Unravelled Read online

  “True,” I mumbled, while thinking that Nicola really didn’t know men very well.

  “You’re so naive!” Angie scoffed. “Of course he wants to do the nasty with her. Why do you think he’s inviting her away for the weekend—for her great conversational skills?”

  “Gee, thanks,” I snapped.

  “Sorry.” Angie tried to backtrack. “I didn’t mean that you don’t have great conversational skills. You do.”

  “No, that’s fine,” I said dismissively. “Nice bracelet, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” she said, haughtily, fingering the string. “It was a gift from Thad. It protects me from the evil eye.”

  “The evil eye?” Sophie asked.

  “Like, other people’s negative thoughts and stuff.” It appeared to be working against mine, because she continued, unfazed. “And it reminds me not to have negative thoughts about other people . . . so I can live a more positive, fulfilling existence.”

  Oh brother. I simply couldn’t take another detailed account of Angie and Thad’s freaky belief system, nor did I want to further discuss Jim’s sexual expectations. I turned to my tried-and-true subject change. “So Nic, how are the wedding plans coming along?”

  Nicola’s eyes darted nervously toward Sophie. Damn! In my self-absorbed state, I had completely forgotten about her untimely exit last week when Nicola was trying on bridal headresses. “Oh, fine,” she said, dismissively, staring intently at her mauve stitches.

  There was an awkward silence as we all scrambled for a light and breezy discussion topic. I was just about to ask Angie if she’d enjoyed any more fantastic lighthouse sex when Sophie said, “Look . . . I want to apologize for last week.” She turned to Nicola. “I don’t know why I got so emotional when you were trying on wedding veils. I guess I was just overwhelmed with disappointment about how my marriage has turned out. But I’m sure yours will be wonderful, and I want you to feel comfortable talking about it around me.”

  “No, it was insensitive of me,” Nicola cried. “I’m always going on and on about my dress, my hair, the most special day of my life, blah blah blah. I’m sure you’re all bored to tears hearing about it.”

  “Not at all,” Sophie said, reaching to squeeze Nicola’s hand. “I want to hear all the details. I was premenstrual. It was a moment of weakness. I’m fine now.”

  “Well, thank you,” Nicola said, smiling at her. “But even I’m getting tired of talking about it. How’s Flynn? He must be getting so big. And that hat is going to be so cute on him!”

  “He’s fine.” Sophie shrugged. “He’s been remarkably unaffected by all the tension between Rob and me.”

  “Things haven’t improved, then?” Angie asked, leaning forward to cut a piece of brie.

  “No,” Sophie said, her voice tinged with sadness. “They’re worse than ever. I can feel myself emotionally checking out of the relationship.”

  “You mustn’t!” Nicola cried. “You have to fight for your marriage! You can’t give up.”

  “Have you thought of counselling?” I suggested.

  Sophie gave a humourless laugh. “Rob would actually have to take time off work to go to counselling. He’d never do it.”

  Angie leaned over and patted Sophie’s knee. “I’m sure he would if he realized how upset you are.”

  “It’s actually . . . It’s actually a bit complicated,” Sophie said, nervously, reaching for her glass of wine. We all remained silent as she took a long drink. I, for one, was dying to know what the complication was, but pretended to focus on my knitting. I didn’t want to push her. Finally, she put down her glass and said, “I may as well tell you. I—I’ve been developing feelings for someone else.”

  “Oh god!” Nicola gasped, reaching for her own glass of wine.

  “I didn’t intend for it to happen,” Sophie continued. “It just sort of snuck up on me, but now... now I’m not sure I even want my marriage to work.”

  “Are you sleeping with this guy?” Angie asked.

  Nicola nearly choked on her mouthful of wine, hurriedly holding a napkin to her lips. I guess it was a lot for a technical virgin to take in.

  “No, no,” Sophie assured us. “There’s nothing physical going on. I mean, he doesn’t even know I have these feelings.”

  “So . . . maybe it’s just a crush?” I said, hopefully. “Maybe it’ll pass?”

  “It won’t pass,” Sophie replied, morosely. “These are real feelings.” She stopped to take another drink. “I think . . . I might be falling in love with this guy.”

  “No, Sophie!” Nicola the Pure cried out. “What about Flynn? You can’t break up his family!”

