A Year and a Day

by Isabelle Broom

  Megan closed her eyes and tried to picture what it would be like to be Ollie’s girlfriend, to wake up with him by her side every day, as she had done here in Prague. To kiss him whenever she wanted to and bask in the warm glow of his love for her. Then she switched places and pictured herself as Ollie, trying to navigate a path towards happiness with her. She who was so consumed by ambition, screwed up by distrust and crippled by the fear of letting him down. It wasn’t Ollie who she didn’t love enough, it was herself.

  ‘I can’t,’ she told him, folding her arms to signal that the subject was closed. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  It was agonising to stand there and watch the disintegration of his features as he realised what she was saying, that there was no hope for them and that everything they’d felt for each other over the past few exquisite days had all amounted to nothing. Megan knew she would never be able to forgive herself.

  This time when Ollie started to walk away, she didn’t follow him, and when he reached the path leading back down the hill he paused, eventually turning again to face her.

  ‘I’m going back to the hotel to check on Sophie,’ he said. ‘I just need some time on my own, away from you. I need to get my head straight.’

  She nodded, biting hard on her lip to stop herself from sobbing in front of him. Ollie looked for a moment like he was going to say something else, but instead he just gazed at her for what felt like an age, before shaking his head and disappearing from view. Megan waited until she could no longer hear the sound of his shoes on the frozen gravel before she let the rest of her tears fall, then angrily wiped them off her cheeks as soon as they appeared. This was all her own fault – she had no right to be feeling sorry for herself.

  She didn’t want to take the same path down the hill as Ollie, so she wandered around the deserted park looking for an alternative route, her feet turning to ice inside her boots as the snow soaked through the gaps between the stitches and glue. She wished there was someone she could call who would tell her what to do and make her feel better – but she couldn’t think of a single soul. Her friends were all exasperated by the subject of herself and Ollie, and she couldn’t imagine her mum having much sympathy either.

  She thought fleetingly of Hope, who had been so sweet to her when they’d spoken about Ollie the other night. She wondered where in the city she and Charlie were, and what they were getting up to. Then she pictured Sophie, so small and unobtrusive, yet so sure of her love for her fiancé, Robin. Ollie had said he was going to check on her, and Megan realised guiltily that she hadn’t even thought about the younger girl since the morning. She had been so ill, collapsing in front of them and everything, and Megan had been too self-absorbed to even care. What a total bitch she had become.

  When had it happened? she wondered, kicking a part-collapsed snowman so that his head flew up into the cold air. When had she become more important than everyone else? Why did Ollie even like her, let alone love her? How could he love someone like her? She’d taken advantage of how he felt, that’s what she’d done. She’d wanted him and she’d known he would oblige, but she hadn’t thought about what it would mean to him. She hadn’t just let him down, she’d let herself down.

  Slowly realising that she was never going to get very far by trundling around in circles in the snow, Megan returned to the path they’d taken earlier and made her way out of the park, finding the steps down a lot less work than they had been coming up. More clouds had crept along the Vltava River and the sun was beginning to hang heavily in the sky. The city was bathed in a strange yellow glow, as if someone had turned a giant dimmer switch down, and the green-topped towers of the Church of St Nicholas had been turned the colour of sludge in the approaching dusk.

  Stopping to take in the view halfway down the steps, Megan took a deep breath, trying to absorb everything that she was seeing. She wanted her eyes to find every individual red roof tile, every curl of chimney smoke, every dark spire and flicker of light against water. Sometimes the enormity of the world exhausted her – there was so much to see and not enough time in which to see it. She knew she must accept that some corners of the world would always remain nothing more than a blur to her, but if she had her way then she’d halt time altogether. Perhaps it was being here in Prague, with all these clocks at every turn, that made her so aware of time passing.

  Instead of lifting her camera and capturing the view in front of her, Megan held it out at arm’s-length and made herself stare into the dark mirror of the lens, pressing the shutter release and holding it down. When she’d made her way back down to street level, she ventured straight into the nearest bar and ordered herself a cup of hot grog with honey, which she clasped with both hands until the feeling started to come back into her fingers.

