You Me Everything Page 16

  “I’m not really in touch with him, to be honest.”

  “Well, he’s taken it badly, put it that way.”

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.

  “He’s just gone a bit off the rails, the way men do after a split,” he says with a shrug. “Drinking too much. Sleeping with anyone who’ll have him. You know the score.”

  “It’s not only men who go off the rails,” I remind him.

  “True. Although women seem to be generally better at coping with that sort of thing, don’t you think? It’s the old cliché—they know how to talk about it, work out why it’s happened, sing ‘I Will Survive.’ Men, on the other hand . . . do strange things.” He shudders. “The thought horrifies me.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about.” I make the statement before I’ve even got time to think about it. As soon as the sentence is out there, hanging in the air between us, I realize it feels both presumptive and not entirely accurate.

  “Course not.”

  His jaw twitches, and I can’t think how to respond other than to smile awkwardly.

  “Things feel . . . tough at the moment though,” he says, filling the silence.

  “Of course they do. You’ve got three kids. Life’s not easy when it’s that busy, I know.”

  He glances anxiously at Rufus to check he’s out of earshot. His younger son is filling a basket with so many sweets that he’s staggering under its weight. “The thought of not having Becky around makes me feel sick to my stomach.”

  I’m momentarily stuck for how to answer this, worrying that I’m straying into an area I don’t want to know about. But I feel compelled to ask: “Why would you say that, Seb? You’re not concerned, are you?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” His chest rises before he speaks. “I just wish things were working right now. Does that make sense?”

  I nod. “It does.”

  “DAD? Can we have this? I think it’s what the Hulk drinks,” asks Rufus, holding up a bottle of 110 proof absinthe.

  “Just a minute, Ruf,” he says, then turns back to me. “You won’t mention this to her, will you?”

  “Of course not,” I reassure him, as he gently guides his son by the shoulders towards something rather less green and toxic.

  Chapter 42

  The kids want to hang out at the château today, so Seb offers to take them on a grand expedition of the grounds, allowing Becky, Natasha and me an afternoon together.

  After what I heard this morning, I can’t help thinking that giving Becky a break is a good idea. So we jump into my car and, with Natasha in charge of the guidebook, head off for our own expedition that ends up in a little place called Sorges. Like so many of the Dordogne villages, its honey-colored houses and pretty square look as though they’ve wandered into the twenty-first century from another time.

  “This is the truffle capital of the Dordogne,” Natasha announces. “It even has a truffle museum.”

  “And to think, the kids had wanted to go to Disneyland,” Becky murmurs.

  I spend five minutes hovering outside a shop with her while Natasha browses inside, finally emerging with a jar of pear and truffle jam that cost more than I paid for my last handbag. We then wander around aimlessly, before stumbling upon a pretty auberge with a canopied terrace painted in cornflower blue, with crisp white tablecloths and a chalkboard menu.

  Natasha orders coffees as I look at my phone and realize there’s a new message. I pick it up in the vague hope that it’s Adam updating me about William. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but confirmation that my son is alive and not currently plunging into another waterfall would be welcome. The text, however, is from Charlie.

  I can’t stop thinking about our kiss x

  I tap my fingers on the table as I try to think of a response.

  It was lovely, despite the abrupt ending! x

  I lower my phone and realize Natasha is texting too, a private smile on her lips.

  “Oh, look at you two all loved up,” Becky groans, scanning her menu.

  “I’m not loved up,” I protest. “I’m just sending a text.”

  “And I’m only receiving one,” Natasha says.

  “Is it from Joshua?” Becky asks, and Natasha nods. “You know you’re breaking Ben’s heart every time he sees you together, don’t you?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Natasha replies, although I think we all know it’s true.

  “I long for the days when I’d get romantic texts,” Becky sighs. “The last text Seb sent me was to ask where I’d left the athlete’s foot powder.” She looks at Natasha, who is now engrossed in her phone again.

  “That text must be good, whatever it says,” Becky adds.

  “I’m looking at something else now, actually. I didn’t seek it out, but there’s an article on my Facebook feed called ‘Cosmo’s Ten Sex Tips You Should Try Tonight.’ I can’t imagine why the cookies thought I’d be interested in that.”

  Becky chuckles and takes the phone off her. “‘Give your man a massage without your hands. Try the reverse cowgirl position. Have your guy write a list of the top three moves that drive him crazy, and you do the same. Then swap lists.’ Oh, that’s an old one . . .”

  Natasha and I exchange glances. “I haven’t done it lately, mind you,” Becky continues. “The only thing that drives me crazy these days is when he leaves the lid off the toothpaste.”

  “You have a gorgeous husband,” Natasha says.

  “Yeah, but you try doing the ‘reverse cowgirl’ when one of three children is poised to burst in and demand to know why Daddy sounds like he’s being tortured. Not that that happens often—we never get the time these days.”

  Natasha frowns. “You need to make time.”

  “I enjoy it when we manage it, but the truth is . . . I haven’t had an orgasm since before Poppy was born.”

