by Jenny Colgan
Richard had asked her why on earth she wouldn’t just take the train, but she was adamant. She wanted to take that boat again. She didn’t like words like closure, but yes, it was important to her.
She and Richard chatted here and there—mostly of the boys. It was funny how quickly they fell back into their own ways together. She glanced at his hand on the gearstick. He had always been a good driver, took it seriously, got upset if she had a dent or scratched the side. It used to matter a lot.
Once they hit the great long stretches of the M6, empty in between the rush hour and the holiday traffic, he put the cruise control on and sat back in his seat a little. She heard his knees crack. She wasn’t the only one getting on a bit.
“So,” he said quietly. “It was him all along then. I mean, this is a very, very long time to keep a flame burning, Claire.”
Claire shrugged. “I think…I mean, it’s too late now. I know that.”
She stared at her lap. It always seemed easier to talk in cars, when you could stare out of the window, she supposed. And you weren’t staring face to face.
Richard shook his head.
“Do you know what I wish?” he said, his hands steady on the steering wheel. “I wish just after we’d met and you were all dreamy and distant that I’d called you on it. That I hadn’t pretended that it was just because you were some mystical fairy, or been so terrified of losing you. I wish I’d just said, ‘who is it?’ and then let you go. I bet by the following year, the glow would have come off it anyway.”
“Maybe,” said Claire.
“And you could have come back to the UK and then you’d have been pleased to have me.”
“I was always pleased to have you,” said Claire.
He glanced at her, as if he thought she was being sarcastic. A light squall of rain had gotten up.
“Well,” he grumbled. “Too late for that now.”
“I know you want me to apologize,” said Claire. “But I can’t. We raised two lovely boys. We spent twenty-five years together. That’s more than a lot of people do. I didn’t mean to make you unhappy.”
“I know,” said Richard. “And I shouldn’t have done what I did.”
She shrugged. It was water under the bridge now.
“The boys don’t tell me much…well, I’m not sure how much you tell the boys. You’re so damned closed, Claire…”
His irritation threatened to spill over, but he managed to temper out, swinging out to overtake a lorry that was wobbling precariously in the middle lane, water sluicing from its chains.
“I mean…I mean…”
“How bad is it?”
Richard nodded, as if he couldn’t say the words out loud.
Claire turned to him. She had spent some time living with this, which was why she had spent so much time living in the past.
“Uhm, it’s spread again,” she said quietly, the only sound in the car a slight buzz from Anna’s headphones and the swish-swish of the windscreen wipers.
“It’s the reason my hair’s growing back. I told the boys I’m resting up, but no. There are no plans to continue the chemo.”
Richard took a sharp intake of breath.
“Jesus.”
“I know. You wouldn’t believe the fight I had on my hands to get these.”
She opened her palm to reveal a tiny bottle of diamorphine.
“Shhh,” she said, almost smiling.
“But you seem so…I mean, you’re just yourself, except thinner.”
“I would say my days are better and worse,” said Claire. “At the moment, a little better. I think my body is just so pleased not to have any more chemo. But I don’t know how many good days there will be.”
“How long?”
Claire took on her oncologist’s ponderous tones.
“Well, Mrs. Shawcourt, I wouldn’t say months.”
Richard let a hiss of breath escape through his mouth. Then he said the one word Claire had never heard him say in his entire life.
“Fuck,” he said.
Laurent looked at Anna’s email and ran through it again. This was ridiculous; it didn’t make sense. His dad was only just home, he’d heard through the grapevine, but under strict diet and movement controls for at least another three months. Alice would have absolutely nothing to do with it, that much was sure. And he could hardly do it; even if his father would consent to look at him, he still had work to do, and the logistics were horrible. All for that woman.
Though she was old now, he knew, old and sick. Well, maybe when Anna and that woman got to Paris, he’d try to arrange something. Yes, that would be better.
He thought about Anna. It struck him suddenly as a very “her” thing to do, to go straightaway on this wild goose chase to help out an old lady. She wouldn’t even think twice, the same way she didn’t think twice about staying with his father or trying to make things right in the shop or…
He cursed himself again for freaking about her foot. He’d hurt her feelings, for something she obviously couldn’t help, and he hated doing that. She wasn’t like the tough, hard-edged Parisienne girls he knew—not at all. She wasn’t chic and tough; she didn’t know the right places to go or the right things to wear. She was soft and a bit squishy and…
It came to him in a blinding flash. She knew the right things to do. She just did. And that was what made her different. He didn’t; he was a stupid coward who walked away from things the second they got difficult. He needed her.
Suddenly he wanted Anna back in Paris as much as he had ever wanted anything. He stared at her email again. Tomorrow. She would be here tomorrow. He hit respond then realized that he didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say. He didn’t know what he wanted to say or what he was going to do. He stared at the blank page, then shut down the Internet window and did what he always did when things got on top of him and he started to worry. He went to work.
- - -
I woke up without the faintest idea where I was. It was raining outside. I was stretched out on a backseat so comfortable it felt like a huge leather sofa. I jerked my head up. We were at a gas station. Claire was asleep in the front seat.
