Chapter 21
MEGAN
The next morning, I go to see Dad’s house.
Nico has informed us that we aren’t needed for today’s assigned activity until late afternoon, so the morning is wide open and while Mum decided to rest in her room despite having only just woken up from a night of rest, I mustered the courage to book a taxi to take me to Collioure.
And now here I am, standing in front of it, not sure why I came.
It’s not like I can go inside, I don’t have the keys.
So instead, I stand on the cobbled street outside of it, taking off my sunglasses and squinting up at the blue shutters, feeling a troublesome mixture of joy and sorrow that soon I’ll finally get to step inside, but I won’t get to step inside with him.
You did it, Dad.
I start crying but I’m smiling, too, so proud of him buying this bloody house.
If anyone passes me right now, they’ll think I’m crazy, staring up at a house, grinning and sobbing at the same time.
Grief has made me act strangely in public more than once.
The first week after Dad died I was in Sainsbury’s, and I realised at the checkout that I’d forgotten to bring a shopping bag with me.
I’d put it by the door but must have forgotten it on the way out.
I started crying about it. I told the bewildered woman at the checkout through stifled sobs that I was so sorry, I’d forgotten a reusable bag and would need to buy a twenty pence plastic one.
‘It happens to us all,’ she said, wide-eyed and panicked, offering the bag to me.
I’ve become much better at holding it together in public, but sometimes fall apart without any warning.
I read somewhere that that’s how it goes.
One minute you think you’re getting nicely through the day and then bam a memory hits you out of nowhere and all public etiquette is out the window.
You’re a crying mess in a supermarket or bawling in a bar.
Sometimes I have to concentrate so hard to remember his voice, wishing I had taken more videos of him.
I have pictures, but I want to hear him.
He hated videos. He wasn’t the type to enjoy the camera.
There’s only a few of him, blushing when the waiter brings out a birthday cake, telling me to ‘sod off’ when he realises I’m filming him on a day out somewhere, the random one I have of him when a goose took a liking to him in the park and he spoke to it like he was bickering with an old friend: ‘Don’t you honk at me like that. I’ve had a day and all.’
Even if they make me look like I’m losing it, I like memories I thought I’d forgotten popping into my head out of nowhere because my biggest fear of all is forgetting. The sight of him, sound of him, smell of him fading, yet the pain of losing him goes on and on and on.
But standing outside this house, the memories are not unexpected.
Here, I know I will find him. I remember where he stood, his posture, his expression.
The soles of his shoes were on these same cobbles, his eyes gazing upwards like mine are now, dreaming and hoping that one day he might live in this pretty blue-shuttered house so he might be visited by his daughter and together they’d take a boat out and eat delicious food and laugh and talk, and the best moments would probably be the ones that didn’t feel that special at the time but always make you smile when you think of them.
Like the moment I think about now, the one when he’d dragged us here yet again and I was whinging at him to come on because I wanted something, ice cream probably, and he jabbed his finger up at the house and said, ‘I think I quite like this house’, and I rolled my eyes and Mum down the way groaned, ‘For Christ’s sake, we know, Henry!
’ and he grinned broadly, chortling at successfully winding us up.
Exhaling a shaky breath, I wipe the tears from my cheeks with my hand.
I slide my sunglasses back on.
Smiling up at the shutters, I whisper, ‘I think I quite like this house,’ and then I stroll away down the street with nowhere to be just yet and time on my hands.
***
That afternoon as I wait in reception, I acknowledge that the chateau is busier than it’s been all week.
With the festival celebrations kicking off tomorrow, there’s an excitement in the air and more guests seem to be trickling in and out through the doors.
I haven’t seen Nico, even though he’s due any moment to drive us to whatever we’re about to embark on, and Francoise is behind the desk, going through some documents.
We’ve already said hello, but it feels weird not talking to her at all.
I get the feeling she’s a bit awkward around me.
I get it into my head that it’s because she knows I fancy her nephew and then I blush furiously even though she’s given me no inclination that that’s the reason – if there even is a reason in the first place.
‘The chateau looks great! Ready for the festival to begin,’ I squeak, suddenly wanting to be in her good books and relying on the age-old technique of flattery to get me there.
She glances up at me and smiles warmly. ‘Yes. It’s exciting.’
‘The ball is going to be amazing. Such a great idea.’
‘That’s all Nico.’
