Goodbye, Paris

by Anstey Harris

  We left the hospital in daylight, cinema eyes blinking in our disbelief. When we got home, truly depleted, David had to ask if I take sugar in my coffee.

  During the night, I woke to find that what had become in three short visits “David’s side” was cold and empty. I walked quietly into the sitting room. He was sitting on the sofa, hunched over a glass of whiskey on the coffee table in front of him. The room was dark and his face was lit by the jumpy light of the television, the volume stilled to the silence that had engulfed the house.

  He looked up as I came in. “I am so fucking sorry. This is all my fault. I did this.”

  I sat down next to him, pulling my dressing gown tightly around me. My shoulders were rounded with the weight of disappointment.

  “It’s one of those things,” I said. I didn’t mean it, not then.

  “It isn’t. I did this to you.”

  I knew his “you” was plural.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” He drank the whiskey in one swig. “I’d give anything to turn the clock back. Absolutely fucking anything.” He was more than a little drunk.

  Beside him, I shrugged; a silhouette of acquiescence.

  “It was the stress. I put so much stress on you. This is all so fucking wrong.”

  I leaned into him and he put his arms around me. I told him about the tiny cello and he wept. I let him hear all my wishes, all my promises to myself that I had bottled up inside in case they made him hate me.

  The only person he ended up hating was himself.

  “I feel so guilty. I’ve smashed up so many fucking lives. We can never get them back.”

  “It wasn’t that,” I whispered. “It wasn’t me worrying that killed them, because I didn’t really believe you. I wasn’t going to go through with it.”

  “Gracie, it was my fault. I should have supported you. I should have found a way. I will find a way. After this, this fucking hard lesson, I . . . I’m not going to be such a prick again. I’ve been so selfish.” David reached forward and poured more whiskey. “Who the fuck do I think I am?”

  He raised the glass towards my lips and I nodded. I hate whiskey. I swallowed hard, a huge mouthful on purpose, and felt the discomfort as it tore down my throat. I took another.

  “I have to tell you something. It’s so fucking fucked up. I’m so responsible for all of this. Such an arsehole.” He put his hand over mine and squeezed my fingers.

  “Wait.” I got up and got another glass. I half filled it with whiskey and drank. The pain at the back of my nose made me feel human, as if there was some capacity for reaction left inside me. My eyes smarted, my nostrils burned, and I drank again.

  “I wanted to tell you this when we met. On our first night. But it was the most magical night of my life—I couldn’t break it. I couldn’t break us.”

  He started to cry properly and he held my face against his cheek. His tears stuck our skin together.

  “I didn’t know you last winter. I made decisions then that didn’t include you. I’ll never do that again.”

  His large hands covered his face, he was trembling.

  “Grace, my wife is six months pregnant.”

  I was flattened. There was simply no more I could do or comprehend. His words eviscerated me.

  “I’ve explained to her that I’ve met someone else. She understands that our marriage, as it was, is over. But I can’t let the child down, Grace. Please, I’m so sorry. Please say you can forgive me.”

  I started to push him away, but he held me tightly.

  “I thought I wouldn’t have to tell you until everything was over. I couldn’t think anything through; I was so scared of losing you. I still am.”

  David continued his thinking out loud. Their baby, the vital healthy baby, had been a last-ditch attempt to rescue a relationship that had died despite it. He couldn’t find a moment where he could tell me.

  I still wasn’t ready to be told.

  There were many promises carried on the sad breeze of that night, decisions made in the shadow of our heartbreak that we still stand by.

  David was able to stay for ten days; one of our longest unplanned stretches of time together. We built our relationship from those ashes, taught it to stand on shaky feet, to walk with its injured legs.

  In the weeks and months that followed, David and I began to believe that we would have time—a future—in which to grow our own family, to make everything work. It seemed important not to rush, to let our lives unfurl and stretch together. Part of us felt there should be a proper period of mourning for the babies we had lost, part that we should have a stable base before we thought about planning a family. Having a child alone was not what I wanted, and missing a child growing day by day would have tortured David.

  But some romantic notion of mine, something buried deep beneath everyday logic, believed that our children would make themselves known when the time was right. David shared my confidence to the point that we decided not to use contraception, not to deliberately avoid another pregnancy.

  * * *

  Secondary infertility—the unexplained inability to conceive following a previous pregnancy—is a cruel mistress. I have undergone every test known to man in the last few years and there is no obvious reason why I can’t conceive.

  We know that there is nothing wrong with David; his third child was born in France just twelve weeks after we lost our twins.

   Chapter Ten

  I wake early and hungover. I regret my evening’s activities on every level. When I wander into the sitting room and collect my glass and the half-empty second wine bottle, my cello stares accusingly from the corner.

  I didn’t text David back last night; that’s the last thing he needs. I have set the next few days aside to work on the final polishing of my Cremona cello, smoothing away the last tiny blemishes and touching in any streaks with a brush almost too fine to see. It will be meticulous work that requires my full attention.

  The competition isn’t until October, eight full weeks away, but the cello will need to be packaged and couriered two weeks before the display of instruments and the judging even begins. To be shipped, the varnish must be rock hard. Even the gentlest of movement will cause it to rub against the soft inside of the case—however well it fits—and the slightest mist or smear would cost me the competition.

