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  “Your mum choked on some of her breakfast.” He glances up, but briefly, as if avoiding my reaction. “Raheem was here and managed to do his stuff and sort her out. They called me at work, and by the time I got to hospital it was all under control. She’s absolutely fine, honestly. A bit down about things but basically fine.”

  It’s not the first time this has happened. Before we started mashing up Mum’s food, I saw it with my own eyes. The sight of her face turning grey and lips blue while she struggled to catch a breath is not one I ever want to witness again. Her specialist, Dr. Gianopoulos, thinks she should’ve begun tube feeding, but she signed a document years ago—an Advance Decision to Refuse Treatment—which means that’s never going to happen.

  “It’s okay, Jess,” Dad says, filling the silence. “Just one of those things. We have to be careful from now on, that’s all.”

  “I think I should come home,” I decide instantly.

  “No. Absolutely not.” He shakes his head. “Everything’s okay now. I wasn’t even going to tell you, but I thought you’d hit the roof if I didn’t.”

  “You thought right. I’m going to look at flights this afternoon.”

  Dad fixes a stern look on me. “What do you think your mum would say if she knew you were thinking of doing that?” he says gently. “She’s had a bad enough day as it is.”

  I exhale, only then realizing I’d been holding my breath. “Is she there now?”

  “Give me a minute.” He walks through the corridor before pushing open the door to her room, where Mum is in her wheelchair, not watching the Australian soap on the television.

  As Dad holds the iPad in front of her, I find myself conducting the usual assessment of the way she looks. Objectively speaking, she’s probably no better or worse than when I left. But this is not saying much.

  Her limbs are curled into uncomfortable-looking positions, her bottom lip drooping ever so slightly, as if pulled down by an invisible weight. Her skin clings limply to her bones, the sort of body that appears as though it shouldn’t have enough energy even to move. Yet, she doesn’t stop throwing her face up to the sky.

  “Dad told me what happened, Mum. Are you okay?”

  A second passes when she jerks repeatedly before she answers through a grunt. “Bloody toast.”

  I can’t manage a smile.

  “Porridge next time,” she adds.

  “Yes, good idea.” I want to say a million things right now to my mum. That I love her, that my heart is breaking for her, that I’d do anything for her to be the happy, healthy woman she would be if it wasn’t for this hideous disease.

  But just thinking about these things makes my throat close up.

  “It . . . nice there?” she asks. Every word requires effort, and even then it’s unclear how the words are going to come out. Her jaw moves in a different way from how it used to, making awkward, hushed sounds.

  I try to pull myself together. “Yes, it is, Mum. Adam’s done a great job on the place, and William’s really enjoying the time they’re spending together.”

  She’s silent for a moment, and my eyes divert to the ridges of her collarbone, which protrude above the top of her pale blue blouse. I bought that top from Oasis for her birthday more than a decade ago. I remember thinking at the time that a size 8 might be pushing my luck a bit. Now, she is swamped by it, her once-sumptuous cleavage replaced by a visible rib cage that twists into excruciating positions.

  “William . . . there?”

  “No, he’s by the pool, but I can go and get him.”

  “No,” she splutters. “Not today.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow then maybe.”

  But she doesn’t respond. She simply writhes in her seat as facial muscles contort her features into something unrecognizable and exaggerated. It’s a vision I know will return when I look in the bathroom mirror at my own face and I’m smothered by cold fear.

  Chapter 37

  I step out of the château after the Skype call into an intense heat, the kind that burns the soles of your feet and makes your skin sticky. The pool is busy with splashing children, while their parents look on, taking refuge under the umbrellas.

  Natasha is sitting at a table under a canopy of tiny pink flowers and chatting to Ben, who’s standing next to her. He’s either unaware that he has a rival for her affection in Joshua, or he doesn’t care; from the way he’s looking at her now, he’s a complete goner.

  William, James and Rufus are on the other side of the table waiting for lunch to arrive. I join them in the middle of a conversation about the human esophagus.

  “I saw it on an episode of Operation Ouch!” William says earnestly. “It was brilliant. Some kid had bitten his toenail off and swallowed it. Only, it was a really big one and they had to give him an X-ray to check it hadn’t punctured his lung or caused any major arterial bleeding.”

  Sunlight glitters on the pool as I pull up a chair and a waitress emerges from the château with a tray of food: salads drizzled with walnut oil, fragrant cheeses and salted meats, breads with fluffy insides and hard crusts that could dislodge a filling.

  “I love your nail polish, Natasha,” James pipes up.

  She glances at her hands. “Oh, thank you, James. It’s a new one.”

  “It suits you,” he adds, and she flashes me a smile.

  “Listen, I’ll leave you to your lunch.” Ben smiles and reluctantly heads back to work as Natasha’s gaze follows him briefly.

  “Where’s Becky?” Natasha points to the pool.

  She is attempting to do a few lengths, while Seb stands, stretching out his arms to catch Poppy each time she plunges in, sweeping her up to the surface as she blinks chlorine out of her eyes.

  “AGAIN!” she giggles.

  Then I realize Natasha is scrutinizing my face. “Everything all right?”

