‘I don’t think I’ve recovered from the food poisoning,’ I finally answer him, placing my hand over the top of my stomach that’s continued to churn since the infamous seafood incident in Paris over the weekend. It’s easier to blame the fear and the desperation on something tangible and easy to recover from, much easier than thinking of Paul, alone in a hospital bed.
‘Maybe you should see your GP?’ suggests Georgie. Her eyes are trained on me, almost as if she is trying to X-ray a diagnosis just by looking at me. I know she is only trying to help me, so I smile at her, pretending an easiness that’s not really there.
‘If I’m not better in a couple of days, I’ll go to the doctor,’ I promise her as I walk up the stairs, one slow step at a time. ‘Please don’t worry about me. I’m just tired – I’ll be all right,’ I say, looking back at the two of them as I reach the top of the stairs. They nod at me but I know they’re not convinced. ‘I’ll be all right,’ I say again with a smile, hiding behind it. The niggling truth is that I’ve just made them a promise it won’t be easy to keep.
‘I’ll make us a sandwich,’ says Georgie as we look at each other, unsure how to act normal, now that our lives have been shattered.
‘That would be lovely,’ I answer as I walk into my room. The shock of how the bedroom looks leaves me breathless. My luggage is open on the bed. Clothes are everywhere: some folded, some just abandoned. The wardrobe doors are open and Paul’s trolley lies neatly packed, to the side of the bed. I turn my back to it and head for the en suite.
I shower quickly, pull some clothes on at random, and with no real enthusiasm eat the sandwich Georgie brought up for me. ‘You should sleep,’ she says, carefully piling the clothes scattered on the bed into my chest of drawers, and moving my open luggage and gingerly placing it on the chaise longue under the skylight. She closes the doors of the wardrobe that are still open and moves Paul’s trolley out of sight.
Not that any of that will help me forget that Paul and I were just about to fly out to Vegas to get married, before he ended up in the ICU, but at least the room looks tidier and I can actually lie down on the bed now.
‘Thank you,’ I say to Georgie as I curl up under the covers.
‘Fran, you don’t have to thank me; you’re my best friend. Try to get some sleep,’ she says, stroking my hair out of my face. ‘I’m going home for a while, to have a shower – and I need to speak with my boss to ask for more time off. Harry is downstairs if you need anything,’ she adds.
I nod again. The words ‘thank you’ are on my lips again, but I stop myself from saying them.
I sleep badly for a few hours, and when I wake up and see the empty place beside me, I’m reminded immediately of what’s happened. My hand reaches out seeking Paul’s warmth, even though I know he isn’t there.
Needing to have a piece of him close to me, I uncurl myself from the sheets and open the wardrobe doors. I grab one of his favourite jumpers and pull it over my head. I inhale deeply reminding myself of Paul, of what could have been, should have been, and how much has changed in the space of two days.
I bite down on my lip to stop the scream that’s about to rip through my chest. Tears start to flood my eyes and my legs give out under me. I slide down to the floor, sobbing, curling in on myself, protecting my broken heart, but no respite comes for my agony. I force myself to crawl back towards the bed after my limbs have seized up due to my inactivity.
When I lift myself up, the pictures in the frames on the wall stare at me with their happy smiles and funny faces. Memories of us together, always together, forever together.
Paul and I in Marseille, on the cliff behind Paul’s uncle’s restaurant. There is one of a grinning Paul I took on top of Ben Nevis, a landscape from a scuba-diving holiday I will never forget, and then a photo of Paul, Harry, Robert, and I – all wearing the same uniform – just outside the gate of the exclusive private school in Cambridge that we attended. I think back to the shock of going from my local oversubscribed and underfunded primary, to a school that had a library centuries old and a chef who cooked delicious dinners from scratch every single day.
I lie on the bed again, without bothering to pick up the duvet that I’ve thrown on the floor. I hold Paul’s pillow in my arms and stare at that picture, bringing back the emotions of my first year there.
***
‘How would you like to go to Paul and Harry’s school?’ Josephine asked me out of the blue one sunny summer afternoon. I’d become a stable fixture in the FitzRoys’ family since I first met them almost exactly a year earlier. Becca left for university that September, and knowing that I would have to be at home by myself every day, Josephine called my father and suggested I spent the afternoons following school at their house instead.
At first my father had been slightly reticent to agree but Josephine charmed him into saying yes. I usually stayed for dinner and often even spent the weekend with the FitzRoys in London or at their house in the Lake District. My father was content with the amount of time I spent with him, and because my school grades were still exceptional, and my French was improving before his eyes, he let me go with the FitzRoys whenever I asked his permission.
He was never a bad father and I knew he loved me, but I realised early on in life that his mind was so full of knowledge, and his heart so full of passion for discovery, that he didn’t really have much space left for anything – or anyone – else.
‘So, Fran, what do you think?’ Josephine asked me expectantly.
I looked at her thinking that I loved my school and if I moved I’d miss Georgie, but, on the other hand, the opportunity to study at such an acclaimed institution meant that I would be a step closer to my dream of being accepted to Cambridge University. That school was a fast lane into Cambridge and the kudos of studying A levels there would not be matched by the state school I was attending.
Paul had told me that his school had an Olympic-size swimming pool and a cricket field, tennis courts and an entire science building as well as a library and a fully equipped indoor gym, complete with a climbing wall.
‘I …’ My words died on my lips. How could I explain to her that I really wanted to accept but I knew my father didn’t have the means to pay for their steep fees? I lowered my eyes to my homework sheet, trying really hard to think of an excuse why I didn’t want to move schools.
‘There is a scholarship you could apply for, and with your grades I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting in. It’s not a full-funded scholarship but I’ve talked to your father and he said he should be able to pay the remaining fees if you wanted to go,’ Josephine said.
‘Is this really true?’ I asked incredulous at the opportunity in front of me. She nodded and smiled.
‘What do I need to do?’ I asked, fidgeting in my chair, too excited to be able to stay still.
When school began, and I had to walk into my new classroom, I felt nervous and shy as if I didn’t quite have the right to be there, but the thought that Harry was in the classroom next to me helped me keep my emotions under control. Paul was in a different part of the building, as the Junior and Senior schools had slightly different facilities, but even if I was able to see Harry during break and we met up with Paul when our school day was over for a snack in the canteen that would be great.
It was during one of those breaks that I started to look at Paul with different eyes. It was raining outside. Harry and I had rushed into the cafeteria that was already filling up with pupils trying to avoid getting soaked.
‘Hey, Fran.