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THE NINTH SUMMER – 2019

‘This is the life!’ Tom said, leaning back in his chair and tilting his bottle of beer slightly at Sophie. In front of them was the best meal they’d ever eaten on Eurostar – Business Premier tickets had been pricey, but the food was actually delicious, Sophie thought, looking at the pink salmon fillet, smelling the aroma of the white wine sauce and looking at the bubbles dancing up her champagne flute. She hadn’t wanted to accept the tickets, booked by Tom’s parents. Had thought it was all ‘Too Much’, but Tom had persuaded her. ‘I know they’re a bit difficult, but this is their way of showing love.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. They throw money at things rather than have real feelings,’ he’d said. He’d smiled, but there had been an unease about it. ‘We might as well benefit.’

She’d acquiesced, seeing that’s what he really wanted to do. And after everything, surely that was the most important thing. She’d only had about half her champagne – she didn’t want to end up blind drunk and incapable of organising herself at the other end, and wanted to give Tom the chance to kick back after a gruelling year of treatment after treatment after treatment.

Sophie had noticed a change in him since his most recent oncology appointment last month; something had lightened in him as he’d walked away from the hospital. He’d turned to her – still pale, still painfully thin, but suddenly in his eyes she could recognise her Tom, someone who’d been absent during the worst of the chemo, someone he’d tucked away beneath the pain and the indignity of it all.

‘Fuck it,’ he’d said. ‘Let’s go to Paris.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Why not. It’s a tradition and I’m damned if I’m letting cancer get in the way. Especially now there’s no more chemo!’

‘But last year…’ she’d begun, knowing that their trip the year before had been far from ideal – his fear and hers creating a crackling tension between them.

‘I know. It was shit. But it doesn’t mean we can’t kind of… rewrite that. In fact, that’s what I hope to do. Rewrite it all. I want us to have only good memories of being there. And they mostly have been, haven’t they?’

She’d looked at him and nodded. In reality, she’d have much rather gone on a trip somewhere warm, to lie in the sun and rest and let someone else do all the looking after and schedule planning. But she understood where he was coming from. ‘Let’s do it then,’ she’d said.

It had been nice to see him enthusiastic about it too – he’d bought a Paris guidebook (not something he really needed, she’d thought) and had written them an itinerary. ‘We’ll need four days at least,’ he’d told her seriously. ‘To get to everything.’

‘Everything being…?’

He’d looked at her. ‘All the places. The bridge. The Centre Pompidou, La Défense, the Louvre, the Latin Quarter. All of it. All our places.’

‘Sure it won’t be too much?’

He’d flicked a dismissive hand in the air. ‘Stop worrying, woman!’ he’d said jokingly. ‘Can’t a man plan a romantic trip for his wife without interference these days?’

She’d laughed, but hadn’t been able to get the concern out of her tone entirely.

It was made worse when she’d answered the phone to Tom’s mum a few days later. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea, Sophie?’ she’d said. ‘I know you love Paris, but try to think about Tom. His needs.’

Before Tom’s illness, she’d thought Julie’s protectiveness over her son was sweet, and understandable given that he was her only child. But since the diagnosis, something had changed; there was a sense of challenge, of ownership. Sophie knew it was grief, knew that underneath her fear and devastation Julie was a nice person, a good mum. But it was hard to feel it at times like this when her voice snapped down the line.

She’d gripped the phone and tried to keep her calm. ‘Julie, this is all Tom’s idea,’ she’d said. ‘I’m trying to do what he wants.’

‘But what he wants and what he needs are two very different things.’

She hadn’t dignified that with a response. But she had made Tom promise that they’d get taxis everywhere instead of tackling the metro or trying to walk. He’d been more than happy to make that concession. ‘I’ll tell Mum,’ he’d said.

‘No, don’t. We can get it.’

Tom had slipped an arm around her. ‘It’s not for us, Soph. It’s for her. Mum, she always wants to fix things. Dad too. Most of the time, money’s been able to achieve that. I don’t think she knows how to handle this…’ he had gestured vaguely at his body. ‘It’ll make her feel better to do this for us.’

Finishing her meal, Sophie sat back in her comfortable seat and watched the familiar view flash by. If someone had told her when she’d taken the train under the Channel for the first time that she’d be back every year for almost a decade, she wouldn’t have believed them. She’d have scoffed at the idea that she and Tom would get married; that they’d be celebrating their fifth anniversary soon. Yet here she was.

You never know what life might throw at you, she thought, looking at her husband who’d fallen asleep, his champagne flute in his lap – thankfully drained. You have to be grateful for the moment you’re in, because that’s all you really have.

They’d just finished their coffee when the announcements started, first in French then in English, that they were approaching the Gare du Nord, that they ought to start preparing. She felt a surge of adrenaline as she braced herself for the job ahead – gathering together their rather excessive luggage, getting Tom into his chair, managing the chilled bag of medications. They’d alerted a porter at the start of the journey, but he was yet to turn up and assist.

She masked her worry with a smile. ‘Right!’ she said as breezily as she could. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

‘Bonjour Paris!’ he said, throwing his arms wide. ‘Let’s make this one count.’

‘A holiday to remember,’ she said, forcing a smile.

‘A grand finale,’ he added.

She wanted, suddenly, to shout at him. That it wasn’t funny. That it was horrible, heart-wrenching, tragic, unfair, and terrifying. But she held it back. What was the alternative? she thought. Lie on the ground and kick and scream at the horror of it all? They’d said he probably had four weeks; this is what he wanted. Nothing else mattered.

Instead, she nodded and grabbed the heavy, wheeled suitcase from the on-board storage. She took his arm, as if it were her rather than him who needed support, and they made their way clumsily to the exit. She set the case down, gave him a quick grin, as if this were a completely normal situation, and went back in for his wheelchair. Pulling it out of the rack, she felt a sob heave in her throat. But no. She wouldn’t let it. They were going to have a wonderful time.