Page 15 of One Last Thing
‘It was his dream house,’ Megan whispers.
‘He used to joke about owning it one day,’ I add.
‘Nothing would please me more than to ensure the house is passed to its rightful owner, however there were conditions that Henry outlined to myself and in the letters addressed to you,’ Alan explains, as I place the details of the property down to read the handwritten letter included with it. ‘If those conditions are met, the house is yours.’
The room falls silent as Megan and I read our letters. I wish she were sitting closer, so that I might reach out and touch her. Pat her leg or something. She’d hate it probably. I’m not someone she’d want comforting her, but she should be comforted at a time like this, a daughter reading a handwritten letter from her late father. God, Henry’s handwriting really wasdreadful, all the letters connected together so tightly. I have to squint a little to read it properly. It makes perfect sense. It’s lovely. Too lovely. I slide the letter back into the envelope along with the pamphlet and pick up my drink, taking a long glug.
‘This is . . . this is absurd,’ Megan says eventually in disbelief, looking up at the screen. ‘We’re supposed to take his ashes on one last—’ she pauses to find the place in the letter so she can quote it accurately‘—“hurrah of the region”. What on earth is he talking about?’
‘He did acknowledge it was an odd request,’ Alan admits wearily. ‘He has put together an itinerary of his favourite activities over the next eight days, the details of which I believe Nico has helped him organise—’
We both turn to look at Nico, who avoids our eye contact, shrinking further back against the desk.
‘—and once you have both completed those together, then scattered his ashes in Collioure as requested, we can get the house signed over to you and everything sorted,’ Alan states.
‘Wait,together?’ Megan glances over at me nervously. ‘We have to do the activities together. The two of us.’
‘The three of us,’ I correct, finishing off my drink and putting the glass on the table. ‘I take it Henry’s ashes will be coming everywhere we go, too.’
‘That’s right,’ Alan confirms.
‘Your letter says this, too,’ Megan checks with me. ‘All this stuff about taking his ashes on his favourite holiday one last time, and then we get the house.’
‘Along those lines. He was always his best self when he was out here.’
Megan’s grip on her letter tightens, crinkling the edges of the paper. ‘But it’s a box of ashes. He wants us to . . . haul around a box of ashes?’
‘Two boxes of ashes,’ I point out.
‘They’re stillashes,’ she seethes, before throwing a hand up in the air in exasperation. ‘Am I the only one who thinks this is totally ludicrous? In order to get Dad’s house, we have to carry out a bunch of activities, the two of us—’
‘Three of us,’ I correct again.
‘There is no “three of us”,’ she snaps.
It hurts. And I can tell that it hurts her, too. She stuns herself into silence and hangs her head. For a moment, I see the little girl sitting across from me who misses her dad.
I wish I could make it better, but I never could.
I never had that ability that other mums seem to have. I’ll do the wrong thing. Say the wrong thing. When you never get it right, it’s easier for everyone to stop trying.
Alan clears his throat. ‘I understand that this is . . . a lot to take in. I’ll let you process it and we can talk again later. If you do decide to go ahead with this, Nico will escort you to each activity and report back to me to let me know they have been completed together to Henry’s satisfaction, as stipulated by his will. Take some time and . . . get back to me when you can. I’ll be here when you need.’
‘Thanks, Alan,’ Nico says when neither Megan nor I speak.
He leans over to end the call and then closes the laptop, picking it up and moving it to the desk. ‘I’ll let you have a moment to talk,’ he says, before leaving the room.
The office door shuts behind him.
I muster the courage to look over at Megan. Her jaw is clenched, her eyes fixed on the table as though she might burn a hole in it with her stare.
‘Why is he doing this?’ she asks eventually, her voice clipped and strained, working hard not to show the hurt she’s feeling.
I put my hand on the table and tap my fingers against the surface. ‘This place was special to him.’
She rakes her fingers through her hair. ‘I don’t understand. Why didn’t he warn us thatthiswas what he wanted? He didn’t tell me anything. Did he tell you?’
‘No.’ I shrug. ‘He’s parent-trapped us.’