  The taste of it was sharp, the smell fragrant, but it hit her belly with the required amount of fire to bolster her mood and close the lid on all the conflicting emotions that were busy tying her guts into knots. The alcohol slowed the race of her heart and soothed the corners of her mind, and Megan found that she was again able to breathe without it hurting.

  She chose a seat next to a window and picked up her camera to examine the photograph she’d just taken, searching her own face for signs. Of what, she wasn’t quite sure, but all she found in her eyes was sorrow. Her skin was blotchy from where she’d rubbed away her tears with the scratchy wool of her gloves, and her lips were beginning to crack from exposure to the cold air. Days of indulging in dehydrating alcohol had deepened the lines around and in between her eyes, and across the part of her forehead not obscured by her hat. Her hair was tatty-looking, the ends frayed, and her mouth was downturned at its edges. There was no joy on her face, no love. What there seemed to be an abundance of was regret, sadness and a real weariness that Megan hadn’t realised she was feeling. She was worn out, both physically and emotionally. It was, quite literally, written all over her face.

  She sipped her grog and grimaced as the medicinal liquid hit the back of her throat and burnt a path down towards her stomach. She should get up and go back to the hotel, find Ollie and beg him to forgive her, tell him she was sorry. But she didn’t move, she couldn’t move, and the minutes drifted past in a blur. When her phone suddenly buzzed into life on the table in front of her, she almost jumped out of her seat.

  It was Ollie. He’d forgiven her. He must be calling to make amends. Snatching up her phone, she began babbling apologies before he could get a word in, and only stopped when she realised he was actually shouting at her.

  ‘What? What is it?’ she gasped.

  ‘We need your help,’ Ollie said, the fear horribly apparent in his voice. ‘It’s Sophie. Something’s happened. At the hotel. Where are you?’

  Megan felt her heart begin to clatter once more against her ribcage.

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  43

  The light was beginning to draw in by the time Hope led Annette back to the hotel. They’d spent the afternoon exploring as much of Prague as they could reach, but eventually, the lure of a hot bath became too much to resist – especially as Hope was convinced it was going to snow. She had told Annette all about Megan, Ollie and Sophie, and how the latter’s fiancé should have arrived by now. If they camped out in the hotel bar for long enough, she told her daughter, they’d be bound to bump into everyone.

  ‘What will you tell them about Charlie?’ Annette asked, as they took off their coats, hats and scarves and settled themselves at a table close to the door.

  Hope shuffled in her seat. ‘The truth. If the past few months have taught me anything, it’s that the truth is always the best option.’

  Annette smiled. ‘Well, if that’s the case, then the truth is I really fancy a cocktail. How about you?’

  Hope grinned and picked up a menu. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  They were on their second round of multi-coloured rum concoctions when Ollie appeared in the doorway. Hope took one look at his face and leapt to her feet.

  ‘What’s
the matter, love?’

  Ollie had been staring straight at them, but it seemed to take him a few moments to register that it was her.

  ‘Sorry, I …’ He stopped, running a hand through his hair. ‘Have you seen Sophie?’

  ‘Not since the day before yesterday.’ Hope paused. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘She was ill.’ He faltered for a second as he caught sight of Annette, frowning in confusion.

  ‘This is my daughter, Annette,’ Hope explained. ‘She … Charlie … It’s a long story.’

  ‘Oh. Hi.’ Ollie raised a hand and Annette waved shyly back.

  ‘You were saying about Sophie?’ Hope prompted. Ollie looked upset then, and she felt bubbles of panic begin to inflate in her chest.

  ‘She fainted on the Charles Bridge yesterday.’ He sighed and looked over his shoulder into the reception area. ‘I brought her back here and told her to get some rest, but I haven’t seen her since. I just went to check on her and she’s not in her room.’

  ‘Fainted?’ Hope was shocked. ‘We waited for you all in here last night, Charlie and I, but nobody showed up. I assumed she’d made other plans.’

  ‘I should have checked on her myself,’ Ollie admitted, suddenly looking sheepish. ‘But me and Megan, we …’ He stopped, obviously realising from the look on Hope’s face that he didn’t need to explain further.

