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Albert was a father figure. My mentor, confidant, dearest friend and life guru all rolled into one. His smile—it was infectious and would instantly wipe away any sadness I was feeling. He was the kindest, must jovial, loving person I’d ever known. And now I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do without him.
As I stood on the freezing cold platform, waiting for the train to arrive, my thoughts turned to our last conversation on New Year’s Day, just a few weeks before I’d received the fateful call from Henri. He’d wished me health and success for the year ahead and then got a bit serious:
‘Ma chère Sophia,’ he’d said solemnly. ‘Remember, life is short. You only live once. You must enjoy. If you are not happy, you must do something to change it. And thismétro, boulot, dodo—this ‘train, work, sleep’—it is not good.’
I thought he’d finished, but then he continued, still with an uncharacteristic sombreness in his voice: ‘I am proud thatma petite Sophiahas become big and successful Sophia. Butrappelle-toithat it is happiness andamour, not work, that are most important.’
I took a moment to consider his comments. I understood his concern. Yes, Ididwork a lot. Every time we spoke, whether it was morning, afternoon or evening, weekday or weekend, I was either working, just finished work, or going to work. But life in a fast-paced city like London istotallydifferent to a tiny town like Châteaumerveille. Especially for someone ambitious like me. I was making my mark in the PR world. Carving out a successful career. Building an empire. I couldn’t do that without putting in the hours. The only place success comes before work is in the dictionary. That was the motto I lived by, and that was how I’d gotten to where I was today.
And who said I wasn’t happy? Hadn’t Isoundedhappy when we’d last spoken on the phone? Yes, I had my moments like everyone else. He knew that better than anyone. But ultimately I’d created an amazing business and could afford to buy almost anything I wanted, so whywouldn’tI be happy?
As for love, I had Rich. We’d known each other since we were sixteen, and after several years of being just friends, we’d become a couple and had been together ever since. We had our ups and downs, but didn’t every couple? Besides, he ticked all the boxes. Smart, supportive and handsome. Whatwasn’tto love?
I hadn’t thought much about Albert’s comments at the time. When he’d called, although it was a bank holiday, I was in the middle of trying to send an urgent email to a client. If I’d known that would be the last time I’d speak to him, then of course I would have been more focused. I wasn’t proud of that—it was something I was likely to regret for the rest of my life.
But now his comments were troubling me. What exactly had he been saying? That I was an unhappy workaholic who needed to find love? Usually he was perceptive and his analysis of a situation was spot-on. However, this time I disagreed.Of course, I knewnormallyit wasn’t good to work too much, but it was different for me. I loved my career. Work made me happy. It fulfilled me. Rich was a great guy. Solid. And I was in love.
Iam.
Aren’t I?
The two-hour journey back to Paris flew by. The first-class carriage was almost empty. Peace and quiet was just what I needed. I checked emails, scrolled through our social media feeds and did some campaign brainstorming. But Albert’s comments still raced through my mind. It was like he was there beside me, repeating those words over and over again.
I jumped in a taxi to Gare du Nord, took out my phone, plugged in my headphones, selected my ‘mellow’ Spotify playlist and clicked on ‘shuffle’.This will calm me.It didn’t.
It was as if I’d put the ‘Albert’s last words’ playlist on as his voice was still ringing in my ears.
I boarded the Business Premier carriage of the Eurostar. After travelling back and forth from London to Paris in the Standard seats with my huge rucksack when I was a student, I’d always vowed to sit in the posher carriage when I became a real grown-up with a proper job. And now that the business was doing well, I was able to do exactly that.
I found my single window seat, then lifted my small Louis Vuitton case up to the luggage rack above. I did a quick scan of the seat.Hmm, what’s that?I took a fresh tissue out of my handbag and brushed it off.Good. Just some crumbs. No stains. Should be fine. Headrest check? No stray hairs or dirt. Seems clean enough. I’ll be okay here.
I settled back into the seat, unzipped my boots and unbuttoned my coat. The Eurostar attendant approached with the complimentary drinks trolley. It had been an emotional few days. I could certainly do with a glass of wine.
‘A bottle of red, please,’ I said. She set the mini bottle and a glass on the faux wooden table in front of me. ‘Thank you.’
I picked up the glass and examined it from every angle. Shit. There were some marks along the rim.I can’t do it.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, calling her back. ‘Could I have another glass, please?’ The attendant, a French brunette, frowned before remembering that wasn’t a very customer-focused reaction.
‘Certainly, madame,’ she said, flashing me a fake smile whilst gently placing another glass on my table.
I scrutinised the new glass.Thank God. That’smuchbetter.
‘Thank you,’ I said, indicating that all was right in my OCD world again.
I have a thing about glasses. Well, cleanliness in general. Glasses have to be clean. No water marks. No smudges. Otherwise I can’t drink from them. I know it’s not logical or sensible. If anyone else saw the glass, they’d say it’s fine. And I’m sure it is. It’s just something that I’ve always had. Just a touch of OCD. Nothing major. Not life-crippling or anything.
I’ve heard that Jennifer Aniston and Cameron Diaz also had a thing about germs and cleanliness. Lots of people have it. And a lot worse than me too. I’d work on it. See someone and get it sorted. Just as soon as I found the time. Difficult, as there was always so much to do.
I unscrewed the lid of the bottle, poured the wine into the glass and took a large gulp.That’s better. I can relax now. Or attempt to…
Did Ireallywork too much?
Okay, Albert. I get it. This is one of your classic ‘sewing the thinking seed’ moments. You’re obviously trying to tell me something and are not going to get out of my head until I give this some proper thought, so all right. Let’s do this. Let’s start with talking about work.
Since I’d launched my agency, BeCome, fourteen years earlier, I’d worked at least twelve hours a day, pretty much seven days a week. But come on, Albert! Look at what I got in return. I got to promote some of the best brands in the beauty business. I’d won dozens of awards and achieved more than I could ever have imagined.
Yes, it had come with huge sacrifices, and it did mean I had zero personal life. The only downtime I got was watchingGame of Throneswith Rich maybe once a week (whilst simultaneously scrolling through Instagram, Snapchat and Twitter to keep on top of the latest influencers). I tried to see my friends and family maybe once a month, although it wasn’t unusual for me to cancel if something urgent came up at work…
