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The last time we were at the Ritz in Paris I had my fifth miscarriage at breakfast. This Christmas, I was no longer in contention for the same bizarre privilege.
But it was like I was trapped inside a snow globe that nobody was shaking.
The lobby was filled top-to-toe with the bustle of Christmas. The grand piano had been set aside to make way for the giant tree, a sparkling, verdant spectacle, decorated in the hotel’s signature palette of peach and champagne, with a light dusting of Ritz-blue baubles sprinkled here and there.
“Can you see me?” she said, looking straight down the lens, her presence magnified. I knew then I was going to remember this picture for the rest of my life. It was as if I was seeing her for the first time all over again. My happy little girl. The commotion of the hotel fell silent behind me. I was about to press down on the shutter button when someone walked into the frame. I pulled the camera from my face and was about to say “Excuse me,” when I realized it was the pregnant woman from the lift. I stalled for a moment. Something about her seemed vague, and I worried she might faint. But she
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“Promise me one thing: If you do leave me for someone else, just don’t be a cliché. I wouldn’t mind people saying, Yeah, that makes sense, she’s more interesting than Honor—younger, more intelligent, better tits.” “No one has better tits.” “All I’m saying is, if you do have an affair, I want my replacement to have Gisele’s level of hotness, Marie Curie’s intelligence, and Mother Nature’s maternal instinct. Marry someone you could see me being friends with. An indoorsy poet with a disdain for socializing.”
He sat down at my mother’s kitchen table and dropped his head into his hands, replaying our final exchange, the marble cold against his elbows. If only there were some way I could tell him I was there beside him, though no longer able to hold his hand. All through our marriage, and even more so before, I’d always wanted to know what Tom was truly thinking, and now it seemed I could.
He no longer cared what time it was. It was as if he knew that from now on, there was just before and after.
When Tom arrived home, the whole house was silent, yet everything spoke. It was as if the house had been burgled but it wasn’t the contents that’d been stolen, it was the context.
The world seemed to prioritize a regimented skincare routine over the wonder of getting old.
Nobody on earth has the constitution to metabolize the sudden and terrific loss of unconditional love.
It reminded Tom of a quote I’d often say when Chloe was teething and I was moody—“The days are long, but the years are short”—which used to annoy him. But now he’d learned the hard way just how true that was. Everything was just a click away from the past tense.
Grief’s iron grip never weakens. You just become accustomed to its hand around your throat, moving forward but never moving on.
Since the first time we shared a bed, Tom had always insisted on having some part of his body touching mine. I thought it would phase out, like spooning does when you just need a decent night’s sleep and you’re far enough down the road in your relationship that turning your back can no longer give off the wrong impression. But it never did. Whether it was his knuckle against my thigh, or a pinky beside my ankle, there was always some part of us anchored. And no matter how deep his sleep, if I moved away, he would always find me again.
You can’t boycott grief, unless you want to boycott happiness with it. You don’t get the meat without the bones.”
My mother looked so tiny as she sat on the marble lip of the bath. She undid the buttons on her cardigan, followed by her white shirt, draping them over the bathroom chair, then she took off her bra, which fell to the floor with a thud. That’s when I saw them, two thick, jagged scars on her pale skin where her breasts should have been. I thought back to my childhood, trying to place this new information into context. I can’t read you stories forever, Honor. You have to learn to be alone. Was this the reason she sent me to boarding school? Had she been too ill to take care of me?
Was it possible that my father had died and my mother had been diagnosed with cancer all in the space of a few weeks? Was this why her skin had turned sallow and her hair looked so different when she picked me up for summer holidays in Normandy?
But all I knew was that my dad was dead, and my mother had turned as cold as a corpse. “When sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions.”
Until Tom watched Grace unpack her clothes, he hadn’t realized how much he wanted to belong to someone again. To have someone to wait in the car for and spar with about what to eat for dinner, fish and chips or curry. The bits they don’t show in films because nothing happens.
You told me you loved me. On the beach. It was raining and you kissed me.” “Kissed you on the beach?” Tom said. “What are you talking about? I’ve never kissed you in my life.” “You did. Don’t you remember? When I found the ring in the sand? In Scotland?” Tom gripped his head in disbelief.
“I love you, Tom,” Lauren said.
“I always have. And Henry knows me. I’m more of a mother to him than Grace could ever be. Or Honor. She was never really Henry’s mother anyway. She died before he was even born.” Lauren’s embittered venom took Tom by the throat, but before he could retaliate, my mother interjected. “Don’t you dare speak my daughter’s name,” she hissed. “You could never be a replacement for Honor, no matter how hard you tried. My daughter was loyal. She was brilliant. And she is Henry’s mother. Get out. Get out of this house before I drag you by your neck.”
“You were lying too. You were keeping something from Grace, and I was keeping something from you. We’re the same, don’t you see?” “We are not the same. Please leave,” Tom said. “You can keep your key. I’m changing the locks,” Tom said.
Bellowing pathetic sobs, Lauren took Tom’s phone out of her bag and left it on the ottoman. Her eyes swollen and snot running out of her nostrils, she picked up her shoes from the rug and scuttled out of the drawing room. With Lauren gone, the house fell into a monastic silence. The events of the night hung pendulously above them.
“I know I deserve this,” Tom said to Annie through a torrent of tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. For accusing you. Grace is gone, Annie. She’s gone…” He trailed off. “You were right,” he said as Annie moved closer towards him. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” “You don’t have to know,” Annie said, hugging Tom’s body tight. “We’ll figure this out together.”
When I died, Tom became a widower, a word that needs no further explanation. But there is no word in the English dictionary for a parent who loses a child. They remain the same: a father, a mother, suspended in time. Forever explaining, forever retelling, forever tethered to an indigestible loss.
There is no knack to grief. It’s like the sky—it hangs over everything. Sometimes the sun peeks through the clouds, other days it rains, and some days it pours.
I want my family to be together. I want plan B.” She slid her hands around his neck and nuzzled her face against his damp cheek before kissing his lips. The girls clapped and hooted in the drawing room and Nellie yelled, “More tongue!”
But love wasn’t measured by its ending. It was every cup of coffee, broken boiler, empty crisp packet, and train ride. It was every hangover, stubbed toe, high temperature, nasty splinter, and burned tongue. Every eye roll, private joke, and piece of burned toast. Every morning cuddle and blunt pencil. Every kiss good night, every lost key, sore throat, afternoon nap, and sip of tea. Every birthday, hot shower, cold swim, paper cut, chesty cough, mosquito bite, and bee sting. Every lost bookmark, orgasm, funeral, traffic jam, and bite of cake. Every missed flight, snarky comment, haircut, and
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Every wobbly table, broken heart, treasured photograph, and lingering kiss. Every wedding, toothache, and waiting room. Every school drop-off. Every single day.
