One by One(102)

“Entitled, entitled, fucking entitled!” Topher shouted over her. “I am so bloody sick of that word! It’s become a fucking stick to beat white men with. Do you know what entitled actually means, Tiger? It means you deserve something, that you are legally due it, for whatever reason. Think about that next time you talk about someone being entitled.”

And then he stormed out.

Now, three weeks later, I do think about it. I think about what entitled really means. About the fact that the unknown executive’s family are entitled to know the truth about their son and brother. About the fact that Eva’s innocent baby daughter is entitled to grow up without the shadow of her mother’s actions hanging over her. And I think about the fact that the dead are entitled to be left in peace.

Topher is entitled, and that’s the truth. Entitled in the way that Tiger meant. He has gone through life taking, and taking, and taking, just as Eva did. They used people like their own personal chess pieces. Employees, investors, friends, relations—they took and they took from all of them. And they never accepted responsibility for the harm they caused.

I think about what responsibility means.

I think about guilt.

I think about moving on.





ERIN


Iam up in my room, packing, when the email comes through. I don’t know what I was expecting—Kate, maybe, with some last-minute details about our redundancy packages, or HR with some more legal disclaimers to sign. It’s neither of those. And I don’t recognize the email address.

But the subject line reads Sorry, and so I click through.

I scan first to the bottom of the email to see who it’s from—and the name there makes me do a double take. Topher. What the hell is he emailing me for?

I frown. Then I scroll back up to read what he’s actually sent.

Dear Erin.

I expect by now you’ll have seen in the papers that Snoop has gone under. Fucking vulture capitalists. When you’re hot they can’t get their tongues far enough down your throat—and when you actually need them, you might as well have herpes.

If Eva was here she’d be saying I told you so, I expect, but she’s not—and so I can’t even give her that small satisfaction.

I got your email off the user database before we got locked out. I know. Don’t shop me. But listen, I wanted to say… oh fuck it. I don’t know. I’m sorry, or some bullshit like that. I’m sorry for everything that happened to you, but mainly, I’m sorry for being such a fucking prick about Alex and Will. I keep thinking back to that afternoon at the chalet when I realized who you were, and—well, look, I can’t take the words back, but I never apologized for saying them in the first place, so that’s what this is about.

I’m not very good at saying sorry. I haven’t had much practice, to tell you the truth, so I’ll just come out with it. Sorry. Alex and Will—they were good blokes. They didn’t deserve to have that happen to them, and nor did you. And I’m fucking sorry for what I implied—I don’t know how much you overheard, you were out of the room at the time, but I said some pretty shitty stuff in the heat of the moment, and I’m not proud of that.

Because here is the thing—now that the dust has settled, and I’ve had some time to come to terms with stuff, I get it. I get what losing people like that does to you. Eva—Elliot—they weren’t blood, but they were the nearest thing to it. Elliot and I came up through the prep school system together and Eva—I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Even after we broke up, we never really severed that connection.

So I get it now. I get why you didn’t tell us. I get why you couldn’t leave.

I think about them all the time. About Elliot, being postmortemed in some French morgue. About Eva, still up there, frozen in the mountain passes like Sleeping Beauty. And about Ani too, I guess. Fuck.

Anyway—that’s all really. I just wanted to say it one last time.

Sorry.

Topher

x

PS I just wanted to tell you, that file—I handed it all to the police. It felt like the right thing to do in the end. And for what it’s worth, I did it last week. Before all this happened. It’s not why Snoop went under—I’d like to say it was, but it wasn’t. But I wanted you to know.



When I look up from the screen, I’m surprised to find my cheeks are wet. And although I don’t know what to say, I hit reply and sit, for a long time, my fingers just hovering over the keys. And then I type. Just eight words. And I really, really hope they are true.

Dear Topher, it’s going to be all right.





ERIN


“Oh, mate.” Danny’s arms are around my neck, his face is buried in my shoulder. “Gonna miss you, you stupid cow.”

“I’m going to miss you too.” I hug him back, feeling his strong shoulders, hard beneath his down jacket, smelling his permanent scent of French cooking—of simmering wine-rich stews, and melting butter, and sautéed garlic and all good things.

“You gonna be all right?”

I nod. Because for the first time in a long while… I think I am.

“I have to go home,” I say, and I mean it this time. Not home, St. Antoine, but home to England, where Will’s grieving parents and my own family have been waiting patiently for me to make peace with my ghosts.