Page 75 of You Were Always the One

‘Let me help you up,’ I say. Going over, I get him onto his knees, then he uses the side of the bed to push himself onto his feet. Then he sits heavily on the bed.

‘Is this what happens?’ His face is pale with shock.

‘Sometimes,’ I say gently, trying to hide the worry I feel that this has happened so soon after surgery. Unless it’s because of the surgery.

Shaking his head, he sits there in silence. ‘What do you think? Do you think the treatment is going to help?’

It’s the first time he’s asked me outright. ‘The aim is to slow the growth of the tumour,’ I say. But Miles already knows that.

‘That isn’t what I asked.’ He turns to look at me. ‘Please be straight with me, Holly. Is it going to make a difference?’

Sighing, I sit next to him, telling him the only thing I can. ‘It’s impossible to say. Everyone responds differently, Miles. Hopefully, it will – it’s the best option available. But…’ I pause. ‘There are no guarantees.’ I look at him. ‘You know Charley, the patient I’ve told you about? Well, she was really sick when I met her. She’d been told she didn’t have long. But she’s doing amazingly well, and confounding her consultant.’ I pause. ‘These things can’t be predicted – but it doesn’t mean they’re not possible.’

Miles doesn’t speak. Then he reaches for one of my hands. ‘Thank you,’ he mutters.

It’s true. There are no easy answers, just as there is no predictable outcome. Knowing all I can do is be here, I sit there a little longer with him.

26

RIGGS

It’s a long drive south to the Pyrenees. But it’s worth every mile; feels liberating, from the moment I drive off the ferry, aware of a weight lifting. When I get there, the house is everything I hoped for – not that my expectations were high. I don’t need much. As long as somewhere has views and a comfy bed, and somewhere to plug in my laptop, I can make do with basic. Not that it’s that basic. The kitchen is dated and the sofa has seen better days, but who lounges inside during the French summer?

On the terrace, I arrange a table so that while I work, I can gaze at the mountains – until a few days in, I realise what a bad idea that is. I mean, there’s something hypnotic about the Pyrenees; it’s too easy to forget I have a book to write.

Meanwhile, I stay in touch with Emma. After the scare before I left, I have a need to constantly reassure myself that she’s OK.

‘So you got there?’ she asks.

‘Of course I did.’ What did she expect?

‘Thanks for the lamp.’

‘It makes sense for you to have it. You were right, weren’t you? About me going away.’ I pause. ‘How are you – and the baby?’

‘We only spoke a couple of days ago,’ she says. ‘We’re fine. Look, you have a rare window of time to yourself. Get on and write your book, Rigby.’

‘I am,’ I tell her, wondering if she’s as strident with Archie. Or whether it’s just I frustrate the hell out of her. I decide it’s most likely the latter, as it seems I frustrate the hell out of Holly, too.

In the interest of productivity, I move my laptop so that I’m sitting with my back to the breathtaking view. The change of scene has done wonders for my creativity – or at least, that’s how it feels. But as I carry on writing, something happens.

As well as being the story of Holly and me, it becomes the story of all our lives. Of how easy it is to lose our way. How routines and expectations sway our choices until we lose sight of what really matters to us.

So what actually does matter to me? Right now, there’s Emma and our baby. There’s Holly and everything that’s going on in her life – which is all very well. But what is it that I want?

As always, procrastinating, I go inside and make one of those small cups of strong French coffee that all the cafés serve around here. But when I get back to my laptop, the question is still there. What do I want from the rest of my life?

I sip my coffee, then put down the cup. I want what everyone else wants. A roof over my head, enough money coming in. Someone to share it with. Is that too much to ask? It’s a simple answer to a simple enough question, I tell myself.

But as I carry on writing, it niggles at me as I realise I haven’t answered my question. Instead, I’ve fobbed myself off. I shy away from what I can put off for another day; don’t delve into the difficult stuff. In marrying Emma, and even in my writing, I’ve taken the path of least resistance, doing just about enough to keep things on a level. But no more than that. Is it why I’ve never got to where I want to be?

No wonder Holly was frustrated with me. And Emma, too. I mean, look at me now. I’m almost divorced, with a floundering writing career. But when I’ve never really been all in, in the true sense, what should I expect?

You’re a commitment-phobe, Riggs. Not just with love, but in every sense of the word.

Mercifully, my slightly disconcerting thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up in the lane, before there’s a knock on the door. I go to open it.

‘Bonjour.’ The woman standing there is petite and dark-haired. She also happens to be dazzlingly beautiful. ‘You are Rigby, n’est ce pas?’ she asks.