Almost Forever Page 13

  There was no doubt he meant what he was saying, and even if it sounded like a threat, I knew he meant that like a promise. I turned to him, my eyes meeting his. My back against the wood of the door. We stood in silence, one move away from checkmate.

  ‘I’m leaving for Stanford in a few days,’ he added, breaking contact, looking away. ‘It’s already so hard to go when I’m completely drawn to you, my heart determined to stay, here, with you. If you stay tonight –’ he swallowed, letting the meaning of his words fill the space between us with tension ‘– if I hold you for one more second … I know, I know I won’t be able to stop what I’ve wanted to do for so many years. I know that I won’t be able to go. To leave you …’ He sighed. ‘It would just be too hard. Even harder than two years ago now that I know you’re not Harry’s girlfriend.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t be with you, Fran; can you understand that?’

  I was too shocked to answer; my mind was full of questions and doubts but an insistent thought stumped all the others down. I stared at him, waiting for him to say those very same words and crush my heart under their weight.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, unwilling to make any more suppositions about his motives. He shook his head and I wanted to ask him more questions, to make him open up to me, but I struggled to find the strength to speak.

  Somehow, I found the courage to take another step closer to him.

  ‘I’m confused. My heartache, my pride has had enough knocks to last me a lifetime. I’m cold, wet, and tipsy and I’m done playing games. Here and now, you and me – do you want me to stay?’ I asked him, looking straight into his eyes. I heard the oath then, without any more hesitations. He closed the gap between us, cupped my face with his hands, and whispered my name like a prayer. He lowered his lips to mine almost close enough to touch them, but not quite.

  ‘Oh God, when I saw Bastiaan’s hands on you I lost my mind, Fran,’ he said while his fingertips burned my still-wet skin. ‘The thought of you with Harry was already unbearable but thinking of someone else kissing your lips, when that is what I’ve wanted for so long you can’t even imagine …’ His lips were teasing, his hands were possessing, and my body responded with the same intensity. ‘The need I have to kiss you, to touch you, Fran, is all-consuming.’

  I so desperately wanted to be with him, my body was burning from inside out.

  ‘It’s too hard to be without you, Fran.’ I could feel his breath mixing with mine and it was intoxicating. ‘I can’t ask you to stay but I don’t want you to go. I can’t ask you to wait but I can’t bear the idea of you with someone else.’

  I was yearning to touch him, dying to kiss him and hold him to me, desperate to get him closer, always closer, even now that we were pressed against each other, it wasn’t close enough.

  ‘Ask me, Paul. Just ask me to stay, ask me to wait,’ I said with the little breath I had left. ‘Ask me and I’ll stay; ask me and I’ll wait for you, always.’

  I lifted my arms and locked my hands behind his neck. Pushing myself up onto the tips of my toes, I locked my lips to his. As soon as the contact was made fireworks went off inside my chest and suddenly the years of waiting came to an end. We devoured each other hungrily, passion driving us, as well as the pent-up emotions from the years we’d spent apart.

  Kissing wasn’t enough – I needed to be closer to him, ever closer. I knew he felt the same, because before I realised what was happening, he lifted me up and I hooked my legs around his waist. He trailed kisses on my skin in a frenzy of feeling and emotion and sensation. Being with him like this was everything I’d imagined and more, so much more. I was lost and found and for the first time in my life, I felt complete.

  He slowly let me slide down, then lifted my arms and peeled my wet top over my head. He stood still, looking at me, motionless for a heartbeat. ‘You are so beautiful,’ he said and I felt inundated by his needs, shaking with the explosion of my own. I was so desperate to be with him that my body ached in a way I didn’t know possible.

  I started to pull at his clothes. I was breathless when he slid his hands under his top and pulled it over his head. I reached for my shorts and with a quick flick of the button I let them fall to my ankles before stepping out of them. He looked at me again as I stood almost naked in front of him. His gaze, his uneven breathing, his unsteady touch, made me feel so alive it was as though I hadn’t really lived until then.

  ‘I want you, Paul,’ I said, looking up at him, inviting him to take what had always been his.