  ‘What if she fell in the shower or something?’ he said, fear grasping him. ‘I knew she wasn’t quite right. I should have done more. I was so preoccupied.’ He paused again and looked down at Hope’s hand, which was clasped around his arm.

  ‘Don’t go blaming yourself,’ she soothed. ‘I’m sure she’s fine. Her fiancé was due to arrive today, so maybe she’s just off somewhere with him.’

  Ollie pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. Something just doesn’t feel right. It’s been niggling at me all day. I came back to check on her because I just had this sense, this feeling that something was wrong – and now she’s not here.’

  ‘Where’s Megan?’ Hope asked now, and Ollie visibly blanched.

  ‘Out taking photos somewhere,’ he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

  ‘Did you two have a row?’ she guessed.

  ‘Not really a row.’ He sighed again. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Come and sit down for a bit,’ she suggested, steering him towards a chair. ‘We can keep an eye on the door in case Sophie comes back.’

  Ollie collapsed into his seat. He looked utterly defeated, and Hope raised her eyebrows at Annette. The sky beyond the windows was a dark denim blue, and Hope shivered as if she could feel the cold evening air on her skin. It wasn’t nice to think of Sophie out there, her frail body no match for the freezing temperature, and she was unnerved by how worried and agitated Ollie seemed to be.

  A dark Czech beer arrived and he drank half of it in one long gulp as Annette explained how she had come to be in Prague.

  ‘So, Charlie’s already left?’ he asked, wiping beer froth off his upper lip.

  Hope nodded.

  ‘I really hope the two of you work things out,’ he said. ‘It’s obvious how much he cares about you.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ Hope told him, glancing at Annette. ‘There’s a lot to consider.’

  Ollie looked up. ‘Is there? It all seems pretty simple to me. If two people care about each other, they should be together. It should be easy.’

  ‘If only it was,’ she agreed, knowing that what he was really talking about was his own situation.

  ‘You know, you should do what makes you happy,’ she told him, feeling horribly disloyal to Megan. ‘If Megan can’t make you happy, then you need to move on for your own sake.’

  He shook his head, his sadness palpable. ‘I know, but the thought of not seeing Meg or talking to her …’ He took a deep breath and pushed his glass forward a fraction. ‘I don’t know if I can cut her out of my life.’

  Hope wished she could reassure him that Megan would come round, but how could she?

  ‘You deserve to be with a person who is one hundred per cent sure about you,’ Annette said now, smiling as Ollie looked at her in surprise. ‘They need to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’re the one they want to be with. There’s no room for any uncertainty, not when your heart is on the line.’

  ‘When did you get so wise?’ Hope asked, looking from her daughter to Ollie and back again.

  ‘I had a good upbringing,’ Annette replied. ‘It’s what you told me when I was dithering over whether or not to move in with Patrick. In the end I realised that I was just scared. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him, it was just the fear that I might not. That sounds like nonsense, I know.’

  Ollie put his empty glass down. ‘It doesn’t,’ he told her. ‘It sounds spot on. I’m so sure of Megan, but I can’t be sure for the both of us.’

  ‘And you shouldn’t have to be,’ Annette said, and Hope nodded in agreement. She remembered what Sophie had told them about how she knew Robin was the one almost as soon as she met him, and how the love they felt for each other had grown stronger with every passing year, until they became how they were now – totally unbreakable.

  Glancing out through the open door into the reception area, Hope gave a start. There at the front desk, his blond hair tucked into the collar of his jacket and his cheeks pink from the cold, was a man that could only be Robin.

  ‘Look!’ She grabbed Ollie’s hand and pointed.

  Ollie had to get out of his chair to see, and as soon as he did, he stumbled straight out of the bar, Hope at his heels.

  As they neared the blond man, Hope heard him asking the receptionist if Sophie Roberts was a guest. It must be him.

  ‘Robin?’ she said, so hesitantly that at first she thought the man hadn’t heard her.

