Me Before You: a novel

okay? his raised eyebrows said.
“Yes,” I said. And then, a little self-consciously, “Oui.”
The letter was typewritten. I recognized the font from a card he
had sent me long ago. I settled back in my chair, and I began to
read.
Clark,
A few weeks will have passed by the time you read this (even given your newfound
organizational skills, I doubt you will have made it to Paris before early September).
I hope the coffee is good and strong and the croissants fresh and that the weather
is still sunny enough to sit outside on one of those metallic chairs that never sit
quite level on the pavement. It’s not bad, the Marquis. The steak is also good, if you
fancy coming back for lunch. And if you look down the road to your left you will
hopefully see L’Artisan Parfumeur where, after you read this, you should go and try
the scent called something like Papillons Extrême (can’t quite remember). I always
did think it would smell great on you.
Okay, instructions over. There are a few things I wanted to say and would have
told you in person, but (a) you would have got all emotional and (b) you wouldn’t
have let me say all this out loud. You always did talk too much.
So here it is: the check you got in the initial envelope from Michael Lawler was
not the full amount, but just a small gift, to help you through your first weeks of
unemployment, and to get you to Paris.
When you get back to England, take this letter to Michael in his London office
and he will give you the relevant documents so you can access an account he has
set up for me in your name. This account contains enough for you to buy

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someplace nice to live and to pay for your degree course and your living expenses
while you are in full-time education.
My parents will have been told all about it. I hope that this, and Michael Lawler’s
legal work, will ensure there is as little fuss as possible.
Clark, I can practically hear you starting to hyperventilate from here. Don’t start
panicking, or trying to give it away—it’s not enough for you to sit on your arse for
the rest of your life. But it should buy you your freedom, both from that
claustrophobic little town we both call home and from the kinds of choices you have
so far felt you had to make.
I’m not giving the money to you because I want you to feel wistful, or indebted to
me, or to feel that it’s some kind of bloody memorial.
I’m giving you this because there is not much that makes me happy anymore,
but you do.
I am conscious that knowing me has caused you pain, and grief, and I hope that
one day when you are less angry with me and less upset you will see not just that I
could only have done the thing that I did, but also that this will help you live a really
good life, a better life, than if you hadn’t met me.
You’re going to feel uncomfortable in your new world for a bit. It always does
feel strange to be knocked out of your comfort zone. But I hope you feel a bit
exhilarated too. Your face when you came back from diving that time told me
everything; there is a hunger in you, Clark. A fearlessness. You just buried it, like
most people do.
I’m not really telling you to jump off tall buildings, or swim with whales or
anything (although I would secretly love to think you were), but to live boldly. Push
yourself. Don’t settle. Wear those stripy legs with pride. And if you insist on settling
down with some ridiculous bloke, make sure some of this is squirreled away