We'll Always Have Paris

by Sue Watson

  And in the middle of this lovely moment, surrounded by velvet sofas and candlelight, a frisson of irritation shimmers through me.

  ‘You’re the one who said goodbye the first time,’ I snap. And I realise that however wonderful this new relationship is on the surface, we need to excavate the past in order to build new foundations. We are both on a different footing now and I feel so much more in control the second time around. If we are beginning a new relationship then we need to deal with the detritus of the old one first. If we don’t talk about what happened I will always feel a twist of pain, a vague stab of resentment at his abandonment, which sometimes feels like yesterday.

  I can remember it all so clearly. The day we broke up from college we ran out into the sunshine, the summer stretching out before us, a long, glistening sea of time together – until he dropped the bombshell.

  ‘Rosie,’ he said, ‘I’m really sorry, but I have to go away with my family – we’re going to our house in Italy.’

  I was devastated and it didn’t make it any easier to hear that he’d be gone for three weeks.

  ‘Stay here – you’re eighteen, they can’t make you,’ I said, panic-stricken at the prospect of being without him.

  ‘I have to, it would break Mum’s heart if I didn’t go,’ he sighed.

  My own heart was now in shattered pieces on the ground. This was the first time real life had encroached into our perfect bubble and I realised later that this was our first test – a summer with me or a holiday in Italy – and he chose the holiday.

  I hated everything in that moment, except him, which shows how in love I was. I never saw his flaws back then. I was more angry with Peter’s parents for taking him thousands of miles away from me.

  ‘Italy?’ my mother said when I told her. She said this like he was going to the moon.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Three weeks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who goes to Italy?’

  ‘Peter does. His family have a house there.’

  ‘Oooh, very nice. It’s all right for some,’ she’d said, picking up her cloth and continuing a very vigorous polish of the front-room window. ‘And I expect you’re going to wait for him?’

  I was angry that she even needed to ask the question. ‘No, I’m going to run off with the first boy I see the minute his plane leaves the ground,’ I hissed as fresh anger swept through me.

  ‘I’m saying nothing,’ she said, which usually meant the opposite and I could feel a tsunami of ‘counselling’ coming my way from ‘Margaret Draper, Advice Columnist’. ‘All I’m saying is, once he gets in that heat, with loose young foreign women throwing themselves at him . . . ’ She left it hanging, digging straight into my basic teenage fear. I wanted my mum to reassure me that my boyfriend would be faithful and soothe my fears, not rip me open and leave my insides to bleed all over the front-room carpet.

  I’ve been reassuring my own girls ever since to make up for the sometimes brutal way Margaret blurted out exactly what she was thinking or predicting.

  Over the next few days she worked herself up into a frenzy, conjuring up images of dark-skinned señoritas with wild eyes and dancing hips. And thanks to her, so did I.

  ‘He’s only going on a family holiday. He’ll play cricket on the beach with his brother and swim in the pool. Then they’ll have dinner and drink Chianti under the moonlight.’ I smiled to myself at his description. It sounded idyllic.

  ‘Mmmm, wine, eh? Very fancy.’ This was followed by a murmured, ‘Not for the likes of us.’

  ‘Actually, Mum, it could be for the likes of us. There’s no reason why we can’t drink wine and have holidays abroad.’

  ‘Oh yes, lady, there is. Money, for a start – it doesn’t grow on trees, you know. We’re not rich like the la-di-da Moretons,’ she’d sniffed.

  Looking back, she was right: whatever the politicians were telling us about class mobility I couldn’t really see the Draper family drinking Chianti under any moonlight. I understood only too well what she was saying, I felt it too, that chasm between Peter’s life and mine. I’d tried to close it and at the same time distance myself from Margaret and Nightingale Road, but I was as entrenched in that life as she was. I know now Margaret and I were more alike than I ever would have believed, we wanted the same things – the safety and security of marriage, and a family.