  Natasha flashes me a disbelieving glance. “But she’s nearly three.”

  “It’s not a big thing, in the scheme of things, Natasha. I’ve got other stuff to worry about.”

  Natasha looks unconvinced. As my phone beeps, Becky lowers her menu.

  “Oh, come on, Jess. Let us in on what lover boy is saying.”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” I say coyly, then hold out the phone to show her.

  I can’t get the thought of your lips out of my head x

  “Good man,” Becky decides, focusing her gaze on me. “I know everything is hard for you at the moment, Jess. But promise me you’ll remember to enjoy this.”

  * * *

  —

  When we return to Château de Roussignol, I ask Becky to drop me off so I can go and find William. I spot him playing soccer with one of the Dutch boys.

  “Hi, Mum,” William shouts out, waving to me from the pitch.

  “Had a nice day with your dad?”

  “Brilliant. We had a kick-about when we got back—he showed me loads of tricks with the ball. Can I stay a bit longer to play with Finn?” he asks, walking towards me.

  Finn looks alarmed. I suspect his tolerance is stretched to the limit given that my son couldn’t shoot a ball in the right direction if his life depended on it. “Is okay. You go with mother. Is fine.”

  William frowns. “Okay—perhaps we can play again tomorrow?”

  Finn gives him an unconvincing smile and disappears while he’s got the chance. “Where’s your dad now?” I ask.

  “He had to make a phone call,” he says, gesturing to the château, where Adam is on the terrace, speaking into his mobile.

  He waves, and I return the gesture awkwardly. “Go and tell him we’re heading to the cottage.”

  William disappears temporarily and returns to join me as we walk back to Les Écuries. After two and a half weeks of almost uninterrupted sunshine, the air is suddenly thick with moisture, thun
derous black clouds billowing above us.

  “Dad says it’s going to bucket down,” William tells me.

  “I think he could be right,” I mutter, stepping up my pace. “So what else did you do today?”

  “I did some ‘shadowing’ when we went to Bergerac—that means I went with him when he had a meeting. When we came back, I helped Simone with some jobs too. She’s really pretty, Simone, isn’t she?”

  “She is,” I agree.

  “I think she looks like Megan Fox.”

  “Megan Fox has brown hair.”

  “I know, but apart from that. I think she’s really beautiful.”

  The growling thunder makes us quicken our step. “Come on—faster.” I grab William’s hand, and we break into a jog, until we finally reach our cottage. I’m scrambling with my key before the rain starts.

  “I think this is a night to spend huddled up with the iPad,” I tell him.

  He looks shocked. “You mean you’re actually going to let me use it?”

  “Yes.” I shrug.

  “YESSS!”

  I laugh. “Where did you put it after you used it this morning?”

  His smile dissolves. He runs into his room, races back into the living room, gasps loudly and smacks his hand on his mouth.

  “What?” I say in a low tone, but I already know exactly why he’s behaving like this.

  “I’ve just realized where I’ve left it.”

  Chapter 43

  From the look of the sky, I don’t have long to get to the château terrace, where William tells me he’s left my iPad outside on a table. I wonder as I step outside how we managed to pack a popcorn maker and Super Soaker but no rain jackets.

  I sprint past the car park, before I make it onto the path, mist rising off the dank green trees. I eventually emerge into the open to find the swimming pool abandoned, charcoal clouds reflecting on its surface. I step onto the terrace and look around, but there’s no sign of the iPad.

  It’s when I head inside to join those taking refuge from the imminent storm that I spot the device—on a table under a lamp, presumably brought in by someone when the weather turned. I grab it and shield it under my sweater, as a crack of lightning illuminates the landscape and there’s a whoop from the other guests.

  After a moment of hesitation, I decide just to go for it, racing past the pool back in the direction of the woods. But I’ve only run a short distance when the sky opens and hard, heavy rain begins slamming my shoulders. My face is slicked with water as a deep groan of thunder fills my ears. It occurs to me that coming out in the open during this storm wasn’t a good idea and not just because I’m already drenched. Then, a crack of electricity appears out of nowhere, blitzing the ground in front of me.

  I gasp as someone yanks my hand.

  “This way!”

  Adam and I sprint across the grass towards a small stone outbuilding. He bustles me inside, as another bolt of lightning flashes in the sky.

  “What are we doing in here?” I ask.

  “Believe me, Jess, it’s not a good idea being out there in the middle of a storm. We need to wait at least until the lightning’s passed.”

  I squeeze up against a stack of wood and clasp my hands around my knees as Adam sits down next to me.

  “What were you doing out there?”

  A drop of water falls from my eyebrow. “William had left my iPad on the terrace. I needed to get it before it started pissing down.”

  He frowns, disapprovingly. “That lightning was close, you know. A few more feet and you’d have been toast.”

  I crane my neck to look at the sky and see another streak of lightning, but it’s smaller than the last one. I realize I’m shivering. I also realize Adam is looking at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and wrestles off the sweatshirt that was tied around his waist. “It’s not completely dry but better than nothing.”

  “It’s all right,” I mutter, as my jaw quivers.