  Once, the shop and my cello were all I had, but meeting David put that in perspective, showed it for the empty life it had been. When he and I move in together permanently, I will have to leave my shop behind: we will have to live in France as it’s where his children are, at least for now. Their first language is French, although he tells me they speak excellent English. David and I decided that he will talk in French with our children so they don’t feel left out when their half siblings are chattering away to one another. Having a waiting list for instruments would mean that my customers will come to me, wherever I am in the world. I know that the chances are slim—even though David reminds me constantly that they’re the same as anyone else’s—but it’s got to be worth a try. Most of all, when I think about Cremona and the competition, I love that David has enough faith in me to think I can win it. It’s infectious, that kind of belief, and he has me excited with him. I’ve gone too long in my life taking no risks, not daring to jump in case I fall. David will catch me.

  Much as the cello needs me, I can’t face it until later, if at all, today. I call Nadia and ask her to come in. The camping trip has been cut short by in-fighting and squabbling girls; she’s quite happy to earn some money and hide away from them.

  I officially take the day off. Before I go back to bed for an hour, I check the internet to see where the story has got to. David seems to have gotten it under control. Hopefully it will become tomorrow’s chip papers and all blow over before any lasting damage is done.

  * * *

  Later, I go for a long wind-blown walk on the downs. I climb breathlessly to the top of a steep hill and realize I have taken very little exercise in recent weeks.
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  The view from the top is stunning, fields of ripe yellow rapeseed scattered with the earliest poppies run from just below me right into the distance. This year has been rainy and the verdant trees have made the most of it. The colors are those of a child’s quilt, sewn together by bushy hedgerows and five-bar gates of storybooks. I try to take a picture of it on my phone to send to David. There is no signal up here and, anyway, the camera is too small to see the detail my eye can take in; it doesn’t do the view justice. I will have to tell him about it when he comes back.

  As I reach the car my phone signal comes back and his text arrives.

  things mighty fucked up, sweetie. doing best to firefight. exhausted.

  I presume it will be easier for David to get away if I go to Paris. I make a mental note to speak to Nadia about it when I see her. There is still another fortnight left of the summer holiday and I’m sure she could do with the money.

  can you get to paris, meet me there? I press send but the signal is still erratic and the message refuses to go.

  * * *

  I call into the shop on the way home.

  It’s a yellow summer dusk and the streetlights are just going on in the market square outside the shop. The window looks beautiful. It is softly lit from behind—Nadia has closed up and turned off the main lights for me—and really adds to the charm of this little town center. I have put together a display of a music stand, a double bass, a cello, a viola, and a violin.

  I change the music on the stand to keep it topical or seasonal or sometimes funny; an “in-joke” for those who can read it. This is such a perfect summer, such a very English mix of sweet-smelling rain and warm sun, that I have Vaughan Williams’s “The Lark Ascending” on display at the moment.

  I change them often: Christmas carols and concertos, adding a little incongruous tinsel to the more classic look of the window display; hymns and votive tunes for Easter; the occasional piece from popular culture. For the football World Cup, I bought an anthology of national anthems and changed it every day to the team that had won the night before. That made the local paper; it’s all good publicity for the shop.

  I unlock the front door and tap the code into the alarm to turn it off. I go to collect Nadia’s empty drinks cans and cold half-full teacup from the counter. The blue book is there again.

  Perhaps Nadia thinks this is the only place she can leave it without it being read. I feel awful about that and walk away, into the workshop. I will go back in a minute and remove the sweet wrappers and apple core that are on top of the book.

  The cello looks perfect. I am insanely pleased with it. I turn on the spotlight over my workbench and lay the cello on its side. I fiddle with the lamp until I can light the front of the instrument without a curve of glare reflecting from the perfect polish of the belly.

  When I’m satisfied that it is, literally, in its best light, I take a picture for David.

  I attach a message to the photo and press send. our winning entry. can’t wait to see you. can’t wait for our holiday in italy with this beast. miss you.

  Afterwards I send another almost immediately. i can get to paris any day next week. just text.

  All the time, the pale-blue notebook is boring into my head. I am compelled to read more but disgusted with myself at the same time. Excuses creep in: I am reading it to try and understand her; to find out what turns this girl I talk to every day into the molten fury she is inside; I only want to help. Even the excuses cannot overwhelm the fact that I know it’s wrong and that I know I will read on.

  I can’t get going with my sanding and setting up of the cello while there is rubbish in the shop front; I will have to tidy it. I sweep the apple core and wrappers from the top of the book and into my hand. I walk away again, back into the workshop to the bin that Nadia can never be bothered to use.

  I sit at my workbench and absorb myself in cutting the bridge. I’ve left my chinagraph pencil in the shop and I need it to fit the bridge. I wonder why I can’t just have the courage of my convictions and be honest about what I’m going to do.

  When I walk past the book a third time, it’s too much; a biblical temptation. I sit behind the counter in the chair Nadia will have sat in to write it. I think about David’s comment that perhaps she wants me to read it, and I open the book near the back.

