I prepared a charade in two languages to inform Matthew of the good news. He’d be shocked, of course, but I was certain he’d be over the moon, after the initial surprise. I took the Eurostar and went straight to the gallery, in the middle of the day, a Thursday. It was the first time I’d gone to meet Matthew without warning. He so loved giving me surprises, but this time he’d be on the receiving end for once!
A woman in her forties opened the door at the gallery. Elegant, sophisticated, in a Chanel suit. Frosty. A businesslike smile, looking me up and down scornfully as her eye roved over my H&M clothes and my Bata shoes. I asked to see Matthew, but he wasn’t there. Who wanted to know? Thelma – a friend.
‘I see . . .’ the woman replied.
What did she see, exactly?
‘Matthew has many women friends, you know, he’s a very busy man . . .’
I didn’t like this woman’s insinuations about Matthew at all, and, anyway, who was she? As far as I knew, he’d always run the gallery on his own, like the big man he thought he was. She held out her hand and introduced herself, in an English that was both impeccably polite and condescending.
‘Delighted to meet you, Thelma. I’m Deborah. I help my husband out by looking after the gallery when he’s away. Matthew travels a lot. He’s very fond of Paris and Parisian women. I’m not jealous, I assure you. The agreement we made many years ago allows me to live my life as I please, too. But, I must say, Matthew usually has better taste in women. You really are nothing special. Good day, mademoiselle.’
I never saw Matthew again. I never contacted him again.
He never knew I was pregnant. He’d never seen Louis.
He tried to call several times over the weeks following my encounter with his wife. I didn’t respond. He kept trying. One day, I sent him a text: Deborah is very beautiful. You’re a stupid bastard. Don’t ever try to contact me again.
I was three months pregnant.
Nearly thirteen years later, I switched on my computer and did a search for his name. I’d never done that, despite the ease with which the god Google spat out information to anyone who asked. I had forbidden myself to do so; that book must stay closed. It didn’t take long for my search to produce results. Matthew still ran the same gallery, at the same address. How old was he now? Fifty-seven, fifty-eight? I clicked on the Images thumbnail and received a shock. Louis was the spitting image of Matthew, the resemblance was striking. I stared wide-eyed at the photos of recent exhibition openings. Matthew, glass of champagne in hand, broad smile. Matthew, arms folded, tight-fitting suit and salt-and-pepper hair, posing in front of the works of an obscure New York artist. Matthew, still as good-looking. How many other Thelmas had he ensnared? I scrolled down the page. Then I saw her – sure of herself, of her power. Whatever Matthew had got up to, she was still there. Deborah was smiling, Matthew’s arm around her waist.
I suddenly wanted to throw up.
I was thirteen years pregnant. I was going to have to deal with my nausea.
The address was 80 Portobello Road. I could have found my way there blindfolded.
21
Day 2
Reminders
I took an early-morning Eurostar. The Gare du Nord was heaving. I found myself caught up in a school party on its way to London – the kids probably around Louis’s age. My initial reflex was that of the uptight middle-class woman. I sought out the train manager, determined to try to move to a different carriage. And then I had a change of heart. I sat down in my seat. I was at a table with three year-eight kids – class 8D, from the Collège Anatole France in La Roche-sur-Yon. I talked football and Pokémon cards with them, and they were gobsmacked that I was capable of having such a conversation. I showed them the video of me jamming with Maître Gims and earned their lifelong respect. They asked for my autograph. I’d touched their idol, which, by association, made my signature priceless. I didn’t notice the time going past. I’d stopped navel-gazing and it was doing me good.
On arrival at St Pancras, I took a taxi to Notting Hill. I didn’t give the exact address. I needed to walk for a few minutes, to decompress. I didn’t want to turn up right outside Matthew’s gallery; I wanted to watch it first from the outside, before going in. I couldn’t have coped with another encounter with Deborah. The last one was thirteen years ago, but I was still smarting from it.
I stationed myself on the pavement opposite. I’d put on sunglasses and had taken care with my hair and clothes to create a radically different look from the one that Matthew knew. Until the last minute, I wanted to be able to choose whether to go in or not. I didn’t want to risk him taking the initiative, or for him to see me before I’d decided I wanted him to.
He was there. Alone. Poring over his smartphone. I thought he looked old. He had aged more than his online photos had showed, the previous day. I breathed in and breathed out. Three times. Then three more times. I crossed the street and pushed open the door, and an ancient little bell rang. Matthew looked up at me. He blanched. He’d recognized me at once. He muttered my name, and simply said, ‘What are you doing here?’ Then he smiled. I was flung back fifteen years. No, he wasn’t so old. He was still very attractive. I looked down for a moment and asked myself whether Louis had been conceived on that cold floor. Memories came flooding back. Bitter. Beautiful. And terribly vivid.
My mobile vibrated. I ignored it. Not now. I’m busy. I have to tell the father of my child that he has a twelve-year-old son. A superb adolescent who’s the spitting image of him. And he is in a coma. Two days away from a potentially tragic sentence.
