This Book Made Me Think of You(32)

“Hello again. We’re just finishing up here, and a group of us are going on to a nearby bar. Would you like to join us?”

She gestures to a group gathered near the doorway, and Tilly spots the woman who sat next to her during the event and handed her a tissue. The woman smiles warmly at her. Tilly thinks about the apartment waiting for her with its view over Paris and its deep, comfortable bed. And how, when she returns to it, the apartment will be completely quiet.

“I’d love to join you, thank you.”



* * *



—

The bar is noisy and lively, the sound of French music playing over the chatter of voices. Tables and chairs spill onto the street that overlooks the Seine, and the air smells of crusty bread, garlic, and the dripping candles that glow in empty wine bottles on the tables. Cécile introduces Tilly to Lola, the woman whom Tilly sat next to during the event, and the others in the group, all bookshop regulars.

Partway through the meal, Tilly’s phone buzzes, and she checks it quickly.

Hi Tilly. Just messaging because I sent an email to your work address about the Esmerelda Love project and received an out of office telling me you’ve left Splash! Wow! Where have you gone on to? Something exciting I hope. It would be great to catch up soon. Perhaps we could go for that drink? R x P.S. Hope you enjoyed Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

“Is everything all right?” Cécile asks, noticing the frown that has appeared on Tilly’s face.

“Just a message from an old friend,” she explains. “At least, I thought we were friends. We’ve drifted ever since Joe got sick. I’m not really sure where we stand now.”

Across the table Lola nods knowingly, reaching for one of the frites in the shared bowl in the middle of the table.

“I lost a lot of friends when my Larry died. Some people just don’t know how to handle grief.”

“Or what to say,” adds Fairooz, a student in her early twenties wearing a purple dress and matching headscarf, who shared earlier that her brother died when she was a teenager. It turns out everyone in the group has some experience of grief, which is perhaps not surprising given the nature of the event.

“But what is there to say?” chips in John, an elderly man dressed head to toe in tweed with a floral pocket square poking out of his jacket. He takes a sip of his glass of wine, a bottle of Beaujolais nearly empty between them on the table. “All the common words of condolence sound so…trite. But I am yet to come up with anything superior.” An image of Alfie’s face pops into Tilly’s mind. “I’m sure I said some thoroughly stupid things to people before I lost my husband, Henri. Before I really understood…”

“That’s a good point, I’m sure I was the same, now I think of it,” says Tilly, trying to remember what she said to her parents when her grandparents died and to colleagues returning from bereavement leave. The thought makes her wince.

“Anything is better than nothing, non?” says Pierre, a tanned man in his forties wearing an expensive-looking navy cashmere sweater. “Silence is the worst thing. When my best friend died, I think people were so afraid of saying the wrong thing that they said nothing at all.”

“That’s what it was like with Rachel. She went really quiet after Joe got his diagnosis. We used to hang out every couple of weeks or so, but as soon as Joe got sick, she was suddenly super busy with work. Which I get, because we work in the same industry. I know about deadlines and publication schedules. But it felt like she wasn’t there when I needed her.”

Tilly swallows hard, thinking back to the dark weeks following Joe’s diagnosis when it felt as though her life had fallen apart. She could have done with one of her evenings with Rachel then, talking about books as a distraction from hospital appointments and medication schedules.

One particularly bad day, when Joe’s pain had made him irritable and everything Tilly suggested doing to help seemed to make things worse, she messaged Rachel telling her she could do with a night out and asking if they could meet at the pub that evening. Rachel replied saying she was on a deadline and would be busy for a while.

Tilly didn’t ask again after that. It had taken enough strength to reach out for help the first time that she didn’t think she could do it again.

“When Joe died Rachel sent flowers and came to the funeral, but after that, nothing. I only reconnected with her again recently because of work,” Tilly continues. “But now she wants to meet for a drink…”

“Maybe she wants to make amends?” suggests Cécile.

“Maybe…”

“The important question is whether that’s what you want,” says John. “Death certainly shows you who your true friends are. But on the other hand, we all fuck up, don’t we?”

The swear word seems so at odds with his posh English accent that Tilly laughs into her wine, before forcing herself to think about his question.

“I have missed her…” Tilly finished Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow last week, and it was perfect. So many of the pages Rachel had dog-eared were Tilly’s favorite bits too. She turned the final page bursting to talk to someone about it and knowing that someone was Rachel.

“Then maybe it’s worth going for that drink,” nudges Cécile. “Just to see what she has to say?”