by Jojo Moyes
Will was half propped up in the bed, able to see out of the window to his left, where the water feature in the little garden merrily trickled a thin stream of clear water below the decking. On the wall was a badly framed print picture of dahlias. I remember thinking that was a really crummy print to have to look at in your last hours.
‘So … ’
‘You’re not going to –’
‘I’m not going to try and change your mind.’
‘If you’re here, you accept it’s my choice. This is the first thing I’ve been in control of since the accident.’
‘I know.’
And there it was. He knew it, and I knew it. There was nothing left for me to do.
Do you know how hard it is to say nothing? When every atom of you strains to do the opposite? I had practised not saying anything the whole way from the airport, and it was still nearly killing me. I nodded. When I finally spoke, my voice was a small, broken thing. What emerged was the only thing I could safely say.
‘I missed you.’
He seemed to relax then. ‘Come over here.’ And then, when I hesitated. ‘Please. Come on. Right here, on the bed. Right next to me.’
I realized then that there was actual relief in his expression. That he was pleased to see me in a way he wasn’t actually going to be able to say. And I told myself that it was going to have to be enough. I would do the thing he had asked for. That would have to be enough.
I lay down on the bed beside him and I placed my arm across him. I rested my head on his chest, letting my body absorb the gentle rise and fall of it. I could feel the faint pressure of Will’s fingertips on my back, his warm breath in my hair. I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of him, still the same expensive cedar-wood smell, despite the bland freshness of the room, the slightly disturbing scent of disinfectant underneath. I tried not to think of anything at all. I just tried to be, tried to absorb the man I loved through osmosis, tried to imprint what I had left of him on myself. I did not speak. And then I heard his voice. I was so close to him that when he spoke it seemed to vibrate gently through me.
‘Hey, Clark,’ he said. ‘Tell me something good.’
I stared out of the window at the bright-blue Swiss sky and I told him a story of two people. Two people who shouldn’t have met, and who didn’t like each other much when they did, but who found they were the only two people in the world who could possibly have understood each other. And I told him of the adventures they had, the places they had gone, and the things I had seen that I had never expected to. I conjured for him electric skies and iridescent seas and evenings full of laughter and silly jokes. I drew a world for him, a world far from a Swiss industrial estate, a world in which he was still somehow the person he had wanted to be. I drew the world he had created for me, full of wonder and possibility. I let him know a hurt had been mended in a way that he couldn’t have known, and for that alone there would always be a piece of me indebted to him. And as I spoke I knew these would be the most important words I would ever say and that it was important that they were the right words, that they were not propaganda, an attempt to change his mind, but respectful of what Will had said.
I told him something good.
Time slowed, and stilled. It was just the two of us, me murmuring in the empty, sunlit room. Will didn’t say much. He didn’t answer back, or add a dry comment, or scoff. He nodded occasionally, his head pressed against mine, and murmured, or let out a small sound that could have been satisfaction at another good memory.
‘It has been,’ I told him, ‘the best six months of my entire life.’
There was a long silence.
‘Funnily enough, Clark, mine too.’
And then, just like that, my heart broke. My face crumpled, my composure went and I held him tightly and I stopped caring that he could feel the shudder of my sobbing body because grief swamped me. It overwhelmed me and tore at my heart and my stomach and my head and it pulled me under, and I couldn’t bear it. I honestly thought I couldn’t bear it.
‘Don’t, Clark,’ he murmured. I felt his lips on my hair. ‘Oh, please. Don’t. Look at me.’
I screwed my eyes shut and shook my head.
‘Look at me. Please.’
I couldn’t.
‘You’re angry. Please. I don’t want to hurt you or make you –’
‘No … ’ I shook my head again. ‘It’s not that. I don’t want … ’ My cheek was pressed to his chest. ‘I don’t want the last thing you see to be my miserable, blotchy face.’
‘You still don’t get it, Clark, do you?’ I could hear the smile in his voice. ‘It’s not your choice.’
