It was odd being with Debbie when neither of us had a laptop or mobile, neither of us had anything very pressing to do and – I realised – neither of us was in a bad mood. To be honest, I was feeling distinctly nervous and I think maybe Debbie was, too. Once Fergus had gone back to doing what he did best – ignoring the customers – and we were effectively alone, though, it became surprisingly easy. OK, so it wasn't the Great Conversation we both knew we needed to have – we actually talked mostly about the bar itself, its all too apparent origins as a sheep byre, the many, many climbing photographs on the walls, that sort of thing. But we talked, that was the point. We laughed at each others' jokes, we provided openings and leads for new subjects and generally felt comfortable with each other. I swear it took over an hour to finish that first drink.
And, when Debbie got up to order another, glancing out of the window as she did so, I saw her properly smile for the first time in months. Turning to follow her gaze, I saw that the sun had come out, and a perfect rainbow, seemingly ending right in the centre of the valley, was framed exactly in the centre of the glazing.
"Right," I dais, standing. "Sod the drinks – grab the dog, we're going for the walk.
Thirty seconds later we were outside, the sudden sunshine more than making up for the persistent drizzle, and heading up the path towards the Pikes. And maybe that was the key. As we got higher, and the ground – slippery in the rain – got steeper, we started talking. Really talking.
I think the fact that we were no longer looking at each other actually helped.
++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ 
By the time we got to the tarn which nestled under the summits and stopped for a cigarette and some food, things had begun to get a lot clearer. Surprisingly, so, from my point of view – it might sound pathetic and male ... typically insensitive male, to some – but Debbie had made me realise, in a way I'd never really considered before, how threatened I'd been by her various dalliances. Or by her emergent aspects of her sexuality ... or maybe just by the fact that she seemed to be sleeping with everyone but me. Conversely, but simultaneously, I was forced to confront just how Debbie must have felt – knowing that we'd only met in the first place because I'd slept with Carla, the project's initial backer, and then knowing that I'd gone on to sleep with Niusha and Kath. All of whom, with typical feminine logic, she considered to be vastly more intelligent, attractive and generally desirable than her. Which was, of course, utterly ridiculous and I told her so. At length.
Except, of course, that I didn't. I actually talked to the dog, telling him what an idiot she was. Which was fair enough, given that she done exactly the same when she was telling him what a prat I was.
The irony that the dog belonged to Kath – the one person we'd both slept with – was not lost on either of us.
++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ 
We sat for quite a while on our separate boulders, dog sprawled between us, until the rain set in again with a vengeance and was nothing else to do but head back down as quickly as possible.
Which descent – as Kath or Rosie or whoever had predicted – was ... impressive. In fact, what was usually a stiff but passable path was now mainly underwater, the cascades awesome in their power and noise. I could see Debbie getting really into it – the raw beauty of the scene, particularly when the sun came out again – another rainbow – and, well, the gob-smacking beauty of it all. 
Nonetheless, I was a little concerned – fit and competent as Debbie was, she had little experience of these sort of conditions, while I had never previously had to shepherd a by now hyper active labrador at the same time as supporting a companion. It would, I thought, be just like life if I managed to kill the woman just when things seemed to be getting back on track.
Not that that was how it worked out at all, of course.
++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ 
In retrospect, of course, I should have seen it coming. I mean, I knew that the path crossed the beck – sorry, the raging torrent – three times and only the bottom two were bridged. Or had been when last I'd been here.
In any case, it was a bit disconcerting to see the expression on Debbie's face when we came to the 'wild' crossing – which was simply a roaring mass of white water ... even if I knew there was relatively easy way to cross. She went very pale, for a moment, then – what can I say – made an obvious decision to trust me. I felt quite honoured, to be honest – and more than a little responsible.
So, to prove a point, I did the crossing first with the dog – who appeared to be having the time of his life – and found it wasn't too difficult, provided you took care about the sheer force of the water. And then went back in, half way across, to help Debbie over. Or, to be more accurate, to offer her a little reassurance – a hand to hold, literally.
Well. Again, in retrospect, I think I might have been a bit distracted by that simple physical contact – our first in months. Anyway, I stepped back onto solid ground, pulled Debbie with me and she sort of stumbled – pushing me slightly off balance. Only, when I went to reposition a foot I found a dog directly under where I wanted to put it. So I started to fall over.
And that's when I realised that my other foot was wedged between two rocks. Which was a bit of a problem given that, while walking boots are pretty good at protecting ankles, said protection does not, really, extend as far as the knee.
In this case, I basically did a more or less 180-degree turn before my foot broke free – and after a big pop that sounded horribly like tendons or something giving up the ghost – and I collapsed in the proverbial heap. And the dog started to lick my bloody face.
Pushing the thing away, I saw Debbie looking very frightened above me, so I thought some reassurance was in order.
"Well," I said, ignoring the screaming agony as best I could, "just as well that happened on the safe side of the difficult bit ..."
++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ 
We did get down, of course – Debbie being seriously in acting more or less as a crutch, the dog being a complete pain ... except to add a welcome touch of absurdity to the situation.
Eventually, we made it back down to the Old Hotel and into the bar – Fergus looking completely underwhelmed by my predicament – where Debbie promptly bought me a large scotch. And one for herself – the difference being that she drained hers at a gulp.
Christ, I thought, she must have been really scared – so I gave her a big hug, as best I could, and pointed out that we'd never been in any real danger and that The Knee, although now considerably swollen, was probably not seriously injured. Indeed, it was now a lot less painful – unless I moved – although that might have been more down to habituation than any immediate recovery.
Still a bit of a bummer that we'd missed the last bus back down the valley, though.
++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ 
So we had another drink – and then eventually shuffled our way out to the payphone where Debbie propped me up while I made a variety of calls.
I got hold of Kath, first – I think somehow I held her responsible for our being here in the first place – catching her at Rosie's, but apparently the landrover had some unspecified mechanical problem, so she couldn't help. Then I called Gareth at the office but he wasn't all that co-operative, either. Which was a bit of a piss off, to be honest, the sound of female laughter in the background not exactly improving my mood. So I tried my best Boss voice, pointed out that we were kind of stuck up here, that I couldn't move, let alone walk eight kilometer down the valley. It didn't have quite the effect I was looking for.
"Well, yes, Dave ... but you're stuck in a bloody hotel, mate, so it shouldn't be too huge a problem?" And then he rang off, even as the laughter reached hysterical levels.
I knew Debbie, supporting me while I made the call, must have been able to hear both sides of the conversation as she was smiling oddly when I put the phone down, gave her the gist of the exchange. After which she shrugged, muttered something about it being a point, and, propping me up in the bar in passing, went off to enquire about rooms.
When she came back, she had what I can only describe as a twinkle in her eye.
"Its strange," she said, visibly restraining a laugh, "but they do have a room. Only one room, as it happens – which is a double. With a four poster bed." She paused.
"Oh, and someone has already paid for a bottle of champagne to go with it ..."
As the significance of this dawned on me – and we both started to laugh out loud and met in a too long delayed hug – I managed to get together my last coherent sentence of the day, ignoring the pain from my so unexpectedly injured knee.
"You were wrong earlier on, you know," I said. "Those two aren't bitches at all."
"They're fucking witches ..."

