Chapter 5
MEGAN
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I yell out, frozen to the spot on my balcony.
‘I was going to ask you the same question!’ she cries back.
‘I . . . you can’t be here! You’re not meant to be here. This is . . . wait, when did you get here?’ I demand to know, as though that might be relevant.
‘Yesterday!’
‘No, I got here yesterday.’
‘We must have both got here yesterday then,’ she says drily. ‘They do allow more than one person to enter France at a time.’
‘I didn’t see you at dinner.’
‘I didn’t go to dinner.’ She lifts a hand to her forehead, rubbing beneath the eye mask perched there. ‘Not a wise decision in the end.’
‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t appreciate it.’
‘Me neither.’
‘You can’t be here. You need to go on holiday somewhere else.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t, darling, it’s imperative that I’m here.’
‘It’s imperative that I’m here,’ I counter, my anger bubbling much too quickly. But then, she has a way of bringing that out in me. ‘Why is it that you’re here?’
She glances down to something she’s holding that I can’t see. ‘It’s a delicate matter. Why are you here?’
‘It’s . . . it’s a delicate matter.’ I narrow my eyes at her suspiciously. ‘Did you find out that I’d be here and come out, too? What is this, some sort of ambush?’
She balks at the suggestion. ‘I had no idea you were here. I distinctly remember you telling me you’d never come back here again.’
I shake my head, folding my arms across my chest. ‘I can’t believe this. You know, this really is the last thing I need.’
You are the last thing I need, I mean. She knows that’s what I mean.
She sighs wearily. ‘Yes, this is a most unfortunate coincidence.’
‘Why would you book that room?’ I ask, furious but unsurprised that she wouldn’t even consider how inappropriate it is for her to stay in Dad’s room.
‘It’s a long story. Perhaps we should meet inside to talk things through, rather than shout at each other across the balcony.’
‘I wasn’t shouting!’
‘I know, that’s not what I . . .’ She trails off, and I can see how hard she’s fighting not to roll her eyes. ‘You know what I meant.’
‘Fine. You can come to my room if you like. Not through the adjoining door, though. That’s . . . weird.’
‘Don’t be . . . I wasn’t thinking of using that door. I’d forgotten it was there. Anyway, I think more neutral ground would be better.’ She checks her watch and then realises she’s not wearing one. ‘We could have breakfast together, if it’s being served.’
I am hungry after my early morning yoga practice.
‘All right. I’ll see you down there,’ I say, before turning on my heel and marching back into my room, closing the balcony doors behind me.
For a moment, I don’t move, leaning back against the doors and shutting my eyes. As if coming here to scatter my dad’s ashes wasn’t stressful enough, my mum has to show up.
***
I’ve been waiting at the table for about twenty minutes before she appears, swanning into the room in a white and gold embroidered kaftan with glowing skin and a radiant smile, like bloody Jane Fonda arriving on a film set.
My mum glides through every room like she owns it, like people should sit up and take notice – which they do.
She glides through life, really. Everything is easy for her.
I remember people at school saying to me how glamorous my famous-author mum was, how effortlessly stylish she was at school events.
I could read what they were thinking as they said it to me, their foreheads furrowed as they tried to work out how we could be so different.
‘There you are,’ she declares, weaving her way around the room full of empty tables as though I’d been hard to spot. We’re late to breakfast.
‘I thought you got lost,’ I mutter, not looking up from my laptop.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, I assumed we’d be getting ready for the day before coming down to breakfast.’
I snap my head up. ‘I am ready for the day.’
Her eyes flicker down to my olive-green Lululemon gym gear. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I didn’t feel the need to dress for a destination wedding,’ I add defensively, raising my eyebrows at her.
‘I would never wear white to a wedding, darling. This is a practical choice for the heat.’ She glances out at the patio tables. ‘You didn’t fancy sitting outside? It’s such a beautiful morning.’
‘I can’t read my screen as easy in the sun.’
She looks unimpressed.
‘The tables out there have been cleared,’ I add, ‘and I didn’t want to—’
‘They’ll set it for us if we ask,’ she says, looking back over her shoulder. ‘Where’s Nico? He’ll sort it out.’ She turns back to me. ‘Have you seen him, by the way? You know he runs the place now.’
‘Yes, I know that, thanks.’ Heat creeps up my neck. ‘Mum, I don’t think that we can demand to—’
‘Bonjour!’ she cries as a staff member walks in with the fresh pot of coffee I’d ordered, while I blush furiously at her brazen greeting.
‘Bonjour madame,’ he replies with a bow of his head. ‘What can I get for you?’
‘A Bloody Mary, please. Do you do those?’ she asks, pressing her hands together in prayer and then clapping enthusiastically when he informs her that they do. ‘Wonderful! And also, would it be all right if we sat outside? I appreciate we’re a little late . . .’