Richard came back to the car. His eyes were red and he was rubbing his nose a little and I didn’t want to bother him. Plus, of course, I didn’t know him at all. I shushed him as he glanced at Claire, and he went around to the trunk, pulled out a picnic blanket—of course they were the kind of people who would have picnic blankets—and very, very gently put it around her.
I wondered. I mean, Thierry was great and funny and fun and life-enhancing, but I couldn’t imagine him for a second putting a blanket around Claire like she was made of porcelain. I could imagine him talking about it, and asking someone else to do it, and suggesting it, and making a joke of it. But not calmly and precisely tucking it in, with the utmost respect for her.
Not wanting to make any noise, I smiled at him and he smiled back.
“I got you a sandwich,” he whispered. “I don’t know what you like so I got one of each.”
I grinned. “Lovely! Can I have the ham and tomato?”
He passed it over with a bottle of fizzy water and a bar of Braders chocolate.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know if you ate absolutely loads of the stuff or if you were practically allergic.”
He got in and started the car, again very gently.
“I can probably eat both if you don’t want it.”
“No,” I said, looking carefully at the familiar midbrown wrapper.
The factory had sent me (along with numerous official-looking letters absolving themselves from responsibility) a huge basket full of Braders products while I was in hospital. I couldn’t even look at them now without remembering the fever, the throbbing pain. I hadn’t been able to so much as glance at them in a newsagents ever since.
I picked it up. “I think it’s time,” I said, but Richard was already signaling his way out onto the motorway.
I peeled away a corner and inhaled the smell, carefully and fully, just as Thierry had shown me. Suddenly I was back in the factory with Kyle and Shaz, and punching in, and Easter overtime, and the visit from the Duchess of Cambridge that time everyone else had gotten wildly excited over and had made me feel like an underachieving troll.
But, I suddenly realized with excitement, I could smell more than that. I could take it apart in my head. I could smell the vegetable oil, the tiny note of additives that we covered up with more sugar, the grade of the sugar, the weakness of the cocoa beans. It was rather thrilling to realize that if I wanted, I could probably cook up a batch of this at home. I blinked several times. Frédéric would have hurled it from himself in utter horror like it was a live snake, of that I had no doubt. Instead, I closed my eyes and took a bite.
Here was the weird thing: even though I knew that it was made as cheaply as possible to serve in large quantities, that it wasn’t anything like the high-end, pure product we did at Le Chapeau Chocolat, that it was meant for bland generic tastes, designed to be unchallenging, rather than delicious…it WAS delicious. It melted at exactly the right moment on the tongue; it filled my mouth; it tasted sweet and creamy, even though I knew exactly how much cream was in there (none at all), and it broke off in soft crumbly chunks. It was completely gorgeous. I didn’t know what it would taste like if you hadn’t been born and raised with it, but to me it was good and British and comforting and reassuring, and I wished Richard had brought loads of it to stash under my bed in Paris for when the tasting all got too much.
“Mmm,” I said quietly.
Richard grinned at the wheel.
“It’s like having the kids back again,” he said, but not in a mean way.
A road sign showed we were less than one hundred miles from Dover.
- - -
I looked at the sky dubiously. How bad did it have to be before they stopped the ferries running? Our tickets were for tonight, and I had been planning on finding a cheap hotel by the terminal, then doing the final leg tomorrow when we were all better rested. I had pointed out that we could fly in an hour from Newcastle, but of course this had cut no ice at all.
Anyway, my plan had all changed now. We had train tickets, but I had no idea what Richard was intending to do. Was he going to drive us all the way to Paris? I didn’t want to ask him in case he then felt obliged to take us all the way—I could already tell he had impeccable manners. He might not even have his passport. I decided just to sit tight and see what happened.
Claire didn’t wake up all the way through passport control. I thought customs officials might get suspicious and make us wake her up, but they didn’t seem too fussed and waved us on through. Richard had hopped out and bought a ferry ticket for the car so quickly and unfussily I had hardly noticed him doing it, and when I tried to thank him and offer him money, he waved me away.
“If Claire pays you back, it will be my money anyway,” he pointed out, but not unkindly. We were both getting worried about how soundly she was sleeping. She had absolutely assured me that her doctor was happy for her to control her own medication for three days, but now I wasn’t so sure.
“Claire,” said Richard lightly as we drove on to the great clanking ship. It was full of cheerful-looking holidaymakers, their cars piled high with sunhats and inflatable chairs and tents and bicycles and excited children, desperate to start racing all over the boat. The train may be more convenient, I thought, but I doubted it was quite as much fun for the little ones.
Claire nodded a little in and out, and Richard prodded her again, after we’d been led into position in the lower deck and stopped the engine.
“Claire?”
