Page 7 of One Last Thing
‘Let’s just say MI5 wasn’t going to call you two up any time soon,’ Dad would tell me later.
He liked to remind me of my time with Nico – a conspicuous attempt to have me look back on family holidays fondly, I realise. He would recall how the two of us would cause havoc, running through the vineyards, tearing around the chateau, begging my parents and his aunt and uncle topleasetake us out on the boat. Apparently my leg would shake impatiently the whole way from leaving our house in England to coming down the driveway of the chateau, before I could finally leap out of the car to run in to find Nico.
‘It wouldn’t take much effort to locate him. He’d always be right there in the hallway, waiting for you,’ Dad would say with a secretive smile.
Our friendship started out based largely on hand signals and assumptions due to the language barrier. That only made things funnier. It was like a long game of charades. His English got better and better every year. My French was all right, but not enough to make it our communication of choice. By the time we were in our early teens, wewere proper friends, able to talk about proper things. I think because we only saw each other for a few weeks each year, our friendship felt more exciting and intense. He didn’t know what I was like at school, who I hung out with, what my official status was. For all he knew, I might be popular, fun and cool. I could say whatever I liked around him, be whoever I wanted.
Whenever I thought about the chateau, I’d think of Nico and wonder how his life had played out. And here he is all over again. Dad really did want me to step back in time, huh.
‘Wow,’ I say, staring at him, my heart thumping relentlessly against my chest. ‘I . . . howareyou?’
‘Good. How are you?’
‘Good. I’m good.’
I nod. He nods. The two of us standing there, looking at each other, nodding.
Suddenly, I feel the urge to cry. Which is weird and pointless.
‘I . . . I’m staying here,’ I say stupidly.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m glad. It’s nice to see you. It’s been a long time.’
‘Yeah. A . . . really long time. So, you work here?’
Another flair of idiocy. He’s literally standing behind the desk.
‘I run it now.’
‘You run the chateau? Wow, that’s—’ My smile falters. ‘Your aunt and uncle . . .’
‘They’ve retired.’
‘Oh, nice,’ I say, feeling a wave of relief. ‘Well, I’m glad you took the reins. No one knows this place better.’
He glances down at the floor before lifting his eyes to me again, his forehead creased. ‘I’m sorry about your father.’
‘Thank you. Thanks.’ I tap my fingers on the counter, glancing around the hall. ‘He loved it here.’
‘Yes, he did. I feel honoured.’
I swallow. ‘So, I should . . . go to my room.’
‘Of course,’ he says, reaching underneath the desk to find a key that he hands over to me. ‘I have instructions to put you in your old room, so you’re Room Fifteen.’
‘You—’ I frown at the old-fashioned key in my hand. ‘Sorry? I don’t remember requesting that. And actually, I’d rather stay in a different room. Memories and blah blah blah.’ I roll my eyes as though it’s all a bit comical.
‘It was your father who asked,’ he informs me gently, looking a little pained.
I stare at him, my lips parted, no words coming out.
‘He gave me instructions,’ Nico explains.
Pressing my lips together, I lift my eyes to the ceiling. ‘Gosh. How organised. Okay, if that’s what he wanted . . . Room Fifteen sounds great, thank you.’
He gestures to my suitcase. ‘Do you want me to—’
‘No, I’m good. I know where to go.’
