‘I suppose for more of this – travel, photography . . .’ He tails off and pulls me closer, nestling his cheek in my hair. ‘And you?’
‘Hopefully to write, to travel, too.’ I want to say something of love, to love and be loved, but I don’t, both of us tiptoeing around the subject of us . . .
‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the sandals you usually wear to these things,’ Carly continues, bringing me out of my memory and back to now. Carly is fastening her skirt, which is shorter than she usually wears.
My heart quickens at the thought of her finding me out, and that in doing so she might tell Robin.
‘Let her wear what she wants,’ says Elsa casually, winking covertly at me. To my surprise, Carly shakes it off and heads back into the bathroom.
My eyes meet Elsa’s in the mirror. The glimmer in hers tells me she has a sense of what’s happening, even though I’ve said nothing at all.
26.
ELSA
Sitting outside Les Deux Magots in the warm evening air, I feel as if I’ve fallen into a Renoir painting. From where I’m sitting on the café’s canopied terrace, surrounded by box hedge, the full aspect of the neighbourhood is in view: the boulevard bustling with life despite the late hour, the limestone church opposite, and to my right, the entrance to the historic, literary café, frequented by everyone from Joyce to Hemingway.
With Fran and Marleen busy chatting to eager readers at their designated tables, alongside Christopher Rose, and with Carly selling books, and Frank occupied with others, I take a moment to enjoy the quiet, to drink in the surroundings and to remember the cafés of Paris I’ve sat in over the years with Bill by my side.
My mind wanders to other trips we took all over the world in the late nineties, to Mexico and Peru, Spain, India and Japan, anywhere rich in ceramic culture and textiles. Bill and I trekked for days to meetartisans in places off the beaten path, to areas most tourists would never see. There was something about that time, the reliance on each other, the self-discovery and inspiration, that was richer than anything we’d ever experienced before.
The emotion of those journeys spills from my eyes and down my cheeks and, dabbing my face with a handkerchief, I’m reminded of what Marleen told me: don’t cling to the past; be here now. I think too of Marleen telling me not to desire things to be different, to not wish Bill’s condition away, to not compare the love of then to now, to accept life as it is. And within moments my thoughts and emotions have passed and I’m back in the city, present in this beautiful moment, this gift.
What will you do with that gift?I hear Marleen ask.
As I look out over the street, I’m struck by my new friendships with Frank and Marleen, how much I enjoyed chatting with the man at the bar, and how even after only thirty-six hours I feel more confident in myself, more able to see the habits I’ve created in caring for Bill, and the mental loops too, that I have a new perspective on how things are and might be.
And as I sit, lost in the flow of activity, it occurs to me that I can now clearly imagine a version of life that enables me to still care for Bill, but one that also gives me the opportunity to do something for me, to be more than a wife and carer. To fill up my cup.
‘Where are your thoughts?’ asks Fran, pulling out the cream and green wicker chair and joining me at the table.
‘I’ve decided to do an introduction to counselling course, see where that leads,’ I say, possibly surprising myself more than Fran.
‘Elsa, that’s wonderful news. I’m proud of you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, not usually one to accept praise, or knowing how I’ll go about doing it, but even I can see how far I’ve come in a short space of time. ‘How about you?’ I look at her outfit and shoes, her hair elegantly styled. I assume she’s planning some time with Alistair later, a stroll down memory lane. ‘How are you feeling about Robin?’ I ask, mindful of keeping her rooted.
‘I’m not sure how I’m meant to feel about Robin any more,’ she says, her eyes losing their shine.
‘Give him time, Fran,’ I say, reaching out to squeeze her forearm. ‘It may be nothing more than a brief depression.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ she says, and she tells me how she fears he regrets his life choices, that his resentment has shifted into something more: a dissatisfaction, a defeat. ‘And he blames me. I’m responsible. The loss of Mum, my career. His life would look entirely different without those things.’
‘It’s completely normal, Fran, to have this mid-life reflection,’ I tell her, and I remind her of the difficulties Bill and I had during our own middle years when it became clear that children weren’t possible. It took us a while to find our feet, we both retreated into ourselves, but we came through it with renewed purpose. If we’d had kids of our own, our lives would have looked very different: I wouldn’t have had my career in the gallery, his work might not have been so far-reaching. Withchildren, Bill and I may not have travelled, and yes, our lives would have been richer in other ways, but we and others would have missed out on so much.
‘Robin has lost his way, his purpose, his confidence. This is his period of contemplation and processing. Whichever path he chose, he would have reached a point of questioning. A change is needed, you both know that. The bookshop isn’t what it used to be, and he may not be the one who can turn it around. He may need to do something else, but that won’t be at the expense of his love for you. We are humanbeings, not humandoings!’
Fran shifts in her seat, sits a little straighter.
‘For now, you’re the obvious target – we hurt the ones we love – but trust me, he’ll soon realise it’s not about you. Robin is responsible for the choices he’s made and will make. He will find his purpose and his way back to you.’
‘And in the meantime? What do I do while my husband, my rock, is not there? What if there’s another rock?’
Marleen joins us, many of the readers now having headed elsewhere in the city or back to the hotel.
‘Fran was just asking what we do when our rock is not there for us,’ I say.
‘We become our own rock; you are the only constant,’ she says without pausing.