  Without a word, he lifted me in his arms and carried me to his bed. He lowered me on top of the covers, the entire time kissing my neck, my face, my mouth.

  ‘You are so beautiful, Fran, even more beautiful than I remembered,’ he said quietly before lowering his lips to deliver another passionate assault.

  ‘I love you, Paul,’ I said, extending my hand to him. But then something changed, something broke the spell and Paul – instead of coming closer – stepped away from me.

  His eyes suddenly seemed colder, mine dreamier and heavier than ever before.

  ‘I … I can’t, Fran. It’s not fair; it’s not right.’

  ‘Paul, what do you mean? I don’t understand. I want you; I want this,’ I begged, desperate for his touch, for his warmth, for his passion.

  ‘I can’t – not like this,’ he said and I was stunned by the fact that he could so quickly and completely switch off his emotions.

  He stood at the end of the bed, looking at me, abashed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, folding my knees against my chest, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable without my clothes on.

  ‘I have a girlfriend,’ he said, so quietly that for a second I thought I’d misheard him.

  ‘What?’ I asked, hoping he wouldn’t repeat what he had already said.

  My hopes were quickly crushed when he said, ‘I have a girlfriend, Fran. We’ve been together for almost two years.’ He gave me more details but I wasn’t paying attention – too humiliated to listen to his excuses.

  ‘You are important to me. I want to be honest with you and I need to be honest with her, because neither of you deserve to get hurt. I thought you were in love with Harry. I thought you guys were together. I saw you kissing him on the beach in St-Tropez. I’ve seen the way you look at him, the way you treat each other, and all the time you spend together …’

  ‘Oh bullshit!’ I shouted now. ‘Go to hell, Paul: you and your excuses and your girlfriend.’

  ‘Please, Fran, let me explain,’ he begged, moving closer.

  ‘Go away. Don’t you dare touch me ever again. I don’t want to see you again …’

  ‘Fran …’

  He was in pain but I was too hurt to care, so I said, ‘I hate you, Paul; go away, leave me alone.’ And then I covered my face with my hands and started to cry.

  I remember how I wished that he would not listen to me and come to console me, take me into his arms even though I would try to push him away. I remember thinking that if he did that, it meant he was choosing me over her. So, when he walked slowly towards the door and left, I knew it was over, even before it had begun.

  I refused to talk to him, to reply to his texts or emails. I threw the flowers he sent me in the bin and deleted him from all my lists of contacts. Even after he broke things off with his girlfriend, I ignored him, determined to eradicate him from my life.

  Chapter Eight

  I slept for six hours straight, and it feels like some sort of record. Okay, the nausea, the dizziness, the knotted stomach, and the tiredness are still there, but I’m actually feeling quite energised this morning, so I promise myself that when I get to the hospital, I’ll get a muffin along with my usual latte.

  It’s seven o’clock, the sun is only just poking out from the thick layer of clouds, but I’m already dressed and raring to go. I’ve straightened my hair, and even used the perfume that Paul bought me for my birthday last year. I’m hoping the familiar smell might reach him.

&nb
sp; Even with the extra hours of sleep, the dark circles under my eyes and my pale complexion are still there to remind me that I should try to take better care of myself. I use some foundation instead, and I practise smiling in front of the mirror, thinking that today may be the day we get some good news. It’s ridiculous to practise facial expressions in front of the mirror but I haven’t felt happy in so long I worry I have forgotten how to pretend.

  I sit on the bed fidgeting with my engagement ring, considering if I should go straight to the hospital or wait at least another hour. I’m just too anxious to wait, so I decide to call a cab and then have breakfast in the cafeteria to delay, slightly, my arrival in the ward.

  I stand up to get my phone when the ladder I left in the corner reminds me about the leather suitcase up in the attic.

  ‘That’s how I’m going to kill some time,’ I tell myself, already reaching for it.