  “Let’s not jump the gun,” Angie said. “Is this guy even interested in you?”

  “I—I don’t know. Sometimes I think he is, but then other times . . . I just don’t know.”

  Angie continued, “Where did you meet him?”

  “At a . . . uh . . . place that I go to.”

  “A bar?” Nicola said, sounding incredibly judgmental. “You can’t leave your husband for a guy you met in a bar.”

  “Not a bar,” Sophie said. “Where we met is irrelevant. What matters is that I feel like I want to pursue something with this guy. I can’t stop thinking about what we might have together if . . . if I were available.”

  “Oh no,” Nicola said quietly, absently placing her scarf in its bag. Sophie’s admission was upsetting, of course, but Nicola was acting like Sophie’s mystery man was her own fiancé, Neil.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, my own scarf sitting forgotten in my lap.

  “I don’t know. I’m open to advice.”

  “Well,” Angie began knowledgeably, “first, you need to find out if this guy—what’s his name?”

  “Uh . . . I’d rather not say.”

  “Okay, if this guy has feelings for you, too. It would be stupid to leave Rob only to find out that the guy’s not interested.”

  “True.” Sophie nodded her head. “So how do I find out?”

  “Next time you’re at the place that you go where you see the guy, you’re going to have to lay it on the line,” Angie said.

  “I can’t!” Sophie cried, covering her face.

  “You have to,” Angie retorted.

  “No she doesn’t.” Nicola jumped in. “She should stop going to the place where she sees the guy. She should talk to Rob about her feelings before it’s too late.”

  “It’s already too late,” Sophie cried. “I really care about him—the guy.”

  “Then you need to tell the guy,” Angie said. “And you need to do it soon. If you find out that the guy’s not interested, then you can stop going to the place where you see him and focus on your marriage.”

  I addressed Sophie. “But how can you have such strong feelings for the guy already? I mean, I don’t know what you do at this place where you go, but have you really had a chance to talk to him? Are you just physically attracted to the guy, or do you really know him?”

  Angie said, “But what if the guy is interested? Are you really prepared to leave Rob for him? Is he prepared to be a father to Flynn?”

  “Flynn has a father!” Nicola cried. “This guy will never be Flynn’s real father!”

  “Stop!” Sophie cried. “Enough with the speculation!” She buried her face in her hands for a long moment. When she lifted it and spoke, her voice was hushed. “The place where I see him is here, at the stitch ’n bitch club.”

  Three jaws dropped open in shock.

  “And the guy... is Martin.”

  “Gay Martin?” I shrieked. “You’re falling in love with gay Martin?” So I hadn’t imagined her flirting with him!

  “He’s not gay!” Sophie cried. “Why do you say he’s gay?”

  “Because he is gay!” Nicola said.

  “No he isn’t,” Angie countered. “What makes you think he’s gay?”

  “His gayness!” I screeched. “He wears nice clothes. He always smells good. He’s in a knitting circle
!”

  “Knitting does not make you gay,” Angie said. “Brad Pitt knits.”

  “A lot of men take good care of themselves these days. He’s a metrosexual,” Sophie explained.

  Nicola shook her head. “He seems gay to me.”

  “Me too,” I seconded. “And I’ve known him the longest.”

  Sophie was sounding a bit huffy. “Has he ever told you he’s gay? Have you ever seen him with another man?”

  “Well . . . no, but I’ve never seen him with a woman either. And remember when we were talking about our past relationships? He said his last partner was four years younger than him.”

  “Partner’s not a gay term. Lots of people call their significant others their partners,” Sophie retorted.

  “He said a name, too!” Angie said excitedly. “What was it?”

  “Terry,” Sophie replied glumly.

  “Well,” Nicola said, “I don’t mean to be cruel, Sophie, but Martin’s never seemed particularly interested in you, in that way. I mean, I’m sure he likes you very much, but just as a friend.”

  “I don’t know...” Angie said. “I’ve sensed a little chemistry there.” Sophie blushed and looked positively gleeful. “He does help you with your knitting a lot.”

  “He helps us all a lot!” I cried. “He’s the best knitter in the group.” I could feel colour rising in my cheeks and my pulse was beginning to pound. I wasn’t sure why I was so intent on proving Martin’s homosexuality. Was it because I didn’t want Sophie to chuck away her marriage for a gay guy? Or was it because I didn’t want to admit the possibility that Martin was straight, and just found me about as sexually attractive as Kathy Bates?

