A Bucket List To Die For

by Lorraine Fouchet

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Siblings; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

' Both heartbreaking and heartwarming ' - ***** Amazon reviewer ' Emotional, charming and uplifting ' -***** Amazon reviewer A message in a bottle. One summer. A family to reunite. Lou suffers from a rare type of dementia and dies in her fifties. She leaves behind a message in a bottle, charging her husband Joe with a challenging task: he has two months to reunite their patchwork family whose members have fallen out with each other. Luckily for him, Lou has thought of everything and helps him along with a list of family activities and recipes. Slowly but surely, they all find their way back to each other: Joe's son Cyrian and his two daughters Apple and Charlotte. Cyrian's second wife who can't stand Apple because she isn't her own. Joe's stunning daughter Sarah who has lost the love of her life and seeks solace in one-night stands. But Joe is running out of time. Will his efforts pay off before it is too late? And most importantly: what's in the mysterious letter?

Release date: April 29, 2021

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

10th December

Danny, Paris, rue Monge

As manager of this hotel, I don’t count my hours. It’s been well worth it though, as our revenue has continued to increase despite the recession. I’m on social media, I organise themed evenings, I pamper and fuss over the clubs and charities that hold their meetings here. I work around the clock and I hardly ever take time off, but tonight is different; I’m meeting my lover in a sophisticated restaurant called the Molitor, which used to be an ice rink.

As I open the door out onto the street, I bump headfirst into a man standing there. I just about keep my balance, which isn’t easy when you’re wearing six-inch heels, but he falls over. I apologize and say I didn’t see him. I hope that he’s not a client who’s going to sue me for damages. The guy is tall and skinny, with a beard; it’s impossible to guess his age. His wet clothes stink. Oh, he’s not a client, he’s homeless. Phew! He lies listless on the wet pavement.

“Are you okay, sir? Can you get up please, you’re blocking the entrance,” I say firmly. I don’t think he’s had a bath for years.

“My leg hurts,” he whimpers.

He stinks of alcohol. I tell him to try and get up. I step back so that my coat doesn’t skim his smelly, shabby old raincoat.

“I can’t put my foot down,” he says.

I tell him in no uncertain terms that he can’t stay there. My receptionist is busy. The hotel lobby is empty. Luckily the street is deserted in the heavy rain. Nobody saw us crash into each other.

Wincing in pain, he says he thinks his leg is broken. I tell him that he has merely sprained it and that there is a hospital right nearby. He says he can’t walk, so what is he meant to do, fly there? I start to lose my temper; Cyrian hates it when I’m late. I tell him I’ll call an ambulance to get him to hospital. But he wants to wait for it in the hotel out of the rain. I shake my head. His filth is nauseating.

“That’s impossible, sir, this hotel is not a public space,” I say.

I point out a restaurant a few doors down that is closed today and tell him to take shelter under its awning. He insists he wants to go inside the hotel and shelter there till the ambulance arrives. I tell him they’ll say no and ask him to get up.

He gets back on his feet and stands in front of the door on one leg like a big, wounded heron. His piercing blue eyes unsettle me. I can’t make out his features under that bird’s nest of a beard, but he must have been quite an attractive man before he sank so low. He hobbles agonizingly slowly to the restaurant. I open my bag and take out a ten- and a five-euro note.

“Here, take this.”

“I didn’t ask you for money,” he says, snatching it.

“It’s for a taxi so you can get to A & E,” I reply.

“They won’t take me, it’s too near,” he mumbles.

They won’t take him because he stinks and he’s filthy. My little red Fiat 500 convertible is parked just across the street, but there’s no way I’m going to let him dirty my seats.

“I’m lonely,” he sighs. “I used to have a dog. But since I went into hospital, I don’t know what’s become of him. He’s either been run over, or a lab has stolen him for some of those sick experiments they do.”

Personally, I can’t stand dogs, and it gets my back up when clients walk in dog excrement and then trample it through my lobby.

I tell him that dogs just dirty the streets and are full of fleas. “If you’ve just got out of hospital, then your leg isn’t hurting because you fell. Are you taking the piss?”

“No, I was on the cardio ward, my heart is all over the place. They wanted to open up my chest and fumble around, so I told them to keep their hands off me. But I’m starting to have more and more episodes. Here, for example, I can feel it tightening . . .”

