‘Don’t let her get you drunk. She’s an enabler. But thank you. She feels like herself today, which’—she drums her fingers on the desk—‘none of us were expecting. It’s been far easier on all of us than we expected, to be honest.’
Her smile is open and I drink her in. That her hair is pulled off her face in a low bun isn’t helping with the Julia Roberts comparisons. Her skin is improbably dewy and youthful looking. Her extraordinary beauty has always led to the press dubbing her decorative, but I remember this woman interviewing world leaders on that sofa, and not giving an inch. She may be decorative, but she’s far from fluffy. She shifts. Uncrosses and recrosses her glossy legs. It’s getting harder not to look.
‘I’m really glad you’ve had a good start,’ I say now. ‘It won’t be a totally smooth ride, but we’ve got a good team here to help you through the ups and downs. And you noticing that she’s being herself here is the biggest reassurance you could give me right now. That’s a wonderful sign. We really don’t want any of our guests to feel like they’re on a conveyor belt to death. This should be a place where they can relax and embrace who they are.’
‘Hashtag live your best end-of-life? I think you’re missing a t-shirt opportunity there.’
She’s funny. And stunning. And married to a celebrity god. Jesus, Noah. Get a grip.
‘Stephanie would look great in that t-shirt,’ I quip.
‘She’d certainly rock it. I like the questionnaire, by the way. We’re working through it with Elena.’
‘The goals of care?’
‘Yes, but also the questions about her values. It’s a brilliant way to approach this period in… I guess, a mindful way. Like, how does she want to be remembered? And what are the things that are most important to her from here on in, and what can she live without? It’s a helpful way to focus in.’
‘It is. The thing I’ve found about palliative care is that this stage is about letting go of all the stuff that doesn’t serve you. Your family’s already relinquished the physical care and logistics just by coming here, and now you and Stephanie hopefully have the headspace to relinquish some other stuff, too.’
‘Yeah.’ She bows her head, avoiding eye contact. ‘Can I ask you and the team another favour?’
‘Anything.’
‘Would you mind just being careful what newspapers you give her, please? I saw you have a table of papers outside the bedrooms. There’s a lot of shit hitting the fan about my husband in the tabloids right now, and I don’t want Mum to see that kind of stuff. It’ll just upset her. We’re dealing with it, but I don’t know how long it’ll be before the press gets bored with us and moves on.’
Jesus. I stare at the top of her head for a moment. For her to have to deal with this crap, on top of everything else, makes my blood boil. It’s clear she’s uncomfortable having to bring it up with me. I grit my jaw and only realise I haven’t answered when she looks up at me.
‘Of course,’ I say quickly. ‘Consider it dealt with—I’ll let the others know.’
‘Thanks.’ She gives me a weak smile. ‘I’m looking forward to getting away from all this.’
‘You coming to France, then?’
‘Yep. Ally’s going to hold the fort here—she’s a universityprofessor, so she has the summer off. The kids deserve a bit of fun, and I need to lie by a pool for a few days and drink rosé and turn off my phone.’
I swallow as a crystal-clear mental image of Honor lying by the Chateau des Anges pool in a bikini hits me.
France is looking up.
CHAPTER 11
Honor
The thing I can’t get over is the smell. The smell of France is like crack. As soon as Di, the children and I step out of our hire car at the entrance to Chateau des Anges, the scent of foreign soil and vines and vegetation hits me so powerfully that I inhale like a sniffer dog.
We’ve driven up a gloriously straight, cypress-lined driveway that intersects pleasingly regular lines of vines on either side. The sea is somewhere over to the left, but a pine wood obstructs the view.
The anticipation hit me squarely in the stomach as soon as we turned off the road and through the massive wrought-iron gates into the vineyard. The latter part of the journey from Nice was heavenly, as we came off the autoroute and wove through medieval perched villages that glowed gold in the afternoon sunlight, and ancientbastideswith verdant gardens. And all the while, the Mediterranean sparkled in the distance.
But nothing has prepared me for how downright gorgeous the chateau is. Elaine and Philippe have had it for less than three years, and I’ve seen some photos, but this place is divine, steeped in architectural charm.
It’s been a couple of years since I was last in France, and now it’s as though a part of my soul is gradually unfurling, coming back to life. I disentangle Rollo from his iPad and headphones as I help him out of the back seat of the car. Di is already unloading our suitcases—too many for a four-day trip, but never mind—and Serena has her head buried in herHarry Potterbook.
‘Bienvenus!’ Elaine appears in an open doorway set into the wall in front of us, her husband Philippe following her out. They’re both charming, gracious. They’ll be delightful hosts. They fawn over the kids and kiss me, and I notice for the first time that Noah takes after his father. The height, mainly. And the dark, Gallic good looks, although Philippe has gone elegantly grey.
On the other side of the doorway is a charming courtyard, a tinkling fountain at its centre. Elaine points to the open front door across the courtyard.
‘Serena and Rollo—if you run straight through there and out the other side, you’ll find everyone at the pool. Go say hi!’