  Getting the suitcase down isn’t quite as simple as I initially thought but I’m pretty chuffed with myself when I finally manage to drag it off the ladder’s steps and take it into the bedroom. Before lifting it up to the bed I give it a quick clean with a duster. The leather is cracked, especially in the corners and near the handle. The sides are scratched and there are stains all over, but, all things considered, it’s a very handsome piece of luggage.

  We have lots of ‘old’ items in the house; both Paul and I are quite fond of the past. We have a collection of old cameras – some quite precious and expensive, others that we bought just because they looked quirky. We have an old printer’s drawer hanging in the corridor, which needs lots more knickknacks to be filled. We have a mismatched set of metal letterpress in many shapes and sizes scattered around the shelves in the library. We have antique books and first editions as well as vinyl records that we are planning to listen to when we retire.

  I’m wondering if Paul bought it for me for Christmas, hid it in the loft, and then forgot about it. While my fingers are itching to discover what’s inside, my conscience is troubled. Maybe I should put it back. I feel guilty about having taken it down without his permission. I know I should put it back but when I notice something knotted on the handle, my good intentions fly out the window. I lift the light blue paper tag attached to it, and read the handwritten message out loud: ‘Time is the longest distance between two places.’

  I recognise the quote immediately. It’s from The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. I went to see the play with Paul, probably just before he went to university in the States. It was a summer production, hosted in a disused barn, near Cambridge. We both loved it. I turn the tag and on the other side, I find my name written under the words ‘Happy 18th Birthday’.

  ‘Eighteenth birthday?’ I say with a frown. This is weird. I’ve never seen this before. I recognise Paul’s handwriting but I’m not sure why, if he bought this eight years ago, he never gave it to me. I should ask him – I tell myself – before I remember that I can’t do that and my heart is squeezed by the pain of the reality I had almost forgotten. Paul is not here. I’m suddenly so desperate to see him that I consider leaving the suitcase where it is and running to the hospital.

  I close my eyes for a second, trying to calm my impulse to go to him and concentrate on his mysterious present in front of me. I try to think back. We got together after my eighteenth birthday – not long after, but I’m wondering why he didn’t give this to me then. My curiosity is definitely piqued, so I lift the suitcase to the bed and softly stroke the leather with the tips of my fingers. I gingerly release the two latches and gently lift the top side to get a full view of its contents.

  ‘Oh, Paul ….’ I whisper, incredulous.

  The case is stuffed to the brim with little delightful things. There are books, trinkets, letters. I take the letters. They are all addressed to me and my hands start to shake, so I put them safely on the bed and look at the rest of the contents first.

  There are Polaroids and postcards and a small photo album. There are souvenirs and events flyers and even a couple of T-shirts from famous music festivals.

  ‘A rock?!’ I say with a little laugh while tears are spilling out of my eyes again as I hold an oddly shaped volcanic formation in my hand. All of the items are tagged with tiny white labels that carry the date, the place, and a handwritten message with a description or a poem or simply stating Paul’s feelings at the time.

  Hundreds of colourful items start to take over the entire bed as I carefully take them out of the suitcase one at the time. Some of them are just inexpensive baubles that make me smile, like the friendship bracelet Paul bought from a street vendor in Montmartre, or corny souvenirs like the bottle opener in the shape of a ripe tomato he bought in Buñol, the city of La Tomatina. I smile at the idea of Paul covered head to toe with rotten tomatoes.

  As I go through them, I notice there are also beautiful, precious things that make me sigh, like a silver locket with a heart-shaped key with my initials engraved on it, which he bought in Verona, the city of Romeo and Juliet, or the lovely glass pendant he got for me in Venice. My eyes fill with tears again at the sight of a shell from a beach in Croatia and the little polished glass stones from Portofino.

  There is a caricature of me on a neatly rolled piece of paper and a tattered copy of Reunion by Fred Uhlman. Its note says, ‘Read it as you recommended. Absolutely loved it. I was on my way to Bergen-Belsen and the sacrifice of the men and women who fought the Nazis should never be forgotten.’ I take a minute to reflect on his words, proud that his actions proved he was a man brave enough to stand against evil, too.

