Page 84 of One Last Thing
‘Megan, I won’t have you appear at a black-tie event in some flimsy summer dress and sandals,’ I state, feeling verypassionate about all this. ‘How do you think that’s going to look to Nico? He’s put a lot of effort into tonight.’
‘Nico understands that we didn’t come here thinking we’d be attending a black-tie ball,’ she points out, but I can tell from the way she shifts her weight from one foot to the other that she’s suddenly not so firm on her stance. ‘Dad should have given us some kind of warning. Who brings a dress suitable for black-tie events just in case?’
I stare at her. She stares back at me.
She lifts her eyes to the ceiling and sighs.
‘You brought a dress suitable for black-tie events just in case,’ she surmises wearily.
‘When packing a case, I always ensure I am prepared for everything, my darling, and may I recommend that from now on in life, you think along the same lines,’ I advise. ‘Then you’d never find yourself in this worrying position again.’
‘Mum, it’s fine, there’s no need to—’
‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ I interject before she can insult me by arguing her case any further, ‘I am going to have a nap because for reasons beyond my control, my ailing body needs a brief time-out—’ she looks momentarily pained at that and I wonder if I should not speak so frivolously about it, but then again, all I ever do is speak frivolously about it because to talk seriously about it would be utterly heartbreaking‘—and while I do so, you are going to research some shops around here that might stock something you like. When I awaken, we shall go to those shops together and pick you something. Does that sound good?’
‘It sounds unnecessary.’
‘That wasn’t my question.’
‘Mum, if you need to rest, I don’t want you to—’
‘I’m factoring in a rest, but more than anything I want to go shopping with my daughter. I wasn’t there when you picked out your school prom dress or . . . or your wedding dress,’ I remark before I can stop myself, the regret and bitterness and sadness in my voice impossible to veil.
‘No,’ she says, a flash of resentment crossing her expression, ‘you weren’t.’
I swallow, fighting hard not to look away from her. ‘So, let me do this.’
Megan takes a moment to consider it.
‘Come on. We can buy you something outrageously expensive and gorgeous that will make you feel fantastic and confident and sexy and will make Nico fall to his knees andbegyou to marry him right there and then.’
‘God, Mum, what is wrong with you?’ she hisses, urgently checking that no one’s around us to overhear while I smirk. ‘That’s not . . . don’t . . .ugh. You’re so annoying.’
‘I’m also observant, being a writer. And you’re one, too, so I know that you knowexactlyhow he looks at you. Deny it all you like for appearance’s sake, but we both know I’m right, so please let’s not waste any more time pretending that you don’t want to spend the afternoon with your mother, picking a gown that will blow everyone away, most of all yourself. You didn’t believe me just now when I said you looked radiant. You deserve to feel beautiful, Megan. Let me help make that happen.’
With a bowed head, she relents, nodding. ‘Okay.’
‘Wonderful!’ I exclaim. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of hours, then. Some of the shops may close over lunch, but we’ll be first through the door when they open.’
‘Sounds good,’ she says, as I return my attention to unlocking my door. She stops me as I push it open. ‘Mum?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Thanks,’ she says quietly, and then disappears into her room.
I got my treasured moment after all.
***
The French boutiques really do know how to make choosing a dress feel like you’ve stepped into a scene of Hollywood standards. Everywhere we’ve gone, the staff have been welcoming and glamorous, and I must say I’m a big fan of the waif-like woman who greeted us at the air-conditioned shop we’re currently in. She’s dressed head-to-toe in black with the air and grace of either a former model or ballerina with her sharp cheekbones, sleek glossy hair and excellent posture. When I explained the situation on arrival, she nodded along with a stern expression, eyed Megan up and down and said loftily, ‘We will find you a dress’, as though we’d be the ones in trouble should they fail.
Today has been something. After an invigorating morning on the water, winning a national race of great prestige, I’m having the pleasure of shopping with my daughter, the sort of special occasion that you think you’ll never get again once they hit their teens, except perhaps in the lead up to their wedding day.
I didn’t get the chance to do that, but then I never asked. I knew she’d rather go with someone like Marisa. I realise now that I should have given her the choice to say no to me, even if it would have been hard for me to hear. She should have had the reassurance that no matter how much we’d drifted apart, no matter how many fights we’d had or how heavy the blame we’d placed on the other’s shoulders over the years,her mother still wanted to be there when she chose her wedding dress. That’s how it should go.
I’ve had a blast selecting various styles for Megan to try on, then sitting back and relaxing as she emerges from the changing room ready for my opinion, which unsurprisingly she mostly doesn’t agree with. The truth is I think she looks great in all of them.
Except for that hideous ruffled pink one at the last place.
