Chapter 7
MEGAN
Was my dad high when he made these decisions? Seriously, was he on something? Medication for his pain or perhaps a recreational drug or two just for the hell of it? Am I high right now? Because, for all of this to make sense, I’m sorry, but someone has to be high.
There is no way in hell that a person of sound mind would organise an ENTIRE holiday itinerary for a box. Oh, I’m sorry, not one box. Two.
Two boxes of ashes.
That’s essentially what Dad has done here, right, let’s face it.
He’s gone to a lot of trouble and expense to plan a holiday for himself when he’s DEAD.
I honestly don’t know what to say or think.
My mother, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what to think.
She sipped away at her breakfast cocktail, looking bemused, as though this would make for an entertaining anecdote a next devastatingly honest and witty bestselling memoir.
Oh god, I think I’m going to be sick.
Maybe it’s a good thing we didn’t get round to breakfast yet, otherwise I might be throwing it up. Or maybe one of the reasons I feel so sick is because I haven’t eaten today. I should eat something. Ugh. The idea of eating anything. I can’t, not right now.
Having paced busily around my room for the last few minutes wondering which of us is or was high, I slump down on the edge of the bed and bury my head in my hands.
The house. The dream house. I can’t believe he finally bought it.
You know when you’re driving along somewhere and you see a house that you fall in love with on the spot?
The sort you’re captivated by and you suddenly start picturing yourself living there in this dream alternate reality?
It happened to me once when I was on a canal boat in Newbury for a hen do.
We were all pissed on Prosecco, wearing ship captain hats from and dancing to Gina G when we drifted past the most beautiful house I think I’ve ever seen.
It looked like the house a kid would draw: perfectly symmetrical, red brick, large windows, chimneys.
Its garden was lined with colourful wild flowers.
There was an elegant bird feeder at the top and it sloped down to the water, by which there was a swing chair.
I stopped dancing and gawped at the house.
A duck and its ducklings were gliding past it.
I saw myself living in that house, sitting in the chair by the water, writing a novel.
‘What are you doing?’ Marisa asked, shimmying over to me.
‘Look at that house.’
She took off her pink heart-shaped sunglasses to do so.
‘Isn’t it amazing,’ I said, feeling sad that we would soon lose sight of it.
‘Very pretty,’ she agreed. ‘But I think the nearest train station is miles away and I bet there’s nothing much else around here. You want to be closer to a village or something.’
I laughed. It was so Marisa to think practically about a dream house.
Dad was practical, too, about most things.
He liked order and routine and he was gentle but realistic.
Mum was the dreamer of the pair of them.
Whenever we’d have a day wandering around Collioure, he’d take us to see ‘the dream house’.
A tall, pale-yellow house with blue shutters and the typical red roof of the town; it was on a quiet, narrow, cobbly street a little set back from the centre, but you could see the top of it from the sea as you came in on the boat.
There was a small café at the end selling fresh pastries that you could smell the moment you turned round the corner to walk down the street.
‘It’s near the centre but not in the centre, so it’s quieter and not filled with tourists,’ Dad said once he’d decided on this house, being a tourist himself.
‘On weekends, you could stroll to the café to get your morning coffee and breakfast and sit with your book on one of the rickety tables outside and then take the boat out.’
‘We own a boat now, do we?’ Mum replied as she peered up at the house.
‘If you live in Collioure, you have to own a boat,’ he said as though that were the law.
‘Don’t you want a big house with a pool?’ I said, thinking wistfully about my classmate Louise who had a holiday home in Spain with a swimming pool. She used to invite special friends out there.
I would never make the cut – but at that point in my life I was still hopeful.
Dad shook his head. ‘No. I want this house. I can picture us here.’
And that was that. Whenever we visited the town, Dad would talk about his house.
We would often hire a boat, and when we went out into the marina, he’d point it out, the roof and top blue shutters visible from out at sea, and if we were in Collioure for the day, we’d be forced to wander past it and listen to the future weekends he’d plotted here of coffee and croissants in the sunshine.
No one ends up buying their dream house. Everyone knows that. Dad didn’t, apparently.
And now he wants to leave his pale-yellow, blue-shuttered dream in my care and Mum’s; but for that to happen, he wants us to have a holiday together.
Couldn’t he let me mourn in peace?
There’s only one thing to do in situations like these. Call Marisa.
‘Megan, hey,’ she answers on the second ring, sounding a little breathless but relieved to hear from me as though she’s been waiting for the call, ‘how are you?’
