One Summer in Paris

When her phone rang at three in the morning, ripping her from desperately needed sleep, Maggie’s first thought was bad news.

Her mind raced through the possibilities, working backwards from the worst-case scenario.

Death, or at least lifechanging injury. Police. Ambulances.

Heart pounding, brain foggy, she grabbed her phone from the summit of her teetering pile of books. The name on the screen offered no reassurance.

Trouble stalked her youngest daughter.

‘Rosie?’

She fumbled for the light and sat up. The book she’d fallen asleep reading thudded to the floor, scattering the pile of Christmas cards she’d started to write the night before. She’d chosen a winter scene of snow-laden trees. They hadn’t had a flake of snow in the village on Christmas Day for close to a decade. They often joked that it was a good thing their last name was ‘White’ because it was the only way they were ever going to have a ‘White’ Christmas.

She snuggled under the blanket with the phone. ‘Has something happened?’

The physical distance between her and Rosie made her feel frustrated and helpless. Everyone said global travel made the world smaller, but it didn’t seem smaller to Maggie. Why couldn’t her daughter have continued her studies closer to home? Oxford, with its famous spires and ancient colleges, was only a few miles away. Even if she’d based herself in London, Rosie could still have driven home for the occasional cup of tea and slice of homemade carrot cake. There would have been long Sunday lunches, followed by a stroll through sunlit meadows. Instead, Rosie had graduated and been awarded a place on a US doctoral programme, complete with full funding.

‘Can you believe it, Mum?’ The day she’d had the news she’d danced round the living room, hair flying around her face, twirling until she was dizzy. ‘Are you proud of me?’

She had been proud and dismayed in equal measure, although Maggie had hidden the dismayed part, of course.

Even she had seen it was too good an opportunity to turn down, but still a small part of her had wished Rosie would turn it down.

That transatlantic flight from the nest had left Maggie with email, Skype and social media, none of which felt entirely satisfactory. Even less so in the middle of the night.

‘Is it your asthma? Are you in hospital?’

What could she do if Rosie was in hospital? Nothing. Anxiety was a constant companion, and never more so than now.

If it had been her eldest daughter Katie who had moved to a different country she might have felt more relaxed about it. Katie was reliable, sensible, and one of life’s copers. But Rosie? Rosie had always been impulsive and adventurous.

‘I’m not in hospital. Don’t fuss!’

Only now did Maggie hear the noise in the background. Cheering…whooping.

‘Do you have your inhaler with you? You sound breathless.’

The sound woke memories. Rosie, eyes bulging, lips stained blue. The whistling sound as air struggled to squeeze through narrowed airways. Maggie making emergency calls with hands that had shaken almost too much to hold the phone, the terror raw and brutal although she kept that hidden from her child. Calm, she’d learned, was important even if it was faked.

Even when Rosie had moved from child to adult there had been no reprieve. Some children grew out of asthma. Not Rosie.

There had been a couple of occasion when Rosie had been in college and she’d gone to parties without her inhaler. A few hours of dancing later she’d been rushed to the emergency department. Those had been a three a.m. phone calls too, and Maggie had raced through the night to be by her side. Those were the episodes she knew about. She was sure there were plenty more that Rosie had failed to mention.

‘I’m breathless because I’m excited. I’m twenty-two, Mum. When are you going to stop worrying?’

‘That would be never. Your child is always your child, no matter how many candles are on the birthday cake. Where are you?’

‘I’m with Dan’s family in Aspen for Thanksgiving and I have news—’

She broke off and Maggie heard the clink of glasses and Rosie’s infectious laugh. It was impossible to hear that laugh and not want to smile too. The sound contrasted with the silence of Maggie’s bedroom.

A waft of cold air chilled her skin and she stood up and grabbed her robe from the back of the chair. Honeysuckle Cottage looked idyllic from the outside, but it was impossibly draughty. The ventilation was a relief in August but it froze you to the bone in November. She really needed to do something about the insulation before she even thought about selling the place. Historic charm, climbing roses and a view of the village green couldn’t compensate for frostbite.

Or maybe it wasn’t the house that was cold. Maybe it was her.

A wave of sadness almost drowned her, and she struggled to the surface.

‘What’s happening? What news? It sounds like you’re having a party.’