Page 83 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘We need to go to John Lewis on the way to the hospital,’ she said. ‘For more bedding. We can take Dad’s car. I think I can drive it on his insurance.’

Her phone beeped. She wondered if it was Olivier. But it was Stuart.

Bloody starving. Waiting for the porters to wheel me down to theatre. Curtain up at ten. You can phone at midday. Thanks again for coming. You’re a leg-end. Geddit? (And I’m a bell-end.) S

She smiled, and texted back.

I’d say break a leg but you already have. Nate’s here.

It was only a moment before he replied.

I don’t deserve you guys.

Juliet knew that knowing Nate was here would have made Stuart well up. It didn’t take much to make him cry where the kids were concerned.

Yes, you do. Don’t be daft. We’ll be thinking of you while we splurge on your credit card.

It was in his bedside drawer. He’d told her to use it for whatever she needed to stock the flat.

‘Let’s go for breakfast,’ she said to Nate. ‘There’s bugger all to eat here and I need carbs.’

At least if she was with Nate it would stop her checking her phone every two minutes. She wasn’t going to text Olivier again yet. She was confused not to have heard from him. She texted Nathalie instead, filling her in on what had happened and reassuring her that she’d be able to finalise the proposal as soon as Stuart was out. She pressed send, then scrolled back through all the recent messages from Olivier, reliving their time together. All the arrangements they’d made.

‘Mum?’ Nate was staring at her. ‘You OK?’

‘Yes. Fine. Just doing some work messages.’

‘Mm hmm.’ Nate looked at her knowingly. ‘So why are you staring at the phone like that?’

‘Am I?’

Nate put his arm around her and steered her towards the door. ‘Come on. We need a carb dump and some caffeine.’

Oh God. She should be doing post-coital cuddling and croissants, picking up her abandoned clothing from the floor and putting their empty wine glasses in the sink.

Her phone beeped and she jumped out of her skin.

Nathan looked at her. ‘Jesus, Mum. What are you like?’

‘I’m worried,’ she said. ‘In case it’s bad news about Dad.’

‘Fairs.’

It was a message from Nathalie. Oh my God. Do NOT worry about the book. Just make sure Stuart is OK. I love you. Tell me what’s going on. I’m keeping everything crossed.

All under control, Juliet texted back, but she’d never felt less in control in all her life.

40

The next twenty-four hours were a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Anxiety about Stuart’s operation. The agony of waiting for a message from Olivier. The joy of pottering about Richmond with Nate, getting breakfast in a cute café on Richmond Hill, whizzing around Waitrose doing a shop to fill the fridge and picking up bedding so they each had somewhere to crash once Stuart was home: there was a futon in the spare room and the sofa in the main room was big enough to sleep on.

Juliet found herself buying all the things they used to have as a family. Fresh pasta and arrabbiata sauce and Parmesan, big tubs of hummus and pitta bread, sausages and brioche hot-dog buns and hot sauce. She had a feeling most of this wouldn’t fit into Stuart’s new regime, but he could send out for whatever he needed once he was home. She and Nate needed comfort and familiarity. And she got plenty of salad and tomatoes. No cucumber, as that was Stuart’s worst nightmare. She chucked in feta and olives – a big Greek salad was always good to have in the fridge. It was funny how easy it was to revert to her old role, navigating the supermarket shelves on autopilot. Orange juice – no bits. Vintage Cheddar – extra mature. Bacon – streaky, unsmoked.

The minute she and Nate had finished unloading all the shopping in the kitchen, she got a call from Stuart.

‘All done and dusted,’ he said. He sounded tired, a little strained. He was probably in pain. ‘They’re pleased with how it went and with a fair wind I can come home tomorrow.’

‘We’ll come straight in to see you.’ Juliet felt a flood of relief. It could so easily have gone wrong. There could have been complications.

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