Page 27 of One Last Thing
‘Something like that.’ He grins at me. ‘So, you don’t write, then.’
I swallow. ‘No.’
He nods, as though disappointed, although that could be me projecting.
We’re interrupted by Mum’s voice carrying over the beach: ‘Megan, over here, darling! My arm’s got pins and needles from holding up your father!’
***
Mum can’t work out where to put the boxes. At first she sets them both down on the table on the terrace that Nicokindly booked for us, the exact one Dad liked when he came to La Voile. Despite making the booking, he has made an excuse and left us alone for our lunch, pointing out that Dad’s list was for us two. I didn’t want him to leave, but I’m glad he’s not witnessing the spectacle of Mum darting about the place with two boxes of ashes.
‘I wonder if half of him would like to sit on the other side of the restaurant and have the view across the harbour,’ she’s musing out loud, taking one box and putting it at the bar on the other side, telling a couple dining there not to take any notice of her.
‘Mum, you can’t leave Dad’s ashes over there!’ I hiss at her when she comes back.
‘Why not?’
‘Because people are trying to eat!’
‘They don’t know what’s in the box. They might just think it’s a nice ornament.’
‘Someone might take it.’
‘Why would someone take a box of ashes?’
‘Because they think it’s an ornament!’
She looks thoughtful. ‘I think it’s fine. This way, he has a view of the sea and a view of the town itself. He can even see his house from over there. Best of both worlds.’
‘Fine,’ I say gruffly, pulling out my chair and sitting down, refusing to continue this argument. It’s her box of ashes; if it gets lost then it’s her problem.
She sits down next to me and picks up the menu.
After a moment, she puts the menu down.
‘No, I can’t do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Leave him over there on his own,’ she says, getting up to go collect the box.
‘Christ,’ I whisper, trying to focus on the menu.
‘There,’ she says, putting the box next to the other one. ‘This is his table, so it makes sense that he wants to be here.’
‘Mum, please stop.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Talking as though he’s here.’
She doesn’t say anything. My throat constricts and I blink back tears behind my sunglasses. When the waiter comes over, we order a bottle of wine and each choose different fish dishes. Small talk ensues around safe topics like the excellent food here, the beautiful view, how my work is busy but great and how her work is busy but great. Things are going as well as they can –the food is delicious, the wine is lovely, the setting is stunning. I’m almost grateful to Dad for bringing us back here. But then a dreaded topic comes up at the end of the meal.
‘Are you seeing anyone?’ Mum asks casually, dipping her lemon slice in and out of her water, which is such a strange thing to do. Just leave the sliceinthe water. Why does this annoy me so much?
‘Nope. I’m not dating, I want to focus on work.’
‘Very sensible of you. Do you ever hear from Dominic?’
