Almost Forever Read online

  I stared at him, scared that I was about to throw up in the middle of the restaurant. I was light-headed, my ears were ringing, and I felt cold sweat dripping down my back. My face was burning, while violent shivers shook me from head to toes. I prayed quietly that I’d manage to get back to our room before it was too late.

  ‘We need to go,’ I said quietly, already standing up and collecting my handbag, forcing myself to take deep breaths and avoid making any sudden movements.

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you okay? Fran?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Please let’s go, Paul!’ I begged him.

  ‘Sure, of course,’ he said, signalling to the waiter for the bill, then took enough money to cover the cost of twice what we ate from his wallet. He pushed the euros into the waiter’s hand as we rushed out the door and into the street.

  ‘Mille fois merci,’ we heard him shouting as the door closed behind us.

  The fresh air helped but I knew I only had a few minutes before my body would win the battle of wills.

  ‘Wait, Fran, what’s going on? Did I do something wrong?’ asked Paul as we rushed back to our hotel, which luckily was less than a block away.

  ‘No,’ I said and clamped my mouth shut again. ‘I think I’ve got food poisoning,’ I said, striding fast, pressing my lips against each other as firmly as I could while inhaling deeply through my nose.

  ‘Are you sure? I’m feeling fine.’ Paul squeezed my hand gently as he matched the speed of my walk.

  ‘Yes … pretty sure …’ I said, swallowing the saliva that was already filling my mouth, aware that I wouldn’t be able to keep my stomach under control for much longer, and once the sickness started there would be no stopping it.

  I’d had food poisoning once before, a few years ago, when I was working on an excavation in South America, so I recognised the symptoms immediately.

  I fidgeted while Paul fumbled with the antique lock of our room and wished that for once we’d stayed at the Radisson where they used key cards on their doors.

  ‘Quick, Paul. I’m going to be sick!’ I said, knowing that I had very little time left before the contents of my stomach made an appearance on the floor. Then, the second the door opened in front of me and, holding my hand over my mouth, I ran to the bathroom.

  Once the first wave was over, I was so weakened that even getting up from my kneeling position in front of the toilet seemed too much effort for me to accomplish, so I just stayed where I was, leaning against Paul’s chest, while he stroked my back.

  ‘Are you better?’ he asked in a soothing voice that was my only comfort as another bout started. When he offered me a glass of water, I took a tentative sip, but as soon as the liquid hit my stomach, I was sick again. It took four goes for my body to believe that the poison had been cleared out of my system.

  Paul endured it without flinching or leaving my side.

  When it was finally over, Paul took me into his arms and carried me to the bed. I felt like a ragdoll when he laid me down gently against the pillows.

  ‘Sorry …’ I whispered, closing my eyes.

  ‘I should be the one to say sorry for forcing all of that seafood on you,’ he said, kissing the top of my head.

  ‘I’ll forgive you, if you don’t mention the word seafood ever again,’ I answered. I remained, for a very long time, quiet and immobile, with my lips firmly shut, trying to stop the shivers and hoping that the stomach cramps would subside soon too.

  Paul took my hand in his and massaged it gently, stroking my skin with the soft touch of his fingers. Eventually, the shaking subsided and my knotted stomach seemed to be less achy.

  When I started to feel better, even if only slightly, I murmured against his shoulder as I snuggled closer to him, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Dans la maladie et dans la santé …’ he said solemnly.

  I looked at him and the intensity in his eyes made me quiver. I knew that sentence. I understood its meaning. It was part of the French wedding vows, the equivalent of the English ‘in sickness and in health’.

  I didn’t quite know if Paul had chosen those words for any reason other than they fitted the situation; so unsure of how to respond, I said in admonishment, ‘Paul … This is not the time for jokes.’

  He wasn’t smiling; he just kept his eyes fixed on me until my heart started to beat faster and faster with anticipation. He pursed his lips, slowly touched my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

  ‘Marry me?’ he said eventually, and my heart stopped. He made it sound like a question, but there was strength underneath his gentle plea. I swallowed just as my throat closed up.