  ‘Sorry?’ He turned to face them. He had a slight accent and looked at her with seriousness, but his blue eyes were friendly enough.

  ‘Are you Robin?’ she repeated. ‘Sophie’s Robin?’

  ‘Is she here?’ the man asked, all at once alert. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘We don’t really know her that well,’ Ollie explained. ‘We just met her a few days ago, but she talked about you. She told us you were coming over.’

  Annette had appeared behind them now, too, and the blond man looked at each of them in turn, a mask of utter confusion on his face.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Hope asked at last, taking a step towards him. The hotel receptionist was holding out a photocopy of something, and the man turned to look.

  ‘Yes, that’s her,’ he said, his voice breaking with a mixture of relief and concern. ‘That’s Sophie.’

  Ollie joined the man and glanced at the paper in his hands, nodding across at Hope.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be along soon,’ Hope said. ‘All she’s talked about these past few days is how much she’s looking forward to seeing you.’

  Ollie was shaking his head. ‘He didn’t even know she was staying here,’ he pointed out, and Hope heard Annette emit a nervous cough.

  ‘You are Robin, aren’t you?’ Hope turned again to face the other man. He was still holding the photocopy of Sophie’s passport, and his hand was trembling. The only sound came from the ticking of the clock on the wall, and Hope held her breath as she waited for what she could sense was bad news. Ollie looked positively terrified, and Annette was clutching the door frame. All their eyes moved slowly to the man as he raised his head.

  ‘I’m his brother,’ he said, the words coming out slowly, as if punctured by pain. ‘Robin died ten days ago.’

  44

  It felt like a joke when the doctor told them. A horrible joke, but a joke all the same. Sophie had even laughed out loud, shaking her head and telling the man not to be so silly. Robin wasn’t even thirty yet, he wasn’t going to die. He couldn’t.

  But, as it turned out, he could.

  Cancer didn’t negotiate once it had its hostage. No amount of love or hope or despair could be used as a bargaining t
ool to win a person back from its clutches. All you could do was stand back and watch as the man you loved so entirely disintegrated in front of your eyes. Watch as the desperate attempts at treatment robbed him of his strength, of his energy and of his beautiful hair, the skin on his sore-covered scalp cold and tinged with grey. Sophie used to run her hands across its fuzzy surface, stroking him as she would a wounded baby bird, all the time telling him how handsome he was, and joking that she could finally see how big his ears were after all these years.

  After his initial disbelief that what the doctors were telling him was true, Robin’s fiery passion manifested itself in a destructive torrent of rage. Sophie could only sit sobbing on the carpet of their bedroom floor as he shouted at the unfairness of it all. His eyes were wild with fear and anger as he begged for someone, anyone, to take this disease away from him. As she stood up to try and comfort him, Robin swung an angry arm around and sent the blue glass bowl they’d bought together in Prague hurtling across the room, where it smashed into thousands of pieces against the wall.

  While this anger had frightened Sophie, she understood it. The thing she feared most of all was that this illness would take away Robin’s passion. It never did, though. The one thing the cancer failed to take was his spirit – that had remained intact until the very end, when she’d felt his hand weaken slowly in her own. She hadn’t let go of his hand even when it was as cold as porcelain, even when she was asked to, then begged, then ordered, then dragged.

  Sophie closed her eyes as the wind blew straight into them, taking with it the tears that now seemed to have taken up residence there. She had walked out of the city in the opposite direction to the one she would usually take, and she hadn’t stopped until she reached the huge, futuristic structure of the Zizkov TV Tower, with its bronze babies crawling menacingly up its sides.

  She and Robin should have had a baby. They had even talked about it a few months before he was diagnosed. She wanted to get married first, to have their dream wedding at her parents’ house and write her new name in the sand. Of course, when it later became clear that cancer had flipped over the hourglass of their happiness, Robin had begged her to marry him before it was too late. Sophie had refused, telling him they would do it when he was better. Someone would find a cure, and he would get well – well enough to take her in his arms and swing her around and around as he used to. She didn’t want tears of sadness at her wedding, she wanted tears of joy. She hadn’t been ready to give up.