‘Do you ever feel as if life is just one big cul-de-sac?’ asks Ginny, as we head up the handsome wooden staircase to the second floor. I falter, not because of the impact of the rich, Gothic apartment, full of heavy artwork and embossed wallpaper, but because I know I’ve heard that sentiment somewhere before.
It takes me a moment before I fully register that it was Robin, standing in our kitchen, talking about our love and life together feeling like a trap.
20.
ELSA
I put the phone down to Aleks with a heavy heart and lift my margarita to my lips, the fine glass and cool liquid momentarily distracting me from my concerns about Bill’s welfare. Aleks had called only to reassure me that everything was fine, that Bill was in good spirits and coping well with the change. But, in the background, Bill called out and I heard in his voice that he was tense, unsure, needing the comfort of the one person on earth who knows him inside and out, his wife.
‘Un autre?’ asks the barman, attired in a white shirt and black waistcoat, a traditional long white apron tied round his waist.
‘Oui, s’il vous plaît,’ I answer, wishing Bill were here, happy and healthy, propping up the bar with me the way we used to do, when we’d stay up all night nursing a bottle of wine, and talk for hours about galleries we’d visited and those we wanted to go to next.
‘Not drowning your sorrows, I hope,’ says Marleen, finding me perched on the mahogany stool.
‘Partially,’ I half-laugh as she joins me, placing her plain clutch bag on the bar.
I explain about Bill, how worried I am about him being without me.
‘It’s hard,’ she says, receiving a sparkling water. ‘But Bill is in good and familiar hands. Try not to cling to your worries, either those that you have now or for the future.’
‘I wish I knew how,’ I say, reaching again for my drink.
‘It’s not easy to hear, but when we let go of desire, be that for Bill to be well or for him not to die, life does feel lighter. It’s much simpler to allow life to unfold on its own, rather than cling to how we want it to be.’
‘Deep down I know you’re right – no good comes from worrying, as they say – I just wish I knew how to apply it.’
‘How about you take your mind off things by coming out with me? I’m giving a talk at a temple this evening; it would be lovely to have your company.’
‘That’s kind of you, but I think I’ll stay put,’ I reply, not having quite enough energy to face life. ‘I could use some “me time”, as Carly calls it.’
‘Of course, self-compassion is key,’ she says, reaching into her bag and taking out a copy of her book. ‘A little reading, if you fancy.’
I’ve been sitting at the bar on my own for a half-hour or so, reading Marleen’s book, when a man in his fifties asks if he might sit on the stool that she vacated.
‘Certainly,’ I reply, admiring his ability to sit on thestool without having to climb on to it. ‘Long legs must be a wonderful thing.’
‘Guess I take them for granted,’ he says, requesting a glass of whisky from the barman. I watch him as he waits, his strong jaw and cheekbones telling me that once upon a time he was conventionally good-looking. Now his receding hairline and wire-frame glasses have left him more distinguished than handsome.
‘What brings you to Paris?’ I ask, detecting a British accent.
‘Time with my son.’
‘How wonderful,’ I reply, the words catching slightly. Even though Bill and I let go of wishing we had a child of our own many years ago, Fran and Carly as near to a child and grandchild as could be, occasionally I’m struck by a dull pain, hidden deep within me.
He stares into his glass of whisky. I twiddle with the stem of mine. ‘I wasn’t fortunate enough to become a parent.’
He casts me a sideways glance, no doubt trying to get the measure of this woman in her seventies, dressed in loose linen, propping up a chic Parisian hotel bar.
‘Parenting isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,’ he mutters, returning his gaze to his glass.
I sit quietly, allowing him to be, wanting to ask so many questions but aware that any enquiries will more than likely be rebuffed. Eventually he turns to me, his reddish-brown eyes distant and dim, and says, ‘I never thought it would be like this.’
‘Parenting?’ I ask.
‘Life.’
I inhale slowly, quietly, wondering what has brought him to this place. ‘How did you imagine it?’
