‘I am.’ I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘See you later, perhaps. If your meeting is over when I’m done.’
And off I sashay up the stairs, knowing that every pair of eyes in that hallway will be on my arse just now, and that Noah will be making the glorious discovery that my dress has a zip runningallthe way down the back.
CHAPTER 22
Honor
Mum looks like a tiny bird, propped up against her pillows in bed with her nasal cannula in place. It’s an instant, and sobering, reality check after my fun little flirtation with Noah downstairs. This is why I’m here. To care for my dying mother. Not to pick up guys.
I kiss her forehead and inhale the botanical scent of Honor Chapman Skincare. Trust Mum to keep up her skincare routine on her deathbed. She probably has the nurses applying anti-ageing serums and giving her facial massages. Somehow, the knowledge that she still gives some shits is reassuring. It means she’s hanging on for now.
I pull up a chair next to the bed. ‘How are you feeling, Mum?’
She flutters her eyes closed and considers. She’s always given thoughtful answers to the most perfunctory questions.
‘Physically or mentally?’
‘Both, I suppose.’ I take her hand, slide my thumb across the thin layer of skin. It’s bruised by the multitude of cannulas she’s endured in recent weeks.
‘Well. Physically, I seem to be “going downhill”, as theysay. I don’t have much appetite. Except for fruit and cake. The cake here is very good.’
‘Right. What does Elena say about that?’
‘She says not to stress; just to listen to my body. They’re giving me drips to keep me hydrated when they need to.’
‘Good. You in pain?’
‘They’re managing it. I’m fine.’ Mum taps the discreet morphine button next to her and sinks deeper into her pillows. ‘The morphine is giving me terrible constipation, though. They had to give me an enema yesterday.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ The gritty, messy side of illness is not my strong suit. Thank Christ Mum’s now being looked after by trained professionals in a place that’s properly equipped to deal with all this crap (literally). ‘You poor thing. It adds insult to injury, doesn’t it?’
‘It was very liberating, actually. I don’t know why they get such a bad rap. I feel so much better.’ She pats her stomach.
‘Excellent. Moving on. And mentally? How are you finding being here?’ I don’t want to exhaust Mum with too many questions, but this has been a huge move for her.
‘It’s... less odd than I expected. If I allow myself to dwell too much on being in ahospice—well, it’s terrifying. But if I merely accept that I’m spending time in this delightful place, I’m all right. Just about. The pace is pleasant—restful, but with enough little treats thrown in to keep my spirits up. Elena’s a good girl. She pops in a lot. But I miss Noah.’ She winks at me. ‘On which note, tell me about France.’
‘Only if you’re sure you have the energy?’
‘Darling. We both know I’ll never get to France again. I’ll be leaving this place feet-first. Now, humour me and paint me a picture.’
‘If you’re sure.’ I reach into my Birkin and pull out my iPad. ‘I took so many photos and videos for you. You’d love the house. Elaine’s taste is just as exquisite as you’d imagine.’
And so I walk Mum through the footage. A video tour I took of the house; the view from my room; the vista that runs from Elaine and Pierre’s beautiful terrace down to the pool and beyond it to the sparkling, intoxicating Mediterranean sea.
There are endless videos of the kids pulling stunts in the pool. Diving competitions and synchronised swimming and basketball with an inflatable ball and a floating inflatable hoop.
‘Why on earth is Jackson there?’ Mum points with a shaky finger.
‘He came to surprise us. It was sweet, really. Rollo was thrilled.’
‘Did he let anyone else get a word in once he’d showed up?’
‘He was fine, Mum.’ Guilt makes me magnanimous towards my husband. ‘Everyone seemed pleased to see him. He definitely got the party started.’
There are no incriminating photos of Noah on any of my devices, just a few shots of him in group photos. My favourite is one of him and me on the sofa, the night he seduced me. Serena took it before dinner, so he and I were both still in foul moods over Jackson’s media coverage at that point in the evening, but I have on my Missoni dress, and his arm rests along the back of the sofa in my direction. He’s tanned, and brooding, and so fucking hot.
I’ve looked at that photo a million times since we got back yesterday, casting myself back to that moment of oblivion before he undressed me on the daybed and changed everything. I’d give anything, right now, to be back there.
