Chapter 9
MEGAN
Nico tells me that she’s done it.
‘She’s coming out of the water over there,’ he says, pointing to the beach as we walk around the harbour in the direction of the restaurant, which is all the way on the other side.
I spot her wobbling over the pebbles, laughing maniacally to herself.
‘Your mum is funny,’ Nico observes, chuckling.
‘Yeah, she’s a hoot,’ I mutter, frowning as I wonder what the hell she’s doing.
Shaking my head, I walk on with Nico in comfortable silence, taking in the mixture of tourists and locals bustling around the town, trying to work out what’s changed and what hasn’t.
It certainly feels the same, maybe a bit busier.
I don’t remember so many artists set up along the pathway around beach and up to the fort, sketching and painting the view.
There are a lot more people with prams here than I recall.
Maybe it’s become more of a family-friendly spot.
Or maybe I notice prams more now that I’m in my thirties and don’t have one.
‘How does it feel to be back? Is it strange?’ Nico asks, breaking my train of thought.
‘Yeah, it is a bit. It’s nice, though. I mean—’ I do a flimsy gesture at our surroundings ‘—it’s hard not to appreciate being here.’
He nods. ‘I should appreciate it more.’
‘You spend a lot of your time in the chateau?’
‘Almost all of it.’
‘I think it’s really cool that you run the hotel now,’ I say, wishing I’d have thought of a better word than ‘cool’ to use. ‘Did you always know that was what you were going to do?’
He turns to shoot me a secretive smile, which has a devastating effect when working in tandem with his sunglasses and the pale blue linen shirt he’s working with the arm sleeves rolled up.
Something flutters in my stomach and I’m suddenly really aware of what I’m doing with my hands, which is a weird sensation.
Like, where do I normally put my hands when I walk?
‘You don’t remember me telling you I was going to be a chef,’ he says, while my arms grow stiff with awkwardness, something he’s hopefully oblivious to. ‘I’m disappointed.’
‘Huh. Now you say it, actually, I do remember you telling me you were going to open a restaurant one day.’
‘It was going to be in London,’ he reminds me, the smile widening to a grin.
‘You picked London over Paris. Weird.’
He shrugs. ‘I liked the idea of living in England for a bit.’
‘So what happened to the restaurant dream?’
‘I grew up and realised I didn’t enjoy cooking that much and I also wasn’t that good at it,’ he explains drily.
‘A couple of obstacles there, yes. Still, you ended up running a chateau that has its own vineyard, so I won’t feel too sorry for you.’
‘I wouldn’t. I’m lucky that my aunt and uncle trusted me with the business.’
‘Why wouldn’t they? You know the chateau as well as they do, you spent enough time there.’ I hesitate, before cautiously asking, ‘How’s your mum?’
His eyebrows knit together. ‘We don’t speak. The odd birthday and Christmas message, but that’s it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, heart sinking.
Nico’s father left when he was young and, although my parents were always vague on the details, I know his mum struggled with addictions and didn’t have many stable relationships.
Nico wouldn’t talk about her often during our summers together, but I got the impression that he had to become fairly independent fast and take on too many responsibilities far too young.
He never seemed angry at his mum when he mentioned her, though.
He was more sad than anything. But summers at the chateau with his aunt and uncle offered an escape, a chance for him to be a kid like everyone else.
I’m glad he found his way back there again.
‘It’s okay.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s the right decision. I tried to help, but she has to help herself. She knows that I’m always here for her when she’s ready.’
I nod, silently admiring his resilience and capacity for forgiveness.
‘I’m very happy to call this my home,’ he says, brightening as he gestures at our surroundings. ‘It took me a while to figure out this is where I’m meant to be. I thought my career would be in publishing at first, but the chateau pulled me back.’
I glance at him in surprise as we stroll near the beach. ‘You worked in publishing?’
‘Yes. I was an assistant to an editor and thought I would be an editor myself, but it wasn’t meant to be.’ He notes my expression. ‘Why do you look so shocked?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say earnestly. ‘I didn’t know you were big on books.’
‘And what about you, Megan? Did you get your dream?’
‘You’ll have to remind me of it.’
‘To write.’
Something in my heart tugs.
‘I think you’re confusing me with my mum,’ I say with a nervous laugh.
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I always thought you’d do that.’
I stop to face him, bringing him to a halt, too. ‘Why?’
‘You were always telling stories. Every day, you’d make up a new one and we’d pretend to play whatever that story was. You don’t remember?’
Yes, I remember. I can’t believe anyone else noticed.
‘Your imagination was amazing,’ he continues. ‘I wished I could think like you.’
