Almost Forever Read online

  They’ll make him better.

  They’ll make him better.

  I keep repeating it to myself until the crying stops, and my breathing returns to normal. I’m not sure how long it takes to calm down because it feels as if I’ve somehow lost the ability to estimate the passing of time, and I can’t tell how long it is before I dry my tears with the tissue Georgie has put in my hand. How long before I get hold of my raging emotions and shake myself from the apathy that has seeped into my veins.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ Georgie asks tentatively, and I feel as if she’s been waiting until I’ve regained some control before posing this difficult question.

  ‘No,’ I answer her, shaking my head. Frustration fills up my throat. My voice sounds hoarse because of it. ‘The police … they think he may have walked into a robbery, but they’re not sure. He was beaten, stabbed,’ I say, telling her the little information that I know. My heart sinks at the reality that Paul is fighting for survival, on our wedding day. ‘Today was supposed to be the happiest day of my life,’ I whisper to Georgie, who nods in understanding.

  I can see her eyes are filled with sorrow but there is nothing she can say to soothe my pain. We both know that; she just moves on to a different topic.

  ‘I spoke with Harry,’ she says, taking my hand. ‘He’s on his way. Albert is with him. They left as soon as you called and they were near St Albans when I talked to him. It won’t be much longer now.’ I nod looking down at the floor. I can hear Georgie still talking about something but my mind has drifted off. My heart goes out to Albert.

  He is Paul’s father and I’ve known him since childhood, but since his wife died last year, he’s not the man he was. Josephine’s passing broke him and I’m dreading to think what this unexpected blow will do to him. Josephine, Paul’s mum, was ill for a long time – for as long as I can remember – but all the way through we never stopped looking for a cure. We didn’t give up hope, not even when she deteriorated significantly last year.

  Albert retired so he could spend every minute she had left with her, convinced that his love, his affection, and his constant presence at her side would perform a miracle. When Josephine eventually died, the doctors agreed that it had been astonishing for her to survive that long given the poor state of her lungs. Still, she outlived even the most optimistic prognosis by ten years.

  ‘It was a miracle,’ Albert said in his eulogy to his beloved wife. ‘Amor Vincit Omnia – Love Conquers All,’ he added with a broken voice and a shattered heart. I grab on to those words in this moment of despair, and hold them tightly as they are the only glimpse of hope I can see right now. If only Harry were here with me, he would know exactly what to do.

  Harry is Paul’s younger brother. He often spends the weekend with his father in Cambridge, in their family mansion, and that was where he was driving back to London from.

  I used to live in Cambridge too, in a three-bed mid-terrace on a busy road, but the FitzRoys’ mansion was the home I really grew up in. I feel a painful twinge in my heart when all the beautiful memories I have of that house come flowing back like a swollen river flooding its bank. I can’t stop them, and I’m suddenly swallowed by the past. While the reality of what just happened to Paul blurs away, I’m back in a hot summer morning, a few weeks before my eighth birthday. That was the day I met Harry and Paul, and Josephine, and my life entwined with the FitzRoys’ forever.

  ***

  The FitzRoys’ estate was just off the main road, less than a mile from my house. Century-old trees and tall Buxus hedges hid the house from view, so – even if I walked by it countless times – I had no idea how their mansion really looked, at least until the day I walked right in.

  Everyone knew of them. Still, never in a million years had I thought I would ever get to meet them. We didn’t have any friends in common, we went to different schools and, indisputably, they would never come to play in the small park on the wrong side of the road.

  The FitzRoys were appropriately active in the community, and even if their kids went to one of the renowned private schools in the centre of town, they supported the PTA of the local school, they sponsored the local under-elevens football team, and generously donated to the church fête. Once they even helped a talented local artist with a scholarship for the Accademia di Belle Arti, in Milan. Still, it was a series of coincidences that led me straight to the FitzRoys, a twist of fate that would change my life.