  Mike was later to provide this for me and the girls, and during Peter’s holiday in Italy Mike had already begun to feel like a support. He was someone to lean on when I was missing Peter. I’d play cards with him and my brothers, we’d watch TV and we laughed a lot that summer. Looking back I can see now that I was myself with Mike, I didn’t pretend to be ‘an art student’, I was just Rosie Draper. I remember one evening I was hanging over the kitchen sink washing blonde dye from my hair and asked him to help me rinse it all off. He did so happily and it turned into a water fight with me screaming the place down and for a little while I was able to forget about Peter. Later I sat with a towel around my head and I never gave it a second thought because I just felt so comfortable with Mike around, like I’d known him all my life.

  So while Peter lay on a sunlounger under an Italian sun, my days consisted of lying on my bed daydreaming, playing cards with Mike and just waiting, waiting for Peter’s return. Apart from a postcard in which he talked about pasta, there was nothing, and by the third week my heart was droopy. I was tired and emotional and when I looked at the calendar I realised, to my horror, that my period was very, very late.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘I missed you so much when you were on holiday in Italy that summer,’ I say now to Peter.

  ‘I missed you too . . . ’ He starts to say something else but my mobile rings, and before I can find it in my bag and put my glasses on to see the ridiculously small buttons to answer it the damn thing stops ringing.

  ‘Where were we?’ I say, abandoning the phone and sinking back into the sofa and his arms, at which point the bloody thing starts beeping, which makes me jump.

  ‘Oh God, what now?’ I sigh, putting my glasses back on and checking the voice message.

  ‘Mum, it’s me, Anna. I’ve called you at home and I’m now calling you on your mobile . . . I suppose that’s obvious, well, not necessarily because you don’t have a clue what’s going on with your phone. Where are you? I thought you were only going out with Peter today . . . surely you should be home by now? Call me when you get this – I’m beginning to worry.’

  ‘I’ll just give her a quick call, put her mind at rest,’ I say, feeling very guilty that I’ve put her through such worry. I want to text to avoid any confrontation in front of Peter, but in this light I could end up texting anyone and at least if I speak to her I’ll know she’s got the message. I dial the number and explain to Peter, who probably thinks I’m mad checking in with my daughter at my age, ‘As I told you, if I don’t call her she’ll panic and call the emergency services again.’

  ‘Good grief, you could arrive home later to a house full of police and firemen.’

  ‘A girl can dream,’ I say, as Anna picks up. ‘Hello, darling.’ I’m smiling down the phone at her. I love my girls.

  ‘Mum? Thank God for that – I’ve been worried sick.’

  ‘Oh, Anna, I’m fine, I’m sorry to worry you, I should have called but we were chatting and time ran away. I’m still out with Peter.’

  ‘Out? Where?’

  ‘In Manchester. We’re just having a last drink, in the Malmaison. Peter’s staying here. You’d love it, Anna, the interior is just lovely, it’s all in shades of red and—’

  ‘Mum, I thought you were only going out for dinner . . . I’ve been frantic. I hope you’re not being silly.’

  I bristle slightly at this but try not to react. ‘No, I’m not being silly. I’m having a lovely time,’ I say calmly, without smiling.

  ‘Good, don’t go doing anything—’

  ‘Anna, I don’t think we need to have this conversation. I’m fine and I
’m safe, thanks for being concerned.’

  ‘Well, now I know you’ve not been sex-trafficked, I wanted to know if you can pick up Emma and drop her off at work in the morning at her Saturday job. I’ve got to take Katie to her dad’s.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Don’t be late back, you’ll have to be up at eight to get Emma to work by nine.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve never had to do anything like that in my life before so thanks for the advice.’ I say this good-naturedly but I’m feeling slightly angry at her attitude.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re still out in Manchester on a Friday night,’ she’s saying, ignoring my sarcasm. My kids are fed up with my sarcasm; they’ve had it since birth and they aren’t amused by it, but Peter’s smiling at the side of me, and I think how nice it is to have a ‘new’ old friend who finds me amusing.

  ‘I know, Anna, I know. I shouldn’t be out late at night, I should be in my stairlift whizzing up and down the stairs in my own home. But that’s next Friday evening’s entertainment.’