  But before she can answer, Seb’s voice echoes across the terrace. “Come on, sweetie! Daddy means it. POPPY!”

  What prompted Poppy to do a runner isn’t completely clear. All I know is that her little legs are racing around the perimeter as poor Seb frantically circles in the water, trying to coax her back.

  “POPPY, STOP!”

  She pauses for a heartbeat but darts off towards the trees. Seb and Becky both leap onto the side of the pool and hurtle towards their daughter as she giggles with mischief, refusing to look back. And, although they gain on her, the speed of those short legs is quite alarming.

  Eventually, it takes James to save the day. “POPPY, YOU CAN HAVE MY SWEETS!”

  She stops to contemplate whether she’s been hasty, and Becky swoops in to pick her up. As she marches towards us with her daughter, stress is etched on our friend’s face. She takes the seat next to me and starts toweling Poppy down as Seb appears a moment later.

  “Was it not obvious that that was going to happen?” Becky asks furiously.

  Seb frowns. “What?”

  “That Poppy was going to run off if you put her on the side of the pool.”

  “No, it wasn’t. She’d been jumping into my arms repeatedly beforehand.”

  “You must’ve realized that if she’d raced off you’d be stuck in the pool and powerless to catch her.”

  “Not powerless.”

  “Yes, powerless! There’s no point leaping out like the bloody bionic man if you’re too far behind to catch her.”

  Defiance appears in a wrinkle above Seb’s nose. “If you thought she was in such mortal danger, why didn’t you say so when you saw her doing it the first time?”

  “Because you’d have accused me of interfering!”

  Seb lets out a long trail of breath before glancing at Natasha and me. “Can we discuss this later?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  There is a visible pulse in Seb’s neck as he stands, contemplating his next move, before finally taking the bo
ys off for a game of Frisbee.

  Becky pauses from drying off Poppy and looks at us from under her eyelashes. “Sorry. It’s not always like that.”

  “Of course not,” I reassure her.

  “Kids do change you though, don’t they?” Becky sighs.

  “Yep,” I agree. “I realized that the day you posted an inspirational quote on Facebook from Mummy Pig.”

  Becky snorts. “How was the chat with your mum and dad?”

  I look towards the haze on the pool. “Mum ended up in hospital this morning.”

  Natasha lowers her glass. “Oh no. Is she all right?”

  “She’s okay now, but she’d choked on something.” The sentence sounds matter-of-fact, but I can feel my nails digging into my palms.

  “So is she out of hospital now? Do you need to go home?” Becky asks.

  “Yes. And no. They don’t want me to. They insist it’s nothing to worry about.”

  Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I realize I’m chewing on my lip. “You don’t look convinced.”

  And she’s right. I’m not.

  Chapter 38

  I feel nervous about spending the afternoon with Charlie, though I can’t work out whether that’s a good, a bad or just a very strange thing. It doesn’t help that our living room is a scene of devastation when he’s due to pick me up in fifteen minutes.

  “Hey, William, can you move your wet trunks from the middle of the floor?”

  But he’s on the sofa, ensconced in the iPad, so effective communication ceased some time ago. “William?”

  “Just a minute, Mum,” he mumbles. “I’ve nearly completed this level.”

  Meanwhile, I made the schoolgirl error of commenting on how lovely Natasha’s skin looked, which prompted her to whip out her cosmetics box and subject me to “facial contouring” while I perch on the edge of the sofa. It’s only when I glance in the mirror that I realize she’s turned my face into a demented Picasso imitation, with two dark triangles under my eyes and bright pink circles on my cheeks.

  “Are you joking?”

  “I’m not done yet.”

  “Natasha, he’ll be here soon.” I look over to the sofa. “Come on, William—move these trunks before someone breaks their neck on them, please.”

  There’s a knock on the front door, and it opens. My heart performs a loop the loop, until I realize it’s only Adam. Who does a double take, as if he’s missing the punch line of a joke. “I’ve got a red nose and pantaloons in the cottage if you want to complete the look.”

  “We’re not finished,” Natasha tells him, darting to the sink for some water. As she’s on her way back, the toe of her sandal catches in William’s trunks, and she stumbles, catching herself at the last second.

  I frown at my son before striding over and taking the iPad from him decisively. He looks up in shock, then wrinkles his nose. “WHAT? What have I done?!”

  “You’re meant to have picked up the trunks.” He blinks at me without a clue as to what I’m talking about. “Do it now or I’m confiscating the iPad.”

  You’d think I’d just told him I was planning to strangle his favorite puppy. “But I need to finish my level. I’m so close!”

  “Now!”

  “FINE!” he fires back, stomping over to the trunks.

  I’m torn between not wanting him to get away with such cheek and desperately needing to get ready before Charlie arrives. I turn round to see Adam just standing there. Spectating.

  “Perhaps you could have a word with him about this,” I say.

  Adam’s eyes dart round the room as if he assumes I must be talking to someone else. “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Sure. Go and get ready, and I’ll talk to him.”

  “Okay. Good. Thanks.”

  I head into the bedroom, where I begin wiping makeup from my cheeks. Natasha follows, wincing as I drag the tissue across my face. “Could you not just . . . blend?”

