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‘I’m fine, Henri,’ I said apprehensively as I repositioned my pillow and sat up straight to help me focus. ‘Is everything okay? It’s not like you to call so late.’
There was a long pause. It seemed like Henri was trying to compose himself before he could speak. And it wasn’t because he was thinking of how to translate his thoughts, as his English was flawless. No. Something was wrong.
‘I’m afraid I—I have some bad news,’ Henri stuttered. ‘Albert has had a stroke.’
The room started to spin. I struggled to keep a firm grasp of the phone, and my body began to shake. A wave of questions flooded into my brain.
‘What?’ I snapped. ‘When? Is he going to be all right? How—’
‘I’m afraid he didn’t survive. The doctors tried, but there was nothing more that could be done. He’s gone, Soph. He’s dead.’
This couldn’t be happening.
‘I…I…I can’t believe it.’ I paused, desperately trying to think of the right words. ‘I’m so sorry, Henri.’
‘Thanks, Sophia,’ he said. ‘The funeral will be next Thursday in Châteaumerveille. We’ll start making the arrangements tomorrow.’
Already? Goodness. This was so much to take in.
‘Well, of course I’ll be there, Henri,’ I replied.
‘That means a lot. I’ll send you the details when I have them. Let me know what time you’ll arrive, and I’ll come and collect you from the station.’
How was he so strong, when I felt like my whole body was about to shatter into a million pieces?
‘Will do. Henri, I am so, so sorry. Please pass on my condolences to Marie and Geraldine too. If there’s anything I can do or anything you need, please call me.’
Henri thanked me, his voice wavering. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain he was feeling.
It was difficult to put into words how I felt about Albert. He was like a second father to me. Eighteen years earlier, when I was a twenty-year-old student teaching English as part of my French degree in a small town called Châteaumerveille in France, I’d bumped into him one day in the street and struck up a conversation.
As soon as he’d heard I was from London, he’d excitedly invited me to join him and his wife, Marie, who I later learned was the town’s most popular doctor, on a trip to the South of France that weekend along with his two young children, Henri, who was just five at the time, and Geraldine, then seven. But when my mum had freaked out about me going away with strangers, I’d agreed to accept the invitation to dinner at their home the following Sunday instead, which then became one of our rituals. And for the nine months that I lived there, it was always the highlight of my week.
Even when I’d returned to London, our friendship had continued. We’d still see each other every year, either in London, Paris or Châteaumerveille, and we spoke at length at least once a month. Whether it was offering his relationship and career advice or recommending a good bottle of red to impress clients, Albert had always been there for me.
Rich tried his best to console me, but I needed to be alone. I retreated to the living room to lie down on the sofa. After what felt like hours of staring at the bright white ceiling in total shock and wondering why, despite my sorrow, I couldn’t seem to bring myself to cry, I went into autopilot. I picked up my iPad and booked my Eurostar ticket to Paris and then the two-hour train journey to Châteaumerveille.
Next, I clicked on iCal to log the dates on my phone. Damn. I’d forgotten. I had a full day of meetings next Thursday, including one with a big potential new client flying over from New York to meet with me.
Fuck it. There was no way I was going to miss saying a final farewell to my dearest Albert. For once, securing another big beauty account would just have to wait.
It was tough,but somehow I got through Albert’s funeral.
He had a good send-off. Over five hundred people attended the service. A huge turnout by any standard, but particularly for such a small town. He had been clearly loved, and had touched many people’s lives.
Albert was gone. I still couldn’t take it all in. How was it possible for him to be ripped away from us at just sixty? That was no age at all.
This wonderful man had had a massive impact on my life. He was the one I could always count on for honest, non-judgemental advice. I confided in him more than my best friends and certainly my parents. But what now? Where would I be without his guidance and love?
With Albert, I always felt like I could be me. I was just Sophia. Not ‘Sophia, the cool and in-control boss’, ‘Sophia, the reliable long-term partner’, ‘Sophia, the successful daughter’ or ‘Sophia, the strong friend’. And that meant so much, because each of those ‘titles’ came with a list of expectations.
Generally, life was great, but sometimes I found it hard to admit to my parents, Rich or my friends that I struggled. It might seem like I had everything under control at work, and that was mostly true, through trial and error and doing my job for so long. But I also had moments where I didn’t know which way to turn and didn’t want to shatter the illusion they all had about me always having my shit together, so I’d put on a brave face and soldier on. But with Albert, somehow I never had to worry about that.
No subject was off limits. No emotions were too deep or raw to express. I could tell him if ever I was nervous about pitching for a big account, or I had concerns about my relationships. He would listen intently, then, once he was sure I had finished pouring my heart out, he’d share his words of wisdom. He was like some sort of life magician. I don’t know how, but he seemed to know the right way to resolve a problem or a challenge.
He wouldn’t always tell me what to do explicitly. Sometimes he’d wanted me to learn a lesson. Not in a bad way. More a case of him recognising that I would grow if he sowed a seed in my brain to help me figure out the answers for myself.
Sometimes I’d sit at my desk in the evenings and we’d Facetime for hours. He would read my face instantly and know whether I was happy or sad. I couldn’t hide anything from him. And I didn’t ever want to. Our bond was special.