  “Jess, just take it.”

  I go to put it on. But there’s so little space that, as I attempt to wriggle into it, I fail to do anything except hit him in the face. He splutters with laughter. I find myself smiling and then kind of laughing too. I finally manage to get my arms through, followed by my head. I wipe the rain from my nose and glance up. His eyes soften, and he smiles at me.

  It’s a tiny gesture, but it provokes a rush of hot liquid happiness that makes my limbs feel weak.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  But he doesn’t reply. He just looks at me.

  And I look at him too, for no other reason than I’m suddenly incapable of taking my eyes off him, studying how his features look in the shadows.

  Everything that’s happened between us—all the good and the bad—disintegrates, and my ears are filled with the sound of my racing heart, drowning out the thrum of the rain. I realize I want something I haven’t wanted for years. I want something instinctive and animalistic and something that defies everything I’ve come to know, but I want it so badly that I’m close to grabbing him by the neck and just doing it. I want to kiss him. I am aching for it.

  He cranes his neck to peer out the door.

  “The storm’s passing,” he murmurs.

  But I don’t follow his gaze outside. I can only stare at him. Then the rain slows and I snap out of it. “I’d better get back.”

  He nods and leans back on the wall, but I can feel his eyes lingering on me, with an intensity that lays bare his own illicit thoughts.

  I am drenched and disheveled but so fired up with heat that my cheeks are ablaze. I grab the iPad and shove it inside the sweatshirt. Then I crawl out of the woodshed, this time refusing to turn back to him, too scared of what might happen if I do.

  Chapter 44

  Natasha opens the door to the cottage when she sees me approaching. “Did you get caught in that?” she says, horrified. “I assumed you’d have stayed in the château until it died down.”

  “That would’ve been a better plan,” I mutter, stepping in and shaking myself off like a wet Labrador.

  “Did you get it?” William asks sheepishly, looking up from the sofa.

  “Yes, I did,” I reply, throwing him a purse-lipped glare. “I need to give it a good wipe down and make sure it’s survived the experience before you get your mitts on it again though. But first I’m going to get out of these wet clothes.”

  I head to the bedroom, give the iPad a cursory wipe over, before laying it on the bed and peeling off my top, my skin raw with cold. I am still dizzy from what just happened as I grab a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and start toweling my hair. I perch on the edge of the bed and return my attention to the tablet, turning it on and clicking on the Internet browser to give it a test run. Only instead of opening up a clean page, it loads the last thing I looked at online, having apparently forgotten to clear my browser history.

  Huntington’s disease genetic testing.

  The breath catches in my throat as I reread the words.

  They are among my most Googled on a subject that, for my own sanity, I shouldn’t really be reading any more about.

  “Oh God,” I say under my breath, clicking on the link to remind myself exactly what the article says. Nausea rises in my chest as I scan the page, a blunt reminder of the singular issue that dominates my life these days.

  A single abnormal gene produces Huntington’s disease. The child of an HD patient needs only one copy of this from either parent to develop the illness.

  A genetic test can make or confirm the diagnosis of HD. The children of someone with Huntington’s disease can take this test after the age of 18 to see whether they have inherited the faulty gene.

  If they have, they will develop Huntington’s disease, but it is not possible to work out at what age.

  Using a blood sample,
DNA is analyzed for the HD mutation by counting the number of CAG repeats in the “huntingtin” gene. Individuals who do not have HD usually have 28 or fewer repeats. Individuals with HD usually have 40 or more repeats.

  Deciding whether to be tested can be difficult. A negative result relieves worry and uncertainty. A positive test can help people to make decisions about their future.

  Some people say they would rather not know because they want to enjoy their life before they start to display symptoms, which generally appear in mid-life.

  Panic grabs me by the throat as I keep reading, sweat gathering under my arms. William might have seen this and worked everything out.

  Then all I’ve hidden from him and almost everyone else I know for the last decade would be there for him to read in black and white. I throw down the iPad with a pounding heart and race to the door, prying it open as I peek out.

  My son is on the sofa with his head in a book, stuffing roast chicken crisps into his mouth with his free hand. He starts chuckling at something, then turns a page. I tell myself to calm the fuck down.

  He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

  Even if he’s seen what I’ve been reading, that doesn’t mean he’s made the connection, joined the dots to create the picture we’ve faced since the day my mother was diagnosed with HD.

  I found out about the genetic test soon after her diagnosis, but in the early days I tried to convince myself it’d be better not to know. Most children of Huntington’s disease patients decide against finding out, and it’s little wonder when you think about it.

  Yes, the idea that you might be declared HD negative is an enticing prospect. You’d be free from the relentless, twisting anxiety. Free to enjoy life and look forward to a long and healthy future. But a positive result is another thing altogether. There’s no un-knowing the news that you have inherited this beast; before the symptoms even appear, it ruins every glimmer of happiness you might have had.

  Some people cope brilliantly without knowing whether they’re gene positive or not and are able to get on with their lives. But as time went on, I became very bad at not knowing. I did try. I tried for years.