I hesitated. Cold sweat ran down my back; I started breathing faster. I suddenly became aware of the cruel absurdity of the situation. What kind of woman was I, for heaven’s sake? Could I really spill out the whole unfiltered story, now? Despite all the hurt Matthew had caused me, could I announce these two things, one on top of the other, after thirteen long years? What did I know of his life now? How would he take it? Maybe he had a heart condition, maybe I’d kill him if I threw all this in his face. Would I be able to look my son in the eyes afterwards?
I leaned against the handle of the glass door. Louis wanted to see his father, just once. I’d seen him. My mission was accomplished. I went hot and cold, I felt my knees about to give way, but they held out. I said nothing. I backed out of the door. Matthew took a few steps forward. I retreated further. My feet reached the pavement of Portobello Road. I ran. A light drizzle misted my face and the sunglasses I was still wearing. Matthew came out into the street and called after me several times. He tried to catch up with me, but I knew he couldn’t leave the gallery unattended and would soon abandon the chase.
My mobile vibrated again. Not now; I’m busy running away from my life, once again.
Eventually, I got on to a bus and allowed myself to be ferried away. Tears ran down my face. The rain beat against the window of the bus, the top deck of which was strangely empty.
I let my phone vibrate, and vibrate again.
The more it vibrated, the more certain I was.
No one had tried to contact me with such urgency for ages. There was only one possibility, one reason why anyone would be so desperate to contact me.
I listened to the last message. It was my mother. She asked me not to listen to the earlier messages and to meet her at the hospital as soon as I could. Her voice was trembling. She’d been crying. There were four earlier messages: three from my mother, and another from a number I knew only too well – the intensive-care unit at the Robert Debré Hospital.
I followed my mother’s advice. I switched off my phone and put it away.
I took Louis’s notebook out of my bag and caressed it. Pressed it to my shattered heart. I turned the pages, one at a time, slowly. Until I reached the last one. I read what my son was asking me to do. The rain was bucketing down, now. I couldn’t hold back the words that formed unaided in my mind. The last page. His last wishes.
I stood up. I gave my telephone to a young woman sitting near m
e. Slightly confused, she thanked me.
Then I got off the bus.
22
Day 1
Avoidance
I didn’t call my mother back. I didn’t call the hospital back.
As long as I hadn’t been given the grim official news, Louis was alive. I decided to do the thing I knew how to do best: avoid.
I could see now with painful clarity how I’ve always been the queen of avoidance. When a situation gets tricky, my natural instinct is to run away. It was my spontaneous reaction. My way of protecting myself from gusts of wind, typhoons and cyclones. The stronger the wind, the stronger my urge to retreat. I need to build myself a temporary shelter to help me weather it. I’m not able to put out to sea in a storm. The swell has to subside a little. I’ve always been panic stricken at the thought of letting others read my feelings, especially when I’m not in control of them. That’s when I resorted to avoidance. I avoided Matthew thirteen years ago, via a simple text message. I avoided Matthew a few hours ago, rather than allow myself to be overwhelmed. I avoided my mother, all those years. I’ve avoided my life and, in fulfilling Louis’s dreams, I’d avoided my own.
Within hours of the end of the countdown, I’d avoided my son’s death by inventing a future.
Avoidance is so much better than the truth.
I wanted to celebrate those last moments of sublime ignorance, allow myself a beautiful, pure night of hope. I wanted to be in a new and very special place. I’d read that there was a hotel in the avant-garde London skyscraper, the Shard. The major milestones in my life had always been celebrated with spectacular views. The Eiffel Tower, when I first met Matthew. The incredible hotel in Tokyo, to launch my son’s Book of Wonders adventure. A high-rise in the shape of a majestic shard would be the perfect conclusion. I treated myself to a royal suite. I put London at my feet.
I ordered a bottle of French wine, from Provence, where my family’s story had begun. Then I sat down at the desk of my unbelievable suite, and set about my unbelievable challenge. The last instructions that Louis had scribbled in his Book of Wonders were as simple to formulate as they were painful and complicated to execute. Especially at this point in my life. Especially at this moment in his life. It took me the entire night.
I avoided my son’s death by gazing at the lights. I laid out my future life on blank sheets of a luxury London hotel’s headed notepaper, and I included Louis in it. Furiously, frantically. One last time.
I remembered good things. I invented joys to come. I leapt into the unknown without a safety net. I laughed, I cried. I asked myself what woman I wanted to be. What I wanted to become – me, Thelma. What footprint I wanted to leave on this planet. I listened to myself. I asked myself what would make me happy. Truly happy. Forgetting everything that had governed my choices until now. Forgetting what society might expect of me. Forgetting what others might expect of me. I visualized it. I wrote it down. I stripped naked and faced myself. For the first time in my entire life. That night, I wrote my Book of Wonders. In the form dictated by Louis: a letter. I projected myself into a fantasy future. Which would probably never exist. Which might exist. It was a night of rare intensity.
At dawn, I looked up. I collected myself.
I avoid, but I always come back. When I’ve regained sufficient strength and courage, I pull myself together and confront. I bite, I fight.
I showered, put on my clothes from the previous day and clambered into a taxi to St Pancras. It was time for me to brave the storm.