‘But yours was too busy making up recipes for your London bistro,’ I quip, keen to steer the conversation in a different direction as heat flushes up my neck and through my cheeks.
‘Something like that.’ He grins at me. ‘So, you don’t write, then.’
I swallow. ‘No.’
He nods, as though disappointed, although that could be me projecting.
We’re interrupted by Mum’s voice carrying over the beach: ‘Megan, over here, darling! My arm’s got pins and needles from holding up your father!’
***
Mum can’t work out where to put the boxes.
At first she sets them both down on the table on the terrace that Nico kindly booked for us, the exact one Dad liked when he came to La Voile.
Despite making the booking, he has made an excuse and left us alone for our lunch, pointing out that Dad’s list was for us two.
I didn’t want him to leave, but I’m glad he’s not witnessing the spectacle of Mum darting about the place with two boxes of ashes.
‘I wonder if half of him would like to sit on the other side of the restaurant and have the view across the harbour,’ she’s musing out loud, taking one box and putting it at the bar on the other side, telling a couple dining there not to take any notice of her.
‘Mum, you can’t leave Dad’s ashes over there!’ I hiss at her when she comes back.
‘Why not?’
‘Because people are trying to eat!’
‘They don’t know what’s in the box. They might just think it’s a nice ornament.’
‘Someone might take it.’
‘Why would someone take a box of ashes?’
‘Because they think it’s an ornament!’
She looks thoughtful. ‘I think it’s fine. This way, he has a view of the sea and a view of the town itself. He can even see his house from over there. Best of both worlds.’
‘Fine,’ I say gruffly, pulling out my chair and sitting down, refusing to continue this argument. It’s her box of ashes; if it gets lost then it’s her problem.
She sits down next to me and picks up the menu.
After a moment, she puts the menu down.
‘No, I can’t do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Leave him over there on his own,’ she says, getting up to go collect the box.
‘Christ,’ I whisper, trying to focus on the menu.
‘There,’ she says, putting the box next to the other one. ‘This is his table, so it makes sense that he wants to be here.’
‘Mum, please stop.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Talking as though he’s here.’
She doesn’t say anything. My throat constricts and I blink back tears behind my sunglasses.
When the waiter comes over, we order a bottle of wine and each choose different fish dishes.
Small talk ensues around safe topics like the excellent food here, the beautiful view, how my work is busy but great and how her work is busy but great.
Things are going as well as they can – the food is delicious, the wine is lovely, the setting is stunning.
I’m almost grateful to Dad for bringing us back here.
But then a dreaded topic comes up at the end of the meal.
‘Are you seeing anyone?’ Mum asks casually, dipping her lemon slice in and out of her water, which is such a strange thing to do. Just leave the slice in the water. Why does this annoy me so much?
‘Nope. I’m not dating, I want to focus on work.’
‘Very sensible of you. Do you ever hear from Dominic?’
Every muscle in my body tenses. ‘No, why would I? We broke up.’
‘All right, no need to snap at me, I was only asking.’
‘I wasn’t snapping! I don’t understand why you’d ask that question. He’s no longer part of my life, so why would I ever hear from him or talk to him?’
‘I don’t know, sometimes these things are complicated,’ she says, looking at me as though I’m the unreasonable one here.
‘Not really. The relationship ended. That’s not complicated.’
‘I know, it’s a shame.’
Why does she do this? What is her goal here?
I swivel in my chair to angle myself towards her. ‘Why is it a shame?’
She sighs, exhausted all of a sudden. ‘Because it was lovely to see you so happy, my darling, that’s all. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. And I’m sorry it didn’t work out between you and Dominic. Obviously, you weren’t as happy as I thought.’
‘Obviously.’ I reach forwards to finish the contents of my drink.
‘You didn’t want to give back the ring?’
I slowly place the empty glass back down, looking at her, confused.
She nods at the emerald. ‘I can understand why. It’s hard to let go.
Not everyone understands that, when it’s you who has made the decision to end it.
It’s easy to forget that making that decision is equally as heartbreaking in its own way.
I want you to know that if you’d like to talk about it all, then I’m here for you. ’
Looking out at the sea, I take in the view one last time. It really is spectacular here, Dad. I know you loved it. Maybe you thought this would be a happy trip. But I don’t think I can feel how I used to here.
I turn back to Mum, making sure I keep my voice calm and collected as I say, ‘You know, I’m not sure what I’m angrier at: you thinking that the decision I made to end my relationship is in any way similar to how you ripped apart our family, or the fact that you had so little interest in my relationship that you think this was my engagement ring. ’
The legs of my chair scrape against the stone as I push it back. She flinches at the sound. ‘I’ll pay for my half on the way out,’ I tell her, before picking up my box of Dad’s ashes and walking away.