Chapter 16
DAWN
Clamping my liberated breasts with one arm, while holding onto the reins for dear life with the other, I trek back the way we came yesterday on my horse, harumphing whenever it gets bumpy, wondering whether this little adventure has been a success or failure.
I suppose it has been both. When we finally reach the stables and the relief washes through my limbs, I conclude that whatever the successes were, they outdo the failures.
Praise be to vultures. That pilfering thief created a special moment between Megan and I, one that can only be concocted naturally and never forced.
One of those you-had-to-be-there moments.
The sort you tell your friends in an overzealous and exuberant manner through giggles, but you still can’t capture just how brilliant and joyful it was.
Those are the moments that create connections.
Megan and I haven’t shared one of those in a while.
‘You did it,’ Nico says, coming over to help me dismount. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Sore. Disgusting. In desperate need of a shower. Henry’s dream house better be worth all this nonsense. If it’s not, then I will sue.’
He looks quizzically at me. ‘You will sue Henry?’
‘Now is not the time to be pernickety over the details. Let me rant freely.’
‘You did well and you look great,’ he says with a grin.
‘Nico, as kind as that is, there’s really no need for such fibbing,’ I say, unclipping my helmet and taking it off, running my fingers through my hair.
‘I mean it,’ he insists, patting my horse’s neck. ‘Your face, everything, you look . . .’
He trails off searching for the word.
‘Bedraggled?’ I suggest. ‘Dishevelled? Muddied? As though I’ve been captured and held hostage, potentially tortured, released after much international and political negotiation, and just stepped off the plane to be greeted by my family after three months apart?’
He laughs. ‘No,’ he says, his eyes twinkling at me. ‘Brighter. You look brighter.’
***
When we get back to the chateau, preparations have begun for the Saint Vincent festival.
Colourful bunting is hanging along the walls and over archways, winding up the banister of the sweeping staircase, and more flower arrangements have appeared around the place, bringing a hint of sweet perfume to every room.
‘Goodness, Nico, it looks fantastic!’ I exclaim as we stroll into the reception. ‘Did you organise this?’
‘You think this was me?’ He chuckles, bemused by the idea. ‘This is all my aunt.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ I admire the vase of bright-coloured flowers on the reception desk. ‘She always did have an eye for these sorts of things.’
Nico nods. ‘She’s very creative.’
‘Hm. Well, I don’t know about you two, but I plan on spending the rest of the day bathing so I no longer smell like horsehair,’ I declare. ‘I trust that’s permitted in the itinerary.’
Nico confirms that it is. We are off the hook until tomorrow morning.
Thanking him for the ‘experience’, Megan and I traipse up to our rooms. When she reaches her door and slides the key into the lock, I stop by mine down the way and sigh heavily to get her attention before I say, ‘These rooms’, gesturing to my door.
She knows what I’m saying. She pauses, one hand still holding the key in the lock.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘I can’t work out if it’s a good or bad thing.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I thought I’d want a completely different room, somewhere else in the hotel. But now—’ she shrugs ‘—I don’t know. This was always my favourite room. The balcony.’
‘The adjoining door,’ I add.
Her forehead creases. ‘It was always open, wasn’t it.’
‘Yes. Although, I think the last couple of times we came, we let it be closed. You were fourteen, fifteen, so we had to give in.’
‘I remember arguing about it being open before then,’ she recalls, sounding amused.
‘Yes, you did put up a battle once or twice.’
‘But you and Dad would win in the end.’
I give a light laugh. ‘Henry and I were both rather good at getting our way.’
She tries and fails to suppress a smile. ‘Two against one. Not a fair fight.’
‘Nothing’s ever fair when you’re a teenager.’
‘Yeah.’ She turns the key in the door and after the click, she pushes it open.
‘I think I secretly liked having the door open at night. Nico and I used to play games about the house being haunted when we were younger – maybe eight or nine – and I don’t think I ever shook that feeling off, even when I was older. ’
‘Before we got lucky enough to secure these rooms, you were in the same one as us for a bit on holidays when you were little,’ I say, smiling at the memory. ‘On a camp bed, do you remember?’
‘Yeah.’ She chuckles. ‘It used to creak like crazy.’
I tip my head back and groan. ‘Every time you turned. I hated that blasted camp bed.’
‘Bet you were thrilled when I got my own room,’ she says.
