But the death that affects me most is yet to come and takes me very much by surprise.
We meet Betty and David in the early nineties; Betty is a designer and David, who is French, runs the business side of the operation. Betty designs a stage jacket for Jennifer, there’s a spark between them, and we go round for Sunday lunch. We have three young children, they have two – the five of them span only five years in age and they mesh together instantly into a playful unit.
As do we adults.
In the early nineties we’ve got to a similar point in our lives. The four of us are all successful, we’re not afraid to enjoy ourselves, we eat well, and we drink well. We understand each other, and we really enjoy each other’s company. We spend practically every Sunday together, we go on holiday together, and the kids play so well, they’re closer than cousins. The Cohens and the Edmondsons become closer than blood family because we’ve actually chosen each other. When the Cohen children become adults we’re talking one day about there being no godparents in the Jewish tradition and between ourselves we instantly decide that I will be their godfather and they my godchildren. Although we’ve since changed it to Oddfather and Oddchildren.
The same thing happens with Ben’s children – brought up in an atheist household with Jewish roots – we’re discussing their lack of godparents, and the fact that I’ve never been deemed suitable by any parents, and we simply declare ourselves Godfather and Godchildren. I treasure these relationships.
David and I play a lot of chess, smoke fat cigars until we’re frankly a bit green, and drink far too much eau de vie. He’s an extremely generous host, but his kindest act is to teach me everything he knows about food and wine. My favourite trips are going with David to the shops when we’re on holiday in Provence. He’s a witty, lovable, talkative epicurean: every shopkeeper is engaged in a lengthy conversation to determine the best month to eat figs, where to get the best burrata, or how to cook a cardoon; and he introduces me to them as if I am the chef-patron of a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Obviously his French is very good, and though his English is perfectly intelligible it’s full of humorous mistakes and, to be frank, seems to get worse rather than better over the years. But then my French is equally laughable, so who cares? We understand each other completely and make each other laugh.
But we also enjoy a more philosophical side. Of all the men in my life David is the only one I feel confident to talk to about some of the things that trouble me. He’s Jewish by birth but also a Buddhist, and not a notional one – he has a mentor, a monk he calls ‘le venerable’.
David’s story supports my theory that we are all nuts. He has had personal struggles in his life and he needs to constantly question himself, and his mentor, to find equilibrium. He works at it very hard. As I’ve explained, my mental health has not always been particularly robust and I work away at Stoicism, which is not a million miles away from Buddhism: they both help by defining what you can and cannot control. But in many ways David is my personal monk, my ‘venerable’ – it’s never a formal relationship, but he gives me a lot of good advice, and a lot of comfort.
Slightly older than us, Betty and David retire in 2019, intent on travelling around Europe on a more or less permanent holiday, but almost as soon as they stop working David has a medical check-up and discovers he’s got cancer. These days we tend to think cancer isn’t as frightening as it once was, there are so many stories of successful treatment and recovery – Jennifer being a case in point – but David has got it everywhere and they can’t treat it. They give him six months. He dies in three.
We have one of our philosophical chats shortly after the diagnosis. He lays on some delicious pastries. We drink good coffee. Our talk is at the same temperature and level as usual except this time we have tears streaming down our faces. He looks so healthy, but he’s dying right in front of me.
When I see him a couple of days before he dies he’s gaunt and emaciated, a shadow of himself. I can’t tell if he’s listening or not, he’s certainly not contributing much to the conversation, but I think he knows I’m there. I have an idea to give him a problem, the kind of problem he likes to solve: I tell him about some trouble I’m having with an actor on the project I’m currently filming. His eyes light up and he immediately becomes more animated. He uses all his acquired wisdom to provide me with a solution to the blockage. He’s brilliant. Then he retreats back into himself and I leave.
He dies on my daughter Ella’s birthday and is buried on mine. I know dates are just numbers but it feels special to me that there’s some connection through these.