Almost Forever: An emotional debut perfect for fans of Jojo Moyes

‘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 if 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 (#ulink_ce7885d4-16ad-597b-8227-37a947ebcb5a)

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.

Georgie and Albert periodically went to the cafeteria to get food and coffee, which no one ate or drunk. Too restless to sit, I paced the room, leaning on the windowsill, looking obsessively at the wall of the building in front. Harry sat in one of the chairs, looking like a desolate island in the middle of a stormy sea.

I wanted to reach out to him, console him somehow, but I didn’t have the strength for it; so I just kept studying every single brick, noticing how they were both identical and completely different, at the very same time.

Paul’s odds improved to fifty per cent and then eventually to seventy per cent and Harry insisted we take a break. Too tired to argue, I let Harry and Georgie take me home.

***

The cab stops in front of my house, and I feel as if I cannot set foot inside it without Paul at my side.

‘I can’t go in without him,’ I murmur to Harry who firmly but gently helps me out of the car.

‘I know it’s hard but spending the night in the street will not help anything,’ he says, waiting for Georgie to open the front door, and then, without hesitation, all but carries me in.

The shock of returning home for the first time since Paul was taken to the hospital is a painful punch in my stomach. Walking through the front door without Paul, when he should be actually carrying me across the threshold as his wife, makes the emptiness of the house even more tangible and devastating.

At least Harry’s here, supporting me through a tragedy I know I can’t handle alone. In a haze, I watch Georgie as she picks up a pile of envelopes that lie scattered on the entrance floor. She places them neatly on the side table, next to Paul’s car keys and his sunglasses, and the sight of them suddenly reminds me that they may end up staying there, untouched, for a very long time.

‘He always leaves his sunglasses there,’ I murmur as if it’s important to talk about Paul.

No one answers.

It’s been a long thirty-six hours, the longest and most stressful time of my entire life. I’m exhausted; we all are.

‘Why don’t you try to sleep a little? You hardly closed your eyes at all in the hospital,’ says Harry leading me towards the stairs.

I know I look as bad as I feel. I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror and noticed that my grey eyes have no spark, and the bloodshot tinge in them looks unhealthy. The puffiness of my eyelids makes me look haunted. The dark, purplish circles under them make my pale complexion appear unnaturally pallid. Georgie and Harry look just as tired and worried, but there is no point telling them that. I know I should sleep at least a few hours – I just don’t know if I can.

‘I don’t think I’ve recovered from the food poisoning,’ I finally answer him, placing my hand over the top of my stomach that’s continued to churn since the infamous seafood incident in Paris over the weekend. It’s easier to blame the fear and the desperation on something tangible and easy to recover from, much easier than thinking of Paul, alone in a hospital bed.

‘Maybe you should see your GP?’ suggests Georgie. Her eyes are trained on me, almost as if she is trying to X-ray a diagnosis just by looking at me. I know she is only trying to help me, so I smile at her, pretending an easiness that’s not really there.

‘If I’m not better in a couple of days, I’ll go to the doctor,’ I promise her as I walk up the stairs, one slow step at a time. ‘Please don’t worry about me. I’m just tired – I’ll be all right,’ I say, looking back at the two of them as I reach the top of the stairs. They nod at me but I know they’re not convinced. ‘I’ll be all right,’ I say again with a smile, hiding behind it. The niggling truth is that I’ve just made them a promise it won’t be easy to keep.

‘I’ll make us a sandwich,’ says Georgie as we look at each other, unsure how to act normal, now that our lives have been shattered.

‘That would be lovely,’ I answer as I walk into my room. The shock of how the bedroom looks leaves me breathless. My luggage is open on the bed. Clothes are everywhere: some folded, some just abandoned. The wardrobe doors are open and Paul’s trolley lies neatly packed, to the side of the bed. I turn my back to it and head for the en suite.

I shower quickly, pull some clothes on at random, and with no real enthusiasm eat the sandwich Georgie brought up for me. ‘You should sleep,’ she says, carefully piling the clothes scattered on the bed into my chest of drawers, and moving my open luggage and gingerly placing it on the chaise longue under the skylight. She closes the doors of the wardrobe that are still open and moves Paul’s trolley out of sight.

Not that any of that will help me forget that Paul and I were just about to fly out to Vegas to get married, before he ended up in the ICU, but at least the room looks tidier and I can actually lie down on the bed now.

‘Thank you,’ I say to Georgie as I curl up under the covers.

‘Fran, you don’t have to thank me; you’re my best friend. Try to get some sleep,’ she says, stroking my hair out of my face. ‘I’m going home for a while, to have a shower – and I need to speak with my boss to ask for more time off. Harry is downstairs if you need anything,’ she adds.

I nod again. The words ‘thank you’ are on my lips again, but I stop myself from saying them.

I sleep badly for a few hours, and when I wake up and see the empty place beside me, I’m reminded immediately of what’s happened. My hand reaches out seeking Paul’s warmth, even though I know he isn’t there.

Needing to have a piece of him close to me, I uncurl myself from the sheets and open the wardrobe doors. I grab one of his favourite jumpers and pull it over my head. I inhale deeply reminding myself of Paul, of what could have been, should have been, and how much has changed in the space of two days.

I bite down on my lip to stop the scream that’s about to rip through my chest. Tears start to flood my eyes and my legs give out under me. I slide down to the floor, sobbing, curling in on myself, protecting my broken heart, but no respite comes for my agony. I force myself to crawl back towards the bed after my limbs have seized up due to my inactivity.

When I lift myself up, the pictures in the frames on the wall stare at me with their happy smiles and funny faces. Memories of us together, always together, forever together.

Paul and I in Marseille, on the cliff behind Paul’s uncle’s restaurant. There is one of a grinning Paul I took on top of Ben Nevis, a landscape from a scuba-diving holiday I will never forget, and then a photo of Paul, Harry, Robert, and I – all wearing the same uniform – just outside the gate of the exclusive private school in Cambridge that we attended. I think back to the shock of going from my local oversubscribed and underfunded primary, to a school that had a library centuries old and a chef who cooked delicious dinners from scratch every single day.

I lie on the bed again, without bothering to pick up the duvet that I’ve thrown on the floor. I hold Paul’s pillow in my arms and stare at that picture, bringing back the emotions of my first year there.