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Epilogue

I was just following instructions.

I sat in the shadow of the dark-green cafe awning, staring down the length of the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, the tepid sun of a Parisian autumn warming the side of my face. In front of me the waiter had, with Gallic efficiency, deposited a plate of croissants and a large cup of filter coffee. A hundred yards down the street two cyclists stopped near the traffic lights and struck up a conversation. One wore a blue backpack from which two large baguettes poked at odd angles. The air, still and muggy, held the scents of coffee and patisserie and the acrid tang of someone’s cigarettes.

I finished Treena’s letter (she would have called, she said, but she couldn’t afford the overseas charges). She had come top of her year in Accountancy 2 and had a new boyfriend, Sundeep, who was trying to work out whether to work for his dad’s import-export business outside Heathrow and had even worse taste in music than she did. Thomas was dead excited about moving up a class at school. Dad was still going great guns at his job, and sent his love. She was pretty confident that Mum would forgive me soon. She definitely got your letter, she said. I know she read it. Give her time.

I took a sip of my coffee, briefly transported to Renfrew Road, and a home that seemed a million miles away. I sat and squinted a little against the low sun, watching a woman in sunglasses adjust her hair in the mirror of a shop window. She pursed her lips at her reflection, straightened up a little, and then continued her path down the road.

I put down the cup, took a deep breath, and then picked up the other letter, the letter that I had carried around with me for almost six weeks now.

On the front of the envelope, in typed capitals, it said, under my name:

ONLY TO BE READ IN THE CAFE MARQUIS, RUE DES FRANCS BOURGEOIS, ACCOMPANIED BY CROISSANTS AND A LARGE CAFE CREME.

I had laughed, even as I wept, on first reading the envelope – typical Will, bossy to the last.

The waiter – a tall, brisk man with a dozen bits of paper sticking out of the top of his apron – turned back and caught my eye. All okay? his raised eyebrows said.

‘Yes,’ I said. And then, a little self-consciously, ‘Oui.’

The letter was typewritten. I recognized the font from a card he had sent me long ago. I settled back in my chair, and I began to read.

Clark,

A few weeks will have passed by the time you read this (even given your newfound organizational skills, I doubt you will have made it to Paris before early September). I hope the coffee is good and strong and the croissants fresh and that the weather is still sunny enough to sit outside on one of those metallic chairs that never sit quite level on the pavement. It’s not bad, the Marquis. The steak is also good, if you fancy coming back for lunch. And if you look down the road to your left you will hopefully see L’Artisan Parfumeur where, after you read this, you should go and try the scent called something like Papillons Extrême (can’t quite remember). I always did think it would smell great on you.

Okay, instructions over. There are a few things I wanted to say and would have told you in person, but a) you would have got all emotional and b) you wouldn’t have let me say all this out loud. You always did talk too much.

So here it is: the cheque you got in the initial envelope from Michael Lawler was not the full amount, but just a small gift, to help you through your first weeks of unemployment, and to get you to Paris.

When you get back to England, take this letter to Michael in his London office and he will give you the relevant documents so you can access an account he has set up for me in your name. This account contains enough for you to buy somewhere nice to live and to pay for your degree course and your living expenses while you are in full-time education.

My parents will have been told all about it. I hope that this, and Michael Lawler’s legal work, will ensure there is as little fuss as possible.

Clark, I can practically hear you starting to hyperventilate from here. Don’t start panicking, or trying to give it away – it’s not enough for you to sit on your arse for the rest of your life. But it should buy you your freedom, both from that claustrophobic little town we both call home, and from the kind of choices you have so far felt you had to make.

I’m not giving the money to you because I want you to feel wistful, or indebted to me, or to feel that it’s some kind of bloody memorial.

I’m giving you this because there is not much that makes me happy any more, but you do.

I am conscious that knowing me has caused you pain, and grief, and I hope that one day when you are less angry with me and less upset you will see not just that I could only have done the thing that I did, but also that this will help you live a really good life, a better life, than if you hadn’t met me.

You’re going to feel uncomfortable in your new world for a bit. It always does feel strange to be knocked out of your comfort zone. But I hope you feel a bit exhilarated too. Your face when you came back from diving that time told me everything; there is a hunger in you, Clark. A fearlessness. You just buried it, like most people do.

I’m not really telling you to jump off tall buildings, or swim with whales or anything (although I would secretly love to think you were), but to live boldly. Push yourself. Don’t settle. Wear those stripy legs with pride. And if you insist on settling down with some ridiculous bloke, make sure some of this is squirrelled away somewhere. Knowing you still have possibilities is a luxury. Knowing I might have given them to you has alleviated something for me.

So this is it. You are scored on my heart, Clark. You were from the first day you walked in, with your ridiculous clothes and your bad jokes and your complete inability to ever hide a single thing you felt. You changed my life so much more than this money will ever change yours.

Don’t think of me too often. I don’t want to think of you getting all maudlin. Just live well.

Just live.

Love,

Will

A tear had plopped on to the rickety table in front of me. I wiped at my cheek with my palm, and put the letter down on the table. It took me some minutes to see clearly again.

‘Another coffee?’ said the waiter, who had reappeared in front of me.

I blinked at him. He was younger than I had thought, and had dropped his faint air of haughtiness. Perhaps Parisian waiters were trained to be kind to weeping women in their cafes.

‘Maybe … a cognac?’ He glanced at the letter and smiled, with something resembling understanding.

‘No,’ I said, smiling back. ‘Thank you. I’ve … I’ve got things to do.’

I paid the bill, and tucked the letter carefully into my pocket.

And stepping out from behind the table, I straightened my bag on my shoulder and set off down the street towards the parfumerie and the whole of Paris beyond.