  ‘Very funny. Seriously though, Mum, I hope you’re not planning on driving if you’ve had a drink. Are you getting a taxi back home tonight?’

  ‘Who says I’m going home tonight?’

  ‘What? What do you mean . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, you’re breaking up. Look – I have to go. I’ll pick Emma up in the morning, but I’m turning my phone off now so please don’t call me again.’

  ‘You’re not in his room, are you, Mum?’

  ‘Not yet, darling.’

  ‘Not yet?’

  ‘We’re going up to his room now to have mad passionate sex. If I’m a little late in the morning explain in detail to Emma, won’t you?’

  Peter almost chokes on his drink.

  ‘Mmm, you are hilarious, Mother,’ she says in an irritated voice. She always calls me ‘mother’ when she disapproves.

  I put the phone away and take a large sip of my drink. Anna doesn’t think for one minute I might spend the night here in this lovely hotel with this handsome man. After all, I’m sixty-four and at my age I couldn’t possibly do something like that. Could I?

  ‘Did you mean that . . . about going up to my hotel room?’ Peter says as I put the phone back in my handbag.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Oh, how disappointing.’

  ‘Well, I hadn’t planned to, but who knows? The night is yet young and life has been quite surprising recently.’

  His eyes light up and his lovely, sexy smile takes over as he leans towards me.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Peter Moreton,’ I say, my hand on his knee in a temporary holding motion. ‘I can’t help but feel this has all been planned.’ I hold my hands up at the beautiful surroundings. ‘It’s not the obvious place for a man to stay on his own – were you assuming I’d sleep with you tonight?’

  He becomes slightly bashful, not something I’m used to seeing in Peter.

  ‘No, not at all. I wouldn’t be so presumptuous. I like nice hotels, I like nice things and I refuse to stay in those awful one-roomed cells that sit along the motorway edge. I confess that it crossed my mind that if things were going well, a decent hotel to have a last drink might be a good idea but only so you could call a taxi from here.’

  ‘Okay, I believe you.’

  ‘Anyway, if you’re not prepared to run away to Paris with me you’re hardly likely to stay in a hotel in Manchester – let’s face it, they don’t compare.’

  ‘What’s the line? We’ll always have Paris, Peter,’ I laugh.

  The awkward, besotted teen is dissolving, as is the woman who held onto hurt for over forty years. I can blame the wine and the candlelight, but I think it has more to do with a rediscovered desire to cast caution to the wind. I’ve had a lifetime of playing it safe, and tonight I feel outrageous. The call from Anna telling me I was too old to be out after dark brought out the rebel in me the same way Margaret’s comments did about me being too young to do anything. Tonight, I have an uncontrollable urge to tell them all where to go, and just go with the flow.

  Peter leans in and kisses me full on the lips and I’m taken aback and complete mush in his arms.

  ‘I don’t want you to think this is all about my evil plans to get you into bed,’ he says, emerging from our kiss.

  ‘At my age I’m extremely flattered by the idea of someone – well, anyone – having evil plans to get me into bed.’ I smile. ‘As I said, it’s been a while.’

  ‘Can you blame me for booking a double room and imagining your scent on high quality cotton sheets, your blonde hair spread on the pillows like a golden cloud?’

  ‘You are and always were the most outrageous flatterer,’ I laugh. ‘It’s a good job I’m older and wiser and not taken in by your poetry as I once was.’

  ‘Damn,’ he says wryly. ‘And there’s also the slight problem of my back.’ We both laugh heartily at this, recognising the difference between us then and us now. Little has changed, yet so much has changed.

  ‘Well, I do have a few conditions. I need another brandy for courage, the lights have to be off . . . and I need an alarm call at dawn so I can take my granddaughter to her Saturday job.’

  ‘The glamour of it all.’

  ‘Yes . . . welcome to my world, Mr International Photographer.’

  ‘Okay, but do you have to leave me at dawn?’