  Me and coke are over. Ceebs w/ the fucking chaos. Harriet can keep it and everyoneeverything that goes with it. Fact.

  For one naive moment I hope she means Coca-Cola. I realize with a horror that flings my hand over my mouth that she means cocaine. I tuck the book under the counter, still open where I can see it but invisible to anyone who might look through the window.

  I’m done. Harriet and her wanker boyfriend piss me off too much. Yes, Charlie, I mean you. I’m not playing anymore, dicks. Charlie and Harriet, march off together, get married, see if I fucking care, have coke for confetti that catches in your hair. I’m out.

  It’s doing my head in. It was bad enough at school but now, now everyone’s parents are away and we’re in party central. I drink too much, because the coke won’t let me stop, and then I feel shit the next day and then we all get pills off Charlie because he always has them. And then I go home and my house is full of total arseholes, yes, dear parents, you. And then I take the last one of Charlie’s pills and then I have to go and get another one—that means I have to be on my own with Charlie. With #Harriet’sBoyfriendCharlie.

  The depth of her rage is frightening. I don’t know which is the real Nadia—the one who shows the world an impenetrable confidence, the girl I can trust with my shop and the thousands of pounds’ worth of stock, or this tortured, seething teenager. It breaks my heart that it might be this one.

  I hate Charlie. I hate his white hair and his see-through skin. I hate his face. His eyes make him look like a white rat, pink eyes, piggy eyes, piss eyes.

  I wonder for a moment if Charlie is an adult, an older man, if there’s even more behind this anger. I can’t imagine how he would get drugs otherwise, not around here. Then I remember the white-haired boy sulking on the outside of Nadia’s group in the supermarket. He was skinny and his trousers were tight enough around his calves to make him look frail. I noticed him first for that and then for the long white fringe sticking out from under his cap, covering half his face. He didn’t stop and chat, he moved off when the girls got into conversation, but he must have been Charlie.

  Mums fucking love Charlie. He’s posh and he’s loaded and he shakes their hands and he says what they want to hear. And he’s not one of those boys who drive around the town center in suped-up shitwheels doing handbreakhandbrake turns.

  Mummies don’t want them in the house—them is overblown, shaded in the bubble letters she uses for emphasis, like the child she still is at heart—oh fucketyduckety no, not the townies, not the boys off the estate. They might have sex with our lovely clean girls. They might not be posh boys like Charlie. And do you know, dear mummy, who those COMMON boys get their drugs off? Do you? Ha-fucking-ha, they get them off Charlie. Charlie. From Charlie. I fucking hate Charlie. And I hate Harriet.

  I am reading slack jawed. The beep from my phone makes me wake from the horror and close my mouth.

  maybe can do paris. not sure. have client borrowing apartment, so nowhere to stay at moment. hotel? you ok?

  I wonder if I should text him about Nadia’s diary. He has enough on his plate, but I have no idea what to do and David knows about teenagers. No, if I call him it should be about us, about what we do next, how long he will be away, not about my Saturday girl and her cocaine habit.

  Perhaps David will just tell me that’s what kids do nowadays. They may have done it in my day—I wouldn’t know. I would have been hiding behind my cello, staying in and being the perfect child, sliding scales up and down the fingerboard, dreaming of concerts and taffeta dresses.

  I try to be logical. Nadia has, after all, said—written—that she won’t be doing it anymore. I have no way of knowing how old the entry i
s—I can see it’s sometime this holiday but nothing beyond that. It could be weeks ago. She may have completely stopped.

  If I tell her I’ve read it, I will lose her trust and—I realize with a selfish stop—my Saturday girl. I imagine for a moment that I don’t have Nadia in my life, that I’m not party to her moods and her defensiveness, her sudden sunshine and sharing. I would lose a good friend, too.

  I flick through a few more pages. This isn’t the last page, but it is near the end of the dog-eared part that has been written in. I see the word wasted elongated and decorated across a few pages but no more long passages, no more scrawled rants. There are long swaths without anything in and then a sudden drawing of a Christmas tree, profanities hanging from it like baubles. There are pages more of writing after that.

  I need to reply to David.

  i’ll just come over—any day. we can get a hotel. it’s fine. all good here. going to play cremona cello in next two days. I almost write wish it could be with you on the end of the message but hold back. That is not going to happen on so many levels.

  * * *

  I ask Nadia to work in the shop while I set up the cello. The bridge feet are cut and flat, the pegs fit perfectly, and the tailpiece is ready. Today I will put the strings on, test the sound, and make the last adjustments to the sound post.

  I have bought an expensive case to carry this cello in. The outside is navy blue and very solid, very smart. The inside is scarlet, the cut-out piece in the middle the perfect size for the instrument. This will be the case it travels to Italy in.

  I had wanted to take it, maybe meet David in Italy, but I’ve taken a lot of time off work lately and my jobs are mounting up. I haven’t even started Mr. Williams’s violin. The cello will have to go with a courier like everyone else’s; David and I will meet it there.

  “Will it be finished today, Grace?” asks Nadia, pointing at the Cremona cello.

  “It will, which is exciting.” I pass her a duster. “But you are needed front of house.”