Page 47 of Counting Down To You

I barely register the (incorrect) lack of patience comment, too taken aback by the easy offer of friendship. “Really?”

“Sure. And I’ll show you the best spot for après-ski afterward.”

I smile. “Okay. Thank you—that’s really nice.”

There you go, Robyn. I not only learned a new skill, I am practicing it.

Lucie waves off my thanks. “Betty and Louisa have just come in for lunch. I think they were telling Elodie they wanted to see you.”

“What do you reckon it is this time?” I ask, moving to the other side of the desk. “More helicopters?”

“Nah, they wouldn’t do the same thing twice.” Lucie cocks her head, her small stud earrings glinting a little in the warm reception lighting. “Maybe paragliding?”

I make a face. “Oh God, don’t. I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

Lucie only grins.

As I make my way toward the restaurant, I can feel the little slip of paper burning a hole in my pocket. Call your brother. I know why Robyn has done this, obviously. She always struggled with the relationship with her mum, who had let her down, repeatedly. Changing her mind last minute about helping Robyn move in to university in freshers’ week was not, as it had turned out, a one-time thing. Robyn’s mum was—or is, I suppose—a chaotic, insensitive person, who had a habit of forgetting promises made to her daughter with an alarming degree of regularity. Their relationship was at best frayed and at worst estranged, especially after Robyn moved to London.

As such, Robyn hadn’t told her mum she was ill for a very long time. I’d been there at hospital appointments instead and we’d made it work, just the two of us. I’d never pressured her or suggested it—I’d figured Robyn would call her mum if and when she was ready. It was, in fact, something we’d bonded over—my dad and her mum, and the fact that neither of us spoke to one of our parents. But, in the end, Robyn had called her mum. Had told her about the diagnosis, and about being on the transplant waiting list.

I remember sitting with Robyn in hospital, after her mum had been to visit. Robyn was staring at her door. “I should have called her sooner,” she whispered, looking pale and drawn.

I couldn’t quite read her tone of voice. “There are no shoulds. She’s never been there for you—I get why you didn’t.”

“I know.” She smiled a sad smile, one that twisted my heart. “But she’s my mum, you know?”

And because Robyn had been glad that she’d made the effort with her mum before she died, now she wants the same thing for me. She wouldn’t suggest being in touch with my dad—she knew that would never be on the cards. But my brother…apparently that’s a different story. Robyn had met James many times before he’d left. She’d seen the relationship we’d once had, an easy sort of comfort between the two of us. Had seen the fallout for both me and my mum when James had followed in our dad’s footsteps and left without warning.

She couldn’t have known, though, that James wouldn’t be there at her funeral. And, besides, in the end Robyn had wanted to speak to her mum. I have absolutely no desire to speak to James. Because what would it accomplish, really?

I focus on Betty and Louisa as I head into the restaurant, sitting at their usual table by the window. They are in matching purple thermal tops today. I wonder if it’s deliberate.

The gray-haired Louisa puts down her sparkling water and smiles at me, the wrinkles around her eyes creasing. “Hello, darling.”

I smile back. “Hi. How are you both?”

“Oh grand, grand. But listen, Bet and I were just saying—we’re only here for another week, because someone didn’t want to spend Christmas out here.”

“Yes,” Betty says, “because someone seems to forget she is not the only member of my family to think about.” Interesting. I’d been starting to think of them as their own little unit, no other family apart from a possibly divorced or dead famous husband.

“Anyway,” Louisa continues, ignoring her sister, “we’ve never done it before, but we met some people last year who told us all about it. Apparently there is this hut—”

“A chalet, darling. A hut sounds dreadful.”

“A chalet, then. A small one that people hire out for dinner parties and the like. It’s ski in, ski out only—and the couple we met said people can hire a famous chef to cook dinner there and make it a whole experience.”

“We’re willing to compromise on the famous, though,” Betty pipes up helpfully. “Given it’s such short notice.”

“Oh yes, absolutely. To be fair we’d be very happy with Marco.”

“And we’ve met a man staying here who is just delightful. We know he’d want to do it too.”

They both look at me expectantly while I try to figure out what, exactly, they are asking. Betty sips her fruit juice, blinking up at me.

“So…” I look between them. “You want to have dinner in this hut? Or chalet?” I correct, before Betty can.

“You’ll know the place, I’m sure,” says Louisa. “It’s supposed to be iconic.”