- - -
She had bugged him for ages and he had said, “Don’t be ridiculous, only tourists ever want to go up the Tour Eiffel,” and she had said, “Well, I’m a tourist,” and he had said, “You are not a tourist, you are a muse,” and that was undoubtedly the most thrilling thing anyone had ever said to her in her entire life. She had jumped on him and locked her legs around his waist until he had laughed his huge booming laugh and agreed, so one very warm lunchtime, when everybody else was off eating properly, like normal people did, he said—he was absolutely rigid about his mealtimes, as was nearly everyone she met there—he had led her threading through the new Metro line and up right at the very base of the huge metal structure, queuing in the heat, Thierry mopping his forehead with a large handkerchief.
“I love it,” she said.
“It is for chocolate boxes,” scoffed Thierry.
“It is,” said Claire. “You should put it on chocolate boxes.”
Thierry had frowned at her as they’d waited for the lift, then it shot them up, at an angle of course, like a rocket, and she had trembled in excitement as they went up, the première, deuxième, troisième stage. She would not be happy until they had reached the very top, he noticed, and smiled at her enthusiasm.
Although Paris below was warm and still, up here the wind blew back and forth and there was a chill to it. Thierry immediately took off his jacket and put it on her shoulders, but she didn’t want it there; she wanted to feel the breeze after the heat of the city. Her pale hair streamed back against her shoulders, and she turned and smiled at him, and he managed, with rare presence of mind, to pull out his Leica and take a quick shot of her, her dark red lips—it was the same color Mme. LeGuarde used, and she had taken it onboard—pulled back in a huge, laughing smile, the freckles popped up on her nose, as she tried to hold her large straw hat on her head. As they had gone around the other side, looking out over the river and the flat lands beyond, the wind had finally gotten the better of them and it had gone, blown off, dancing on the thermals just out of reach.
“Noooo!” Claire had yelled, reaching for it, then had turned to him, once more buckling with laughter.
“Little hat! Little hat! I will save you!” Thierry had shouted, pretending to climb up the iron balustrades until a guard came along and shortly told him to stop what he was doing immediately.
“I shall buy you hats,” Thierry boasted, as they finally made their way back down, having exhausted every view and examined the instruments of M. Eiffel himself. “I shall buy you every single hat in Galeries Lafayette, and you shall keep the ones you like, and as for the others, we shall return here and let them fly away. And I hope that whoever finds your hat shall be as happy as you and I.”
And she had kissed him all the way down in the elevator, as the lift operator averted his eyes. Le Tour Eiffel often did that to people.
Gift boxes from Le Chapeau Chocolat had carried a tiny, discreet hat mark in the corner ever since.
- - -
“Claire!” Claire felt the hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Richard and Anna looking at her anxiously.
“Phew,” said Richard.
“It’s all right,” said Claire. Her mouth was very dry; a side effect of the drugs, she knew. Fortunately Anna was already holding out the bottle. What a dear girl she was. She took it and tried to smile, but her lips cracked painfully.
“Just napping.”
She tried to swallow. Some of the water ran down her neck. She realized sleeping in the car had made her terribly stiff. She didn’t know whether she could actually move at all. Everything hurt. Anna wiped away the water and helped tilt the bottle. It was one of those “sports” ones with the teats like a baby’s bottle. Claire wondered dimly why it was called sport, when it was clearly for the opposite of sports people—babies and invalids.
Suddenly the great engine of the ferry sprang to life. The deck, which had already been swaying, started to move and tremble. Claire glanced around. She remembered the Herald of Free Enterprise suddenly and how frightening it had been. A voice came over the loudspeaker announcing
in English and French that conditions weren’t ideal and advising passengers to leave the car decks but to stay inside the boat, as some choppy waters had been forecast. Claire suddenly realized where she was.
“I want to go up on top,” she announced.
“There’s a lounge,” Richard said, looking worried. There was a wheelchair lift, but the boat was moving so much he wasn’t even sure about getting the chair out of the back of the car without it swinging about wildly. All the other passengers had left, climbing up the colored stairwells into the body of the ship.
Claire shook her head. “No. Up. I want to get up.”
She saw Richard and Anna share a look and nearly cried with frustration. Her stupid, stupid wretched body that wouldn’t do a single thing she wanted it to.
- - -
Claire looked awful; she could hardly drink out of a bottle. We had to get upstairs, but I didn’t have a clue how we were going to manage it. I went around to the back of the gigantic Range Rover—I could hardly reach up to open it, swaying with the boat as it seemed to reverse itself. I hadn’t been on a ferry since I was fourteen with Cath, but we’d been too busy singing Oasis songs to notice.
Just as I was trying to figure out the lock, I felt Richard’s eyes on me. As I glanced back at him, he looked at me, shrugged, then reached into Claire’s side of the car, undid her seat belt, and gently, as if she was a child—she was as light as a child, I could see—lifted her up in his arms. I grabbed the blanket.
“Richard!” Claire protested, and I could hear the pain in her voice, but I think we all knew there wasn’t a better way. Carefully, Richard mounted the narrow stairwell. “All right there, sir?” we heard a cheery sailor say, and Richard muttered something about not wanting to bring the wheelchair out, and the sailor said, “Let me know if you need a hand then,” in a way that made me want to swear blind to travel with that ferry company and no one else for the rest of my life.