  ‘Marry me, Fran,’ he repeated, lowering his forehead to my clammy one.

  I was pulled in so many different directions, I had to close my eyes to regain some balance. Excitement, and fear, and joy, and more fear were a whirlpool inside my chest, so I took a minute to collect all of those conflicting feelings and find the courage to answer him.

  ‘I’ve thought of proposing to you for so long, Fran, that I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t have my mother’s engagement ring in my pocket. I thought of asking the day we moved in together. Then again on Christmas morning, on New Year’s Eve. Then I thought Valentine’s Day would be the most romantic day to ask you but I was always too scared you’d say no. So, I procrastinated. I just wanted the perfect proposal, the perfect moment that would became a special memory we will cherish all our lives. I was thinking of asking you as we walked hand in hand along the Seine, with the stars shining above us.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Then, while I sat with you on the bathroom floor, I just realised that every minute with you is special, that I didn’t need to wait for the perfect moment because when you are with me, that’s perfection to me.’

  I was still speechless when he gently lifted my face to his.

  ‘We’ve been together eight years, Fran. I want you to be my wife, if you’ll have me,’ he said resolutely.

  He then took my hand in his and fished a little blue box out of his pocket.

  His hands shook slightly, his eyes – sparkling in the dim light – didn’t quite meet mine. ‘Fran, I understand you well enough to know that you’ll want to wait until you finish your PhD, until you’ve accomplished what you set yourself as a goal before even considering getting married, but I love you so much and I promise that if you just say yes …’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, interrupting him.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked in confirmation, frowning at me.

  ‘Yes!’ I repeated. My voice was shaking now.

  ‘You said yes?’ Paul asked again, hesitant, testing the words.

  I nodded, interrupting his next sentence with a kiss.

  ‘Yes, I want to marry you, Paul,’ I said, looking straight into his eyes. ‘Even if I haven’t finished my PhD. Even if I don’t have a job or a penny to my name. Even if I’ll be terrible at it,’ I warned him.

  ‘We can wait until you’ve finished your studies. I’ll support you until you get the job you want and I won’t let you be terrible at it. We are in this together, Fran; we’ll make it work,’ he declared with a certainty that made me want to make it work.

  ‘You are really sure about this, about us?’ I asked and then held my breath.

  ‘I’ve always been sure. I knew the day I met you, Fran. I knew when I was away from you all those years at Stanford. I knew when I kissed you at the top of our tree, and I even knew when you puked out your soul about an hour ago. I know it every time I look at you, every time I make love to you, every hour that we spend together, and every second that we spend apart. I want to be with you jusqu’à la mort nous sépare …’

  His tone was solemn, like a promise, and the look in his eyes, the joy tugging at his lips, gave me goose bumps.

  ‘Till death do us part.’ I translated his words looking at the one man I had loved since I knew it was possible to love, the one man who had just promised to spend the rest of his life with me.

  ‘I love you wi
th all my heart, Paul.’

  He kissed me and with his forehead resting on mine he whispered, ‘Looks like we just got engaged. Let me make this official.’ He opened the box in his hand. He took the heirloom ring from its nesting place and slid it onto my finger. It fitted perfectly. Then after lifting my hand to his lips, he kissed it softly.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, looking down at the emerald-cut diamond ring on my finger. ‘I love it even more because it was Josephine’s.’

  ‘When she gave it to me, she told me that she would bless anyone I chose to share my life with, but she just hoped it would go to you.’ He winked at me with those final words.

  I couldn’t stop the tears that flooded my eyes, and when I blinked they ran down my cheeks leaving a wet trail behind them. Paul dried them with soft kisses and soothing words.

  ‘She loved you as though you were her own daughter. She was always so proud of you,’ he murmured. His warm breath caressing my skin comforted my aching heart.

  ‘I miss her so much,’ I whispered while Paul trailed kisses over my forehead and my temples, to the sides of my lips and along my jawline. While I let the pleasure of his affection console me, an idea popped into my head. ‘Can I choose the date?’ I asked.