  “Gay or straight,” Nicola said to Sophie, “I don’t think you should pursue anything with him. My parents had a very solid and loving relationship, and I really think that is the foundation that allowed me to become the person I am today. Flynn deserves to have that, too.”

  Sophie remained mute but looked like she might cry. Angie gave her knee a comforting squeeze. “Well, whatever you choose to do, one thing’s for certain: We’ve got a mission, girls. We’ve got to find out if Martin likes girls or boys!”

  Sixteen

  THE DRIVE TO Whistler was spectacular. Well, it wasn’t all spectacular. We did have to navigate mile upon mile of strip malls and retail outlets before we hit the border. Then, we spent the next hour or so cruising past acres of flat, scrubby farmland. But once we reached Vancouver, made our way through the lush Stanley Park Causeway, and then on to the treacherous Sea-to-Sky Highway, the scenery became breathtaking. I pushed all thoughts of Colin, Sophie, and Martin’s ambiguous sexuality to the back of my mind as Jim’s car gripped the steep, winding mountain road with ease. I’d never really been into cars before, but then, I’d never been in a car like this. Its quiet power was almost a turn-on! Or maybe it was just Jim sitting a few inches away from me.

  As we travelled, the stereo played. When Jim had first withdrawn his CD case, I had feared he was going to plug in The Eagles or The Doobie Brothers or some other ancient band that would only highlight the generation gap between us. But his selections ranged from unfamiliar but catchy jazz to the Gorillaz. As with everything he did, I was suitably impressed.

  While spring had touched the city below, in the mountain village of Whistler, it was decidedly still winter. The highway became slushy and lined with deep snowbanks. It was also lined with hitchhikers, all dressed in their snow gear and carrying skis or snowboards. As shops and condominiums rose up beside us, Jim eased the BMW down the road, eventually taking a right at an intersection. “I came skiing here a few Christmases ago,” he said, explaining his familiarity with the town. “You’re going to love it.”

  When we pulled up in front of the Fairmont Chateau Whistler, I couldn’t help but gasp. Nestled at the base of the spectacular mountains, the massive hotel looked like a castle. “I thought you’d like it,” Jim said, giving my knee a squeeze.

  “It’s incredible,” I replied, sounding positively awestruck. I suddenly felt like an unsophisticated hick who’d never stayed anywhere nicer than a Motel 6. “Quaint,” I added, affecting a slightly blasé tone.

  The interior was equally as impressive, successfully combining rustic charm and sumptuous luxury. I sat in an overstuffed armchair by the enormous stone fireplace as Jim checked us in. I was tired from the long drive, but filled with a kind of nervous elation. The next few minutes were pivotal in the future of our relationship: the moment when Jim returned and said, “your room” or “ours.” Angie’s words rang in my ears: “He’s going to want some. I guarantee it.” I didn’t really have a problem with giving him some—it was more the privacy issue I was concerned about. If we shared a room, I would eventually have to use the toilet. But I’d never be able to go with Jim only a few feet away from me! I mean, what if I farted, or made some other embarrassing noise? Well, there was really only that one embarrassing noise, but it would definitely kill the romantic mood. What if I heard Jim fart? How would I feel about that? It was a completely natural bodily function, but it was hardly a turn-on. Maybe if I turned the TV up really loud—

  Jim approached, interrupting my reverie. As my heart pounded audibly, he handed me a key card. “We’re on the same floor but a few rooms apart. They didn’t have anything closer.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, relief flooding through me. Now I could fart with abandon! Not that I was feeling particularly gassy, but it was nice to have the option.

  Alone in my small but elegant accommodation, I showered and reapplied my makeup. Jim and I were meeting for dinner in the hotel’s dining room at seven. As I carefully applied mascara, I thought about what this trip meant to our relationship. Up until now, we had been casually seeing each other, but a weekend away at a romantic ski resort was definitely taking things to the next level! Who knew the emotional strides we could take spending two days alone together in a foreign country? And separate rooms didn’t necessarily preclude us from having intimate relations. It just preserved the romance and mystery.

  At 7:05 P.M., I joined Jim at a cozy table in the hotel’s fine dining room. “Hi,” I said huskily, as I approached.

