Page 6 of Counting Down To You

Now, I don’t know what I’m feeling. My fingers, starting to go numb from the cold, tighten round my phone, and my jaw clenches as I think of Adam, of his expression, so apologetic, when he’d tried to explain he was breaking up with me. Tried to, because I just didn’t understand at first. Because I didn’t get how someone you’d been dating for nearly three years wouldn’t realize that your best friend being in and out of hospital, her future uncertain, was a pretty stressful time, and that you might need your boyfriend to bear with you just a little bit.

And yes, okay, that’s anger I’m feeling now. But…he remembered me today. He thought to message me.

The traffic lights change to red, and the green man signals I can cross, but I don’t. Instead, I bring up Adam’s Instagram. I can’t see any photos of him with the girl he’d been dating at the top of his grid. The girl with the shiniest hair I’ve ever seen, the tiniest waist and, to top it all off, the most gorgeous “bedroom eyes.” I have no idea what qualifies as bedroom eyes, but this woman definitely has them. And given Adam walks around looking like he should be the lead in an action movie—one who also had a romantic subplot—photos of the two of them together are enough to make you feel a little sick.

Maybe they broke up? Maybe that’s why he’s messaging?

Stop it, Ali.

For God’s sake, he’s only feeling sorry for me. And I’m going to be getting a lot of that this month, aren’t I? A whole new wave of it. I’m supposed to be seeing my university friends for Christmas drinks in a couple of weeks and already I don’t think I can bear it. They all miss Robyn, of course—I’m not the only one who lost her. But all of them know about the challenge calendar because they were witness to some of the more ridiculous (or virtuous) challenges that Robyn and I set each other over the first few years. (Hand in all your essays the day before the deadline. Get someone to perform the Dirty Dancing lift with you on a night out.) Which means that not only will there be sympathy, there will also be all this extra pressure to complete the challenges. Pressure I don’t want.

I take another breath. And, given that being out in the fresh air does not seem to be doing me any good, I head back the way I came. I should have known, really, that there’s only one thing I’m going to be able to do today.

If the closed bedroom door is anything to go by, Julie is still asleep when I get home, so I tiptoe over the laminate flooring and open my bedroom door as quietly as I can. Without taking my coat off, I sit down on my double bed—one that takes up the majority of the space in the room—and bring the calendar toward me. My fingers tremble as I open the first square and pull out the small slip of paper, folded in half.

My throat clogs as I open it. Because that is Robyn’s handwriting. It’s an ugly scrawl, barely legible (“Don’t judge me. My voice is far better than my writing.”). But here it is, proof that Robyn hasn’t left me, not yet.

It takes me a moment to read the words, then to register them.

Book a flight to Châtel.

Simple, and straight to the point, as they so often were. And I remember sitting next to Robyn’s hospital bed, in that awful, white-walled room, while Robyn talked about the Alps, which seemed to be a newfound obsession of hers.

“And there’s this place in France, Châtel, which sounds amazing, beyond beautiful with loads of places to do social stuff too. We could learn French! And learn how to ski, obviously.”

“Not sure I’m the skiing sort, to be honest,” I mused. Adam had been a big skier, but he’d usually gone with his old schoolmates, an annual tradition. An annual expensive tradition, which had always been the sticking point for me—recruitment paid okay, but nothing compared to Adam’s management-consultancy job. And, yes, I loved being outdoors and didn’t mind the cold, but didn’t people regularly break bones skiing?

At Robyn’s prompt, I got out my phone to google photos of Châtel.

“Maybe we could go in summer?” I asked, flicking through the images. “I bet there are some epic hikes in the mountains.” And I missed hiking. I didn’t get to do much of it in London, confined instead to the treadmill and pretending to be running through a forest by looking at one on the screen.

“Absolutely. Maybe that would be better anyway—less crowded and we can lounge around in the sun.” Then Robyn reached out to take one of my hands. I looked down at her, hating the way she was becoming increasingly pale each day, a tube stuck to the underside of her nose to help her breathe. Like her body was shutting down, bit by bit. “Promise me you’ll go,” Robyn said, squeezing my hand for emphasis, “even if I can’t.”

“I won’t have to,” I said firmly. “You’ll be coming with me.” And, despite the fact that Robyn was clearly getting sicker, I’d believed it. I’d convinced myself that she would get the heart transplant, be signed off to travel in a year, then we’d go to the Alps together. I’d clung on to that hope until almost the very end.

Tears are stinging my eyes, my throat thick and swollen, as I think back to the promise I refused to make. I feel a rush of anger at the fact that I’m still here, able to fulfill this dream, and Robyn is not. I scrunch up the piece of paper, feeling an urge to hurl the calendar against my bedroom wall.

But, of course, I don’t. Instead, I unclench my fist and smooth out the piece of paper within it. And I feel resolve tighten within me. I’ve never failed to complete a challenge before, and I’m not going to start now. This is the last piece of Robyn I have left, and I owe it to my best friend to see it through. To do as many challenges as I can before Christmas, like we always did. Yes, I don’t have Robyn to compete with this year, but I can make sure to do her proud this one final time.

I unbutton my coat, dump it unceremoniously on the floor, then rest back against my pillows, getting out my phone and heading to Skyscanner. I hesitate as I look at the last-minute deals. But what’s stopping me? I’m on sabbatical and I have nothing to do with all this time I’ve been given. And, okay, Robyn didn’t say I have to go right now, only that I have to book the flight. But still…

A few minutes later, I message Cal on WhatsApp.

You know you said you might be able to hook me up with some seasonal work…

I get a response immediately. Clearly, he’s hard at work.

Don’t tell me. You’ve decided to give Mrs. Claus a go.

Not quite. But I do have something in mind. A very specific location.

Name it. You know I love a challenge.

Well good. Because I’ve just booked a flight. For tomorrow.

He takes longer to reply this time, long enough that I start to get nervous. What if this is a terrible idea? What if he can’t find me anything, and I have to go out to the Alps on my own with nothing to keep me busy?

Then his reply comes through.