  My sister Becca was leaving in September for Leicester University, and with only a couple of hundred pounds to her name, she had been trying – desperately and without success – to get a summer job and some extra cash. No one seemed to have anything to offer, until, out of the blue, the perfect opportunity landed right in her lap.

  The FitzRoys’ nanny, Sara, broke her foot while skipping rope and had to keep her leg in a cast for a few weeks, so Becca was asked if she wanted to help Sara with the kids, until she was – literally – back on her feet.

  ‘They are going to pay me to play, watch movies, and sit in the garden. It sounds like the best job ever!’ Becca told me as soon as she put down the phone, after accepting the offer, without even questioning how they knew she was looking to temp.

  She had to start immediately, and I was allowed to accompany her given that she hadn’t had time to organise for someone to step in and look after me.

  Some may call it destiny, others coincidence, either way, all the stars aligned in that one magical, fortunate moment, which defined the rest of my childhood and then, the rest of my life.

  I was incredibly nervous at the idea of meeting such a prominent family. I felt a little queasy as we walked down the road, so I looked up at Becca to check if she was nervous too. She smiled at me, relaxed and confident, and I envied her assertiveness.

  She looked great with her short hair and her new big round sunglasses. They were a knock-off copy of a fancy Armani pair but she wore them like they were the real thing; so they looked like the real thing. She was a little bossy but she also had charisma and exuded conviction in all her actions. I admired her for her fortitude.

  She was eighteen – ten years older than me – and since our parents divorced she had been everything to me, and I loved her even more because of that. It scared me that she’d be leaving for university in a few months and I would be left alone with a father who only had time for his students and his studies.

  I was biting my nails, an unconscious habit, as we approached the FitzRoys’ house. When we turned onto the white gravel driveway, Becca squeezed my hand that she had been holding all the way and whispered with a smile, ‘You’ll be all right, Fran.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ I repeated to myself as I lifted my gaze. That’s when I stumbled at the surprise of the impressive house that appeared in front of me, in all its majestic beauty. I had never seen a private home this impressive and magnificent before. Three storeys high, with at least a dozen windows, probably more, it was framed by tall trees at the back and flowered bushes at the front. It belonged in a fairy tale.

  ‘Wow,’ I mumbled.

  ‘How incredible that modern life hasn’t touched it. It’s like stepping back in time,’ said Becca, clearly trying to sound sophisticated but with amazement in her eyes. I grinned at her, all nerves gone, as I itched to go inside and explore.

  I don’t know how to explain it properly but I was drawn to objects: clothing, books, songs that belonged to a different era. Architecture was a big part of it too. My wildest dreams always involved a visit to the Pyramids and the Colosseum and the Parthenon. My mind always filled with the images from Dad’s textbooks and the documents he would leave lying around. They captured my imagination. This building was the closest I had ever been to stepping into one of those pictures.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Becca, lifting her sunglasses over her head.

  When I gave her an assertive nod, she knocked twice on the imposing black door.

  A young woman, dressed in a flowing summer dress, answered it.r />
  ‘Hello,’ she said with a melodious voice. ‘You must be Becca.’

  My sister smiled. ‘And you must be Sara?’ she asked in return, looking down at the cast sticking out from under the hem of the young woman’s dress.

  ‘That’s me – skipper extraordinaire!’ she said with a small curtsy and a laugh. ‘Thanks for agreeing to help out until I get rid of this contraption. I know it was very short notice.’

  ‘Really, I should thank you for this opportunity,’ Becca answered sounding sincerely grateful.

  ‘What goes around, comes around,’ Sara said. We looked at her puzzled so she explained. ‘My auntie said you were looking for a summer job and that you weren’t having much luck finding anything. She also recommended you wholeheartedly, so two birds, one stone.’

  I liked the way Sara seemed to be communicating through idioms. It made me smile.

  ‘Your aunt?’ Becca asked, raising both eyebrows as if she found it incredible that someone would actually think so highly of her. It surprised me to discover that maybe my big sister wasn’t quite as confident as she always led me to believe.

  ‘Mrs Schumann, your next-door neighbour,’ Sara said.