  ‘Yes – it’s called being a grandparent . . . it starts when you’re a parent and you realise the world doesn’t revolve around you – it revolves around your children . . . and now their children.’ I realise how full my life is and it’s mostly picking up after others, but they are my others and I don’t mind.

  ‘She could get a taxi perhaps?’ he says. ‘I could arrange one from here.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t. Peter, she’s a sixteen-year-old girl going to a job in a burger joint that pays minimum wage. Turning up in a taxi would be ludicrous.’

  ‘No more ludicrous than you leaving here at dawn to drive back and . . . ’

  ‘Peter, you don’t get it, do you? I want to take my granddaughter to work. The kids are my world and they grow up too soon. My time being a grandparent is precious.’

  ‘Of course, it’s all a bit new to me, this grandchild thing.’

  The prospect of being responsible for anyone but himself is still new to him, I think, marvelling once more at how he’s lived a life of such freedom.

  He calls a waitress and orders another two large brandies. I’m still slightly irritated that he wanted to try and organise a taxi for Emma; she’s my granddaughter and my family will come first whatever happens between Peter and me. That’s the way I am and if he wants to pursue this relationship that’s going to be the deal.

  ‘We can take these brandies upstairs. I’ll show you the room and you can decide if you want to stay,’ he’s saying. ‘I just think it would be good to talk. We only ever meet in restaurants and bars and we need some privacy. I feel there’s still so much unsaid.’

  I soften at this. He’s been feeling the need to talk too and I’m relieved we’re still in tune on most things as we always were. He seems nervous so I make light of things.

  ‘If I decide to stay,’ I raise my eyebrows, ‘I need you to know that I expect sex to be athletic and last all night.’

  ‘So, you’re as flexible as you always were?’

  ‘I do Pilates . . . I do okay.’ I wink.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Once in the bedroom it seems my confidence was fleeting. I stand in the middle of the room looking at the beautifully made but imposing bed.

  ‘I haven’t ever . . . Mike was the only one, apart from you,’ I say.

  He walks towards me and takes me in his arms. ‘There’s no pressure. You don’t have to stay and if you do we can just lie together, we don’t have to do anything. It’s time to let go a little, Rosie . . . there are no rules.’

  We take our brandies and lie down together on the bed hand in hand.

  ‘You’re smiling
,’ he says, turning to me.

  ‘I’m almost happy.’

  ‘Almost?’

  I nod. ‘You said earlier that perhaps it’s good to share and work through stuff in a relationship and if we’re going to try again I really think we need to clear the debris of the past. Can we turn out the lights and just talk?’

  He reaches for the lamp, plunging us into semi darkness. I can just about make out the shape of his face next to mine.

  ‘After forty-seven years, it’s good to hold you,’ he says tenderly.

  ‘This is nice, but weird because you’re not Mike – stupid, isn’t it?’ I say, suddenly wondering what I’m doing here lying on a bed with someone that isn’t my husband.

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s perfectly understandable. You were with the same man for over forty years, it’s bound to feel a little strange.’

  ‘I never imagined this happening again . . . me and you,’ I say into the darkness.

  ‘I feel like I’ve been given a second chance to make it right with you, Rosie, and I won’t mess it up.’

  ‘It took me a long time to get over you the first time,’ I say. ‘For years I went over and over that day in my mind and for a while it was the end of everything.’

  ‘You have to talk to me about it. I wasn’t there for you then but perhaps I can be now.’

  I’m still not ready to talk about this, but then I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. It’s haunted me for a long time and no matter how hard it is to dig up all these feelings again I know I must. I have to share the past with Peter and clear up the mess before I begin to think about a future, with or without him. So I take a breath, steel myself and return to that long, hot summer of 1968.

  ‘When I found out I was pregnant I was terrified. Back then it was the worst thing that could happen, especially to a working class girl like me. Not to mention the shame I brought on Margaret! But the more I thought about the baby – our baby – the more real it became and I started to believe it might be a wonderful solution to everything. You and I could get married, I’d be able to leave my mother’s control and we could start our lives a bit sooner than we’d planned.’