I tell her straight. ‘Mum is here.’
‘What? Your mum?’
‘Yes, I don’t call any other mums “Mum”.’
‘Oh my god! Why? How?’
‘She was sent here.’
‘By who?’
‘Dad.’
‘Wait, what?’
‘He parent-trapped us.’
‘I’m so confused.’
‘Me too.’ I throw open the balcony doors and stroll out to lean on the rail, looking out at the vineyard, my chest tightening. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
I can hear a baby crying in the background of the call and suddenly realise how utterly selfish and awful a person I am. ‘God, Marisa, I’m sorry, is this a good time? I can call back. I didn’t even check—’
‘No! No, don’t be silly, I’m just out pushing the pram, trying to get Tabby to sleep,’ she tells me brightly. ‘We had a bad night last night and she’s fighting her morning nap, but it’s all good! Talk to me. Explain.’
I rub the nape of my neck. ‘Mum got a box of ashes, too, and was told to come to Chateau du Chèvrefeuille for a holiday and then scatter them in one of Dad’s favourite spots, up by Fort Saint-Elme in Collioure.’
‘So you both got a box of ashes to scatter.’
‘Yep.’
‘He split his ashes without telling you.’
‘He did. And he’s devised an itinerary for both of us to do together.’
‘An itinerary? Of what?’
‘Activities. He wants us to bring his ashes with us while we take part in the activities. Oh, and he bought a house.’
‘He bought a house! But . . . wait, I know he sold his house, but did he tell you he’d bought another somewhere else?’
‘No.’
‘Wow! Where is it?’
‘Here in France. In order for the house to stay in our ownership, we have to complete the itinerary. Those were the conditions of his will.’
Silence on the other end of the line.
‘Hang on,’ she says, taking a moment.
I hear the sound of the pram wheels rolling along the pavement in the background.
I can picture Marisa, dressed impeccably I imagine, wearing sunglasses, glowy fresh skin with no make-up, her thick hair in one of those not-purposefully-styled-but-still-looks-incredible buns.
She is the sort of mum I would like to be but know I can never be.
I can’t get away with no make-up. My hair doesn’t look good unless I take the time to style it.
I will never have that effortlessly gorgeous vibe.
I’ve long accepted I’m not one of those people.
‘Wow, Megan. This is all . . .’
She trails off.
‘Yeah, I know,’ I agree.
‘I’m so sorry, this is a lot for you to deal with. How are you feeling?’
I consider her question. ‘I’m freaking out, if I’m honest.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Of all the things for him to pull, this is top-tier ridiculous. He sends me here with her without any warning, which is one thing. But then on top of that, I have to take his box of ashes with me on a bunch of activities! I mean, what the fuck?!’
‘That is . . . unusual.’
‘I can’t do this, I can’t.’ Resting my arm on the rail, I lean forward to press my forehead against it, shutting my eyes tightly. ‘But I also can’t not do this. God, I hate him right now. And I hate that he’s made me hate him. This is all too weird.’
Marisa sighs. ‘Maybe . . . maybe it’s not too weird.’
I lift my head, frowning as though she’s right here in front of me. ‘Huh?’
‘I think if you look at this from a different perspective—’ she stops, exhaling loudly and then continuing in a gentle voice ‘—what if you see this as your dad wanting one last chance to visit his favourite places and do his favourite things with the people he loved the most in the world. Then, it’s kind of . . . lovely?’
I clench my jaw.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door.
‘I have to go. I think Mum is at the door,’ I tell her, defeated.
‘Okay, but call me if you need and if you want me to fly out there—’
‘Marisa, you have a baby. And a toddler!’ I point out as I head back into the room from the balcony. ‘I’m not going to ask you to abandon your family to fly out to me.’
‘You’re my family, too.’
In spite of everything, I smile. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I’ll message you later.’
We say goodbye and hang up. Steeling myself for my mother, I reluctantly open the door and find Nico standing on the other side of it. He straightens quickly.
‘Oh! Hi.’ I try to look breezy, flicking my hair over my shoulder even though none of it has fallen forward so I’m essentially just jolting my head weirdly. ‘Hey, Nico.’
‘I’m sorry for disturbing you. I wanted to check you’re okay.’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say, making a face as though it’s weird that he would even ask that perfectly pleasant question. ‘I’m really fine.’
‘It must be difficult. Your father’s letter and your mum . . .’