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THE EIGHTH SUMMER – 2018

‘Can you stop?’ Tom said suddenly as they sat opposite each other in the corner of the carriage, a small plastic table of food between them.

She looked up at him over her plate of coq au vin – usually her favourite; she’d been moving the chicken around her plate like a toddler reluctant to eat a meal. ‘What?’ she said, thinking for a moment he was about to chastise her for playing with her food the way her parents had used to.

‘Looking at me like that.’

‘I wasn’t!’

‘You were. Every couple of minutes you look at me and you look so… fucking sad,’ he said leaning forward, half smiling, half annoyed. ‘I’m not dead yet, you know?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, making a face.

‘There you go again!’

‘What?’

‘There is no way the normal Sophie would have said sorry just then. You’d have told me I was being paranoid or narcissistic or something,’ he said, folding his arms, point made.

He was right, actually. ‘Well, you know, I think we’ve pretty much established you’re both of those things over the past few years,’ she said. ‘Seemed cruel to point them out.’ She smiled, hoping he’d meet her eyes and join her.

He did, almost. ‘Good one,’ he said and sat back a little. His plate was also barely touched.

‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I know this is… I know you want a normal trip.’

He nodded. ‘Hard to keep up the pretence, I guess,’ he said. ‘When you think about what’s happening next.’

‘Oh, Tom.’ She felt her eyes well with tears but blinked them back. This was the opposite of what he needed. ‘Look, nobody knows what’s happening next. It could be fine. You could be fine…’

‘Chemo is happening next,’ he said simply.

‘Oh. Yes.’

‘You don’t think it’s going to work?’ he asked, his tone a little sharp.

‘Of course I do, of course I do,’ she said, sitting forward, touching his leg. ‘It’s going to work, you’ll go into remission. They said that some people live more than ten years.’

‘What was it though, something like 1 per cent?’

The statistic silenced her. ‘You’re young,’ she ventured.

He laughed. ‘Yep. Young and carefree, so they say.’

She made a face. ‘Come on, Tom,’ she said.

He sighed – the action somehow seemed to make his whole body slump. ‘I know. I’m doing it now, dwelling on it all when this is meant to be a break from… or before it all. But I can’t help wondering somehow if… no, it’s stupid.’

‘What?’ she prompted gently.

‘Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve said I’ve had it easy, that things have just kind of come to me, because of my upbringing or my parents or whatever,’ he said.

She nodded, feeling sick.

‘Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I have been too lucky. Maybe everyone gets the same amount of luck and I’ve used mine all up without realising.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t think like that. I’m just a pessimist, is all – I have no idea what I’m talking about half the time.’

He was silent for a moment then reached out a hand. ‘OK, enough,’ he said as the familiar sights of the Paris suburbs began to flicker past the window like slides in an old movie. ‘No cancer talk for two days.’

She nodded.

‘No being miserable.’

She nodded.

‘This is our holiday. Our time. And our place. And we’re going to make the most of it.’

She looked at him, her sick, beautiful, dependable boy and she gave a final nod. ‘Damn right we are,’ she said.

An hour later, the train pulled into the Gare du Nord and they alighted, following the familiar route through the building and out onto the streets of Paris. There she tried to centre herself, live in the moment. Taking a deep breath of Parisian air, with its edge of fumes and cigarettes, she reminded herself that whatever came next, they were here; they were safe, and for the next two days at least, the future could wait.