Page 35 of One Last Thing
‘And how will you choose to face it?’
‘In the same way I’ve faced all the challenges in life: copious amounts of wine.’
‘There are other options. You can let people in. Embrace the changes it brings.’
I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘I regret buying you that “quotes to live by” book.’
He laughed and we both shook our heads, wondering how it had come to be like this.
Years ago, Henry and I went through a period of not speaking. It was straight after the divorce was finalised. It was supposed to make things easier. There was a lot of anger then that clouded the love and respect we both knew was still there somewhere. The deep-rooted friendship forged through the marriage would find a way to heal eventually.
I was in a new relationship at the time and Megan, in her teens, was finding it hard to cope with the divorce and all the change that came with me moving out, so we agreed that we’d keep our distance. Megan wouldn’t talk to me though, so it became impossible to make plans to see her without getting Henry in on the act. At first our communication was clipped, brief, formal and stilted. Like business emails going back and forth trying to arrange a meeting that no one actually wants to go to.
I’m ashamed to say I backed off. My relationship with Megan never recovered.
Henry and I, however, eventually made our peace. It was him who extended the olive branch first. I’d just been through my second divorce and was busy masking my sadness and loneliness with wild nights out and parties that courted plenty of scandal that consequently distracted me from the all-consuming fear that I lacked any purpose. He contacted me to say he’d spoken to someone, a professional,and he thought it would help our relationship to talk through everything, even the difficult things, if I were willing. He was right. It did help. But really, I didn’t need to talk things through. For me, it was the simple fact that he wanted to protect our leftover relationship in the first place that saved it. He deemed whatever we had worth saving. That was all I needed to know.
Over the years, our friendship regrew. I realised I may have married my best friend the first time round and felt lucky that we had a child together, even if that child disapproved of our closeness. That’s why I told him about my diagnosis and no one else. And that’s why, when the executor of his will informed me that he’d requested I take his ashes to France to scatter them there, I didn’t question it. I honestly didn’t know Megan would be here.
It’s going to be difficult to keep my illness from her while I’m here. My symptoms worsen in the heat. And I admit, when I first heard Henry’s instructions, I wondered whether my body would be able to cope with a full itinerary of activities, whatever they may be. Henry must have considered that, too. And ifhethought I could do it . . .
That’s why I jumped into the sea and swam to lunch. It felt like such an achievement. This body that’s betraying me carried me through the water. Coming out onto the beach felt like I’d won an Olympic heat. And I swear, the moment I leapt from that boat, when the air roared in my ears, somewhere in the distance I could hear Henry cheer.
***
When I wake from my nap it’s evening, and the anger ignited by my feud with Megan and then flared by seeing Françoisehas subsided. The room is cooler than it was. I can think clearer and see perfectly. I feel more myself. Pushing myself up, I drink from a bottle of water and then wander out onto the balcony.
Nico and Megan are below. I watch their interaction, fascinated. I study their body language, their expressions, their demeanour, and I find myself cheering for them all over again. Henry would tell me off for being a hopeless romantic.
‘I can’t help it and I won’t stop it. It’s made me lots of money,’ I’d reply.
Turning back into the room, I go to find my laptop in my bag and I bring it over to the desk in the corner where I sit down, take a deep breath and open a new word document. I have no idea what kind of book I’m about to begin or why, but there are characters busily springing into life in my head and they won’t wait. I’ll do a bit of writing and then go find some dinner, I tell myself.
When I finish writing, I realise that it’s dark outside and much later than I realised. I sit back and smile to myself. It’s been a long time since I felt the addictive rush of starting a story worth telling.
13
MEGAN
My mother is confident that the next activity on Dad’s list is a luxury spa hotel.
‘While the chateau was his first love, of course, Henry adored the spa in Saint-Cyprien and would tell me he’d stay the night there every now and then,’ she’s saying from the backseat of Nico’s old Renault, having insisted that I sit up front. ‘It makes sense that this would be next on his list. Why else would Nico ask us to pack a spare pair of clothing and toiletry bag for today?’
‘I don’t remember Dad being a luxury spa hotel kind of guy,’ I say without looking up from my phone as I read through a work email. ‘Why would we need “comfortable footwear” for a spa?’
‘Well, it’s not like we’ll need heels,’ she argues brightly. ‘And believe me, Henry may have pretended he was happy to slum it, but that man was partial to high-end comfort. His bedsheets? Egyptian cotton. His pots? Le Creuset. And don’t get me started on his tea preference. It was loose leaf or nothing. God forbid you served him a Yorkshire Gold.’
I try to suppress a smile, stealing a glance at Nico.
He catches my eye and smirks, before returning his attention to the road.
‘Mum,’ I begin, as I prepare to send a response to the email, ‘it’s a stretch that just because a man has Le Creusetpots, he’s the type to book himself into a luxury spa hotel for a night. I think you need to lower your expectations of what he has in mind for us today.’
As if to further my case, Nico turns off in a direction that is definitely not towards Saint-Cyprien. Mum doesn’t seem to notice, she’s too invested in her own imagination.
‘Darling, trust me, we have a fabulous day of pampering ahead,’ she trills. ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: that man knew me better than I knew myself.’
***
