Page 30 of Counting Down To You

There’s quiet for a beat. And although I’ve been putting off talking about it, I can’t help asking the question. “So has James showed up yet?”

“No, but he only said he’d be here for Christmas Day. I’m sure he’s too busy to come much before that.” I’m sure he’s “too busy” too, but I still don’t trust him not to change his mind last minute. “You know,” Mum adds, and her voice is casual enough to be suspicious, “I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

I don’t want to cause an argument, so I give a noncommittal “hmmm” in response. If he wants to hear from me, though, all he has to do is pick up the damn phone. Not that I’d necessarily answer, but still.

“After all,” Mum continues, “you two have something in common now. All that traveling he does.”

“It’s not the same thing.” I do my best not to snap. It’s just so annoying, her refusal to take sides. I get it—James is her son. But James left us when we needed to stick together. He left us, after our dad had already abandoned us, and he didn’t look back.

He didn’t even come to Robyn’s funeral. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say it. I think that was the line, though, the last fracture in our relationship. He’d known Robyn, met her many times while we were at university together. But it wasn’t the fact that he knew her, it was the fact that he hadn’t wanted to be there, for me.

Even Adam had come and had checked in afterward. James, on the other hand, hadn’t even thought to call. Just one message:

I’m so sorry Ali.

And that proves, doesn’t it, just how much I mean to my brother? Hot anger courses through my system, and for a second I close my eyes and let it overwhelm me. It is easier to feel that anger, to blame him, and my dad, for leaving. It’s easier than contemplating the alternative: that I’m easily discarded. That I’m not worth sticking around for. After all, that’s the pattern. My dad, my brother, my boyfriend. All of them gone. Even my best friend left me in the end.

I didn’t want to leave you, Al.

But you still did. I think it before I can stop myself and immediately hate myself for it. It wasn’t Robyn’s fault, none of it. I have no right to be angry at Robyn. I’m not angry at her.

My mum is saying something, I realize. I try to tune back in, but only catch the end of a question: “…what do you think?”

“Ah…” I push a hand through my hair as a spark jumps in the fire in front of me. “I’m sorry, Mum—what did you say?”

But she doesn’t repeat it. Instead, there’s a long pause. Then, “Ali?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you…okay?” The question is tentative, followed by a rush of breath. “I just mean,” she continues, speaking very quickly now, “going out there last minute like this, it’s a brilliant adventure, don’t get me wrong, and the mountains sound glorious, but…are you okay?”

I hesitate. This is the closest she’s come to acknowledging that I might not be okay, for a solid six months or so. She doesn’t usually broach it, and I’ve always thought it’s because she doesn’t really want to know the answer. But, ultimately, there’s only one answer I can give, because admitting that I’m not sure I am okay will only worry my mum, and what good will that do?

“I’m good. And I’ll be back to normal come January. Don’t you worry. You know me—I like my boring little life.”

“I don’t think your life is boring,” Mum says quietly. “Or little.”

I don’t know why that makes my eyes spark with tears. I glance at the door, to double-check no one is coming. “Mum?” I’m thinking of the latest challenge in my calendar, which I opened this morning. Give everyone you speak to today a compliment—because you never know when it might turn someone’s day around.

“Yes?”

“I just…” I swallow. “You know you’re great, right? I don’t think I’ve ever said this, but I really admire you, for the way you turned everything around after Dad left.” My stomach rolls as I say this—we don’t really talk about it, not directly. But I think of Robyn, and power on. “It was shit, what he did. But you were so strong, and you’ve built something better and you’ve got all this light…” I trail off, because my throat is closing and I’m in danger of crying—and that would definitely worry her.

Mum doesn’t immediately respond, and I wonder if she might ask me what brought this on, or else go into babble mode—something we have in common—and change the subject completely. Instead, all she says is, “Thanks, love. It means a lot to hear that.”

After saying goodbye, I go in search of lunch at the designated staff table in the restaurant. It’s soup today, so I head into the kitchen, where Elodie and Marco are having a low, somewhat frantic conversation by the dessert area. Given I’m not sure whether it’s an argument or simply the way they talk to each other, I avert my eyes as I serve myself a bowl of cauliflower and roquefort soup from the stove, then take it back into the restaurant.

I falter when I see Lucie at the table, talking to Nick. But so what if she doesn’t like me? That’s not my fault. So I square my shoulders and walk to the table, wishing briefly that I had my headphones with me so I could plug in my audiobook to avoid talking to anyone. Even if I’m not supposed to be listening to those anymore.

Lucie glances at me as I sit down. “We’ve got Adrian Webber checking in today.”

I nod—I know this. He is some kind of tech genius, apparently, who comes here every December and spends a lot of money—as well as a lot of time working in his room, by all accounts. He is on my list of VIPs.

“Shall I buzz you when he gets here?” Lucie asks.

“Yes, please.” I pick up my spoon, pausing with it halfway to the bowl. A challenge is a challenge. I look across the table at Lucie. “I like your blazer, by the way.” It’s true. It is sleek and smart and effortlessly chic, even if Lucie is narrowing her eyes, apparently suspicious. I wonder if that counts as a compliment, though. It’s more a statement of fact, really. So I plow on. “It makes you look very professional.”

Lucie raises her impressively defined eyebrows. “Thanks,” she says after a beat, like she’s not sure if that is the right response.