How had three years gone by?
How much of my brother did I not know because I was busy travelling and living it up with one woman or another, in one glamourous city or another? Would I have known about his cancer if I’d been around? Maybe if I had been around, he might have told me, or might have even asked for help.
The thing about Liam is that he was always generous, always giving, and never asked for anything.
I look through his letter again.
Believe me, I’ve been thinking about it a very long time. My final wish list.
I know you’ll hate this, but please do it for me.
This is the only time he ever asked me for anything.
I have to thump my own chest with my fist to ease the tightness.
Okay, Liam. It might be a wish-list of impossible things, but I promise to try.
Chapter Five
Alice/Lessa
Note to self: never travel by sea.Sailing doesn’t suit me.
We’d barely left Saint-Malo in Britany when the seasickness started. Unfortunately, ferry is the only way to reach the tiny island of La Canette.
And tiny it certainly is. On the map it seemed little more than a speck between Guernsey and the French coast. Looking at it now, as dusk falls over the English Channel, it still looks like a speck.
Isn’t there a minimum size before a place can call itself an island? As opposed to a rock? Or a floating leaf?
To be fair, sea sickness is in large part responsible for my sour outlook. After all, La Canette’s smallness is exactly what I need. A place so insignificant, no one would dream of looking for me here. Somewhere to make a fresh start without the toxic reputation following me around.
Ironically, a fresh start was exactly what we’ve been campaigning for in that last speech, a helping hand to allow someone who lost everything to start over. I never thought it would be me in that position.
I pull my sleeves down and cross my arms in the early evening chill. No, I’m not in that position. I have experience and skills. For the last two weeks my considerable researcher’s mind has been devising the perfect escape plan.
Holed up in my sister’s flat, I’d made all the arrangements, packed up, and said goodbye to the handful of people still talking to me, none of them connected to my parliamentary career. Then, with a suitcase full of my sister’s clothes, I’d hugged my parents, kissed my nephews and nieces, and let my father drive me to Waterloo station.
“Call us if you need anything, Lessa.” Dad kissed me. He never stopped using my childhood nickname even though as an adult, respected professional I didn’t use cute names. I boarded the early morning train to Paris. From there, I took several metro trips around the city, hopping off one train and onto another to lose any enterprising journalists who might have followed me.
In La Pigalle, I found a cheap and cheerful hair salon where they transformed me back to my natural, deep red. Without the straighteners, the curly hair was a million miles from the tight and sleek blonde twist that had been my trademark in Parliament.
On the ferry, a man across is watching me, making my heart hammer in panic. Then I realise he’s not looking at my face; his eyes are glued to my chest. This is the problem with soft tee-shirt fabric, it clings, and does little to disguise the swell of bosoms.
Ridiculous! All it took was curly red hair and a soft tee that moulded my body, and six years of image control evaporated like a puff of smoke in the wind.
“Forget the government,” my sister said when we hugged. “They don’t deserve you. If Clive was half the man I thought he was, he’d have resigned for you.”
How could I tell them that somethings mattered more. That if every politician gave up when the going got tough, who would champion those who needed help. Clive and I spent a year developing a fair and strong policy; we have to see it through even if it costs us a few months’ separation.
“It was bad enough he missed his chance to deliver the speech, now he’ll have to work extra hard.” I squeezed her back.
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine.” And I will be if I really disappear for a few months. The tabloids will forget me.
Clive and I must be patient for a little while, then we’ll be safe.
My phone screen showed 7pm. We are here at last. The ferry docked at… I try not to glare at the port. Are they taking the piss? This place is a glorified fishing wharf.