  When the suitcase is finally empty, I straighten up and look around me. There must have been hundreds of items altogether. He collected them for me the entire time he was away. Even after I told him that I hated him and I didn’t want to see him again.

  I clear my eyes of my quiet tears and put the suitcase on the floor, then sit cross-legged on the space it left, surrounded by all those mementos. I am overwhelmed by the feelings pouring into my heart with every item I look at. I take a postcard at random. It’s the little mermaid in Copenhagen. At the back, he wrote simply, ‘She looks like you, on a summer’s day, on a pier in Lake Garda. Thinking of you. My love.’ I stroke his words with my index finger.

  ‘I love you too,’ I say out loud as if he could hear me.

  I close my eyes, then open them again and pick up his letters.

  There are dozens of sealed envelopes and I don’t know where to start. I pick the one at the top of the pile. I don’t want to ruin the envelope and wish I had a pair of scissors handy; then I remember seeing a letter opener somewhere amongst the items Paul had collected for me. I search for it not wanting to risk tearing the letter apart.

  ‘Here you are,’ I say to the little silver dagger now in my hands. The note attached to it says, ‘Sorry I couldn’t find Dickens’s cat paw. I got you this instead.’

  I laugh out loud at his words. We used to tease old Casper, the FitzRoys’ butler’s cat, saying that we would stuff his paws into a letter opener, just like Dickens had done with loyal Bob, if he scratched us. Casper, who was an enormous white ragdoll, with long soft fur and beautiful cerulean eyes, just looked at us with disdain before going back to sleep.

  ‘Casper … whooooo … Casper …’ we used to howl in the dark of the hallway, then we would laugh like idiots at our own stupid joke, at the expense of the big old cat. When Casper died we cried like babies for an entire afternoon. A sharp pang spears my heart at those memories.

  I open the letter carefully and start to read Paul’s words.

  ‘My dearest Francesca, Stanford is beautiful in autumn. The trees on campus have turned deep red and when I look at them I can’t stop thinking of your hair flowing in the breeze. I wish you were here to see them. Constantly, every single minute, of every single day, I fight the urge to think of you, trying to exile the memory of you from my mind. So far, I’m losing the battle. I miss you immensely, more than I can bear …’

  This is painfully
sad and soothingly beautiful so I force myself to keep reading his thoughts.

  I finish the letter where he told me about his new flat and the people he met and I feel as if I had always been with him, even when I thought the ocean between us had pulled us apart. I fold the letter back into its envelope with a sigh, then pick another one from the bundle.

  ‘Francesca my love, Merry Christmas. I’m in St Moritz. It’s beautiful and I wish you were here with me. I waited in Cambridge for three days but you didn’t come. Harry said you got my messages but still didn’t want to talk to me. How can I prove my love to you if you won’t even speak to me? You said you wanted to be with me, so why are you doing this to us? I’ll be back in couple of days because I want to spend more time with my mum while she’s still at the hospital. I’m hoping that you’ll change your mind and we can talk about what happened. Miss you. Paul x.’

  I put it aside and I pick another one.

  ‘I dreamed of you last night, Francesca. I dream of you every night and when I wake up I still feel you in my arms. Your body tucked against mine, your face on the pillow next to me. I watch you wake up slowly, your grey eyes looking at me. Then I kiss you good morning and I savour your lips, Francesca. You taste of strawberries.’

  I blink. Read his words again, twice, until my eyes are too blurry with tears to keep on reading. I fold that letter away too, grab my phone from the bedside table, and call a cab.

  Chapter Nine

  During the journey to the hospital, all I can think of is the suitcase with Paul’s letters, and his thoughts, and his collection of tiny presents for me.

  ‘He thought of me, loved me, he missed me during the three years we spent apart, and never told me,’ I mumble to myself. I think back to how angry I had been with him, during those years of separation. How hard I tried to avoid him to show the world I didn’t care for him. How much tighter my friendship with Harry became, partially to fill the void Paul left in my life. How I convinced myself he’d simply left me behind when he moved to the States, while he was pining for me as much I was for him.