Page 91 of One Last Thing
‘What’s funny?’
‘I’m discovering that you’re not the type to play it cool.’
His expression relaxes as he tips his head back, exhaling. ‘Megan, I don’t have time to pretend.’
I can’t laugh at that. ‘No, we don’t.’
‘But you have the house now,’ he points out, ‘so you’ll be able to come here a lot.’
I frown in confusion before realising what he means. ‘Oh yeah, Dad’s dream house. God. I can’t believe . . . that’s bizarre. I’ll have a house in Collioure.’
‘So long as you’re beneath those fireworks with your mum, the house is yours.’ His hand reaching up to the side of my head, he draws me in for a soft kiss. ‘You know, I think your dad always saw it as a house for every season.’
‘Huh?’
‘It is not just for the summer. It isn’t a holiday villa. It’s a house to be lived in. Perfect to write a children’s story there, an amazing location—’
‘Nico, are you suggesting Ilivethere?’ I laugh. ‘God, you are averse to taking things slow aren’t you. Bloody hell.’
‘I’m not saying live with me, I’m saying you could think about being in Collioure a lot more,’ he points out, grinning at my teasing. ‘You would be happy here.’
‘Would I!’
‘Yes, I could personally make sure of that,’ he offers, sitting up to brush his mouth against mine.
‘Wow,’ I whisper against his lips, ‘you really do strive to go above and beyond here at Château du Chèvrefeuille, don’t you.’
‘It’s all part of the service,’ he says, before gripping my thighs and rolling me onto my back in a swift motion, covering my neck in kisses and getting to work undoing his shirt while I giggle at his ear, lost in the moment and forgetting any complications that may lie ahead, giddily foolish with happiness.
31
DAWN
1994: Thirty-two years ago
As Henry pushes the tape into the cassette player, I lean my head back against the seat as music fills his second-hand red Ford Fiesta and make a face. My sunglasses may be hiding my eyes but the unimpressed stance revealed in my expression is hopefully unmistakable. Taking his eyes off the road briefly to glance over at me in the front passenger seat, Henry breaks into a wide, wonderful grin giving me my answer.
‘What?’ he asks, even though he knows what, returning his focus to the road ahead.
‘This song again? Really?’ I remark in a teasing tone.
‘Yes, this song again,’ he says stubbornly, a quality about him I’ve liked since we met and one I’m growing to love.
So often people refuse to be themselves, but not Henry. He’s a gentle, reserved character, but he knows his mind which is inspiring to me. I often wonder if it’s a good or a bad thing that I get on with almost everyone I meet, devoted to making them enjoy my company. I will happily nod along with what they’re saying to avoid making anyone feel uncomfortable. I want to be the person on every invite list, the sort of person people want to know and boast about knowing. ‘Yes, I know Dawn Dixon,’ I want them to say when I’m not there. Henry doesn’t seem to care aboutanything like that. While I compromise when necessary, he stubbornly refuses to be less than who he is. It makes me feel like a better person being attached to someone like him. Not to mention he’s gorgeous and treats me like I’m meant to be adored. I think I’m doing well in encouraging him to fall in love with me.
‘If there were only one song left, it would be this one,’ he declares.
‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It encapsulates everything,’ he argues, navigating the twists and turns of this Suffolk countryside road as we make our way to his friend’s birthday weekend away. All of his friends have big dos in the country for their birthdays. ‘It’s comfort in hardship; joy and excitement still in there somewhere, despite it all. It’s right there in the lyrics if you listen properly.’
‘Idolisten properly.’
‘And the vocals, you can feel it, can’t you, as it builds?’ he continues, ignoring my protest, fuelled by the opportunity to talk about this. ‘At the start, you understand he’s accepting it and as it goes on, you hear him muddling his own way through, and then as it goes on, he finds hope without even realising that was what he was after. The story is in the emotion of the voice.’ He taps his hand on the steering wheel in time with the rhythm. ‘That’s why this song isit. Happiness and sadness, side by side.’
‘There are lots of great songs by great artists, Henry, some from this decade,’ I remind him, smiling at his unshackled passion for this piece of music. ‘Don’t you think this one is a bit of an obvious one to love?’
He sighs, disappointed. ‘This is exactly what I mean. You don’t listen to the lyrics properly.’