His face tenses up, as he grips the left side of his torso with his right hand.

“I can’t breathe, I swear to you!”

He leans on the wall, sliding onto the ground. I step aside, rummaging through my bag.

“I don’t believe you anymore. I have an important appointment. Look, here’s another ten euros, I’m off now. Okay?” I say.

“My heart’s racing, I’m scared, don’t leave me on my own!” he pleads.

That game won’t work on me. I put the money in his hand and tell him I’m not a doctor but I’ll call the emergency services who’ll be here very soon.

I turn around and cross the street, making sure he’s not following me. I get into my car, lock the doors, drive off and take the first street on the right. I pull up in front of the double doors of a residential building, disinfect my hands with a wipe and call the emergency services.

“You have called the police, please hold.”

“Good evening, a man has just collapsed on rue Monge. I’m in the bus, I think he needs the paramedics.”

I give the location of the restaurant and then hang up. I’m on the bus—no one can sue me for failing to assist a person in danger.

I make my way to the Molitor, my conscience clear. I didn’t just leave him, I called for help. Besides, the man isn’t staying at my hotel, he was probably drunk and reeling with vermin. I’m not a charity and think I was extremely generous to give him twenty-five euros. I decide not to tell Cyrian about it. We’re going to spend a lovely romantic evening together, respecting the rules we established two years ago when we started dating. I don’t talk about my hotel, and he doesn’t talk about his wife, daughters or parents. We’re only interested in each other, in our own little bubble, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Thierry, Paris, rue Monge

The red Fiat 500 convertible has turned the corner. I wait another five minutes before getting up. I catch my reflection in the mirror of a shop window, I barely recognize myself with this lumberjack’s beard. I walk away briskly, taking a yellow medical refuse bag out of my pocket and I remove my filthy shabby overcoat, that stinks of booze, and stuff it inside. I disinfect my hands with antiseptic gel. I bought this coat from a homeless man who was admitted for an epidural hematoma in the neurology department I head. He arrived in a comatose state, about to die, and left on his own two feet with the great big warm coat that I’d bought him. The head nurse thought I was crazy when she heard about it.

I step into a café a little further down the street. From the café window, I can see an emergency vehicle, with rotating flashing lights and siren on. I smile at the regulars leaning against the counter and hand the twenty-five euros to the barman.

“Get the gentlemen a drink on me!” I say, smiling to myself.

11th August

I am writing to all three of you from my room in the nursing home. I know you won’t release me, Joe, even though you signed my agreement, promising you would. And I thought I’d been clever in marrying a doctor! Cyrian, Sarah, I played a bad trick on you, yes, sorry. I deliberately misled you into thinking that your father had cheated on me. He betrayed me, yes, but he didn’t cheat on me. He didn’t go with any other woman (as far as I know!), though it’s true that he did like ogling them. Ten years ago, on Les Grands Sables beach, I made him promise to help me if I ever had an incurable disease, was in intolerable pain or lost my mind. Men can’t resist tears so he promised, which reassured me. I knew he wouldn’t keep his word, but I still felt relieved in a funny way.

You were born into a privileged family. The flip side of the coin is that you didn’t get to see much of your father. You both have your own sorrows and hardships to deal with and you faced them with courage. The reason I lied was to force you all to confront each other, to make you discover who you really are. If it has brought you all together, then I have succeeded. Your father didn’t want me to move into the nursing home, I forced his hand, because I almost disfigured Apple when I knocked over the grek. I had a memory lapse and didn’t recognize her.

You made me so madly happy, all three of you. Joe taught me the incredible joys of life. I hope you both get to experience the same adventure. And please know that every disgusting meal I gave you was made with love.

I hope that Apple and Charlotte will grow up to be fulfilled and free women. It’s not children or grandchildren that make us happy, it’s the love they bring us, the love we give them, the love which envelopes us all.

We don’t know how we’ll die, but we can decide how we’ll live. Joe, I forced you to become better acquainted with our children and I stopped you throwing in the towel and going under. You stopped me from ending things that night, so I did the same for you. I got here before you, Joe, so I’m going to book us the best table in a five star restaurant in the sky. Loving you was intoxicating.

