Page 50 of One Last Thing
‘Understood.’
It’s hard to relax after that because I’m concentrating so hard on not making any sounds that I had no idea I wasmaking in the first place. But the massage is still wonderful and when it comes to an end, I’m reluctant to move. They tell us we can take our time getting ready, but as soon as the door shuts behind them, I hear Megan spring from her bed and put her robe back on.
‘Wasn’t that amazing?’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ she says, before I hear the door swing open again. ‘I’m going to the pool. See you in a bit.’
I wait for her to leave and then I push myself up, slipping into my robe and waltzing out the door without a trouble in the world. It’s not until I’m at the pool that I realise what I’ve forgotten and I spin round, scurrying back to the room where I find my masseuse preparing for her next client.
‘Sorry,’ I smile at her, picking up the box from the floor and holding it up. ‘I forgot my ex-husband.’
I leave her to ponder for the rest of time whether she misunderstood what I said or whether I was unstable enough to have my ex-husband’s ashes escort me to a massage and go to join Megan at the pool. The lounger next to her is free. I gesture to it.
‘May I?’
She gives a small nod.
Placing the box on the table between the loungers, I sit down and make myself comfortable, lying back and resting my hands on my stomach. A member of staff glides over to offer me a drink and I order a sparkling water with lemon.
‘Isn’t this fabulous,’ I remark, watching someone swim calmly down the length of the pool. ‘I hope you enjoyed your massage.’
‘I’m very oily now.’
‘Yes, but it’s good for you. And smells amazing,’ I point out, bringing my forearm up to my nose to give it a sniff.‘Delicious. I smell like I’ve been bathed in rose petals and lavender. Thank you, Henry. You are officially forgiven for the Pyrenees adventure.’
Megan turns to look out at the view, but I catch the small smile she’s wearing at the mention of the Pyrenees and I know she’s thinking about the vulture and the bra. I smile, too.
‘So,’ I begin, having decided this morning that I was going to bring this up again sooner rather than later, ‘tell me more about this book you wrote.’
She sighs, irritated. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘I disagree. Either way, you have now, so we might as well talk about it.’
‘I’d rather not,’ she mumbles.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Do you like dwelling on your failures?’
I look at her, the little crinkle between her eyebrows, the hardened jaw, the straight mouth. Guard up.
‘Is that what you think it is, a failure?’ I say, resting my head back against the chair and closing my eyes.
‘What other way to see it is there?’ she says sharply. ‘It got rejected by everyone. No one liked it.’
‘I might have liked it.’
She snorts, muttering, ‘No, you wouldn’t have. It was terrible.’
‘Wasallof it terrible?’
‘What do you mean?’
I open my eyes and turn my head to face her. ‘Was the plot terrible? The characters? The story line? The structure? The prose? The speech? The narrator? What was it exactly that was terrible?’
She’s staring at me, confused. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I can’t remember.’
‘You should take another look at it, then. If you thought it had something at the time, then maybe it did. Maybe you needed someone to help you find out what was terrible about it and then you could fix it. If you’re seeingonerejected manuscript as a huge failure, then you’ll be shocked when you find out how many huge failures I have to my name.’