It took some time to regain my composure. I blew my nose, took a long deep breath. Finally, I raised myself on my elbow, and I looked back at him. His eyes, so long strained and unhappy, looked oddly clear and relaxed.
‘You look absolutely beautiful.’
‘Funny.’
‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Right up close to me.’
I lay down again, facing him. I saw the clock above the door and had a sudden sense of time running out. I took his arm and wrapped it tightly around me, threading my own arms and legs around him so that we were tightly entwined. I took his hand – the good one – and wrapped my fingers in his, kissing the knuckles as I felt him squeeze mine. His body was so familiar to me now. I knew it in a way I had never known Patrick’s – its strengths and vulnerabilities, its scars and scents. I placed my face so close to his that his features became indistinct, and I began to lose myself in them. I stroked his hair, his skin, his brow, with my fingertips, tears sliding unchecked down my cheeks, my nose against his, and all the time he watched me silently, studying me intently as if he were storing each molecule of me away. He was already retreating, withdrawing to somewhere I couldn’t reach him.
I kissed him, trying to bring him back. I kissed him and let my lips rest against his so that our breath mingled and the tears from my eyes became salt on his skin, and I told myself that, somewhere, tiny particles of him would become tiny particles of me, ingested, swallowed, alive, perpetual. I wanted to press every bit of me against him. I wanted to will something into him. I wanted to give him every bit of life I felt and force him to live.
I realized I was afraid of living without him. How is it you have the right to destroy my life, I wanted to demand of him, but I’m not allowed a say in yours?
But I had promised.
So I held him, Will Traynor, ex-City whiz kid, ex-stunt diver, sportsman, traveller, lover. I held him close and said nothing, all the while telling him silently that he was loved. Oh, but he was loved.
I couldn’t say how long we stayed like that. I was dimly aware of soft conversation outside, of the shuffle of shoes, a distant church bell ringing in some far-off place. Finally, I felt him loosen a great breath, almost a shudder, and he drew his head back just an inch so that we could see each other clearly.
I blinked at him.
He gave me a small smile, almost an apology.
‘Clark,’ he said, quietly. ‘Can you call my parents in?’
27
CROWN PROSECUTION SERVICE
FAO: Director of Public Prosecutions
Confidential Advisory
Re: William John Traynor
4.9.2009
Detectives have now interviewed everyone involved in the above case, and I attach files containing all related documents accordingly.
The subject at the centre of the investigation is Mr William Traynor, a 35-year-old former partner in the firm Madingley Lewins, based in the City of London. Mr Traynor suffered a spinal injury in a road accident in 2007 and had been diagnosed C5/6 quadriplegic with very limited movement in one arm only, requiring 24-hour care. His medical history is attached.
The papers show that Mr Traynor had been at pains to regularize his legal affairs sometime before his trip to Switzerland. We have been forwarded a signed and witnessed statement of intent by his lawyer, Mr Michael Lawler, as well as
copies of all relevant documentation relating to his consultations with the clinic beforehand.
Mr Traynor’s family and friends had all expressed their opposition to his stated desire to end his life prematurely but given his medical history and previous attempts on his own life (detailed in his attached hospital records), his intellect and strength of character, they were apparently unable to dissuade him, even during an extended six-month period which was negotiated with him specifically for this purpose.
It will be noted that one of the beneficiaries of Mr Traynor’s will is his paid female carer, Miss Louisa Clark. Given the limited length of her association with Mr Traynor some questions may be asked about the extent of his generosity towards her, but all parties say they do not wish to contest Mr Traynor’s stated wishes, which are legally documented. She has been interviewed at length several times and police are satisfied that she made every effort to deter Mr Traynor from his intention (please see her ‘calendar of adventures’ included in the evidence).
It should also be noted that Mrs Camilla Traynor, his mother, who has been a respected JP for many years, has tendered her resignation in light of the publicity surrounding the case. It is understood that she and Mr Traynor separated soon after their son’s death.
While the use of assisted suicide at foreign clinics is not something the CPS can be seen to encourage, judging by the evidence gathered, it is evident that the actions of Mr Traynor’s family and carers fall well within current guidelines as laid out relating to assisted suicide and the possible prosecution of those close to the deceased.
