Chapter 7 #2
‘This is very nice of you, Nico, thank you, but I am totally one hundred per cent absolutely fine,’ I say, even though no one who is fine would ever speak like this.
He doesn’t say anything in response, but he gives me a knowing smile.
‘Seriously, I’m fine,’ I repeat, confirming for both of us that I’m not. ‘I was freaking out a bit at first, because, you know, I wasn’t expecting these . . . complications, but now I’m good. I’m chill. I’m unflappable.’
Oh my god.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more ashamed of myself, and that includes the time I happened to stroll past Tom Cruise when he was filming in York and I was dressed as a pickled gherkin, and instead of simply walking by, I yelled, ‘I’m in a pickle!’ because I’d had three blue WKDs and a tequila shot.
That was bad.
That was really bad.
But this? I’m unflappable? Jesus. This is ten times worse.
Please don’t let his perfect English extend to ‘unflappable’.
‘Okay, good. I’m glad you’re . . . unflappable,’ he says.
Fuck.
‘I wanted to let you know that I’ll be waiting downstairs by the car whenever you’re ready,’ he continues, holding up a set of car keys and jangling them.
‘Take your time, although not too much time if possible. I have booked a buoy in the marina, but we don’t want them thinking that we’re not going to show up. The buoys are always in demand.’
I blink at him. ‘I’m sorry? I don’t . . . What are you talking about?’
‘Your lunch at La Voile.’
‘I have a lunch? I haven’t even had breakfast.’
‘Lunch is a little later. We will take the boat there. I’ll bring breakfast for you.
’ He reads my expression and little creases appear between his eyebrows as he adds, ‘Sorry, I thought your mum would have come up here and told you. It is one of the things your dad would like you to do. His first request. Take the boat to Collioure, go to La Voile for a late lunch . . .’
I realise that my breathing is shaky. Nico is watching me and I can see my staggering sadness reflected back in his expression. I’ve been too confused to hide it.
‘Right,’ I say, forcing an agreeable expression. ‘Let me get ready for a boat day and I’ll be right down.’
He nods and turns to leave. I shut the door. For a moment, I don’t move. Standing facing the closed door, in a silent empty room, I allow myself to have a little cry.
***
2008: Eighteen years ago
‘Are you sure there’s no jellyfish in there?’ I peer down at the dark blue water lapping gently against the side of the boat. ‘I watched a documentary and jellyfish tentacles can grow to, like, thirty-six metres.’
‘I will protect you from any jellyfish,’ Dad calls back, bobbing in the water, his wet hair plastered against his forehead. ‘I can’t see any, but if one should sting you, against all odds, then your mother can pee on you.’
‘If you want me to do that, I’m going to need more wine, darling, to stock up the bladder,’ Mum says, drinking what’s left from her plastic glass of light pink wine as she waits by the helm for a water taxi to pick her up and take her to shore.
‘Come on, Megan, you used to jump in to swim with no problem,’ Dad says, confused.
‘That was before I knew about jellyfish tentacles.’
‘You can do it. Don’t think too much about it and jump,’ he encourages as I teeter on the edge of the boat, still examining the water. ‘It’s lovely once you’re in.’
Taking a deep breath, I finally muster the courage and leap in.
The cold water knocks the air right out of my lungs.
‘It’s freezing!’ I cry, as I come up for breath, wiping the sea water from my eyes.
‘Horrible, isn’t it.’
‘Dad!’
He cackles, before starting a front crawl towards the beach. ‘Let’s get moving. Get that blood pumping through your veins!’
I swim alongside him, going as fast as I can to get out as quickly as possible.
As we reach the beach, wading out of the water, I tell him he’s in big trouble, my teeth chattering, grateful for the sweltering sunshine that is already drying up the droplets along my goose-pimpled arms. Mum arrives to meet us and passes us our towels, and when we’re dry and appropriately dressed, my hair still dripping sea water down my back, we make our way up the stone steps to La Voile, a restaurant perched at the end of the bay.
Dad likes to sit on the terrace, on a table where we all sit in a row looking out at the sea. There’s no view like it, he likes to tell people at home. Just the water for miles.
‘Everything tastes better when you’ve had to work for it,’ he notes as I take a sip of a refreshing glass of ice-cold Coke. I don’t want to admit that he’s right, but he’s right.
Mum’s gone to the toilet and the two of us are on our own.
He holds up his glass to clink it against mine, sighing as he gazes out at the view.
‘Not bad, is it,’ he says.
I nod, squinting out at the sun glittering across the surface of the water, glancing at our boat bobbing amongst many.
‘Moments like these make you wonder what you’ve possibly done to deserve all this,’ he muses, gesturing at the sea and turning his head to smile at me. ‘And what you can do to make sure you never lose it.’