Page 18 of One Last Thing
‘Megan, hey,’ she answers on the second ring, sounding a little breathless but relieved to hear from me as though she’s been waiting for the call, ‘how are you?’
I tell her straight. ‘Mum is here.’
‘What?Yourmum?’
‘Yes, I don’t call any other mums “Mum”.’
‘Oh my god! Why? How?’
‘She was sent here.’
‘By who?’
‘Dad.’
‘Wait, what?’
‘He parent-trapped us.’
‘I’m so confused.’
‘Me too.’ I throw open the balcony doors and stroll out to lean on the rail, looking out at the vineyard, my chest tightening. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
I can hear a baby crying in the background of the call and suddenly realise how utterly selfish and awful a person I am. ‘God, Marisa, I’m sorry, is this a good time? I can call back. I didn’t even check—’
‘No! No, don’t be silly, I’m just out pushing the pram, trying to get Tabby to sleep,’ she tells me brightly. ‘We had a bad night last night and she’s fighting her morning nap, but it’s all good! Talk to me. Explain.’
I rub the nape of my neck. ‘Mum got a box of ashes, too, and was told to come to Château du Chèvrefeuille for a holiday and then scatter them in one of Dad’s favourite spots, up by Fort Saint-Elme in Collioure.’
‘So youbothgot a box of ashes to scatter.’
‘Yep.’
‘He split his ashes without telling you.’
‘He did. And he’s devised an itinerary for both of us to do together.’
‘An itinerary? Of what?’
‘Activities. He wants us to bring his ashes with us while we take part in the activities. Oh, and he bought a house.’
‘He bought a house! But . . . wait, I know he sold his house, but did he tell you he’d bought another somewhere else?’
‘No.’
‘Wow! Where is it?’
‘Here in France. In order for the house to stay in our ownership, we have to complete the itinerary. Those were the conditions of his will.’
Silence on the other end of the line.
‘Hang on,’ she says, taking a moment.
I hear the sound of the pram wheels rolling along the pavement in the background. I can picture Marisa, dressed impeccably I imagine, wearing sunglasses, glowy fresh skin with no make-up, her thick hair in one of those not-purposefully-styled-but-still-looks-incredible buns. She is the sort of mum I would like to be butknowI can never be. I can’t get away with no make-up. My hair doesn’t look good unless I take the time tostyle it. I will never have thateffortlessly gorgeousvibe. I’ve long accepted I’m not one of those people.
‘Wow, Megan. This is all . . .’
She trails off.