Mr Traynor was deemed competent and had a ‘voluntary, clear, settled and informed’ wish to make such a decision.
There is no evidence of mental illness, or of coercion on any part.
Mr Traynor had indicated unequivocally that he wished to commit suicide.
Mr Traynor’s disability was severe and incurable.
The actions of those accompanying Mr Traynor were of only minor assistance or influence.
The actions of those accompanying Mr Traynor may be characterized as reluctant assistance in the face of a determined wish on the part of the victim.
All parties involved have offered every assistance to the police investigating this case.
Given these facts as outlined, the previous good character of all parties, and the evidence enclosed, I would advise that it does not serve the public interest to pursue a prosecution in this case.
I suggest that if and when any public statement is made to this effect, the Director of Public Prosecutions makes it clear that the Traynor case sets no kind of precedent, and that the CPS will continue to judge each case on its individual merits and circumstances.
With best wishes
Sheilagh Mackinnon
Crown Prosecution Service
Epilogue
I was just following instructions.
I sat in the shadow of the dark-green cafe awning, staring down the length of the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, the tepid sun of a Parisian autumn warming the side of my face. In front of me the waiter had, with Gallic efficiency, deposited a plate of croissants and a large cup of filter coffee. A hundred yards down the street two cyclists stopped near the traffic lights and struck up a conversation. One wore a blue backpack from which two large baguettes poked at odd angles. The air, still and muggy, held the scents of coffee and patisserie and the acrid tang of someone’s cigarettes.
I finished Treena’s letter (she would have called, she said, but she couldn’t afford the overseas charges). She had come top of her year in Accountancy 2 and had a new boyfriend, Sundeep, who was trying to work out whether to work for his dad’s import-export business outside Heathrow and had even worse taste in music than she did. Thomas was dead excited about moving up a class at school. Dad was still going great guns at his job, and sent his love. She was pretty confident that Mum would forgive me soon. She definitely got your letter, she said. I know she read it. Give her time.
I took a sip of my coffee, briefly transported to Renfrew Road, and a home that seemed a million miles away. I sat and squinted a little against the low sun, watching a woman in sunglasses adjust her hair in the mirror of a shop window. She pursed her lips at her reflection, straightened up a little, and then continued her path down the road.
I put down the cup, took a deep breath, and then picked up the other letter, the letter that I had carried around with me for almost six weeks now.
On the front of the envelope, in typed capitals, it said, under my name:
ONLY TO BE READ IN THE CAFE MARQUIS, RUE DES FRANCS BOURGEOIS, ACCOMPANIED BY CROISSANTS AND A LARGE CAFÉ CRÈME.
I had laughed, even as I wept, on first reading the envelope – typical Will, bossy to the last.
The waiter – a tall, brisk man with a dozen bits of paper sticking out of the top of his apron – turned back and caught my eye. All okay? his raised eyebrows said.
‘Yes,’ I said. And then, a little self-consciously, ‘Oui.’
The letter was typewritten. I recognized the font from a card he had sent me long ago. I settled back in my chair, and I began to read.
Clark,
A few weeks will have passed by the time you read this (even given your newfound organizational skills, I doubt you will have made it to Paris before early September). I hope the coffee is good and strong and the croissants fresh and that the weather is still sunny enough to sit outside on one of those metallic chairs that never sit quite level on the pavement. It’s not bad, the Marquis. The steak is also good, if you fancy coming back for lunch. And if you look down the road to your left you will hopefully see L’Artisan Parfumeur where, after you read this, you should go and try the scent called something like Papillons Extrême (can’t quite remember). I always did think it would smell great on you.
Okay, instructions over. There are a few things I wanted to say and would have told you in person, but a) you would have got all emotional and b) you wouldn’t have let me say all this out loud. You always did talk too much.
So here it is: the cheque you got in the initial envelope from Michael Lawler was not the full amount, but just a small gift, to help you through your first weeks of unemployment, and to get you to Paris.