  He stopped the kissing and tilted his head, then, hesitantly said, ‘Sure, when do you have in mind?’

  ‘February 29th. Leap day,’ I said quickly, expecting him to rejoice at my choice.

  ‘OK …’ he accepted reluctantly instead. I could see the shadow of disappointment across his face, his lips no longer curled quite so far upwards and I frowned in surprise.

  ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?’ I said, stroking his hair off his forehead.

  ‘Of course I like it if you like it. It’s just, well, just … slightly further away than I’d hoped; but sure, leap day is perfect.’

  ‘Further away than you’d hoped?’ I repeated, looking at him with surprise. ‘The 29th is only four days away. Such a special day should be worth the wait.’

  Paul frowned. ‘Yes totally worth it, but four years is a very long time.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not four years, Paul. I said four days, as in next Monday.’

  He looked at me with a baffled expression on his face. ‘Let me get this straight: you want to get married in four days. As in four days. So, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and then we get married. Next Monday?’

  I nodded, rolling my eyes and waiting for him to finally get the picture.

  ‘Monday, 29th of February,’ he spelled out holding my hands in his, his thumb tracing circles on my skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. His smile returned.

  ‘The very same,’ I confirmed.

  ‘But how? I mean where? I don’t know if …’ he stuttered and for the first time since I met him, Paul Alexander Hugh FitzRoy was flustered. I couldn’t stop the giggle that burst from my lips.

  ‘We’ll work it all out, Paul. We’ll figure out a way; we always do.’ He kept staring at me as if he was in shock.

  ‘Do you want to marry me or not?’ I demanded.

  He laughed then, shaking away the doubts that I’d seen in his eyes. He lifted my chin and kissed me. ‘I do, Fran, really … I do.’ And we both smiled at the future ahead of us.

  ‘Then, let’s just figure something out. How about Gretna Green?’ I suggested.

  ‘Mhmm, we’re not minors; we’re in a hurry,’ he answered noncommittally, and I knew then he would just come up with the perfect solution, like he always did. Paul was a man who had a plan for everything, so I knew he’d rise to the occasion and find a way for us to be man and wife before Monday was over.

  While he searched the web using his tablet, stroking my hair and playing with the ring on my finger, I curled up, snuggling in the crook of his arm and let out a sigh of contentment, enjoying the feel of his chest rising and falling as he breathed, the smell of his shampoo, and the way I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face.

  I closed my eyes to concentrate on the enormity of what was about to happen. In four days’ time, I’d become Mrs FitzRoy. The idea was both frightening and elating and it was incredibly hard to keep my heartbeat steady. All sorts of images entered my head about the future, our honeymoon, our kids, and the beautiful life just ahead of us.

  After a few minutes, Paul interrupted my reverie. ‘A marriage licence everywhere in England needs fifteen days’ notice, so with only four days to spare … it’ll have to be Vegas.’

  His tone was firm, no joking, just complete and utter seriousness.

  I turned to fully look at him, my eyes bright.

  ‘Vegas it is!’ I agreed, propping myself up, ready for action. ‘I can look for flights and you can book the chapel and we …’

  ‘Later …’ he said, claiming my mouth and preventing me from carrying on with my planning.

  ‘Later …’ I agreed again, running my fingers through his hair.

  We returned to London on Sunday morning because I was too weak to travel the day before, and with just one sleep until our wedding day, we only had enough time to swap the clothes in our luggage and get to the airport. Lucky for us we were going west and because of the different time zone, we would gain several hours.

  Monday morning arrived way too quickly and with our plane departing in a few hours we needed to get everything ready really fast.

  Still, it was not even eleven and we were showered and dressed, just about to finish packing our bags, and everything was going as scheduled. Then I realised I had forgotten something important that would put a spanner in the works. In our mad rush, my brain finally reminded me of what I was forgetting.

  ‘I need cash for Cecilia,’ I gasped, looking at Paul and feeling slightly panicky. ‘She’s coming over in twenty minutes!’ I whined, looking at the clock.

