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sniff. My nose is running too for some reason. “Gosh, thanks!” I say. “It doesn’t look like much, but that really hurt!”
    The radio in the van bursts into life and Ricardo runs a reassuring hand casually down my back, stopping just as it touches the top of my arse and then excuses himself and turns and starts to jog up the hill. Behind me I hear the policeman’s and then the steward’s radios chirrup simultaneously and I guess that there’s a reason there are no more cars.
    When I hear Ricardo’s truck start, I step forwardto ask the policeman – now removing the red tape – what’s going on. “Is that it?” I ask.
    He shakes his head. “Accident,” he tells me. “Just after Guillaumes. The road’s blocked.”
    The red van slides past and Ricardo hangs a hairy arm from the window and tells me the same thing, “Accident – I have to go check. Maybe see you later.”
    He gives a little wave and then accelerates down the hill in a plume of overpowering diesel fumes.
    When the policeman starts to pull the tape back across the road, the steward intervenes. “You might as well let him go,” he tells him, pointing at me. “There won’t be anyone through for a while.”
    The policeman freezes, I’m sure considering which of the two options will give him the most pleasure: never seeing me again, or using his power to keep me here. I wonder myself whether I actually want him to let me go, or if I’d rather wait, even till midnight, stuck here with the fabulous fireman.
    The policeman sighs, looks at the bike, then back down the road, and then tosses the words, “Go then, and be quick,” over his shoulder at me.
    I hesitate for a second - the van is now out of sight.
    â€œCan I go south?” I ask. “I might be able to fit through the blockage with the bike…”
    The cop shakes his head and points north. “That way, and be quick. Now or never.”
    â€œOK, OK,” I say, already running for the bike. “Thanks.”
    I slither back down the hill, and with a final glance south, I head on up into the Alps. As I ride, I wonder how long it will be before I can loop back towards Nice. And I wonder what the sexy fireman is doing right now, if he’ll be at all disappointed to see that I have gone.
    I come across a road to Valberg which is high and is going to be cold, but at least it’s in the right direction, so I turn the bars, shift down a gear andhead upwards, bracing myself for the cold to come. To avoid thinking about the cold, which is already piercing, I think about the gorgeous Ricardo and wonder what his girlfriend looks like. I wonder if Ricardo was at the wreckage of my own car crash not a hundred kilometres away and briefly fantasise that maybe he saved my life, but then I’m forced to discount the idea as unlikely. And then I have a thought which shocks me so much that I manage to think about the thought
and
the fact of it shocking me at the same time: that if I ever got the chance to sleep with someone as stunningly seductive as Ricardo that I wouldn’t be able to resist; that, Tom or no Tom, I don’t think I would even
try
to resist. And I realise that despite the fact that I’m in love with Tom (or does this mean that I’m not?) there
are
men out there that are
so
beautiful,
so
masculine, who give off such a smooth, confident, friendly, sexy vibe, that given the choice I would dump Tom in a second. The thought strikes me as so dark, so dank, so disappointing, so
shameful
that I don’t even know where to put it. So I push it away, and decide to think about the cold instead. And boy is it cold.

All About Who?
    It’s five p.m. by the time I get back, and I’m so cold that the only way I can think of to get some heat back into my bones is to have a hot bath. Tom is watching TV – another French game show – but simultaneously