‘By that time Lillian was three months pregnant and unable to travel due to sickness. Our first child arrived, followed soon after by three more, and then postings all over the world.’
I nod in understanding, knowing only too well how quickly life passes. There are days when I’m certain I met Bill only yesterday.
‘One way or another we never made it,’ he continues. ‘At some point we promised we’d do it when I retired. Work hard. Retire. Enjoy life together. That was the plan.’
Frank drinks his coffee, his hands trembling lightly, his gaze fading into the middle distance.
‘What happened to Lillian?’ I ask, sensing the inevitable.
‘She became sick, cancer,’ he says, clearing his throat again, pushing away uncomfortable memories. ‘She died two weeks after my retirement.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, reaching out a hand, his eyes wide as if trying to stave off tears. ‘You must have felt terribly robbed.’
‘Guilt,’ he says, swallowing hard. ‘Guilt is what I felt most. Guilt for not having lived the life we wanted, for allowing work to come first.’
We sit quietly for a time, sipping our coffee and taking in the majestic surroundings; sightseers begin to gather, and a waiter arrives with our food.
‘She told me to enjoy my life, that was her dying wish,’ he says quietly, slicing his smoked salmon. ‘Selfless to the last, that was Lillian. I couldn’t have hoped for a better woman.’
‘And have you, enjoyed your life?’ I ask, buttering my warm croissant.
‘It took me a while, but yes, I’ve seen and done many things we wanted to do together.’
‘Seeing and doing isn’t quite the same thing as enjoying,’ I challenge gently.
He considers this for a moment. ‘I’ve lived the retirement we wanted to share together.’
‘To hold on to her,’ I say, not entirely sure if I’m asking or telling.
He contemplates this too. ‘Yes. I suppose that’s true.’
‘Is that what Lillian would have wanted, for you to hold on?’ I ask, adding preserve carefully to my croissant. ‘Or do you think she would have wanted you to let go?’
Frank wipes his mouth. He doesn’t answer.
‘Forgive me if I’m being too personal,’ I say, uncertain if I’ve pushed him too far; concerned that Frank isn’t the type of man who can let go, even at the best of times, let alone the worst of times.
‘No, you’re right to question, and you’re not the first to ask. Charlie, my granddaughter, has asked the same,’ he says with a warm smile, his eyes lighting at the mention of her name. ‘Actually it’s because of her that I’m here. She bought me the ticket under the false pretence of meeting Christopher Rose, but I knew the real reason – to get me to Paris.’
‘Charlie sounds wonderful.’
‘Children and grandchildren – they’re all life is about.’
‘Yes,’ I ponder, thinking of Fran and Carly, and how rudderless life would have felt without them. My thoughts turn to Nancy. ‘Letting go of someone we’ve lost, not forgetting, is one of life’s hardest things,’ I say, thinking how long it took me to accept that my best friend was gone, that the woman in the hospital bed, so lifeless and pale, the opposite of the woman I knew, could be her. It took me years not to feel guilty that I, a childless woman, was left caring for a motherless child. ‘It forces us to be comfortable with being left behind, with the great mystery of suddenly being alone, and to face our own vulnerability and mortality.’
As the words tumble out of me, my voice breaks and a tear spills down my cheek.
‘Forgive me,’ I say, not certain if a man like Frank will be comfortable with such a display of emotion.
‘It looks as if you have some letting go to do of your own,’ he says with a level of insight that surprises me.
‘You’re right,’ I say with a half-laugh, and I find myself telling him all about Bill and his terrible, insidious illness.
‘Enjoy whatever time you have left together,’ Frank says, when I’ve gathered myself. ‘And enjoy your life when he has gone. That’s the greatest respect you can pay him – to live life to the fullest.’
‘He told me that when he’s gone, I’m to find somebody else,’ I say incredulously, the idea completely lost on me.
‘Lillian said the same to me. But it’s unfathomable still, even after all this time.’