Thank you for Groix, really. I’ve got the best view from this piece of sky. I can see the waves caressing the jagged coastline, the earth and the rocks, the evergreen broom and the low walls, the tuna on the bell tower, the harbours, the creeks and the islanders; it’s at once simple and extraordinary, powerful and unique. Groix was the icing on the cake, not my burnt cakes or Martine’s magical culinary creations, but the icing on the tchumpôt.

I love you all,

Lou

11th December

Albane, Le Vésinet

“Oskar, walkies time, come along!”

The young dog fetches his leash and brings it to me grinning. Charlotte is in bed. I’m hungry, but I’m fed up with eating alone every evening in front of the TV. It’s not Cyrian’s fault he has to work so hard. There’s a recession on, and we all have to pull together and go that extra mile. But we are seeing each other less and less, just crossing like ships in the night. Last night, I was fast asleep when he came back from his meeting with the trade union representatives. He doesn’t make love to me anymore either. I bought some expensive new underwear, and he didn’t even notice. We’ll just walk to the end of the street and back. Oskar is so well trained that I could order him to wee in the gutter in front of the house and come straight back and he would. Oskar, number two! But he needs some exercise. Cyrian should be back soon. I’ve put some retsina wine in the fridge to chill, like I used to. They were happy times; I hope it’ll perk him up a bit. He’s been totally lost since his mother died. A shadow of his former self. Something frightens me and I jump.

“Don’t be afraid, little lady!”

“Oh, you startled me,” I exclaim, turning around.

The man is tall and slim with round blue eyes like Smarties and a thick, dirty goatee beard. He obviously hasn’t washed since God knows when. I volunteer at the local homeless charity, but I’ve never seen him before.

He tells me it’s not safe, walking alone at night. His tone is not threatening, yet he makes me uncomfortable.

“Don’t go near my dog,” I say, “he bites!”

In reality, Oskar wouldn’t hurt a fly.

He is leaning against the wall. He says he’s hungry, to which I reply that I haven’t got my purse with me. He tells me he’s not asking for money but is hungry and lonely. Apparently, he used to have a dog, but then he had a heart attack and was hospitalized, and he hasn’t seen his dog since. He thinks it was either run over or snatched by a lab for one of those disgusting experiments they do on animals.

The idea makes me shiver. “Doesn’t he have a name disc, or a chip, or tattoo? Have you informed the animal rescue?” I ask.

He replies that his dog has lots of fleas, then asks me if I have any scraps of food for him. He pulls a face, wincing, as if in pain and puts his right hand on his heart.

“It hurts. I can’t breathe, it’s really tight!” he stutters.

He staggers, then slides down the wall into a sitting position.

“Are you alright, sir?” I enquire.

“My heart is really throbbing,” he replies. “At the hospital they wanted to open my chest and fumble around inside me, so I told them to keep their hands off me.”

His face takes on a look of sheer panic. His blue Smartie-like round eyes start to roll. I kneel down beside him, careful not to touch him, as he is rather repulsive. I don’t have my mobile phone with me. I tell him that I watch the medical shows on TV till my husband gets home and know a bit about the subject.

“Did they not prescribe you any Trinitrine?” I ask.

“How would I have paid for it?” he mumbles.

I tell him I live nearby and am going to call the emergency services. He resembles a frightened little boy.

“Please don’t leave me! I don’t want to die, I’m scared,” he pleads.

I tell him I’ll only be a second and promise I’ll be right back.

I hurry in the dark. I’ll call the emergency services and they’ll send the paramedics, then I’ll go back and wait with him.

Thierry, Le Vésinet

As soon as she leaves, I grab the dog by the collar to prevent him from following her. I give him a snack from my pocket. The labrador sits on his hindquarters expecting more treats. I whisper to him persuasively, “Number one, Oskar! Number one, Oskar, good boy!”

He doesn’t move. His mistress notices that he isn’t following her. She calls him but she can’t see I’m restraining him.

I try again, “Number one, Oskar! Are you deaf?”

“Oskar, come home at once!” orders his mistress.

Suddenly it comes to me. I put the words in the wrong order. “Oskar, number one! Now! Oskar, number one!” I order. The well trained dog obeys. I move closer to sit in the puddle of urine, swearing under my breath at Joe.