  ‘Oh! Of course, I’ve known Mrs Schumann all my life,’ said Becca with affection.

  ‘Auntie Myriam is my father’s sister and she said that when it rains, you always walk her dog, which is very kind of you. She suffers quite badly when her arthritis plays up in the winter and walking in the rain would only make it worse.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure really – I like the rain and I love Harold,’ said Becca with a smile. ‘He is such a sweetheart. Really, it’s no trouble to take him out for a walk, especially because Mrs Schumann always repays me with a slice of cake, so definitely worth the effort!’

  I thought about Mrs Schumann’s lemon drizzle. It was to die for, and the memory of it made my mouth water.

  ‘Well, thank you for your kindness – I’m glad I was able to somehow repay you for the favour,’ Sara said, clumsily turning around. ‘Come on in, I’ll show you around.’

  We followed her as she limped ahead of us.

  The inside of the house was as breathtaking as the outside. The corridor, crafted with sleek ornate tiles, made me feel as if I’d stepped back in time. The beautiful decorated ceilings and the shiny timber furniture seemed to be as antique as the building itself.

  I didn’t know real people lived in magical places that looked like museums.

  Sara’s voice brought me back to the here and now, when she stopped in front of a double door and said, ‘Sorry I’ve forgotten your name.’ She was looking at me expectantly so when I hesitated Becca nudged me slightly with her elbow.

  ‘Francesca,’ I said. ‘But everybody calls me Fran.’

  ‘Well, Fran, nice to meet you. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself. We have all sort of toys and books and movies and video games too, so I’m sure we’ll find something to keep you entertained.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Also, knowing that you were coming the boys have requested an extra special casse-croûte – and that’s no ordinary snack,’ she added with a wink. ‘I promise you are in for a real treat.’

  I nodded again, slightly dazzled by what she had said. She winked at Becca and then turned to open the tall double doors in front of us. ‘This is the playroom,’ she said, wobbling in.

  The room, a large and airy double-high extension, was deserted.

  ‘I think the boys are in the garden. It’s such a lovely day – I’m pleased they’re outside enjoying the sun.’ She slowly hopped her way towards the folding French doors that were opened wide. Outside I could see a lush garden stretching below the stony patio.

  I took a 360-degree turn to get a better feel for the space. An unexpected contrast to the entrance hall, this place was loaded with so many gadgets they sent my head spinning. Everything in here was so modern it felt as if we’d been catapulted from another era into the future. There was a games console positioned near a humongous TV screen. In front of it there was a big, plush corner sofa as well as several beanbags scattered on the floor. A floor to ceiling bookshelf that looked like it was built into the back wall was packed with DVDs, video games, books, and comics. Becca was obviously as astounded by the space as I was.

  Neither of us had a mobile phone and we still didn’t have any Internet at home, not even dial-up. The only video games we ever played were at the arcade when we went on holiday to Cromer. This place was like the Kennedy Space Center in comparison to our house.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Becca said and nudged me along when I stopped in front of the laptop on a small desk in the corner. I walked through the French doors, and when I stepped outside, the sun was shining over a manicured lawn. Tall trees, scrub, and tended rose bushes contoured the garden. This house was a constant source of surprises as the garden extended far beyond what I had imagined possible for an estate in the centre of Cambridge.

  ‘Wow,’ I breathed, looking at the wooden swing attached to the centenary oak to my left.

  There was laughter coming from the gazebo and that was exactly where Sara was heading. ‘Robert! Harry! Look who’s here!’ she bellowed and that was when I spotted two children who answered her with a loud ‘Hello’ and an enthusiastic waving of arms.

  When we reached them, I stood a foot away hiding slightly behind Becca. A little boy was sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the decking beside his brother. They both looked straight at me.

  ‘Hey, Rob!’ said Sara, bending down near the youngest of the two boys.