  Jim’s eyes lit up at the sight of me and he stood to pull out my chair. “Wow,” he whispered into my ear. “You’re breathtaking.”

  “Oh...thanks,” I giggled shyly, pleased that my efforts were being appreciated. I always felt confident when I wore my black scoop-neck top, and the large gold hoop earrings I’d added made me feel sexy. Jim wore a white, button-down shirt open at the neck to reveal just a peek of manly chest hair. He looked incredibly handsome.

  As I sipped the full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon Jim had ordered, I experienced a déjà vu sensation. While this relationship couldn’t have been more different from the one I’d shared with Colin, I recognized that familiar feeling of comfort and belonging. Of course, these were still early days, but I could sense a definite shift in our relationship dynamic. Despite the fluttering in my stomach when he looked at me, and the fact that we’d had little physical contact, it was happening. We were on our way to becoming a couple. I could feel it.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Jim said, his eyes twinkling slyly.

  “Oh?” I set my wineglass down, my hands a little shaky with anticipation. Jim must have bought me a gift to celebrate this new phase of coupledom.

  “I hope you like it,” he said gleefully. Despite his maturity and sophistication, he looked positively boyish. “And I hope I’m not being presumptuous . . .”

  Presumptuous? What was he going to give me: jewellery? A key to his house? Leather thong underwear?

  “I’ve booked you a private ski lesson tomorrow morning.”

  Keep smiling. Don’t look disappointed. Say something that sounds excited. “Great!” I managed. “Fun!”

  “When you told me how disastrous your last experience was, I knew you had to try again.”

  I had told the story about walking down Mount Baker carryin
g my skis to be funny, not as a cry for help. “Right.”

  “I’m going to be tied up at the conference all day, so I wanted to make sure you were having a good time.”

  “You’re so thoughtful.” Didn’t he know the hotel had an excellent spa? A movie channel? And room service? I decided to attempt an escape. “But I wanted to sit in on some of the lectures. I’m actually quite interested in environmental sustainability.” I wasn’t, really—although I did think it a very noble cause. But sitting in a comfortable conference room, sipping coffee and snacking on muffins had to be better than skiing!

  “That’s really sweet of you to say,” Jim said, “but I’m not buying it. Even I find some of the speeches boring.” He reached across the table for my hand. “You’re in one of the most beautiful places on Earth. I want you to remember this trip as an amazing experience. Spend the day on the mountain, not cooped up in some conference room.”

  “Okay,” I agreed weakly. “I’ll go skiing. It’ll be fun.”

  And it was fun. My instructor, Greg, was an excellent teacher, although he wasn’t the blond, blue-eyed Nordic god I had envisioned. He was a malnourished twenty-year-old from Melbourne, who gave off the unmistakable odour of pot. I’d heard that it was practically legal to smoke pot in Canada, but I highly doubted it was legal to smoke pot and then teach someone how to careen down an icy mountain with a pair of sticks strapped to their feet. But Greg was so charming and enthusiastic, and he did seem to know what he was doing. And this time, I didn’t give up and take my skis off. This may have been due to the fact that Greg, sensing my fear, kept me on the bunny hill for the entire four-hour lesson. Nonetheless, I felt a real sense of accomplishment when I finally returned my rented skis, boots, and ski suit, and hobbled out of the shop. All the fresh air and exercise had proved invigorating. I decided to head into the village for a little shopping.

  Two hours later, I returned to my hotel room carrying several shopping bags. I’d bought myself an overpriced, but gorgeous, fitted black cardigan. And really, with the exchange rate, it probably wasn’t that expensive. I’d also bought four packs of homemade maple fudge to take back to my knitting circle. And, of course, a thank-you gift for Jim was in order. As close as I felt we were becoming, it was evident just how little I knew about him when it came to selecting his gift. What did you buy the sophisticated bachelor who had everything? What kind of gift said: Thank you for the ski holiday; not: I am rapidly becoming obsessed with you and think it’s time we started sharing a toothbrush? I finally settled on a black ski toque, emblazoned with the Whistler logo. It was trivial enough not to be creepy, and yet still relevant enough to be thoughtful. And I sincerely hoped that perhaps he could wear it on a future ski vacation together. Four or five more ski lessons and I felt confident I’d be able to hit the black diamond runs.