  “There’s no time for blending. Besides, what’s wrong with foundation and a bit of blusher?”

  When my face is presentable, I creep to the door and pry it open. Adam has his arm round our son, and while I can’t overhear the exact conversation, I do catch several sympathetic snippets that culminate in: “Never mind, mate.”

  “God, how annoying,” I tut.

  “What?” Natasha says.

  “Adam.”

  “Don’t worry about him. Your date is going to be here in—” She looks at her watch as the door clatters open. It’s William.

  “Charlie’s here,” he tells me.

  My mouth goes dry. “Okay. Thank you.”

  He hovers at the door. “I’m sorry, Mum.”

  I feel my irritation dissolve. “That’s okay. Come and give me a hug.”

  He puts his arms round me, then pulls back. “So you know you said you were going to talk to Charlie about your exercise classes . . . Is that true?”

  Natasha coughs.

  “Why do you ask?” I say.

  “I just thought it might be . . . a date.”

  I wonder how my ten-year-old became so perceptive.

  Chapter 39

  Charlie looks completely at home behind the wheel of his posh car. It could’ve been built for someone like him—an intelligent, professional guy, who’s comfortable in his own skin and not worried about being a grown-up. Who has embraced his age and the Marks & Spencer shirts that go with it.

  Pujols, the village Charlie chose for lunch, is over an hour south of Château de Roussignol. It’s a smooth, undulating drive, and we arrive at a picture-postcard setting perched so high on a hill that it feels like the clouds have been lowered. We wander through narrow, meandering streets of limestone cottages with crumbling shutters and antique roses twisting round their doors, before finding a restaurant that overlooks the small square and its dusty, vanilla-colored buildings.

  Charlie pulls out a chair for me and sits down opposite.

  The waiter appears with menus. “What will you have to drink?” he asks.

  “Badoit, s’il vous plaît,” I say, conscious that he has to drive.

  He looks surprised. “But you’re on holiday. And I’m driving. Surely a glass of something is in order?”

  “I thought I’d stick with water, for moral support. But when you put it like that . . .”

  A little bit of wine seems to help the date along inordinately. Not that it was going badly in the first place. It’s simply made me relax a bit, to appreciate all that Charlie has going for him: the fact that he’s serious and intelligent, but without being even a tiny bit intimidating. Or perhaps he merely understands what it’s like to have a child William’s age. I find myself confessing that I’d lost my temper just before we left, and he assures me that he’s been there.

  “It’s normal to have battles over stuff like that at his age. At least he’s not on that iPad fifteen hours a day like some kids.” I decide not to correct him. “Besides, nobody ever said being a parent would be easy sailing, especially on your own.”

  “It hasn’t been that hard by myself,” I insist. “I’ve had a lot of help from my mum and dad over the years.”

  He finishes a mouthful and ponders a question. “So what’s the deal with you and William’s father? You still seem close.”

  “Do we?” The patch of skin below my ears reddens.

  “Yes, you do. I thought that the other night when I came over for a drink.”

  I shake my head obstinately. “We’re not close. We tolerate each other for William’s sake.”

  “Maybe it’s just the fact that you’re here. Most people wouldn’t dream of coming on holiday with their exes. I know I wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t you get on?” I’m glad to shift the emphasis away from me and Adam.

  “Not exactly.
She’s a lunatic.”

  I look up. “Oh dear.”

  “Seriously. The most manipulative woman I know. She’s absolutely horrible.”

  I’m not quite sure what to say about this and can only think to make a joke out of it. “It’s easy to see why you married her then.”

  “We all make mistakes. I won’t bore you with the sob story though. And anyway, why are we even talking about exes?”

  “I’m sure you brought it up.” I smile gently.

  “I did, didn’t I? Well, how about this instead: can we do this again sometime before the end of the holiday?”

  I lower my knife and fork. “We haven’t even finished our main course yet. You might have gone off me by the time we get to the dessert.”

  He holds my gaze with an almost indecent intensity. “I seriously doubt that.”

  * * *

  —

  The date leaves me feeling surprisingly light on my feet afterwards. Not because, when we pull into the château grounds three hours later, I am overcome with lust. But because there is something spirit lifting about sitting opposite a man who fancies you. And he couldn’t have been clearer that he does. It’s not even a question of anything he says—it’s more about the way he looks at me, with a hint of desire that stirs something in me.

  It’s only after we’ve strolled back to the car and driven through penetrating sunshine until we reach the gates of Château de Roussignol that something becomes obvious, to both of us. The opportunity for a kiss has already passed us by, floated away unnoticed, like the clouds on those hilltops. I realize he’s thinking the same when the car slows and the conversation comes to a halt.

  “I really enjoyed this afternoon.” He is gripping the steering wheel, focusing on the road.

  “Me too.”

  “Would you like me to drop you off here or back at the cottage?”

  “Anywhere here’s fine. I need to walk over to collect William.”

  He stops the car and pulls on the hand brake, adjusting his position so that he’s looking directly at me. “Right, well. Thanks again. You really didn’t have to pay for lunch, but it was extremely good of you and—” I babble.