Page 40 of One Last Thing
‘Glastonbury isrealcamping.’
‘I didn’t say it wasn’t.’
‘You did with your face.’
‘It’s . . . a different sort of camping, isn’t it?’
‘There. I knew you were making a face. And what is a “camping person” anyway? You make me sound like I’ve never braved the outdoors before,’ she says, tossing her tools on the grass. ‘I’m a lot tougher than you think.’
‘Megan, that’s not what I . . .’ Sighing, I pinch the top of my nose with my thumb and forefinger before dropping my hand in my lap and when I speak again, I step gentlyand calmly. ‘Iknowyou’re tough, darling. I didn’t realise you were a fan of camping, that’s all. It has nothing to do with toughness.’
She lifts her chin. ‘Okay.’
‘I was trying to pay you a compliment. I’m really very impressed at you putting the tent up so splendidly.’
She rolls her eyes. But not in an annoyed way.
‘I’m sorry if you thought I was implying in any way that you weren’t resilient and outdoorsy. Clearly you are. I didn’t realise you had experience, that’s all.’
She folds her arms, her chest rising with a deep inhale. ‘Okay.’
‘Good.’
‘I was being oversensitive,’ she admits, frowning, avoiding eye contact.
‘I forgot that you’d camped before,’ I offer.
She nods. There’s a beat of silence between us.
‘You know, I think my horse has it in for me,’ I mutter conspiratorially.
There. The smile again. Just there in the corners of her lips, tugging upwards with resistance. It makes me bold and hopeful, so on I go, trying to lure it out again.
‘That horse is plotting something and I can’t tell what it’s thinking.’
‘I don’t think that’s justyourhorse, Mum. No one can read an animal’s mind.’
‘It can sense that I don’t like its species. It’s insulted.’
‘You think you’ve hurt your horse’s feelings and now it’s out to get you.’
‘That horse has walked over those rocky paths a hundred times but with me it happens to stumble.’ I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘Tell me that’s not suspicious.’
Her stubbornness breaks, the smile wins. I’m victorious. If she’d let me, I’d make Megan smile like that every day forever.
‘Mum,’ she says, looking me dead in the eye, ‘your horse is not out to get you.’
‘If something happens to me tomorrow, that horse should be your first suspect.’
Her smile widens, stretching up to her eyes, and she shakes her head at my silliness.
The tent done, she says she’s going to speak to our guide about whether she can help with dinner. I tell her I’ll take a moment here on this log and then I will also offer my services. She says that we both know that’s not true. I commend her for being able to read my mind even if she can’t read the mind of a horse. She leaves, laughing. I rest my palms back on the log and tip my head back to look up at the sky. A large bird with a strikingly wide wingspan soars overhead.
***
There’s something spectacularly romantic about sitting around a campfire at night and talking to each other. Whether it’s people you know very well or a little or not at all. Around a campfire, almost everything you say is profound. I think it’s the warm orange glow flickering on people’s faces. It makes us all look like wise, world-weary prophets.
Megan is sitting next to Nico and she’s on her third or fourth glass of wine. Her phone is not in her hand –I don’t know where it is, actually –and she’s answering his question about whether she gets to travel much. She’s blushing at his attention. He’s listening to her as though no one else is there.I’m trying to distract myself from the dull aching pain in my leg, pretending that it’s from being up on a horse all day. The man sitting next to me, Rick, is American and absolutely charming. He’s got thinning brown hair, dark eyes and a fluffy beard that his wife, who is sitting on his other side, disapproves of. They’re on holiday and have booked an activity for every day that they’re here, he tells me proudly.