When you get back to England, take this letter to Michael in his London office and he will give you the relevant documents so you can access an account he has set up for me in your name. This account contains enough for you to buy somewhere nice to live and to pay for your degree course and your living expenses while you are in full-time education.
My parents will have been told all about it. I hope that this, and Michael Lawler’s legal work, will ensure there is as little fuss as possible.
Clark, I can practically hear you starting to hyperventilate from here. Don’t start panicking, or trying to give it away – it’s not enough for you to sit on your arse for the rest of your life. But it should buy you your freedom, both from that claustrophobic little town we both call home, and from the kind of choices you have so far felt you had to make.
I’m not giving the money to you because I want you to feel wistful, or indebted to me, or to feel that it’s some kind of bloody memorial.
I’m giving you this because there is not much that makes me happy any more, but you do.
I am conscious that knowing me has caused you pain, and grief, and I hope that one day when you are less angry with me and less upset you will see not just that I could only have done the thing that I did, but also that this will help you live a really good life, a better life, than if you hadn’t met me.
You’re going to feel uncomfortable in your new world for a bit. It always does feel strange to be knocked out of your comfort zone. But I hope you feel a bit exhilarated too. Your face when you came back from diving that time told me everything; there is a hunger in you, Clark. A fearlessness. You just buried it, like most people do.
I’m not really telling you to jump off tall buildings, or swim with whales or anything (although I would s
ecretly love to think you were), but to live boldly. Push yourself. Don’t settle. Wear those stripy legs with pride. And if you insist on settling down with some ridiculous bloke, make sure some of this is squirrelled away somewhere. Knowing you still have possibilities is a luxury. Knowing I might have given them to you has alleviated something for me.
So this is it. You are scored on my heart, Clark. You were from the first day you walked in, with your ridiculous clothes and your bad jokes and your complete inability to ever hide a single thing you felt. You changed my life so much more than this money will ever change yours.
Don’t think of me too often. I don’t want to think of you getting all maudlin. Just live well.
Just live.
Love,
Will
A tear had plopped on to the rickety table in front of me. I wiped at my cheek with my palm, and put the letter down on the table. It took me some minutes to see clearly again.
‘Another coffee?’ said the waiter, who had reappeared in front of me.
I blinked at him. He was younger than I had thought, and had dropped his faint air of haughtiness. Perhaps Parisian waiters were trained to be kind to weeping women in their cafes.
‘Maybe … a cognac?’ He glanced at the letter and smiled, with something resembling understanding.
‘No,’ I said, smiling back. ‘Thank you. I’ve … I’ve got things to do.’
I paid the bill, and tucked the letter carefully into my pocket.
And stepping out from behind the table, I straightened my bag on my shoulder and set off down the street towards the parfumerie and the whole of Paris beyond.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my agent, Sheila Crowley at Curtis Brown, and to my editor, Mari Evans at Penguin, both of whom immediately saw this book for what it is – a love story.
Special thanks to Maddy Wickham, who encouraged me at a point when I was not sure whether I could, or should, actually write it.
Thanks to the wonderful team at Curtis Brown, especially Jonny Geller, Tally Garner, Katie McGowan, Alice Lutyens and Sarah Lewis, for enthusiasm and fine agenting.
At Penguin, I would also particularly like to thank Louise Moore, Clare Ledingham and Shân Morley Jones.
Huge gratitude to all on the Writersblock board – my own private Fight Club. Minus the Fighty bit.
Similarly to India Knight, Sam Baker, Emma Beddington, Trish Deseine, Alex Heminsley, Jess Ruston, Sali Hughes, Tara Manning and Fanny Blake.
Thanks to Lizzie and Brian Sanders, and to Jim, Bea and Clemmie Moyes. But most of all, as ever, to Charles, Saskia, Harry and Lockie.
Q&A with Jojo
1. Tell us a little about where your ideas for your characters and their stories come from.
They come from all over the place. It’s often a snippet of conversation or a news story that just lodges in my head and won’t go away. Sometimes I get an idea for a character too, and then unconsciously start knitting them together. Me