Page 30 of Never Too Late
‘Just friends.’
‘Was that the bloke in the pictures Sash posted?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Middle-aged, ridiculously handsome, wealth and style oozing from every pore.’
‘Sounds like him.’
‘Hmm.’
Our eyes met and we giggled like we had when we’d first got together. Hugh was a good man and he was a wonderful father. We just didn’t fit any more.
He looked over my shoulder. ‘She’s coming back. Looks happy!’ He gave me a tiny double thumbs up and I felt a wash of love flow through me. Not romantic love, not now, but familial and I knew that still having that made me one of the lucky ones.
‘Go OK?’ Hugh asked, doing his best to sound interested but casual.
‘Oh my God! They really want to work with me. I can’t believe it!’
‘They’d be idiots not to.’ Hugh caught the eye of a waiter. ‘Let’s order and you can tell us all about it.’
The waiter approached. ‘Good evening. What can I get for you tonight?’ He pulled out a pad and pencil. I loved that this restaurant, one of our favourites, stayed old school and hadn’t switched to tapping out things on a tablet or, even worse, ordering by QR code.
‘Could we have a bottle of Nyetimber to start with?’ Hugh grinned at Sash. ‘We’re celebrating!’
15
There’s something romantic and magical about a train ride. Hang on, let me quantify that. I’m not talking about commuter trains running consistently late with too few carriages and too many people. But as we sped through the French countryside on a beautifully blue-skied but freezing-cold morning, I felt a sense of fairy-tale wonder.
I’m actually doing this!
I sipped on the strong black coffee I’d bought on board the Eurostar and watched as the view outside the windows changed from urban to countryside and eventually became more urbanised once again as we began approaching the outskirts of Paris. Across from me, Sash was resting her head on a makeshift pillow created from a bundled-up scarf, eyes closed. It had been an early start to catch the train at St Pancras and she’d been shooting footage to document it all, her excitement palpable. Hugh had come to see us off and there were tears between the two – more so from Hugh – but Sash had reassured him she’d be back often and that it wasn’t forever. I’d given them space, taking in the beautiful architecture of the building. The Victorians, in my opinion, still couldn’t be beaten when it came to knowing how to design and build for both function and beauty.
Sash’s eyes fluttered. She sat up with a start. ‘Did I fall asleep? Where are we? Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘You were tired and needed the sleep.’
‘Mum!’ she replied, exasperation in her tone as she grabbed her vlogging camera. ‘I need to document all this!’ Immediately, she began shooting out of the window, steadying the shot by resting her elbows on the table.
After a few minutes, she put it down. ‘Sorry. I just don’t want to miss anything.’
‘I know.’ Inside, I worried as to whether Sash was missing out, forever looking at life only through a lens, but I’d been a mum long enough to know not to say this. Especially when an offspring had just woken up.
‘Are we nearly there?’ she asked, scribbling something in her notebook.
‘Not far,’ I said, checking my watch against the stated arrival time. And yes, I’d returned to wearing a watch. That was something else I’d decided on. This way, I didn’t have to look at my phone to check the time and then get pulled into a black hole of deleting spam emails and glancing at offers from companies I’d bought something from once, six years ago. None of us had had mobiles when I’d been here last and we’d experienced everything with our whole selves. The memories were imprinted on my mind so indelibly that I could remember it like it was yesterday. I’d waited so long to come back that I wanted to make sure I experienced it fully again.
‘Mesdames et messieurs…’ The tannoy announcement told us, first in French and then in English, that we would soon be arriving at the Gare du Nord, Paris.
Sash looked across the table at me and grinned, her momentary grumpiness gone. The one thing I’d kept with me from those days was the language. Mostly. It was certainly a little rusty but I’d done my best to keep it up, reading books in French, and occasionally watching the odd French film. Those weren’t my favourite, though. I liked a nice tidy ending and some joy. French cinema was rarely either of those things and they were proud of it. I’d wanted to teach Sash but she hadn’t been interested at the time. Of course, now she was wishing she’d taken me up on the offer and was currently learning via an app on her phone.
We followed the instructions I’d written down as a back up, catching the Metro to the nearest stop to our apartment in the 15th arrondissement. Disembarking from the train, we stepped out onto the streets of Paris, pulling the cases we had brought with us. Some further luggage was on its way via a shipper. Sash dropped her sunglasses down from the top of her head and looked around, already looking effortlessly chic in her Breton top, cashmere cardigan, jeans and boots, a midi-length trench completing the ensemble. I, on the other hand, felt suddenly even more drab than usual. I’d dressed for warmth rather than style. I’d always been aware that the long puffer coat I wore now was far more caterpillar than couture but here it seemed amplified.
‘You OK, Mum?’
‘Huh?’ I looked over. ‘Oh, yes. Fine, fine.’ I pulled my phone from my eminently sensible handbag and pressed the Maps icon. I’d put the apartment in as a favourite earlier to save hassle and now pressed start to lead us the correct way.
The wheels of our suitcases rumbled over pavements. Above us, a bright-blue sky hosted a low-hanging winter sun. Stylish locals swished by as I took in the city that I’d once known like the back of my hand.
