LITMIR.BIZ

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ego boost. And I liked flirting back. It’s fun. I feel bright and sparky and attractive.

      Momentarily, she considers going to find Jacquie or Jeanette for a gin and a gossip. But she knows this would be inappropriate, unwise even. It is late anyway. And though she gets on well with them, they aren’t exactly close friends, just the closest she has out here, far from home. She looks at the key in the lock. She takes her mobile phone from her pocket. Perhaps she’ll just give Thea a quick call.

      And say what? Was there actually anything to say?

       I haven’t done anything and I have no intention of doing anything. So why do I feel precariously close to the edge of my comfort zone? I’m married after all – and that’s life’s greatest anchor, isn’t it? I’m hardly going to lose my head to some bloody outward bounder. An outward bounder and a cad, no doubt. And I’m out of bounds.

      She brought up the blank screen on her phone and wondered what to text Thea. She tapped in H. Hullo? Help? How are you? Having a great time? Having a harmless flirt? Horny bloke – what’ll I do? She deleted the H and switched off her phone.

      Harmless flirting can’t hurt.

      It depends how secure is the base you’ve come from, Alice. You’re a married woman, not 100 per cent happy. Flirting may well be unwise.

       Pont du Gard

      Paul surreptitiously and adeptly fondled Alice’s backside the next morning as she disembarked the coach on arrival in Nîmes. She was so surprised, all she could do was gawp.

      ‘Ever wondered where your jeans come from?’ he asked her.

      ‘Whistles,’ Alice informed him, appalled that her blush had yet to subside.

      ‘In the nineteenth century, they started producing a hard-wearing cloth right here in Nîmes,’ Paul said casually, ‘then Levi Strauss started importing it to California, this Serge de Nîmes.’

      ‘De Nîmes!’ Alice exclaimed as the penny dropped and Paul helped himself to another furtive feel. ‘Denim!’ At once, Alice justified Paul’s precocious assault on her bottom. He was just trying to make a point. Quite well, actually.

      Paul addressed the group, informing them to meet back at the coach in two hours to head on to the Pont du Gard. ‘You want to get a coffee?’ he asked Alice.

      ‘No, thanks,’ Alice said, practising what Lush preached about playing hard to get. She flounced off with Jeanette and Jacquie; an obvious wiggle to her denimed derrière for Paul’s benefit.

      Alice’s stomach had flipped with an excited butterfly or two at Paul’s lip-licking smile when she boarded the coach later; however it lurched and her spirits plummeted when she caught sight of the Pont du Gard. Was her knowledge of world-famous architectural landmarks really that poor? Had her History A level meant so little? How could she forget Agrippa’s monumental aqueduct? And now, apparently in the name of character building and team bonding, they were going to have to walk its length.

      ‘OK, guys,’ Paul held the coach’s microphone like a rock singer, ‘here she is! 275 metres long, almost 50 metres high and built to transport 20,000 cubic metres of water daily into Nîmes – the Pont du Gard! Watch your step – we’re walking right on the top – there are slabs over the channel where the water once flowed, but there are no railings. My advice? Don’t look down!’

      ‘I don’t do heights!’ Alice hissed at Jeanette and Jacquie. ‘I’m not walking across that – I can’t. Seriously. I feel sick just looking at it.’

      The previous day, Alice hadn’t felt like traipsing up the lower slopes of Mont Saint Victoire because she’d had a cracking hangover and had yet to spy the aesthetic merits of Paul Brusseque. Today, she had been actively looking forward to the day’s activities, to banter and eye contact with Paul. However, she was now genuinely alarmed. She didn’t want to walk this bridge at all. She did not have a head or the guts for heights.

      She had presumed the day would be spent doing things that made her happy, that she could do well at, that would enable her to show off. Like rounders, or being the life and soul. However, now she was faced with a dilemma. If she admitted to her terror and therefore saved herself the trauma of walking across the bridge, she’d thereby deny herself the company of Paul Brusseque. And possibly jeopardize her standing in his affection. But, if she opted for his company and walked the sodding bridge, she’d be a gibbering wreck – which was not a feeling she wanted to feel, nor an image she wanted to project.

      ‘I’m not doing it,’ Anita announced, happily decisive, ‘no way, José! I had an operation on my knee a couple of months ago.’

      ‘I’ll keep you company, I don’t mind,’ said Alice with hastily deployed altruism. ‘I’m staying with Anita,’ she told Paul, mouthing that her colleague was scared.

      ‘Anita, do you need Alice to stay with you?’ Paul asked because he’d already sensed Alice’s anxiety.

      ‘Crumbs, no,’ Anita said, ‘I’ll be fine!’

      ‘Are you sure?’ Paul asked.

      ‘Absolutely,’ said Anita, ‘I have my book to read.’

      ‘Come on, Alice,’ Paul said nonchalantly.

      With her mind working overtime yet unable to hatch an escape route, Alice followed Paul, feeling sick but desperate to hide the fact.

      ‘See up there?’ Paul stopped and came close behind her, pointing ahead so that his inner forearm lightly brushed her cheek. ‘Can you see the phallus? Look between those two arches. See it?’ Alice looked but her nerves were such that she couldn’t make out anything other than the horrible height of it all. ‘The Romans carved it as a symbol against bad luck,’ Paul told her. Alice made a strange noise in her throat and turned it into a laugh she intended to sound breezy and not too fake.

      Alice is 50 metres above the river. And there are no railings. And there are regular, large gaps in the stone. And everyone else apart from Anita is walking across – albeit some more gingerly than others. But they’re all making that journey. Alice can’t. She simply can’t. And now Paul is coming back with an outstretched hand and a sympathetic but strong voice urging her to make that first step. Come on, lady, you can do it, you can.

      Alice takes a step and freezes. She’s going to faint. No, she’s not. First, she’s going to throw up. No, she’s not. She’s not going to hold his hand. She doesn’t want to hold his hand and she doesn’t want to be on this bridge no matter how famous and iconic it is. She’s scared, really terrified.

      ‘Face your fear,’ Paul implores her, ‘come on, hon. Face your fear – and trust me. I’ll take you there. You’ll feel so fucking great. Let’s do it. Go!’

      ‘No, I can’t.’

      ‘Oh, you can – you’re a strong woman. You can do it.’

      ‘I don’t want to.’

      ‘I want you to.’

      ‘I don’t care what you want!’ Alice declares, suddenly absolutely sure of what she wants. ‘I can’t and I don’t want to and I’m not going to do it. All right?’

      Cautiously, she turns away, tears of fear, humiliation and relief catching in her throat. She’s shuffling away gingerly; hating herself, hating Paul and his stupid motivational speak, hating herself for wanting to impress him, hating herself for being too weak to. Face her fears? Why the hell should she do that? Just so she can impress some brawny Australian tour guide? Perhaps owning up to one’s fears, admitting to one’s limitations, is a strength, not a weakness anyway. She’s afraid of heights, everybody. Compris? She’s happy to be afraid of heights. She loves her vertigo, OK?

      ‘Don’t give up, Alice,’ Paul has come after her again, ‘you’re made of stronger

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