‘Five years ago today actually.’ Etienne sighed and pressed his mouth together, as though stopping himself from saying anything else.
‘God, that must be so hard,’ Isabella said, trying to imagine a life where her parents didn’t FaceTime her all times of the day and night and get her to show them how she was getting on with the restaurant. The other day, Mamma had even demanded she show her the new sinks they’d had fitted in the ladies’ toilets. Even though her parents weren’t nearby, they were still a major support, a daily part of her life. Her chest hurt to think about it. She reached out for Etienne’s arm again. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He sighed and rubbed his hand through his hair.
‘Have you not slept?’ she asked, as he sank down again at the nearest table. His shirt was crumpled and his stubble longer than usual.
‘I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ She hovered nearby, unsure as to how to help.
‘I can’t,’ he muttered and she heard the worry in it.
‘You listened to me, when I was upset about Daniel. I could listen to you,’ she said, pulling out a chair and facing him, but he shook his head, not looking at her. She bit her lip. Etienne obviously didn’t want to tell her what was bothering him, but it didn’t feel right to leave him on his own like this.
‘So, you’re going to stay in here drinking all day?’ she asked and he lifted a surprised face towards her.
‘Probably, yes. It’s what I do every year to remember them,’ he drawled sarcastically.
‘Why don’t you go to their graves? Are they in France?’ she asked and he flinched.
‘No, they’re in London. In Kensington Cemetery.’
‘Why don’t you go there then?’ she asked simply.
He let his head roll back on his shoulders and closed his eyes before answering.
‘I went the first year after they died,’ he said. ‘I used to go there with someone else. But nowthey’renot here, I can’t face going on my own.’ His breath shuddered and he took another swig of red wine. Isabella couldn’t help but wonder who that person was. Someone in his past that he had relied on. Someone he had trusted. It gave her a sharp, stupid stab of jealousy. She purposefully pushed it away and did what she thought was right.
She checked her phone for timings and directions. As she did, she saw the list of things she was supposed to do today and decided they’d have to wait. Some things were more important. They could be there in an hour and a half if she drove, which would give Etienne time to sober up. They could buy flowers on the way.
‘Come on,’ she said, pulling him to his feet. ‘I’ll take you.’
The entrance to the cemetery was through an imposing grey stone archway. Leaves fell from the avenue of trees as they walked through. Row upon row of headstones and memorials surrounded them as Etienne led the way to the left-hand side of the grounds. He’d changed his shirt before they left and drunk a large coffee in the car. He hadn’t talked, looking silently out the window. The landscape changed as they left the countryside and neared London, brown fields turning to suburbs and then city. Isabella stopped once on a high street and Etienne chose a large bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers. The last of the season according to the florist.
‘There were fields of these in France where Mum grew up,’ he’d said as she pulled away again.
Now, he hesitated. An old man looking cold in an ageing black leather jacket and with slicked-back white hair shuffled past, glancing in their direction on his way to a visit of his own.
‘My parents are there,’ Etienne said, nodding at a gravestone across the way.
Isabella sat on the bench, knowing she’d come as far as she should. She pulled her scarf tightly around her neck and ducked her chin into its warmth.
‘I’ll wait here for you,’ she said and he nodded, seeming to pluck up some courage as he turned and approached the grave.
Etienne was far enough away that she couldn’t hear what he was saying as he spoke to them. But she could see the care with which he laid out the flowers as he talked. He traced the stone with his fingertip and pulled tiny bits of moss from the monument. Doing what he could to make things nice for them, even after their death.
She texted a message to Mamma and Papà. Suddenly wanting to have that contact with them, having seen the grief of someone who had lost it.
Isabella: Ciao, Mamma and Papà. I just wanted to say I love you.
A few seconds later a reply came in.
We love you too.
Her heart swelled with love, and she slipped her phone back in her pocket in time to see Etienne put his lips to the headstone on one side and then the other, in the French way of kissing both cheeks. Her heart hurt as she blinked a tear away, only to spot a robin sitting on the grave next to him. She’d heard the sentimental stories about how a robin’s visit is meant to signify a loved one reaching out from the other side.
‘Etienne,’ she called, pointing out the bird when he raised his head. The bird cocked its head. Etienne did the same. The bird tweeted. Etienne smiled. Something moved inside Isabella, seeing him so vulnerable. She saw the old man was watching too as the bird flew away.
