Chapter 20
DAWN
It’s one of life’s shitty facts that you always bump into the last person you want to see when you’re having a bad moment.
It’s infuriating and tiresome and it happens to us all.
I should have known it would be her to find me amongst the vines writhing in pain: the chances were fairly high that Francoise might be wandering about the place somewhere, but still, it also could have been a great many other people. But it isn’t anyone else. It’s her.
‘What’s wrong? Are you hurt?’ she says, rushing over and kneeling down beside me, taking my arm.
‘I’m fine,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I just . . . I need help getting up.’
‘What happened?’ she asks, gripping me tightly as she lifts me onto my feet.
‘Nothing. I’m fine,’ I say irritably, removing my arm from her grasp now I’m up. ‘I wanted to walk around the vineyard, it was stupid. It’s late.’
‘Here, let me help,’ she insists as I take one step forward and wince. I recoil from her, not because it’s her but because it’s anyone trying to help, and she scolds me: ‘Dawn, let me help you.’
I make a few hobbling steps with her assistance before she shakes her head and says, ‘No, you need to rest. Come into the caveau.’
‘I’m fine, Francoise. I can go to my room.’
‘Rest first, then you can go,’ she says without any room for negotiation. Hooking my arm over her shoulders, she leads me to the vineyard cellar, which admittedly is much nearer and a more sensible option considering my current state.
I’d been feeling sprightly after my chat with Jemma, despite both of our disastrous life situations, and thought it might be good to go for a stroll.
I hadn’t done much exercise today at the spa and, while I disagree with Henry that horse riding is a good way to get the blood pumping, I do have to say that a little bit of gentle exercise does help my symptoms.
Usually.
Obviously, today that is not the case. I’d decided to have a charming sunset stroll through the vines.
It felt like something Diane Keaton might do in a film about finding love at a later age and I got it into my head that I was having a moment, being out in nature, the background noise of the restaurant making me smile as people enjoyed their carefree lives.
I’d even seen Nico and Megan enjoying a tipple together and my heart soared.
He brought out something in her that no one else had ever managed. A way to laugh at herself.
Wandering through the vines on this warm evening, filling my lungs with fresh air, I felt centred.
I don’t really know what that means, I’ve only read it in pamphlets advertising spa and wellness retreats, and it seemed to make sense to me suddenly.
I am part of something bigger. Something wonderful.
Then a muscle in my leg spasmed.
‘ARGH!’ I yelped, the pain shooting through my limb with such force; I stumbled and fell to the ground.
Let me tell you something, I did not feel centred then. I didn’t feel at one with the world. I didn’t feel connected. I felt . . . angry. So fucking angry. This body of mine. Betraying me without any warning. No chance to prepare. Your control ripped from you.
After a spasm as big as that one, it aches. A dull throbbing ache. I want to be back in the chateau, in my bedroom alone. But I’d wandered quite far and I’m grateful to sit down.
‘There,’ Francoise says, helping me into one of the chairs around the tasting table. ‘Can I get you a drink? A water or tea?’
‘No, I won’t stay long,’ I mutter, still irrationally annoyed that it had to be her to see me in this state.
She nods and then says, ‘I hope you won’t mind if I have a drink of something.’
‘Of course not,’ I say, leaning forwards to rub my leg.
She disappears into a room behind me and I sit in silence, hoping that the pain begins to ebb quickly enough for me to leave soon. When she returns, she’s carrying a wide rounded glass with a short stem filled with a light brown liquid. I raise my eyebrows in surprise.
‘Cognac,’ she answers before I ask. ‘Would you like some?’
‘No, thank you.’
She moves to the chair opposite mine, pulls it out and sits, lifting her chin.
‘Thank you for helping me,’ I say eventually, acknowledging that my anger is not towards her. It’s not towards anyone. It’s not even towards me.
She fixes me with a hard stare. ‘I saw you fall.’
‘I’m glad to have entertained you,’ I quip.
‘I didn’t think it was funny.’
‘Give it time.’
Her mouth is a hard straight line. ‘What is wrong, Dawn?’ she asks in a voice that’s softer than her expression reads.
I wave my hand dismissively. ‘I fell. It’s an open and shut case.’
‘You did not fall. Something happened to cause you to fall.’ Her eyes are boring into me so mercilessly, I’m forced to look around at the minimalist décor and pretend to find it interesting.
‘I’ve noticed you grimace in pain sometimes, the past few days.
The way you move up the stairs. Something is wrong. ’
‘Francoise, I’m afraid you’ve got this—’
‘I want to tell you that I know something is wrong so that you know you have someone to talk to about it if you want.’ She pauses, waiting for me to look up and meet her eye.