“Oh no, lady! Your mutt just pissed on me!” I shout.

“What?” she says, in horror.

She retraces her steps and sees the puddle. Oskar gets a good telling off.

I get up with difficulty. My coat is dripping with urine. Oskar wags his tail, staring at my pocket which smells of biscuit to him.

“My heartbeat has slowed down; panic over. I need to get out of here. Your dog clearly doesn’t like tramps.”

“I’m sorry, really, I’m going to make him apologize!”

Albane, Le Vésinet

This man is ill. He’s all alone, and as lonely as me since my husband started neglecting me. I can’t bring him into our house while Charlotte is sleeping but I can’t leave him on the street either. I have no choice but to let him come and use our summerhouse.

“I live right next door, sir. Please come with me.”

His disgusting coat stinks and is dripping in urine. I ask him if he feels any better. He says he thinks his angina pectoris is stable. I don’t understand but apparently that’s what they called it at the hospital. We walk slowly and painfully up to our garden fence. I open the gate; we bypass the house and I guide him to the little cabin.

 

I have trouble swallowing as I scan the room and see the old, broken armchair, the table, the sink in the corner, and Cyrian’s hideous exercise bike in front of the window. I turn on the electric radiator. He collapses into the armchair.

“My head is spinning. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday,” he says.

“I’m going to get you some food and a change of clothes.”

I take Oskar in the house, and lock the door behind me. Cyrian’s keys are not hanging up, so he’s not home yet. I get his voicemail when I try and call him. I open the door to Charlotte’s room, she’s fast asleep. I open the wardrobe and grab a pair of sailing trousers I bought on Groix. I add a Barbour jacket that Cyrian no longer wears. I take a towel from the bathroom cupboard. I go into the kitchen and stuff a baguette, some butter, a chocolate bar, a banana and Cyrian’s special Spanish ham into a bag. That’ll teach him for not being here. I mustn’t give the man any alcohol though, not in his condition. I open the cutlery drawer and hesitate whether to give him a knife in case he attacks me with it. I remove the butter from the bag, now he won’t need a knife. I slip forty euros into an envelope and write an address on it.

“Oskar, come on, we’re going back out!”

The dog follows me, intrigued by the contents of the bag. I cross the garden and knock on the cabin door.

“Hello?”

The man is still sat in the same position. He is trying to keep warm. I put the groceries, the clothes and the towel on the table and avoid looking at the bike.

“I apologize again for my dog’s unacceptable behaviour. Here, you can change your clothes now and eat. I’ll be right back. How is your heart?”

He says it’s still ticking for now but won’t hold out forever. I sit down in the garden on a teak armchair that cost a small fortune. In the early days, Cyrian and I used to take care of the garden furniture together, coating it with a special oil, and taking a break to kiss each other every few minutes. Then I took over the job, using a spray, before giving up on it altogether, a bit like our relationship. The garden chairs have been neglected and nobody bothers with them anymore. Just like our marriage.

I was stupid to let a stranger into our home, especially at night. Imagine the headlines: Housewife and mother murdered at her home in Le Vésinet. No sign of forced entry. That’s me, a Le Vésinet housewife and mother who doesn’t go out to work, preferring to take care of her daughter instead. Apple is also part of our family of course. I knew of her existence right from the start of our relationship. I found it touching that Cyrian was a young father. When I told Cyrian I was pregnant, he said, “Oh no, not again!” I went icy cold. My husband and Maëlle hate each other with the same passion as when they loved each other. I know he’ll never love me as much as he loved her. We won’t be going to Groix anymore which I’m glad about. Next summer, we’ll take Apple to the South of France with us. I could have strangled her when I discovered that she had taken Charlotte out on the luggage rack of her bike! She didn’t know why I reacted like that of course, and just thought I was crazy, which isn’t so far from the truth.

I return to the summerhouse. The man has started eating the baguette and the bar of chocolate. My husband’s clothes fit him perfectly. If he shaved his beard, he would look like one of those contestants in a makeover show.

I apologize again, and tell him my dog made a mistake. Then it comes to me: the man’s stench must have disorientated Oskar, and made him lose his bearings.

