Your Perfect Year(58)

“What do you mean, a bucket list?”

“Like in the film—you know?”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“You have to—it’s brilliant! It’s about two men with incurable cancer—”

“Great! Especially given the current situation.”

“That’s really not the point. These two become friends and start to draw up their bucket lists together. A list of all the things they still want to do before they—”

“Kick the bucket.”

“Exactly.”

“And what happens in the film?”

Hannah couldn’t meet her eye. “Well, they both die in the end. But before they do, they’ve actually done all the items on their bucket lists.”

Now it was Lisa’s turn to stare at Hannah. “Oh, terrific! So they go to their graves completely fulfilled.”

“Oh, you have to have seen it. Then you’d understand what I mean.”

“I understand perfectly,” Lisa replied. “You want to make Simon draw up his bucket list. To say to him, ‘Hey, why don’t you just write down all you want to do before you kick the bucket. You may believe you only have a few months or even weeks, but we can cram in a quick trip to the Heide Park Resort. And if we’re lucky, the theme-park rides will get you so excited that you forget all that death business.’ Seriously, if you’re worried about it, he could always hit you over the head with your diary—that way, your bucket list would be sure to get a reaction!”

Hannah looked unhappy. “Of course I wouldn’t call it a bucket list. My plan is that he shouldn’t have to write it for himself, but that I do it for him. That’s what the diary’s for—I’m effectively outlining his bucket list.”

“So what’s going to be in there? Apart from the trip to the theme park, I mean?”

“I don’t know yet,” Hannah admitted. “I’ve only just had the idea; I need some peace and quiet to think about it.” She wrung her hands. “A few nice things we can do together, for one thing. Going to the seaside. Walking barefoot through a flower meadow, dancing through the night until five in the morning—”

“I’d seriously advise against that in Simon’s condition,” Lisa interrupted. “Sorry,” she added immediately, on seeing Hannah’s face. “Just saying.”

“The diary bucket list can have anything at all. They don’t have to be massive events,” Hannah continued. “Little things, anything that makes him feel good. And a few comforting thoughts, though I’ve no idea what yet.” She pondered for a moment. “For example, I’d set a date and time when he should finally sit down and start writing his novel.”

“Could turn out to be a morbid one. And unfinished to boot.”

“Lisa!”

“Sorry,” she said again, lowering her eyes. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

Hannah sighed. “Things can’t get any worse than they are now. I’ve got to try it. And if Simon really thinks he’s going to die in the next twelve months, what does he have to lose?”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly. If I ask him to get into the spirit of it for my sake and at least try, maybe he will? Simply because he still has a small place in his heart for me and I’m important to him?”

“Could work,” Lisa agreed.

“I hope so.”

“But what about his illness? He can’t just ignore it; he really needs to go to a doctor or back to the hospital.”

“I don’t know about that. Of course, I’m hoping I’ll stir up enough energy in him that he’ll take up the fight and get some help.” She smiled sadly. “And if it really turns out that Simon’s right with his gloomy prognosis and he doesn’t have much time left, then it should at least turn out to be the best time of his damned life!” Hannah swallowed hard and, before she knew it, had begun crying again. “Shit!” She banged her hand down on the duvet. “If it really is his last year, I’ll make sure it’s a damned perfect year for him!”

Lisa laid an arm around her shoulder.

“You’ll do that,” she said softly. “And I’m going to help you.”





27

Jonathan

Wednesday, January 3, 6:32 p.m.

Twenty minutes later, Jonathan and Leopold were sitting at the long teak table in the dining room over plates of scrambled eggs and ham. Not only did Jonathan not know how to make anything else, but he had nothing else in the house to cook.

He had offered to run out to the supermarket and pick up a few things, if Leopold helped him make a list, but his guest had dismissed the idea, saying he merely wanted “something warm.”

Leopold had excused himself and taken a quick shower, returning to the kitchen a quarter of an hour later wrapped in the flowery bathrobe that hung in Tina’s bathroom. Whistling cheerfully, he had taken a box of eggs from the fridge and set to work.

The result was not too different from Jonathan’s usual staple of fried eggs, but the taste was worlds away. Leopold had helped himself to the spice jars and put together a blend that, without overdoing it, resulted in the best scrambled eggs Jonathan had ever tasted.