‘When have we ever gone in for that?’
Seb stops swirling, puts his cup down. He sighs a deep sigh. Then he reaches into the inside pocket of his flannel coat, places something on the well-worn tabletop between them. A box.
‘We were packing,’ Seb says. ‘And she found this.’
Helen’s breath catches. She knows what kind of box it is. And when she opens it, she’s surprised by the beauty of the ring, even in the circumstances.
‘I thought she knew that was a possibility,’ Helen says. ‘For the visas.’
Seb says nothing.
‘She changed her mind?’ Helen says. ‘Decided you were moving too fast?’
Seb still says nothing. He rubs the back of his neck.
‘Oh, Seb,’ Helen says. She takes his hand. ‘How long have you had this?’
‘A long time,’ he says. ‘Too long.’
Helen nods. ‘It wasn’t for Noémie.’
She had often wondered if Seb would propose to Clara. One Christmas, while pleasantly tipsy, he’d told Helen that they were trying for a baby. Then he’d never mentioned it again. And while Helen has never found Noémie quite as easy to make conversation with, the thought of this breaks her heart. She pictures Noémie, pulling the box from the back of a sock drawer. The smile on her face as she turns to Seb. The horror on his.
‘We haven’t broken up,’ Seb says, quickly.
‘You haven’t?’
‘Not yet,’ Seb says. ‘Not at all, hopefully.’ He stares into his coffee. ‘She’s given me an ultimatum. If I’m going with her, I have to promise that I’m going to leave the past in the past.’
The past has a tenacious grip. Even now, it’s as if Helen could squint and still see Clara with them, half a lifetime younger, sitting anxiously at this very table, swearing like a sailor and clamping her mouth shut when she caught herself. She’d spent that same Christmas here, not to mention every Easter weekend for the best part of a decade. There was a time when Helenand Clara were as close as a mother-in-law and her honorary daughter could be. And all that time, it had never seemed in doubt, that Clara would be part of their lives forever. Helen and Enzo had a running joke that Seb and Clara never stopped talking to each other. That you’d hear them through the bedroom wall until the early hours, talking; that you’d never want to go to the cinema with both of them because there they’d be, the whole time, talking. Seb, that stern and silent teenager, had suddenly seemed as if he’d never run out of words. Now he’s gone quiet again.
At Finn’s birthday, Helen and Clara had greeted each other like polite strangers. The last time Helen had seen her was on the cover ofThe Times Magazine, talking about her latest film, brushing off questions about her personal life. And a review in the Sunday paper, the very next day, that said she’d lost her way. Helen thought that sounded familiar. Everyone knows why Seb seems less steady by the day. Clara has a child, and the child isn’t his.
‘The thing is,’ Seb continues. ‘It’s not about Clara.’
Helen puts her cup down carefully. ‘It’s not?’
‘It is and it isn’t,’ Seb says. ‘It’s about my life. Where I am. Where I’m going. And why.’ A pause. ‘It’s hard to describe.’ He wrestles with what he wants to say. ‘Clara and I didn’t break up because of one mistake. We had problems, before. It wasn’t meant to be. And we’ve both spent time coming to terms with it. Becoming our own people.’ His voice quietens. ‘I don’t want to hurt anyone again,’ he says. ‘But I don’t want to leave again, either.’
They sit in silence for a moment, the ring box still on thetable between them. Once upon a time, Helen had thought that she and Enzo were over, too. After Ellie, they couldn’t bear each other. It makes a loud noise, when two lives collide. It leaves the ears ringing. If it weren’t for Seb, they wouldn’t have made it. She wonders how she’d feel if they hadn’t, twenty-five years down the line.
‘Sometimes I think that’s all I am,’ he says. ‘Someone who runs away.’ He circles the rim of his coffee cup with one finger. The tattoos on his knuckles are faded. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been particularly good at anything. I wasn’t a great actor. I was even worse, as a model. I liked drumming, but it’s not like I had a special gift for it.’
Helen’s heart aches for him. She goes to speak, but she stops herself. He doesn’t need to hear it. And it’s best not to interrupt him, on those rare occasions he decides to be candid.
‘Clara has talent,’ he says, his voice gaining some distance. ‘She always did. Watching her work, I sometimes wished I had what she had. I couldn’t direct a film. I couldn’t even write a song, no matter how hard I tried.’ He clenches his jaw, clasps his hands together. ‘Not everyone can make great things,’ he says. ‘But I’ve been trying to tell myself that not everyone needs to. That I’ll be happy if I can just be a part of it.’ He looks at her. ‘Other people can write the music. I just want to listen.’
Seb has always been hard to read. Helen knows he became an actor because it’s easier to talk when wearing a mask. His true self sat at a drum kit, surrounded by friends. Jasper came into his life like music. Clara was a song he couldn’t get out of his head. Perhaps that’s what he’s missing.
‘What will you do?’ Helen asks.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Noémie deserves an answer.’
‘I know.’
Helen looks at him for a long while. ‘When will you give her one?’
