‘How extraordinary! What are the odds?’ I exclaim after Carly and Fran have relayed the story of the book turning up in the shop, now sitting in front of Fran on my dining table.
‘Things like this happen all the time,’ Carly says casually, bringing a bowl of freshly dressed salad from the kitchen.
‘Do they?’ I ask.
‘I heard a story once about thisUSrock star who lost his wallet two thousand miles from home. Ten years later he visited a surf shop and the girl behind the counter asked him, “Did you lose your wallet ten years ago?” Turns out he left his wallet at the girl’s parents’ gas station and they still had it. They sent it back to him witheverythingin it.’
‘That’s crazy,’ says Fran, her fingers stroking the red leather cover of the book.
‘Maybe it’s fate,’ Carly grins.
‘Or serendipity,’ I suggest, adding salad to my plate of crab-cakes.
‘Enough,’ says Fran, her brow heavy.
‘Let’s eat,’ I say, hoping some good nourishment will help to relax her.
‘Who was this guy anyway?’ Carly asks, after we’ve all enjoyed a bit of food and some crisp white wine.
‘He was no one,’ Fran dismisses, though her gaze suggests otherwise. ‘Just someone I spent twenty-four hours with in Paris, over thirty years ago.’
‘Before you met Dad?’
‘Before I met your father, yes.’
‘When was this exactly?’ I ask, unable to recall her talking about the encounter either then or during the intervening years, although a distant memory of kissing someone at Sacré Coeur does come to mind.
Fran takes a deep breath then places her cutlery on the side of her plate. ‘Do you remember when Mum and I were meant to visit Paris for a night, to try the Eurostar for the first time, but she was in too much pain to go?’
‘I do remember. It was springtime, and I remember going out to the garden to pick some daffodils to place on your mother’s windowsill to cheer her up,’ I say, recalling quite clearly how disappointed Nancy had been not to have the strength to travel to London to meet Frances and head on to Paris from there, her cancer too advanced by then.
‘A friend stepped in to take Mum’s place, but at the very last minute she couldn’t make it either, so I wentalone. One of the first places I went to was Shakespeare and Company, where I bought a copy ofThe Hunchback of Notre-Dameto read during the trip. But then, when I was sitting outside Notre-Dame Cathedral, a man sat down next to me, and we ended up spending the next twenty-four hours walking round Paris.’
I don’t interrupt Fran, but her story reminds me of the day I met Bill. He was the first person I introduced myself to on our first day at art school. After that we never left each other’s side – going from induction talks to guided tours to lunch, and then to our studios. We were asked to pick a workspace that would be ours for the next three years. I chose one in the corner of a vast Victorian classroom, three huge windows filling the space with light; Bill chose the space next to mine.
‘Sounds dreamy,’ says Carly. ‘Did you keep in touch?’
Fran is about to answer when a call from Aleks, sitting with Bill in the bedroom, takes me away from the table.
‘He woke with a start,’ she tells me.
‘A bad dream, my darling?’ I ask, the little nightlight casting just enough glow for me to see the harrowed look in his eyes, a far cry from the dancing eyes I fell for when we first met, and the man who would talk with me for hours about art, music and poetry. Now, with the odd exception, words are hard for him to find even when he’s at his most lucid, and are almost impossible in moments of stress.
‘I’m here,’ I tell him, holding his hand, feeling the tension in his hand and arms begin to loosen. QuietlyI breathe out my own stress, wanting only to bring him peace.
‘Sleep, my darling,’ I whisper as I see his eyelids grow heavy and eventually close. ‘Sleep,’ I repeat, bringing my own mind to a place of quiet and stillness, as if I am slumbering myself.
‘Come through and join us,’ I say to Aleks, when it’s clear that Bill’s asleep.
‘How is he?’ Fran asks on our return. She and Aleks begin to clear the plates while Carly serves dessert in the kitchen.
‘I think we’re entering another stage,’ I say, feeling a lurch in the pit of my stomach when I think of the day when Bill will no longer know those who love him, and have no ability to understand, feed himself or manage basic tasks. I swallow hard and fight to hold back the feeling of emptiness. Frances clasps my hand, knowing the pain herself, aware that one day the man who has been like an uncle to her won’t be here any more.
‘What can we do to make things easier, Elsa?’ Carly asks, placing four glasses ofHaagse blufwith raspberries and mint on the table, a dessert that always reminds me of my mother making it with fresh raspberries and mint from the garden back home in Rotterdam.
‘I’m not sure there’s much that can be done, beyond what you do already,’ I tell her, for ever grateful that Bill and I live in this beautiful space where life flows so freely. There is never a point in the day when I feel alone, knowing that someone is always around should I need them. And yet one way or another I yearn forsomething more, something of my own, to be part of a wider community, as I was when running the gallery.
‘Would it benefit you to have more help with the physical aspects of his care?’ Fran asks, as we settle back down at the table.
