Page 63 of One Last Thing
‘I want to tell you that I know something is wrong so that you know you have someone to talk to about it if you want.’ She pauses, waiting for me to look up and meet her eye. ‘You don’t have to tell me. We can . . . pretend. But I wanted to say that I see it. We haven’t spoken in years, but we are old friends. So, if you need a moment to stop pretending, then you can do that with me.’
She concludes and takes a sip of her drink.
I realise I’ve been holding my breath the entire time she was speaking. I exhale.
‘I have multiple sclerosis,’ I say in a low, weary voice that I’m not sure I’d recognise as mine if I heard it. ‘I can manage it as much as possible, but . . .’
I trail off. She doesn’t flinch.
‘I’m sorry, Dawn,’ she says calmly and sincerely.
‘Megan doesn’t know,’ I say, admitting defeat as I gesture to her glass. ‘Bloody hell, get me one, would you?’
Closing my eyes, I hear the legs of her chair scrape against the floor as she rises to her feet to step into the room behind me and the sound of liquid splashing and pouring into a glass. She returns, places it next to me on the table and goesback to her seat. Thanking her, I pick it up and study the liquid, taking a sip and wrinkling my nose.
‘No,’ I say, placing the glass down and shuddering. ‘No matter how hard I try, I cannot get on board with cognac.’
She smirks as though she already knew. ‘I might have something else I can get you. Wearein a vineyard.’
I shake my head. ‘No, I shouldn’t. My willpower cracked momentarily because of the conversation, but the cognac has brought me to my senses. I’ve drunk a lot the last few days and I feel cleansed after the spa.’ I frown, glaring down at my leg. ‘Usually after a massage, things are much better.’
‘Is there a lot of pain?’
‘Sometimes, yes. It can be very painful. Like this evening.’ I tap my fingers on the table. ‘But it’s more frustrating. I can’t control what my body does anymore. That brings a sort of ... shame.’
She doesn’t say anything, watching me intently as she listens.
‘I went for lunch with my editor and agent before coming here,’ I continue, unsure as to why I’m telling her all this, but finding a comfort in it, ‘and as I walked into the restaurant –it was a nice restaurant, you know, posh –I knocked into the doorframe and sort of . . . tumbled in. The host came rushing over and I told him I was fine, laughed it off, “clumsy me” sort of thing. It’s not how I like to make an entrance. But the MS affects my balance. It makes me unsteady. Then I had to sit there through this lunch, listening to this young man who just doesn’t have a fucking clue aboutanything. . .’
I stop talking, realising I’m in danger of crying. I concentrate hard on not doing so and take a couple of deep breaths. Françoise waits patiently. I collect myself.
‘Sorry, it’s not his fault, it’s not him I’m angry at,’ I reason, the rational side of me regaining the steering wheel.
Françoise shrugs. ‘It’s okay to be angry. If I were you, I would be angry.’
I give a polite smile. ‘Anyway, as I say, Megan doesn’t know any of this so if you wouldn’t mind keeping it to yourself . . .’
‘Of course.’ She hesitates as though working out whether she should say what she’s going to, before adding carefully, ‘If you told her, I think she could handle it.’
‘I know that,’ I say, bemused. ‘It’s not about whetherMegancan handle it.’
She nods in understanding. The room falls silent.
‘I should go,’ I say, leaning on the table to help me up. ‘I feel a lot better now. Thanks again for your help.’
She stands up also. ‘May I ask you a question, Dawn?’
‘Depends on what it is.’
‘Why do you think Henry brought you back here?’
I stare at her, my heartrate picking up. ‘He wanted his ashes scattered here,’ I state with as little feeling as possible. ‘It’s a beautiful region.’
‘But Megan could have done that alone. Why bringyouhere?’
‘We were great friends. I’m sure he told you that on his visits.’
Agitated, she takes a deep breath. ‘I think he wanted us to talk about what happened.’