‘Right.’ My face is on fire. ‘I hope you won’t hold it against me for choosing the rosé he preferred last night. I honestly didn’t know who was gunning for which.’
Confusion flits across her expression. ‘Nico chose the wine weeks ago for the ball. I haven’t had anything to do with it.’
‘You . . . huh?’
‘Why, did he want my opinion on the wine? He hasn’t said anything.’
‘Oh, uh, no, I don’t know. I . . . I must have misunderstood. Sorry.’
‘Hi,’ Nico says approaching behind me, making me jump. ‘You ready to go?’
‘Yes, yeah, I’m ready,’ I say, doing my best to ignore his aunt’s eyes darting suspiciously from me to him and back to me again. ‘Mum should be here any minute.’
‘Here I am, darling! Sorry I’m late,’ Mum calls out right on cue, gliding down the staircase in an all-white flowing ensemble, holding Dad’s box of ashes up as though she’s fulfilling some kind of ancient prophecy.
When she gets to the bottom step, she reads my expression and says, ‘What?’ defensively.
‘Nothing. You look glamorous,’ I remark, which is true.
She looks amazing, actually. Her skin is glowing, her minimal make-up flawless, her hair blow-dried, her jewellery sparkling. I feel drab next to her in my black strap top and orange and pink floral skirt, the box of ashes in a shoulder bag.
‘Nico has assured me that this activity does not involve a horse, so I have dressed appropriately,’ she reasons.
‘What if it’s water rafting? Then it’s not appropriate,’ I point out.
She turns to Nico in horror. ‘Is it water rafting?’
‘I can’t tell you anything,’ he reminds her, before glancing again at her expression and taking pity, whispering, ‘It’s not water rafting. You look great.’
Nico and I share a smile as Mum turns and swans out of the chateau towards his car, and I allow myself to think that he might have made up the wine-tasting problem so that he could spend time with me – the idea sending my heart into such a frenzy, I sit in silence for the entire drive, too happy to trust myself to speak soundly.
But then we arrive at our destination.
My happiness deflates rapidly.
‘Nico, is that what I think it is?’ Mum gasps as we come to a stop.
‘You ever done this before?’ he asks, laughing at Mum’s excitement.
‘Never! And I’ve always wanted to. Henry did this?’
‘Last year,’ Nico confirms. ‘He said he’d always wanted to as well.’
They both get out the car and Nico goes to the boot to get us some coats and hats that I hear him tell Mum might be necessary, while I numbly open the door and force myself out. Nico comes to stand next to me.
‘A hot air balloon,’ he states, beaming at me. ‘It’s a perfect evening for it.’
He leads Mum over to the man, who I assume to be the pilot, standing by the basket.
He’s in his fifties I’d guess, with tanned skin and dark hair peppered with grey and crinkles around the corners of his striking green eyes.
I follow the others towards him slowly and silently, the terror already making my hands tingle and bile rise in my throat.
With the blood pumping through my veins so loudly my ears are ringing, I can’t really hear what they’re all saying, but as I approach, Mum bursts out laughing at something the pilot says, before she turns to Nico and says, ‘Did you know about this?’ while he shakes his head.
‘Megan, darling, this is Laurence, our pilot,’ Mum announces when I reach them.
‘He was under the impression that this was a romantic sunset ride for two and has prepared the trip as such. He’s brought a post-flight feast of champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries and all sorts.
’ She cackles with laughter. ‘How funny!’
I attempt a smile but it doesn’t work. Nico looks at me strangely.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ Laurence says apologetically.
‘Laurence, I think it all sounds fabulous,’ Mum insists, reaching out to touch him on the arm. ‘Champagne after a sunset hot air balloon! The idea is so romantic, I might end up proposing to you!’
He laughs loudly, replying in flawless English, ‘I might be in danger of saying yes!’
Oh, fucking hell. I close my eyes in despair. The only thing that could make this even worse is my mum flirting with the pilot, so great, thank god that box is ticked.
‘Megan, are you okay?’ Nico asks quietly, as the others giggle.
I give a sharp nod, refusing to say it out loud and cause a fuss.
I have to do this, no matter what. It’s for Dad.
And now I’ve seen the house in person, I realise how much I need it.
I’m going to pull myself together and get in that basket.
A basket that will be suspended miles in the air. By a balloon. What the fuck.