Page 1 of One Last Thing
1
MEGAN
Here I am in the south terminal of Gatwick Airport about to go on holiday with my dad, which is unusual for many reasons, the most obvious being that my dad is dead.
It’s also the first time I’ve taken holiday in about five years I think, aside from the occasional long weekend for a wedding that’s abroad or somewhere equally as annoying to reach, like Devon, but I honestly can’t remember the last time I took time off workformyselfto goon holiday. You know, to have a break from reality or whatever people go away for.
Actually, now that I think about it, Icanremember the last time I took holiday for anactualholiday and it wasn’t five years ago, it was three. In early 2023, Dominic and I went to Dubai for a week. I’m not sure why we chose Dubai. Probably because everyone else seemed to choose Dubai and neither of us had the time or the imagination to think of anywhere else.
We booked a nice hotel, lay by the pool, read books, and took photos of us laying by the pool reading books. We ate good food and drank fancy cocktails and I did my best not to talk about my work, which was all I could think about, and he refrained from talking abouthiswork, which was likely all he could think about. We mostly talked about how nice theholiday was for the whole holiday until we came home and could finally do what we wanted without any judgement. Which was talk about work.
Anyway, I’m going to hazard a guess this holiday will be different. For a start, the conversation with my travel companion will be even more lacking this time round.
Look, I have to make jokes because otherwise it’s really fucking sad.
And I’m not sad, not really. Ihavebeen sad. I’ve been the saddest I’ve ever been. Dad was my best friend and I’m not just saying that because he’s dead and it’s the sort of thing you say when someone dies. I told him everything. He was always there for me. He practically raised me by himself. He was calm, hilarious, gentle. I’ve never met anyone like him. And that he could die at the age of sixty-two is the biggest cruelty I’ve ever suffered. I loved him so much that, when he died, I wasn’t sure what my purpose was anymore. You’re not meant to tie your purpose to anyone else, I know that. I’ve read that in many books and articles. You see, while it’s important to love, care for and support others, you must prioritise what you are seeking from life yourself, otherwise you will never really be happy. That’s what I read. But when he died, I thoughtfuck being happy.I want my dad back.
It’s been a few months now. The sadness hasn’t gone, but I handle it better. Or I hide it better with dark humour and sheer determination.
The grief doesn’t mean I’m not pissed off at him though, because I am. I know you’re not meant to be pissed off at a dead person, but I have to admit that to myself otherwise I’ll have some kind of breakdown. For the sake of my mental health, it’s important to be honest and accept my feelings toprotect my emotional balanceandachieve personalgrowth. I read that somewhere, too. I remember the author emphasising that when it comes to self-worth the most significant validation of our feelings that we can achieve is our own. (When am I finding the time to read all this crap? I honestly don’t know. I never have time to read. That’s what I tell everyone anyway.) And while I don’t necessarily always agree with those encouraging excessively sentimental narcissism, I’m all for self-worth. So I need to accept how I am really feeling, which is angry.
Dad,whywould you force me to get on a plane with your ashes and go all the way to France?
And why, of all the places you could have chosen in such a beautiful country, would you ask for me to take themthere? Fuck’s sake, the one place I never wanted to return to.
I can picture Dad instructing his lawyer about this when he was drawing up his will. I can envision him perfectly: sitting back in a shirt, no tie, dark cord trousers and brown shoes, legs crossed, his receding, greying light brown hair slightly messy, stroking his moustache and beard with his long fingers, his light blue eyes filled with amusement behind the thick-rimmed black glasses perched on his delicate nose, concluding his wishes with a small closed-lip smile. He rarely showed his teeth when he smiled.
I used to think it was because he didn’t like his teeth, but they were fine. I don’t know why he smiled like that, but when I remember him, he’s usually smiling close-lipped. It made him look as though he was constantly amused at something. Maybe he was.
He would certainly have been tickled at the idea of making me go on holiday.
Well, I’m glad you find this funny, Dad: me waiting for security to check that the container with your box of ashesinside is sealed properly.Christ. Do you know the kind oflooksyou have to suffer when you tell someone that you’ve got ashes in your hand luggage? I’ve had to stand here desperately refreshing my inbox this entire time just to avoid them.
‘That’s fine, thank you. So sorry for your loss and all the best with your onward journey,’ the security guard says, carefully passing back the container and wearing a sympathetic smile so lovely and earnest it makes me bristle with irritation. I’m trying very hard not to get upset and his kindness isn’t helpful.
‘Thanks,’ I say briskly, taking the container and moving on.
Once I’m through security, I join the queue at Pret and squint at the screen up on the wall to confirm my flight hasn’t been assigned a gate in the two minutes since I last checked. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.
I assume it’s someone from work, but it’s a message from Marisa.
Thinking of you, wish I could be with you.
Here if you need anything, love you xx
Short. Sweet. Thoughtful. Perfect. The sort of message that puts your faith back into humanity. I need this message. I don’t quite realise, but as soon as I read it, my heart swells with gratitude for it. None of this is surprising, considering the message is from Marisa. She is perfect. The perfect friend, the perfect mother, the perfect wife, perfect, perfect,perfect. She’s funny, too. Her zingy humour means no one can irrationally hate her for being so wonderful. I wish I were more like Marisa. I wish I were so thoughtful and unflappable and always knew what to do and say.
I’m so happy for her happiness, but sometimes the worst in me wishes she weren’t so happy just so we could talk about being not so happy. I hate myself for that.
I wish she were here with me now. I wish Dominic were here with me. I wish someone,anyone, were here with me. But I’m also relieved I’m on my own. I didn’t want anyone else. I wantedto do this alone. It’s all very confusing, to be honest. I try not to dwell on the contradictions otherwise I’d think I was losing it.
Thank you. Love to the kids xx
I send my reply and then stare at it, wondering what Marisa will think when she reads it. I hope she will read it and marvel at how strong I am. I hope she will picture me here in the south terminal of Gatwick Airport exactly as I am, dressed smartly for travel in a blazer, crisp white shirt, high-waisted black trousers and heeled boots. She will surely know that I took a rare lunchbreak at work yesterday so that I could have a manicure and pedicure, and that I got up early this morning to ensure my make-up was glowing and flawless and my long hair was styled to fall in soft waves over my shoulders. I hope she reads my message and smiles and thinks,she’s fine, she’s got this.
‘Flat white with soya milk, please,’ I order when I reach the front of the queue.
When I hold my phone up to the card reader, I notice the eyes of the young girl behind the counter flicker down to take in my shiny nails and the expensive, delicate gold jewellery adorning my hands and wrists, a collection I’ve built up over the last few years. Her eyes stop at the emerald. They always do.