“Did he mistake me for a lamp post?” he asks.

“No, no,” I reply. “Eat up.”

Helping out at the local charity for the homeless, I have come across people from all walks of life, even former teachers who have lost everything. Tramps used to be marginalized for choosing to live outside of society, but nowadays it can happen to anyone.

“How’s your heart?” I ask.

“Still alive so far.”

He points to the exercise bike and says that it’s an excellent workout for the heart.

“Is it yours?”

“I loathe bicycles of any shape or size.”

“Did you fall off when you were small?”

I reply that the bike is my husband’s, like the ham, which is a special one.

He tells me he eats kosher.

“I apologize!”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Your dog has probably been taken in by someone who loves and cares for him,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.

“You’re a good woman,” he replies. “Your husband is a lucky man.”

I reply that he’ll be home soon; I say the same thing to all electricians, workmen, postmen, or delivery men who come to the house, so they are aware there is a male presence here.

“Will he think I’m trying to seduce you?” he asks.

I shake my head. He obviously hasn’t looked at himself in the mirror recently! In any case, Cyrian doesn’t care enough about me anymore to be jealous.

“My father-in-law was in charge of a large cardiology department. You should get yourself checked out there. Here, I’ve noted down the address for you,” I say.

I give him an envelope containing the money for the consultation.

“Is he a nice guy, your father-in-law?” he asks.

“He’s a bit strange, but he loves my daughter, which is all that counts. He’s a bit annoying, but a good man.”

My eyes catch sight of that damn bike again and I shudder as I turn my head away.

“What happened to make you hate bicycles so much?”

I get a lump in my throat. “My little brother . . . he had a moped accident. He got hit by a lorry and was killed instantly. It was all my fault. Cyrian knows but not Charlotte and my parents refuse to mention Tanguy’s name, as if he had never existed. There was a family gathering for my mother’s birthday. Tanguy was just ten years old and I was fifteen. I had just bought a moped with the money I had saved up from babysitting. I was showing off and bragging about it to my elder cousins, who all had a go on it. I wouldn’t let Tanguy go on it though as I was afraid he might damage it. He watched as I pulled the throttle to accelerate. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had left the key in the ignition and forgotten to put the steering lock on when we sat down to eat . . .

I close my eyes in horror, as I relive the scene. My voice trembles, my eyes fill with tears, and I choke on my words.

“After the meal, the smaller children got up from the table to go and play. Cheese and wine were served, followed by birthday cake with candles. We called the children back in, but Tanguy was nowhere to be found. We looked everywhere for him. Then we heard sirens down the street. To this day, my mother has never forgiven me for killing my brother.”

“But it wasn’t your fault,” he says.

“I should have removed the ignition key and put the lock on,” I reply sadly.

“But it was an accident!”

“My mother needed someone to blame. I should have let Tanguy try it out like my cousins. I would have shown him how to brake. The lorry driver saw him accelerate and drive straight into him.”

Describing this scene devastates me just as violently as it did then.

“I will never let my daughter ride a bike or a moped. My husband had a motorcycle when I met him, but he’s sold it since. He works out here on this exercise bike. I refuse to let him bring the thing in the house.”

Tanguy was my mother’s favourite. We were close. On the evening of his funeral, my mother went outside with me in the garden and, with sheer hatred in her voice, she screamed at me, “I hope one day you will feel the same pain that you’ve caused me. I hope you will have a child and lose it”.

I didn’t tell my father; he wouldn’t have believed me anyway. I see my parents as little as possible and I never let Charlotte stay with them. My mother lost a child, so I can understand how grief stricken she is, but at the same time I hate her. Charlotte thinks I’m an only child. I am overprotective of her, but the thought that something terrible could happen to her scares me so much. I could have murdered Apple when I heard they had been out on a bike together. The next night, at the Marine Hotel, I had a horrible nightmare. I was at the wheel of a lorry and saw Tanguy rushing towards me on a bright red bike, I wasn’t even trying to avoid him. He was laughing his head off before he fell to the ground next to the red bicycle. My mother and Charlotte came running out of the garden. Charlotte ran towards my little brother’s crushed body. My mother was screaming at her, “You killed my son, I told you not to lend him your bike, you deserve to die,” and she strang. . .