Before boarding the train, I bought a disposable camera – the kind that was so common twenty years ago, but is now a vintage item. I took out of my purse the photograph that I always keep with me. In this faded snapshot, Louis is two years old. His face is smeared with chocolate and he’s roaring with laughter. It’s my favourite photo of my son. I held the camera up to the sky, placed the photo of Louis against my cheek, smiled and took a selfie.
The first of a series of 3,650 photos. An excellent idea to begin a last day, my son.
Excerpt from the Book of Wonders
In ten years . . .
– Write a letter to the person I’ll be in ten years’ time, imagining what my life will be like . . . to be opened and reread in ten years to the day – for a laugh.
– Take a photo of myself every day to make a photomontage of my development: ten years in one minute.
23
The Day When . . .
I went straight to the hospital, without letting anyone know I was coming. It would take me twenty minutes or so from the Gare du Nord.
On the way, I hugged tight the envelope containing my writings and Louis’s Book of Wonders. I had hot flushes. I was completely stressed out.
I’d had bouts of optimism during that London night. What if I’d misinterpreted my mother’s message, her grave tone and quavering voice? Could she have been crying for joy? Yes, of course she could. But then why not just say in her message that Louis had woken up? When you’ve got good news, you don’t beat about the bush. You leave an unambiguous message.
Yes, but she’d left three previous messages, which I hadn’t listened to.
Yes, but the hospital had called too, and my mother had ordered me not to listen to the messages.
Yes, but . . . Yes, but . . . Hope. Damned hope. Which never leaves its prey. I had been its willing victim for many long weeks.
I turned into the hospital’s gloomy fourth-floor corridor. The nurses greeted me. I hastened my step. Now I was there, I had to see my son right away.
A nurse intercepted me and barred my path, saying, ‘Wait a moment before you go in, please. Did you speak with Dr Beaugrand on the phone?’
She was blocking my access to the rest of the corridor. I looked at her, flabbergasted. I said no, I hadn’t spoken with Dr Beaugrand, and that of course I was going to go into Louis’s room, straight away. Charlotte came running up and grabbed my arm.
‘Thelma, wait. I have to speak to you first.’
I was gripped by a feeling of sheer dread. I had to know. Now. I freed my arm and ran to Louis’s room.
I opened the door.
I raced over to the bed.
Then, I saw.
24
His Eyes
I saw his eyes.
They were open.
I began to cry.
I threw myself on to him. I hugged him and hugged him.
At first, he didn’t respond.
Then he raised his right hand towards me and tried to articulate something.
I began to laugh manically, with that nervous laughter of someone who’s cracking up. Someone whose nerves have suddenly given way. Someone whose dam has burst. My eyes were so full of tears that I could barely see him. I think the emotion I felt at that moment was as powerful as at his birth. No – even stronger. I was witnessing the second birth of my own child. His eyes were open, he was moving his hand, his arm, he was trying to speak. He was alive. Louis was alive. He’d done it. I’d done it, we’d done it. We were going to be able to carry on, together. Be happy, together. Always.
It was the most beautiful day of my life, I believe. It may sound stupid, said like that, but it was so true. What a beautiful day it was. How beautiful he was. How proud I was of Louis. Louis tried to speak, but I couldn’t understand him. It would come. We had our whole lives for that. I talked to him, too. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you should say what you feel. Always.
‘My darling. I’m so happy. I’m here. I’m listening to you. You’re amazing. You’re so beautiful, my Louis . . .’
I moved away slightly to look at him.
I waited a little, and his face froze.
Then I saw.
His eyes.
I took a step back.
There was terror in his eyes.
My son tried to speak again.
And this time I understood. I understood what he was trying to say.
I understood the despair in that dark look.
&nb
sp; I understood what Charlotte had meant, why she was in a hurry to talk to me before I went into that room.
My son, my love, my king.
Louis had just managed to utter, with great difficulty, three little words that pierced my heart:
‘Who . . . are . . . you?’
25
Alive
I turned around. Mum came over and hugged me. She was crying. She kept saying that Louis was alive.
‘He’s alive. You’ve done it. It’s thanks to you that he’s come back, you can be certain of it. He’ll remember. You wouldn’t let us explain to you beforehand, you’re so stubborn. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree . . . I also came rushing into the room, last night, and got into big trouble with the entire staff. We have to take it slowly, but his memory will come back.’
I was completely at a loss. Why had she left me a message telling me not to listen to the earlier messages?
‘Because you had to come here, pussycat. Everyone had been trying to get hold of you for hours to tell you the news . . . There’s a point where you have to say, “Enough, stop beating about the bush and act,” and how could I have known that you’d follow any of my advice, when you always do exactly as you please? I’m sorry I made a shambles of things, as always . . .’
I looked at her and smiled. Only my mother would talk about making a shambles of things at such a time. I looked up and met Charlotte’s eyes. I asked her if what my mother had just told me was true, and that Louis would get his memory back.
‘Oh, ye of little faith . . .’ Mum retorted, which made us all laugh.
The Book of Wonders Page 13