  ‘Who is Cecilia?’ asked Paul with a raised eyebrow while taking a jumper from the bottom drawer and bringing it over to the pile of clothes he had already placed in his suitcase.

  ‘She’s the gardener. She’s supposed to start preparing the raised beds, and she was going to pick up the perfect plants at a horticultural auction but she said she needed cash. Rats … I promised her I would get her some,’ I said, angry with myself.

  ‘That’s okay,’ Paul replied calmly. ‘I’ll get cash from the off-licence down the road. They have a machine. We have plenty of time, plus that’s the beauty of not flying commercial: the plane will wait for us.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I looked at Paul with a radiant smile. ‘I would go myself but look,’ I said, pointing at my suitcase only half-full. Next to it there was a pile of stuff that I still needed to somehow squeeze into it.

  ‘It’s no trouble, I’ll be two minutes tops and my bag is ready,’ he answered with a smug smile as he zipped up his luggage and lifted it from the bed to prove his point.

  ‘Okay then, get as much cash as you can. I really want a Japanese maple tree and they cost a small fortune apparently,’ I told him, suddenly business-like and concentrating on what I was doing.

  ‘Consider it done,’ he promised, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. I answered him with a grunt. Without lifting my eyes from the pair of jeans that didn’t want to squeeze in the only empty corner I had left, I was pushing them down with all my strength when Paul stepped closer. Initially, I thought he was coming to my rescue; instead, without any warning, he turned me to him and – holding me by my elbows – he lifted me up until we were at eye level.

  ‘Paul! What are you doing?’ I squealed, my feet dangling several inches from the floor.

  He answered me with a passionate kiss that made my head spin. I gave in completely, pouring my love for him into it. When he eventually put me down, I was breathless and light-headed, and blissfully happy.

  ‘I needed a kiss for the road,’ he said when I looked up at him dreamily, trying to regain some control. ‘I love you,’ he said, heading for the door.

  ‘I love you too,’ I answered suddenly wary that we were going to be apart, even i
f it was only for a few minutes.

  ‘Miss you already,’ I whispered, my voice unexpectedly trembling with emotion. ‘Hurry back, please.’

  ‘I will,’ he answered, blowing me a kiss before jogging down the stairs.

  Chapter Three

  Paul was in surgery for the best part of six hours. He was taken to the ICU afterwards and we were only able to see him briefly through a glass window.

  The shock of how he looked, with a swollen eye and bruises covering his face and arms, was too much for me to witness, and when I returned the waiting room, I cried my pain over Georgie’s shoulder.

  Harry and Albert volunteered to talk to the doctor, who reluctantly gave them Paul’s prognosis, even if the outcome greatly depended on him surviving the next twenty-four hours.

  I didn’t have the strength to go with them and hear first-hand, from a stranger, that Paul was going to die.

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ I said to Harry. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  He returned shortly afterwards with the news.

  ‘Fran.’ Harry crouched down in front of me, his hands resting lightly on my knees. ‘Paul is stable, for the moment.’ He swallowed. He searched my eyes for a sign that I was ready to hear the rest. When I nodded, he continued.

  ‘The doctor said that every hour, every minute, his chances are improving.’ I looked at him thinking that, surely, this was a piece of good news. Unfortunately, I was way off the mark, because he said that Paul at that point only had a twenty-five per cent chance of survival.

  The doctor was concerned about the large quantity of blood Paul lost before they could stop the haemorrhage. He had been repeatedly stabbed with a broken bottle, and he’d bled profusely from the wounds in his stomach. Even if no major internal organs were hit, the paramedics had struggled to stop the bleeding. The surgeon eventually got it under control, but only after he removed Paul’s spleen and a small part of his stomach. At least the operation was a success.

  Paul’s brain, however, was what worried them the most. He had been repeatedly hit in the head, and the extent of the damage was currently unknown. He was in a coma and there was nothing any of us could do, other than wait. Hours went by unhurriedly, as if time had decided to play a cruel trick on us. In that interminable stretch, I kept analysing the information Harry had given me, trying to extract any hope that was hiding inside the tragic outcome the doctors had predicted.