‘I thought I would be, but then I missed the reassuring sound of those springs,’ I tell her, my sudden sincerity scaring me but not enough for me to stop. ‘We had to compromise with an open door between our rooms and then . . . well, then that went, too.’
She doesn’t know what to say. We stand in silence and then I save us both.
‘Right! Time to get clean. See you tomorrow, darling,’ I say brightly, giving her a wave before disappearing into my room and closing the door behind me.
As I place a hand on my chest, steadying my breathing, I steal a glance at the closed and locked adjoining door before I hobble towards the bed, a shooting pain rushing down my leg.
I wince, sitting down on the sheets and clenching my jaw.
The tiredness is overwhelming. Grunting, I manage to heave my leg up on the bed and I reach for the painkillers on the bedside table.
Swigging them down, I lie back on the pillows.
I know I need a shower, but the fatigue is so heavy I can’t move.
I can’t do anything. A tear of frustration rolls down my cheek before I drift off into sleep.
***
Finally, some evidence that Henry was of sound mind.
The following day, he has booked us in for a luxury spa day.
His way of apologising to me for the horse trek, of that I am quite certain.
Megan is bamboozled by the whole thing, insisting that her dad was not the type to enjoy spa treatments.
I remind her that people can always surprise us.
‘Yeah, it looks like it,’ she says, pulling her robe over her bikini with a puzzled expression as though she’s not quite comfortable with that idea.
She finds herself even more uncomfortable when we discover we’re booked for a couple’s massage, urged to lie on two beds right next to each other.
While she tries to insist there must have been a mistake, I cut in to tell her that if I got on a horse, who was clearly plotting my demise, and then slept in the dirt, she can put up with a massage table that’s a few inches away from mine.
‘You didn’t sleep in the dirt. You slept in a tent,’ she mutters, but I ignore her.
The masseuses leave us for a moment so we can get comfortable.
Placing the box of Henry’s ashes carefully on the floor beneath my table, I whip off my robe and lie on my front, pressing my face into the hole at the top.
I close my eyes, listening to the calming classical music in the background.
After a few moments, I realise I haven’t heard any other movement.
‘Megan, are you lying down yet?’
‘No. It’s too weird. This is a couple’s massage. It’s for a couple.’
‘There are technically two of us.’
She sighs. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Megan, lie the fuck down on that table before I accuse you of staring at my bottom.’
‘Mum! Oh my god, I am not staring at your bottom! I am keeping my eyes up, directed right at the ceiling!’ she cries, sounding mortified.
I smile to myself, which is actually quite hard when your face is squished into the hole of a massage table. Much like when Botox is starting to wear off a little after a refresh.
‘What are you worried about, Megan? That I’ll forget it’s you lying there next to me and reach for your hand? That you’ll be so relaxed you’ll accidentally break wind?’
‘Oh my god. This is hell. I’m actually in hell.’
Her voice is muffled. She must have her hands covering her face.
‘You need to relax, darling,’ I encourage in my most soothing voice.
‘I’d relax if I was in a room by myself. And preferably if my dad’s ashes weren’t on the floor next to me,’ she adds bitterly.
‘I told you in the changing room, he has to come with us on every activity.’
‘You could have left the box in the locker like I did.’
‘That’s not much fun for him, is it.’
‘Well, he’s in a box, so fun is already a bit limited.’
Her response is so dry and quick-witted, I burst out laughing, despite its morbid nature. My god, Megan’s funny when she wants to be. And brave with her humour, too.
‘Sorry,’ she says, and I can hear she’s smiling, probably reluctantly. ‘That was horrible. Sorry, Dad.’
‘No, he would have loved it,’ I insist, staring at the floor. ‘I promise you. You have to laugh, don’t you. He knew that better than anyone.’
I hear her sigh softly and then a few moments later, the creak of the table next to mine as she climbs onto it. She clears her throat. We listen in silence to the classical music.
‘See? It’s not that weird, is it,’ I say brightly.
‘It’s fucking weird. I’ve never been more awkward.’
I smile again. ‘Think of the dream house. This is all in the name of the house.’
She hesitates and then asks quietly, ‘Have you been to it yet?’
It seems easier to have this conversation when we’re both forced to look at the floor and not at each other. ‘No. Have you?’
‘No. We should, though. It seems silly not to when it’s the reason we’re putting ourselves through all of this.’
‘Mm.’