet a rest from thecumbersome ski boots. It’s nice, finding something in common with people, making new friends. I wish I’d done this in Thailand.
My dad often says the one thing we learn from history is that we never learn anything from history. I’m feeling a heady mixture of pride and contentment that I’ve not let that happen to me again.
I come home renewed, invigorated, revived, ready for life, and with a clutch of new friends. Nicole and I have agreed on a date to meet up, and John asked if we could swap numbers, which I could hardly say no to, but which came with the unsaid caveat that we have friend-zoned each other.
I can’t help remembering that this time last year Davey and I were knee-deep in whatever it was we had together. He’s not going to call. I know that now. He didn’t contact me after he saw me on the platform. I’m not sure if he’s still in London, if he’s moved here permanently, or if he was passing through and is now back in Texas. But I hope, whatever he’s doing, he’s happy. I think about that moment at the train station more often than I should. If I allow myself to really analyze that day, that moment—what it meant…what it didn’t mean—I can’t. I just can’t. I hope he’s happy and healthy, wherever he is now.
Chapter 37
Davey, March
I’m making paccheriwith Sicilian red prawns and fresh arugula. When I say I’m making it, I’m reallymakingit. From scratch. The paccheri pasta is wide and tubular, and chef Marco is teaching me how to roll and form the thick, fresh bands.
The trattoria is tiny, and the comforting smell of wood from the pizza oven emanates all day inside, while most of the seating is outside in the square, surrounded by the pale, sand-colored buildings of Montepulciano. The architect in me salivates over that square, the handmade uniformity of the medieval buildings that glow under the bright Italian spring sunshine. And in the distance, down the hill, tall cypress trees stretch all the way into the horizon. Although I don’t see too much of the view, because I spend most of my days inside the tiny kitchen. I am in my element in here. I’m doing something I love.
“You’re smiling,” Marco says, leaning over my shoulder as I take the small roller and move it over the pasta ribbons, removing it gently and starting on the next. Something as simple as pasta is a real labor of love. How did I not see that before?
I’d been happy before. But it feels like a long time ago. Now that I’m happy again, putting aside thoughts of how sick I might get, whether the cancer may return, where it will strike when it does. If I get a headache for more than a day, does that mean it’sreturned and chosen my brain as its point of reentry? I know I will never stop looking for lumps that shouldn’t be there or for any kind of sign—anything at all. But, honestly, I don’t totally know where to look. So I’m going to be mindful, but I’m not going to let it dominate every waking moment the way it did before. I am lucky to still have waking moments, and I’m doing other things with them now. I no longer feel sorry for myself. I survived. I get to live.
I made friends with a woman from New York who began teaching me Italian. I met her on a little culinary course I found in Rome. Then we went traveling together. She was waiting for her boyfriend to join her later and we buddied up backpacking our way through Italy, saying goodbye when we reached Tuscany. I hadn’t intended to continue through Italy. I don’t really know how long I’m going to spend here. But I’m enjoying myself. I check in with my doctor every couple of months, and I know I have to get blood tests and a scan soon. I know Dr. Khader will tell me when. My newfound sense of adventure has been hard to ignore.You’ve got to live, Davey—do something with that life now: something new, something different.
