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THE EIGHTH SUMMER – 2018

They’d booked into a familiar hotel, just off the Champs-élysées. It was expensive and ordinarily she’d be aghast at what it cost, even though they could afford it. But in reality, she’d realised how little it all mattered. Money didn’t do anything when it came to the important stuff. Tom’s parents could probably buy the hospital where he was receiving his treatment – maybe several times over – but even the best protocol in the world might not be effective.

They arrived, tired and a little strung out from the journey, and flung their cases on the bed, sitting down next to them. ‘God, I must be getting old!’ Tom quipped. ‘I feel knackered from that.’

Her silence highlighted what they were both thinking. ‘Me too,’ she added. ‘Definitely.’

She wondered whether Tom had felt like this in the early years of their relationship, when she’d oohed and aahed over Parisian tourist traps and he’d felt a little jaded by it all; had seen it all before. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Paris, that she hadn’t come to look forward to their yearly trips here. It was just that knowing that they had an enormous obstacle to overcome once home tarnished her enjoyment, yet she knew that Tom needed her to be upbeat, enthusiastic.

She stretched her mouth into a smile. ‘So, where first?’ she asked.

‘How about the Centre Pompidou?’

‘Brilliant.’ In truth it wasn’t one of her favourite Parisian destinations, the building – with its pipework on the outside, as if it were proudly showing off its underwear in public – didn’t seem beautiful to her. But this wasn’t about her, not at all.

‘Or the Latin Quarter?’

‘Yeah, you know what. I like the sound of that more,’ she smiled, holding out her hand for his.

Ten minutes later, they emerged onto the street. August sun reflected heat back onto them. The air was sticky with it. There were others walking, some with parasols, others fanning themselves with papers or leaflets as they walked. Nobody looked happy to be out in the sunshine. ‘Guess that’s why all the locals leave in August,’ said Tom. ‘Too hot.’

‘Yeah.’

They began the walk, one they’d done a few times before. Half an hour, then they usually stopped for a coffee or a beer in the sunshine, depending on time of day and weather, then meandered through the cobbles of the quarter, dropping into tiny boutiques, staring in the window of chocolatiers and patisseries longingly, sometimes succumbing.

Sophie breathed deeply, smelling the scent that felt unique to Paris. The fumes from the traffic, the waft of perfumes as expensive-looking women sashayed past, the fug of cigarettes from an outside table and under it all, something else. Something intangible – maybe the smell of cold stone, or worn pavements, or simply the mixture of all of it, familiar to her nose now as the smell of her parents’ house, or the apartment she shared with Tom. Paris had become, in some ways, home to her. She laughed inwardly at the decadence of the idea – that Paris belonged to them, to her.

Then: ‘Sophie,’ he said. Then slightly more urgently, ‘Sophie!’

She turned then, snapped out of her daydream and saw that his face was white, covered in a sheen of sweat.

‘Oh, what is it?’ she said, alarm in her voice.

‘Nothing. Not really. Just… it’s a bit hot. I wondered… should we sit? Maybe get a break. Um, you’re looking a bit tired,’ he said.

‘Oh. Yes. I am a bit,’ she lied. She pointed to a tabac outside which there were some fairly rudimentary metal chairs and tables, a couple of which were free. ‘Shall we stop there? It looks… nice.’

Soon they were installed, and they ordered tall glasses of iced water, plus an espresso each, which came with a little gingery biscuit on the saucer. She bit into hers and watched him as he drank deeply from his glass.

‘God, that’s better,’ he said smiling. But his smile was muted somehow.

‘Tom, if you’re feeling ill, we don’t have to stay. We can…’

‘I’m FINE.’ The words came out sharply, loud enough to make a woman at the next table turn and look at him interestedly, over the top of her round sunglasses.

‘You’re clearly not.’

‘Stop it!’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Soph. Look, I realise you think I’m on my last legs or whatever?—’

‘I never said that!’

‘But just let me… be. Can you? I don’t want you to treat me like…’

‘Like what? Someone who needs a little support right now? Someone who isn’t very well?’ she said, suddenly feeling reciprocal anger.

‘Like someone who’s weak,’ he said, his eyes fixed on her.

She reached across, but he drew his hand away. ‘Tom, what if… well, what if you are weak right now? Ill. Surely it’s OK to look after you?’

His eyes softened and he looked down. ‘Yeah, I guess. It’s just, that’s not who I wanted to be for you. I wanted to be… you know?—’

‘My strong man? My rock?’ she said, teasing slightly, trying to lighten the mood.

‘Well yeah, I guess.’ He shrugged.

‘Bit sexist?’ she suggested, feeling the mood lift a little between them.

‘Maybe a smidge.’ He grinned and suddenly he was Tom again. ‘Ah, jeez, sorry Soph. It’s just… I hate all this.’

‘Paris?’ she said jokingly.

‘No. Obviously. Just, well, that I can be just going through life, minding my own business. Maybe being a bit of a dick sometimes, a bit annoying. And yes, you’re right, I’ve had a few helping hands along the way with work. But I’ve never asked for any of it. And I’ve never hurt anyone, you know.’

He turned his head abruptly but not before she saw the shimmer of tears.

‘I know.’

‘So it’s hard to work out – why me? Why do I have this thing? Not even a, you know, normal cancer. Testicular. One that blokes my age have. Whip off one of my bollocks or whatever. I mean, I know it still sucks, but…’ He met her eye. ‘It said on the Internet that pancreatic, it’s one of the worst. If not the worst. Because it gets caught late. When it’s too late to, well – stop it.’

She nodded, feeling a lump form in her throat.

‘Ah, listen to me,’ he said, coughing slightly, clearing his throat. ‘Bringing down the mood.’

‘You are allowed to bring down the mood! Look, Tom, I’ve brought down the mood for – how long? – almost THREE YEARS with the infertility stuff. And it doesn’t even matter, does it? It’s not even important, not really. Not compared to this.’

‘You haven’t. And it is important.’

‘Well, so is this. And you helped me. So let me. Give me a chance to help you.’

He looked at her, then, to her relief, raised a slightly humorous eyebrow. ‘So you’re saying that you need me to do this for you? That my being weak is fulfilling some dormant need in you to look after someone?’

She grinned. ‘Well, yeah.’

‘In that case, I’m all for it.’

And they were back.

‘I know it’s daft,’ he said. ‘But do you reckon we can make it to the bridge later? It’s stupid, just…’

She nodded. She understood. ‘Sure. Why not?’ she said, trying to keep her tone light.

Because that’s what it had come to, wasn’t it? Dreams and wishes against the odds. He wanted that feeling of safety he’d felt as a child, when the universe had seemed benign and gracious, and his mother’s love could protect him from harm.

She grabbed his hand. ‘Midnight?’ she suggested.

He smiled. ‘Pathetic, eh.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘It’ll be just what we need.’

She tried not to think over the course of the days that followed of the more sombre train ride back to the UK, back to reality – to tackling this enormous block in the road and seeing if they could actually be the lucky ones who made it through.