‘Why don’t we split into two groups?’ he suggests (quite loudly). ‘Makes a lot of sense.’
‘I’m afraid we can’t do that,’ Maxim says. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy the walk.’
‘I’ve been to Everest base camp,’ Mike tells him. ‘I’m very experienced with much more challenging routes.’
‘We aren’t insured if the group splits up,’ Maxim says firmly. ‘We only have one guide. And unexpected accidents can happen to even the most competent of hikers.’
‘He’s right.’ Judith pats Mike’s arm. ‘My late husband was a very experienced hikerandclimber but he once broke his collarbone falling off a pavement just outside M&S in Guildford.’
‘Right,’ says Mike, floored by either Judith’s story or the fact that she’s retained her hold on his arm and now seems to be almost stroking him.
And off we go.
Leaving the café and walking into bright sunshine and at least twenty-five-degree heat, yet surrounded by Christmas decorations (there’s a huge, beautifully decorated tree right next to the water, plus lots of very tasteful, silvery stars hanging from the building fronts), makes me think suddenly about Jed. Christmases to me should be cold. The only warm-weather ones I’ve ever experienced were in Australia, when we were together. And he is not here now, because we’re getting divorced.
I’m going into the new year as a single woman. It’s weird.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts by Dominic’s voice next to me.
I didn’t actually take in what he said, so I glance up at him to check, and am struck again by just howgorgeoushe is. And, gaaaah, that’s a very bad thing to think when I’ve just been thinking about Jed. Except, it isn’t, for two reasons: I’m not with Jed any more, and also, thinking that Dominic is objectively good-looking means nothing. Like… I think the Princess of Wales is a good-looking woman and I have no desire to leap into bed with her. For example. It’s a purely objective thought. Personality-wise, he’s actually very annoying a lot of the time.
Currently, he’s looking at me like he’s waiting for the answer to a question.
‘Sorry?’ I ask.
‘Shoes?’ He looks down at my Roman sandals. ‘You can’t wear those up Table Mountain.’
Very smugly, I pat my tote. ‘Very solid trainers in here,’ I tell him.
He laughs and says, ‘Nice,’ and Ialmostlike him for a moment. Until he says, ‘But what are you going to do with the bag? And you’re wearing adress.’
‘You can go up a mountain with a bag and a dress,’ I tell him haughtily, and stalk off to find a bench to sit on to change my shoes.
I hope I’m right.
* * *
Within fifteen minutes of beginning the walk I have realised that I wastotallyright about the dress – it’s cotton and not too tight and actually a very good garment for this kind of hike, far better than sweaty Lycra in my opinion – butreallywrong about the bag. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve done a lot of hiking, in different parts of the world; I should know better.
I just didn’t really think wewerehiking today. I kind of thought Table Mountain was right next to the city and that we’d be popping up to the top in a cable car or something. I almost have to admit to myself thatoccasionallya bit of Dominic-style pre-checking of itineraries isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s because it’s an organised tour. I don’t think I’ve ever been on one before; usually I sort everything myself.
The bag is heavy. And getting heavier. It bangs against my side as I walk. The leather’s getting warm too and making my side too hot. Basically, I’d like to chuck it. I can’t, though. In normal, non-hiking times, it’s one of my favourites, plus I need the stuff inside it, plus I don’t have a lot of spare cash at the moment and it would be a big waste of money.
So I’m going to have to continue carrying it. For hours and hours and hours.
I take it from my left shoulder and carry it in my hand for a bit while I do some backwards and forwards circles with my shoulders. Then I move it to my right shoulder.
‘This is juststunningscenery, isn’t it?’ breathes Judith next to me.
‘Yes,’ I agree. It is. It really is. But honestly, right now I’d rather just be back in the hotel room so that I can stop carrying this bloody bag. All the others have backpacks or soft, crossbody bags. I am a complete idiot.
‘Can I carry your bag for a while?’ Dominic’s deep voice right behind me comes as a surprise because I had no idea he was walking so close to me, and I squeak anOh.
Then – with great reluctance – I say, ‘That’s very kind, but no thank you, I’m absolutely fine with it.’ I can’t inflict my stupidity on him and ruinhiswalk.
‘Really? You looked like you were shifting it from side to side quite a lot, like you were finding it annoying. And I’d be very happy to help with it.’
I am, honestly, usually very good at admitting it when I’m wrong. With Dominic, though… He’s just sosmugabout his healthy eating and sensible dressing. He, of course, has come equipped with a small backpack to carry his water (and no doubt guidebook). I don’t want to admit he was right.