‘Mum,’ I hiss through a strained smile, ‘we’re fine in here. We don’t want to make more work for everyone.’
‘We always used to sit outside,’ she says, addressing him and ignoring me completely. ‘It’s so lovely to get some fresh air while enjoying breakfast. If it’s not too much trouble . . .’
‘Not at all,’ he says, gesturing for us to go and pick a table. ‘Please. I will bring everything out to you.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Mum says, placing a hand on his arm before she beams down at me. ‘Isn’t that kind of him, Megan.’
I’m too embarrassed to add anything so I busy myself with pushing my chair out and slinking outside behind her, carrying my laptop. The moment she steps out, she inhales deeply through her nose and goes, ‘Yes, much better.’
Fucking hell, she’s like a caricature of herself. Like she’s signed up to play this role of the flamboyant artist for life and she’s going at it with gusto.
I roll my eyes behind her back as she chooses a table right in the middle of the patio. She sits down and gestures for me to take the chair on the other side as though she’s the host and I’m the guest, before sliding on her large designer sunglasses.
I purposefully take my time to sit, wanting her to know that I’ll do things when I want to do them. I’ll sit in the chair because I want to, not because she’s invited me to.
Yes, I know it’s petty.
‘So,’ she says, resting her hands in her lap as she observes me slowly taking my seat and placing my open laptop on the table, ‘how are you, darling?’
‘Fine.’
‘Work is going okay?’
‘It’s busy.’
‘You look . . . well.’
‘What, did you expect me to be a big unhappy mess?’
She tilts her head at me as if to say, Come on.
I look down at my hands. ‘How have you been?’ I mutter.
‘Very well, thank you, darling.’
‘How’s your writing?’
‘Splendid. I just finished a book, actually.’
‘Great,’ I pick up my coffee cup. ‘When’s it going to be published?’
‘Undecided.’ She turns to smile out at the view. ‘I don’t want to rush anything.’
An irrational jolt of jealousy zips through my chest. How relaxed and charming to not just be a writer, but an established writer.
To have such control over your work and be respected enough to make those kinds of decisions.
I have to prove myself every day to my colleagues, especially those more senior, constantly demonstrating that I have the ability to meet high expectations.
As I observe the way she’s sitting, leaning back in her chair, legs crossed, admiring the scenery, I wonder what it must be like to already feel enough.
Her Bloody Mary arrives and she sips it, before declaring it to be ‘fabulous’ and smiling at the waiter in a manner that’s so flirtatious it makes my skin crawl.
She is unbelievable.
‘Why are you here?’ I ask eventually.
She considers the question. ‘I’m carrying out a request.’
I wait for more, but she doesn’t expand. ‘That’s all you’re going to give me?’
‘I don’t know whether you want to hear the rest.’
‘I do.’
She purses her lips and removes her sunglasses to look me in the eye. ‘He might not have wanted me to tell you. You’re going to be angry about it.’
‘Angry about what? And who is “he”?’
She frowns. ‘Your father,’ she finally answers in a soft voice.
I stare at her. ‘You’re here because of dad?’
She nods.
‘But . . . I’m here because of dad,’ I tell her.
Her eyes widen with what I think is genuine surprise. ‘You are? In what way?’
‘If you must know, he . . . he wanted me to scatter his ashes here.’
She gasps. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’ve come here to scatter your father’s ashes?’
‘It was his wish.’
‘But darling,’ she says, sitting forwards, ‘I’m here to scatter his ashes.’
I glare at her. ‘That isn’t funny, Mum. Stop it.’
‘I’m telling the truth!’ she insists.
‘You can’t be telling the truth, because I have his ashes upstairs in my room.’
‘So do I.’
‘That’s . . . ridiculous!’ I cry.
‘Quite absurd!’
‘I have brought the ashes here on his instruction. He booked the flights and accommodation for me and everything,’ I say, gesturing to the chateau.
‘He did the same for me.’
‘I have his ashes, Mum. I literally carried them through in my hand luggage!’
‘So did I! That’s what’s in the box that I was holding on the balcony earlier,’ she says, throwing her hands up in exasperation. ‘I was showing him the view!’
‘Mum—’
‘Megan, why would I lie about this?’
Gaping at her, I’m about to interrogate her further when Nico appears at the doors to the veranda. We both turn to look at him. With a sheepish expression, he steps out.
‘Good morning,’ he says, his forehead creased. ‘I hope you slept well?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I say politely, blushing.
‘Nico, I get the feeling you know more about what’s going on here than you’re letting on,’ Mum says in that charming but no-bullshit tone she’s mastered.
He swallows. ‘If you wouldn’t mind following me to the office, I can explain.’