‘I would like that,’ I answer, and we head outside where Alistair helps me with my jacket.
‘Tell me something about how life was for you, after we parted,’ he says, as we stroll past the restaurants along the boulevard.
I tell him about returning to London, then having to leave my job to head home to Edinburgh to care for Mum. ‘And you?’
‘I travelled, worked as a photojournalist as I planned.’ He puts his hands in his coat pockets. ‘When did you start writing?’
‘Good question,’ I say, as we turn into a side street, quieter than the hubbub of the boulevard. ‘When I was pregnant with Carly, I suppose.’
He doesn’t speak for a moment, lost in thought.
‘When did you meet your husband?’ he asks, his voice thinner.
‘Around six months after we met,’ I say, almost wincing, aware how soon it sounds. I notice Alistair’s stare is now fixed straight ahead. ‘What is this place?’ I ask when we arrive at two large, ornate green gates.
‘Le Cimetière de Montmartre,’ he says, trying the gates, and to my amazement, one opens despite the late hour.
‘Is itOKto go in?’ I whisper.
‘Why not? It’s not as if we’re disturbing anyone!’ he jokes, and I laugh nervously.
Alistair turns on his phone torch as we pass under a huge bridge, the occasional car rumbling overhead. We pass large tombs on either side, before reaching a small planted roundabout, then strolling beyond it along a wide, paved avenue of graves.
‘How did you meet your husband?’ he asks.
I tell him the story of our meeting and a little of how life has been.
‘What about you?’
His gaze falls to the path. In the dark I can’t read his expression.
‘It’s not been great,’ he says eventually.
‘How come?’
He shrugs. ‘Sometimes I wonder if my wife was just a distraction. Someone who, momentarily, took my mind away from you. I’m not sure she ever truly loved me, or I her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur, not sure what else to say.
‘For decades I’ve buried myself in work, travelling as frequently as possible, and drinking to numb the lack of true connection between us. Work, drink, repeat.’
‘A cycle that only exacerbates the problem,’ I say, suspecting that his rejection causes hers.
He shrugs. ‘One day you turn around to discover you’re strangers. And the life that had started out as an adventure has turned into little more than a series of commitments.’
I give the thought some space, and loop round on to another path, my mind flitting to Robin.
‘Don’t you ever wonder how life might have been if we’d kept in touch?’ he asks. ‘If you’d sent me your address like you said you would?’
I think of Robin, his own discontent, so stifled by responsibility and wondering how life might have been without me. And here I am with Alistair, who’s wondering how life might have beenwithme.
‘I’ve a feeling the broad strokes wouldn’t be so different,’ I answer hesitantly. ‘We’d have had a child, we’d have jobs, we’d need to make ends meet.’ I look at the graves around us. ‘It’s part of life, no?’
‘Is it? Or is there another way? One that offers more freedom from responsibility, that doesn’t involve being part of the system.’
‘I don’t know,’ I sigh wearily. ‘Don’t all creatures have systems of some kind? Isn’t it just that ours is more complicated? I think as a whole we’re guilty of lacking gratitude, of always wanting something else, and losing sight of the fact that responsibility is part of the fundamentals of life: to care and protect and provide. Life might be simpler without commitment, but happier? I don’t think so.’
Alistair doesn’t answer.
