Page 79 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘Here.’ Olivier was getting something out of his pocket. ‘Take this.’

It was his copy of Le Grand Meaulnes. She stared down at it.

He hugged her again. ‘It means you have to come back,’ he whispered. ‘One day.’

She was crying again. She put it in her bag. A white Mercedes came around the corner and glided towards them, slowing down. She put her arms around his neck.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For a wonderful time. For everything. I won’t forget you.’

She breathed him in one last time. Felt his warm lips on her damp cheek. He picked up her case, opened the back door of the car so she could get in, then walked around the back while the driver opened the boot. Then he leaned in and squeezed her arm, shut the door and stood on the pavement as the car pulled away.

He stood in the pouring rain, watching them go, and she saw him getting smaller and smaller and then they turned the corner and he disappeared.

She was in good time for the train, but she almost wished she had only made it with moments to spare as now she had more than half an hour to kill. The waiting area was filled with people on their way back from a long weekend in the City of Lights – hen parties and loved-up couples and groups of friends without a care in the world.

Agitated, Juliet wandered around the shop at the top of the escalator that was by the departure gate. A selection of predictable paperbacks, some tacky souvenirs – you really would have failed in your duty if you left buying something this late – and refreshments. Should she stock up on something to eat now? It would be late by the time she got to the hospital. She had no appetite, so she just bought some bottled water. A stress headache had tied a tight band around her forehead and her stomach was churning. She clutched her phone in her hand, checking it every three seconds for a message. Thank God for Eurostar, she thought. She probably wouldn’t have been able to get a plane until the next day, but she’d be able to get out to Richmond on the Tube and then take a cab to the hospital.

The departure gate opened. She headed towards it, not that getting through early would make any difference – the wait would be the same whichever side she was on – but at least it was positive action.

Just as the train was about to leave, her phone rang.

Matt.

She grabbed it, her heart in her mouth.

‘Just to tell you that the scan was clear,’ he said. ‘There’s no sign of any brain injury.’

‘Oh, thank God.’ She leaned her head back on the headrest, sweet relief flooding through her.

‘He’s still in intensive care, though. He’s up to his eyeballs in painkillers. They’re hoping to operate on his leg tomorrow. It’ll probably need pinning.’

‘Matt, I can’t thank you enough for being there.’

‘Of course I’m here. He’s my mate.’

‘Tell him I’m on the train. Two hours to St Pancras, then as long as it takes me to cross London.’

As soon as she hung up, she had a little weep, grateful there was no one in the seat next to her. She felt light-headed, almost as if her brain couldn’t process reality but was instead filled with terrible possibilities and what-ifs, flitting from one catastrophe to the next. What if he died of complications on the operating table? What if they couldn’t put his leg back together and had to amputate it? What if they had missed a bleed on his brain? She tried to tell herself she was overreacting. Once she could see him, it would be OK. She felt out of control, being so far away and not being able to ask the right questions.

She felt an overwhelming urge to protect Stuart; to get to his side as soon as possible and sort things out for him. It was more maternal than wifely, but it was powerful nevertheless, and it made her realise how very much she still cared for him. Admittedly, he hadn’t been in her thoughts a great deal lately, but she would give anything for him to be all right.

A woman on the other side of the aisle reached over and touched her arm.

‘Are you all right? Can I get you something?’

Juliet realised she was still crying. Not howling, just sniffing and wiping away tears with her sleeve.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she managed. ‘My husband’s had a cycling accident so I’m trying to get back.’

‘Oh dear. Try not to worry. Easy to say, I know.’ The woman made a face.

‘I’ll be fine once I’m there.’ Juliet composed herself, not wanting to make a scene, not wanting this attention from a stranger. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be all right.’ The woman patted her arm.

It was a meaningless platitude, trotted out to make her feel better, Juliet knew, but for some reason it made her want to cry again. She smiled her thanks and turned away to hide her tears.

How on earth could she have let this happen? How on earth could she have agreed to this separation when they still cared for each other so much? It was naïve, to split when things were hunky-dory, because the whole point of marriage was to be there for one another when the going got tough. They needed each other. They had all that history. They knew each other’s foibles and hang-ups and idiosyncrasies: she’d had more than twenty-five years to know Stuart gagged if a piece of cucumber came anywhere near him and wouldn’t pull hair out of the plughole for love nor money, but was the best person to work out how to split the bill if a big group went out to a restaurant. And, in return, he knew she hated marzipan but could find the perfect pair of suede brogues in the right size at half price in the Christmas sales.

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