  ‘Mummy’s here! Mummy’s here!’ he chanted full of excitement as if that was a rare and extraordinary event. I watched an enormous grin appear on his face as he pointed at a beautiful woman gracefully sitting on one of the rattan sofas behind him. My gaze fell on her and from that moment I was not capable of diverting my eyes.

  She was sitting still but her sinuous pose gave her a sense of fluidity as if she was in motion. She had long legs, long arms, long fingers, long eyelashes. I couldn’t quite stop looking at her full lips and her big hazelnut-coloured eyes. Her skin was pale and tanned at the very same time, a perfect complement to her eyes and her beautiful chestnut hair. I’d never seen anyone like her. She belonged in a movie.

  ‘Oh! Hello, Josephine, you look great this morning. How are you feeling?’ said Sara sitting down on the decking and stretching the leg in the cast in front of her.

  ‘Much better, thank you. Certainly better than you,’ Josephine answered with a smile.

  ‘I’m never going to live this down,’ Sara said, glancing at us.

  Josephine followed Sara’s gaze and trained her eyes on us, looking at Becca first and then at me.

  ‘Becca, Fran,’ Sara said somewhat pompously. ‘It’s my pleasure to introduce you to the most famous French “first ballerina” of all time, Josephine Du Pasquier – also known as Mrs A. FitzRoy.’

  ‘Sara,’ said Josephine as if reprimanding her but her tone betrayed her affection.

  I watched their exchange with surprise. They behaved like old friends and not employer and employee.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Becca and Fran,’ said Josephine.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ Becca answered while I mumbled the same words, unsure of what to do next. The older of the two brothers stood up and walked to me. ‘I’m Harry,’ he said, offering me his hand.

  ‘Hi,’ I answered, shaking it gently. ‘I’m Fran,’ I said, blushing.

  ‘I think it may be easier if I make proper introductions,’ said Josephine, taking the attention back onto herself. I was really glad she did.

  ‘First of all, please call me Josephine. Mrs FitzRoy is just so awfully formal,’ she said and then patted the space next to her. ‘Come and sit down here,’ she suggested so we humoured her and sat on the sofa. ‘These are my children,’ she said when we were comfortably settled. ‘Robert is the youngest of my boys. He’s only just turned three. Harry here is nine, and right over there, rocking a “moody teena
ger” demeanour a few years ahead of schedule, is Paul. He’s really only eleven and will be starting senior school in September,’ she said, ostensibly mocking him though her voice dripped with pride.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, turning away from the book on his lap only for a second, but when our eyes met I felt a strange curiosity towards him and the book he was reading. Josephine and Becca started to chat with Sara. Harry went to play football with Robert. I declined his invite to go with them.

  While half listening to the grown-up conversation, I kept my eyes on Paul. Slowly, I started to shuffle towards the armrest so that soon enough I was able to look over Paul’s shoulder as he sat on the deck with his back against the side of the sofa. I watched him in silence for a few seconds, but then curiosity took over.

  ‘What are you reading?’ I asked, unable to think of a better approach.

  He turned to look at me. ‘Are you into books?’ he asked instead of answering my question.

  I nodded enthusiastically, hoping he would like that we had that in common.

  ‘It’s new. You probably don’t know this author,’ he said. ‘The book only came out a few weeks ago,’ he added and I felt my cheeks burning. He kept his eyes on me so I rushed to say the first thing I could think of.

  ‘I may know who he is, if you tell me his name,’ I said lifting my shoulders.

  ‘J.K. Rowling,’ he said and then waited for my reaction.

  ‘Oh … I don’t know him,’ I said deflated.

  ‘She is a woman, and as I said she is a new author – not many people have read this book,’ he answered. Then turning slightly, he added, ‘I only just started it myself.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ I stammered, worried that he thought I wanted to take his book from him. ‘It’s your book. I was just asking …’ I tried to sound reassuring but when he shook his head, I worried I was going to get in trouble.

  ‘I really only just started it,’ he explained. ‘So, I mean, if you want you can read it with me. You know … together … but only if you want,’ he said.

  I couldn’t keep the surprise from showing on my face.