Page 92 of The Last Kiss

Locked in the safety of the bathroom, I stare in the mirror, heart sinking at the changes that stare right back at me: cheekbones sharper, skin a little sallow. The pulse at the base of my throat thrums fast.

I haven’t been truthful with myself, I know that much to be fact. Definitely haven’t been truthful with Dr Francis or Liv. Lies are weaving me into a tight knot and I know one day soon the knot will snuff the air out of me.

Pinching my cheeks, I peer at myself closer. “Times up, girl.” I breathe my words against the glass, misting my breath. “So just damn live.”

In truth it doesn’t matter if he has a ward, or a whole village of them.

A life to share with Henri isn’t mine to have.

I breathe in deep, as far as my lungs will allow, which isn’t far at all; like a rubber band has lost its elasticity and won’t stretch anymore. The buzzing in my head is hard to ignore, but hey I’ve come this far, why stop now?

Turning my attention away from the depressing view in the mirror, I switch on the shower and jump in once the hot water is steaming and swirling in the air, wondering just what a holiday with Henri might involve.

“Oh, sweet Jesus.” I step out into the ornate hallway, my gaze drawn firmly to Simone who is rolling with two wolves on the floor. Okay, maybe not wolves, but definitely the biggest dogs I have ever laid eyes on. They don’t get walked, they pull sleighs, or buses, I’m sure.

“Wow. These are some dogs.”

He’s a dog person. I’m not sure how I feel about that. My thoughts wander to Barney and whether Liv has shaved his fur off yet. Poor Barney, I bet she’s chasing him with the Dyson.

I hope Paige hasn’t opened a window and he’s escaped into an unknown neighbourhood. A cat as clueless as Barney could easily get lost in Notting Hill.

One of the dogs with mix matched eyes, giving him a loose-cannon expression, stands up, coming almost to my hips and gives me a long lick up the arm.

“He likes you,” Simone says as she clambers from the floor.

“Where on earth were they yesterday?”

“Oh, Grand-mere won’t let them in the house.”

“You’re brave bringing them in then.” I give the girl a nod. She’s got balls. I wouldn’t cross Grand-mere.

Simone’s slender face cracks with a wide smile. “She’s, uh.” She points at her head as she tries to find the right word and swirls her finger.

“Crazy?” I offer.

Simone’s smile flickers. “Non, uh, getting her hair, uh, set.” She pushes her hands with splayed fingers against her scalp.

Of course, you don’t look that perfect and regal without a daily set.

“So, you wanted to show me your mum’s work?”

Simone’s expression clouds with confusion. I’ve got too used to Henri’s perfect command of the English language. I’ll need to revert to some basic English for this.

“Paintings. Mother.” I motion a paintbrush, although why I do I have no idea. I can’t even paint a wall without cocking it up.

“Yes! Come, I’ll show you.” She skips ahead down the long corridor while I trail behind looking at the paintings on the wall, the sculptures on tall pillars. This place is on the verge of blowing my mind. I can’t imagine a life where waking up in a châteaux filled with priceless belongings is a reality. Although to be fair I’m still adapting to the thought of not waking up at all.

23

Pancakes

Underfoot is a thick, red carpet which covers cool marble tiles sliced with grey veins. Henri said cheese and in my head I had this vision of a simple life, maybe a country farm, some rambling buildings, farm animals braying at dawn. I definitely wasn’t thinking a castle with round towers topped with conical spires like upturned ice cream cones.

We end up in a parlour I guess it would have been. It looks like it’s a family-only room and not part of the hotel or whatever they call this huge place. There’s an array of sofas, small side tables, and even a piano positioned, overlooked by the light of a set of French doors that lead outside.

I wonder what the French call French doors? I make a mental note to ask Henri when he comes back.

“These.” Simone stabs her finger at an enormous oil painting on the furthest wall, its colours a vibrant combination of shocking pinks and turquoise. “Wow,” I breathe. I can’t quite make out the subject, it’s abstract and no amount of squinting at it will make it become clearer. It’s arresting though, tormented maybe.