Page 6 of One Last Thing
‘I doubt that,’ I say, sticking my hand out to hail a black cab as it turns the corner. ‘My ex will be there.’
He grimaces. ‘Oh god. Which one?’
Stubbing the cigarette out on the nearest bin, I chuck it in and then swing open the door to the taxi. As I step inside, Brandon’s voice causes me to pause halfway into the car.
‘Youwillcome back from this,’ he says in that warm, reassuring voice of his, still standing where I’ve left him. ‘Remember: you’re Dawn Dixon.’
With a polite parting smile, I slide into the car and shut the door behind me before we pull away. I don’t quite have the guts to insist to Brandon that it’s time we stop pretending. It’s like Michael said. Trends shift. Time moves on.
And things that were important are forgotten.
3
MEGAN
You can spot Château du Chèvrefeuille early from the main road, the striking white fairy-tale turrets up on the foothills overlooking the vineyard and out to the sea. My breath actually caught for a moment when I first saw it from the taxi, as in, I gasped and then couldn’t breathe out, like my brain couldn’t handle processing all the feelings I was feeling at the same time as exhaling, so the air just stuck there in the back of my throat. I’d hoped I wouldn’t feel much when I saw the chateau again after fifteen years, but I felt lots of things.
Then I felt even angrier at Dad for bringing me back here.
I’m reluctant to get out the car at the end of the long driveway that stretches down through the vineyards and parkland, but the driver has already hopped out and lined up my luggage outside the door, so any longer lingering in his backseat would be embarrassing for everyone involved. I climb out and gaze up at the white-walled chateau, a lump forming in my throat at the lingering scent of the honeysuckle – from which the chateau gets its name – climbing up the walls either side of the door. I can’t believe I’m here again.
Heaving a sigh, I grab the handle of my case.
‘Well Dad, we’re here,’ I mutter resentfully. ‘I hope you’re happy.’
I step into the building, dragging my case behind me across the marble hall towards the empty reception desk. I can’t work out if I’m pleased or disappointed to find that nothing much has changed. The décor is the same – the huge familiar oil paintings hanging on the walls, the faded red velvet chairs positioned in the corners of the room, the wide sweeping staircase. It smells better, though. My brain may be playing tricks on me, but I remember as a kid that the hall smelt a bit musty, like an old mysterious castle should to a child looking for stories within its walls I suppose. Now, it feels like a hotel.
Standing at the reception desk, I wait patiently for someone to appear.
When they don’t, I look at the bell on the counter with dread. I really don’t want to have to ring that thing. There’s something so embarrassing about ringing a hotel bell. It roughly translates to, ‘Come! Do my bidding!’ I clear my throat loudly in the hope that it gets someone’s attention. But it doesn’t work. This is a chateau. They could be floors away.
Pressing my lips together, I reluctantly reach out and tap the bell quickly.
I feel my cheeks flushing as the ring echoes through the castle.
Moments later, I hear footsteps on the floor above approaching the stairs. I take a few steps back so I can see up the staircase, ready to give whoever is coming an apologetic smile about the whole bell thing. A man appears, hurrying down the first few steps. As he sees me, he does a double take and then slows down, a smile spreading across his face.
‘Uh . . . bonjour,’ I say, blushing furiously, firstly about the bell, secondly about my dismal attempt at a French accentand thirdly because he is strikingly good-looking. Tall and broad-shouldered, with short dark hair and designer stubble across his square jawline.
‘Bonjour,’ he replies in his silky-smooth accent.
He descends the last few steps and then moves to stand behind the reception desk. He leans his hands on the counter and, without one ounce of shame, proceeds to take me in. Like, he inhales deeply through his nose while his dark gleaming eyes fix on me, his grin broadening, dimples appearing either side of his full lips. Just when I thought he couldn’t get cuter, he reveals those dimples. Fuck’s sake.
I lift my chin pretending not to be floored by his beauty and I’m about to say who I am so he can consult my booking, but apparently, there’s no need.
‘Hello, Megan,’ he says in a way that means he knows me.
Not in a way that means he knows I’m a guest arriving today, I’m talking about a way that meanshe knows me. I stare at him, baffled, and then I realise. A flutter erupts in my stomach.
‘Nico?’ I whisper.
The deepening dimples tell me I’m right.
Nico, the boy who once made Château du Chèvrefeuille my favourite place in the world.
There were so many reasons why I loved it here, why I couldn’t wait to return every summer – it was a magical setting for a kid, a Sleeping Beauty style castle with a vineyard and a pool and a beach just down the hill. But it was Nico who helped me create the adventures. He spent his summers at Château du Chèvrefeuille with the owners, his aunt and uncle. We became friends the first summer my family arrived here when I was seven. I was discovering that there was a disadvantage to being an only child on holidays withyour parents. I did my best to entertain myself, coming up with stupid games like how far I could swim underwater. Then, one day, when Dad was having a tour of the vineyard and I was reluctantly following him, kicking the dirt with my sandals, I saw Nico. He was lurking behind the vines, spying on us.
I don’t really remember how it went from there, but Dad told me that one minute I was dragging my feet behind him, moaning about the boring tour, and the next, I was behind the vines with my new friend, the two of us giggling whenever he and Nico’s uncle glanced in our direction, pretending they didn’t know where we’d gone.