‘You don’t have to tell me. We can . . .
pretend. But I wanted to say that I see it.
We haven’t spoken in years, but we are old friends.
So, if you need a moment to stop pretending, then you can do that with me. ’
She concludes and takes a sip of her drink.
I realise I’ve been holding my breath the entire time she was speaking. I exhale.
‘I have multiple sclerosis,’ I say in a low, weary voice that I’m not sure I’d recognise as mine if I heard it. ‘I can manage it as much as possible, but . . .’
I trail off. She doesn’t flinch.
‘I’m sorry, Dawn,’ she says calmly and sincerely.
‘Megan doesn’t know,’ I say, admitting defeat as I gesture to her glass. ‘Bloody hell, get me one, would you?’
Closing my eyes, I hear the legs of her chair scrape against the floor as she rises to her feet to step into the room behind me and the sound of liquid splashing and pouring into a glass.
She returns, places it next to me on the table and goes back to her seat.
Thanking her, I pick it up and study the liquid, taking a sip and wrinkling my nose.
‘No,’ I say, placing the glass down and shuddering. ‘No matter how hard I try, I cannot get on board with cognac.’
She smirks as though she already knew. ‘I might have something else I can get you. We are in a vineyard.’
I shake my head. ‘No, I shouldn’t. My willpower cracked momentarily because of the conversation, but the cognac has brought me to my senses. I’ve drunk a lot the last few days and I feel cleansed after the spa.’ I frown, glaring down at my leg. ‘Usually after a massage, things are much better.’
‘Is there a lot of pain?’
‘Sometimes, yes. It can be very painful. Like this evening.’ I tap my fingers on the table. ‘But it’s more frustrating. I can’t control what my body does anymore. That brings a sort of . . . shame.’
She doesn’t say anything, watching me intently as she listens.
‘I went for lunch with my editor and agent before coming here,’ I continue, unsure as to why I’m telling her all this, but finding a comfort in it, ‘and as I walked into the restaurant – it was a nice restaurant, you know, posh – I knocked into the doorframe and sort of . . . tumbled in. The host came rushing over and I told him I was fine, laughed it off, “clumsy me” sort of thing. It’s not how I like to make an entrance.
But the MS affects my balance. It makes me unsteady.
Then I had to sit there through this lunch, listening to this young man who just doesn’t have a fucking clue about anything . . .’
I stop talking, realising I’m in danger of crying. I concentrate hard on not doing so and take a couple of deep breaths. Francoise waits patiently. I collect myself.
‘Sorry, it’s not his fault, it’s not him I’m angry at,’ I reason, the rational side of me regaining the steering wheel.
Francoise shrugs. ‘It’s okay to be angry. If I were you, I would be angry.’
I give a polite smile. ‘Anyway, as I say, Megan doesn’t know any of this so if you wouldn’t mind keeping it to yourself . . .’
‘Of course.’ She hesitates as though working out whether she should say what she’s going to, before adding carefully, ‘If you told her, I think she could handle it.’
‘I know that,’ I say, bemused. ‘It’s not about whether Megan can handle it.’
She nods in understanding. The room falls silent.
‘I should go,’ I say, leaning on the table to help me up. ‘I feel a lot better now. Thanks again for your help.’
She stands up also. ‘May I ask you a question, Dawn?’
‘Depends on what it is.’
‘Why do you think Henry brought you back here?’
I stare at her, my heartrate picking up. ‘He wanted his ashes scattered here,’ I state with as little feeling as possible. ‘It’s a beautiful region.’
‘But Megan could have done that alone. Why bring you here?’
‘We were great friends. I’m sure he told you that on his visits.’
Agitated, she takes a deep breath. ‘I think he wanted us to talk about what happened.’
I tense, scowling. ‘He didn’t want us to talk about it when he was alive.’
‘But—’
‘Do you think I was the one avoiding it?’ I interject.
‘Make no mistake, Francoise, I wanted to talk about it. I was desperate to talk about it. Maybe not at first, but over the years . . .’ I swallow, blinking back tears as I think about the times Henry and I squabbled as I begged him to discuss it.
‘He wanted to protect Megan. That’s how he saw it.
That’s what he wanted.’ I sigh, repeating quietly, wearily and resentfully, ‘That’s what he wanted. ’
‘And how do you see it? What do you want?’
I stare at her, her eyes glistening with determination. ‘I always wanted Megan to know who her parents really are. I trusted her. But it wasn’t up to me. Henry had to be the one to make the decision.’
Her hands on her hips, she bows her head, glowering at the floor.
‘Thank you for the drink, Francoise,’ I conclude in a low, firm voice, and then I turn and walk out the door, my breathing shaky and shallow as I make my way back down the path through the vineyard back to the chateau.