The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins

woody scent and feeling utterly spoilt. After my bath, I put on the enormous fluffy white courtesy robe, ordered a chicken Caesar salad and a half-bottle of Sancerre. Bliss, I thought as I sank back into the plump cushions on the bed. All I need now is a handsome hunk with a thing about older women to share it all with. Maybe not. I’d feel self-conscious after so long. Maybe a long-sighted hunk? And can I really be bothered? It’s been a long time, years, since I’ve had a lover. I’m not sure I remember what goes where any more. I flicked on the telly. A romantic comedy was starting. Before Sunset.

      If a man was with me, I thought, the channel would be changed and football put on. The duvet would be nicked in the night; I’d be kept awake by his snoring. No thanks. Sometimes it’s good to be single. I can watch what I want, sleep spread-eagled across the bed with no one to consider and no one to try and please.

       Fleur

      Friday 9 October, 11 a.m.

      I called Rose’s house to suggest we drive down to the hotel together. I thought it would be a good chance to re-establish contact, find out how she’s doing. No one home. Left a message. Am packed and ready and looking forward to the weekend. Perhaps we could all have supper together this evening, break the ice, start things on a positive note.

      1 p.m.: Texted Rose’s mobile. No answer.

      5 p.m.: Tried Rose’s landline again. Still no one home. Might as well set off.

      6 p.m.: Rose replied to my text. She’s already at the hotel. The mean cow. It clearly didn’t even occur to her that we could drive together. That’s how much she wants my company. So much for a cosy pre-programme supper – no way that’s going to happen now. Let it go, Fleur, let it go. Oh well, I don’t have to be there until the morning so I’ll get there in my own time when I’m good and ready and I’ll go straight to my room. Bugger the pair of them.

       Dee

      Saturday 10 October

      Rose and Fleur were already in the lobby, seated at a low table, when I came down in the morning. Rose was dressed in her preppy casual look – jeans, a white shirt and pearls; Fleur, in pale pink cashmere and white jeans, looked as feminine as ever. I was in grey leggings and a loose T-shirt. We were at a spa, after all, and here to relax: who cared what we looked like? Not me. I’d had a good night’s sleep, a delicious room-service breakfast of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and soda bread, and felt in a positive mood, looking forward to whatever Mum had planned for us. Maybe an aromatherapy massage? A facial? Reflexology?

      ‘I’ve already googled him,’ said Fleur, looking at her phone.

      ‘Who?’ I asked.

      ‘Daniel Scott,’ she replied and held up her phone screen for Rose and me. It showed a man with silver grey hair and smiling eyes, possibly in his fifties.

      The photo looked like a professional PR shot but the man in it looked interesting. Damn, I thought. And I look like a bag lady. I was just wondering whether to run upstairs and change when the real-life Daniel appeared. He clocked immediately that Fleur had his face on her phone.

      ‘Been checking me out?’ His eyes twinkled. So did Fleur’s. Not mine, though, when he glanced at me. I felt myself sag inside. I felt sixteen again. Sixteen and I’d met a boy I liked, then along would come my younger sister and I’d become invisible. Game over. A memory from that time came to mind. I’d had a crush on a boy called Jimmy Nash and had gone to a local sport’s club with Fleur to watch him play football. The pitch was full of boys; as soon as they spotted Fleur, I’d watched with dismay as a ripple of male nostrils, Jim’s included, rose and fell like a Mexican wave in recognition of the scent of fresh and beautiful bait. My sister. She always had that effect on men.

      ‘Of course,’ said Fleur. ‘We want to know what we’re in for.’ She flicked a lock of hair and gave him a cheeky smile.

      ‘Good for you,’ said Daniel as he pulled up a chair to sit with us. ‘Always best to do your research.’

      ‘Exactly,’ said Fleur. When he turned away, she looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. She wanted us to be teens checking out the talent again, but I didn’t feel like playing along. Decades on, it would still be game over.

      Rose looked less impressed. ‘I agree too. Who are you and what qualifies you for this job?’

      Daniel appeared unfazed by her hostile tone. ‘Why don’t we go into the library area, then I can answer all your questions,’ he replied, then turned to me. ‘And you must be Daisy.’

      ‘Dee. Only my mother called me Daisy.’ I smiled at him. I wanted him to know that – unlike Rose – I was friendly; a friendly, saggy bag lady.

      He led us into a snug room at the back of the hotel. It smelt of a peat fire, had old leather gentlemen’s armchairs and walls lined with books, the kind of place you could curl up and spend hours reading. Rose, Fleur and I sat around a coffee table in front of the fireplace.

      Daniel closed the double doors and came to sit with us. ‘We shan’t be disturbed in here. So. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Daniel Scott and—’

      ‘How do you – or rather did you – know our mother?’ asked Rose.

      ‘Rose, I take it,’ said Daniel, then looked at Fleur, ‘and you must be Fleur.’

      Fleur nodded. ‘Yes. Sorry, how rude of us,’ she gave Rose an accusing look. ‘Rose, Daisy … Dee, and Fleur. Daughters of Iris.’

      ‘She named us all after flowers,’ I said, then cursed myself for saying something so obvious.

      ‘Iris did tell me. I think that’s charming. Now, I know you must be wondering what you’re in for. It must be strange to be in your situation and wondering who the hell I am. Your mother got in touch with me last year to ask if I would meet with you all when the time came …’

      As he spoke, I had a chance to appraise him properly. He looked fit, not rugby fit, more yoga fit, lean and long limbed, and he had an elegance about him as he sat back in his chair, at ease with us and with the world. A man with nothing to prove. White hair slightly longer than in his PR photo, a pale blue linen shirt, jeans, three rubber bracelets on his right wrist, orange, yellow and green – the kind that say you support a charity, a woven-thread Indian bracelet on the other wrist. His face showed his age and was slightly craggy, lived in, but not in a weary way; he had laughter lines around blue eyes that looked intelligent. He also looked amused by what was happening. But is that by us or by the situation he’s in with us? I wondered. Whichever, I decided, Daniel Scott is a very attractive and charismatic man.

      ‘So you met our mother?’ asked Rose.

      ‘I did,’ said Daniel. ‘On several occasions. She came to one of the meditation centres I oversee. She studied with the swami at the centre for many months about eight years ago and then again in her last year.’

      ‘Swami Muktanand. I remember her telling me about him,’ I said.

      Daniel nodded. ‘That’s right. She was a true seeker, your mother, very open minded. We kept in touch.’

      ‘Did you visit her at the home?’ asked Fleur.

      ‘I did.’

      ‘Did she contact you or you her?’ asked Rose.

      ‘She contacted me.’

      ‘When?’

      ‘March or April this year – yes, late March I think it was. She said she’d been thinking a lot about her life, what she’d achieved and what she hadn’t.’ He stopped for a moment and regarded us all, each in turn. ‘She cared deeply that you should all be happy in your lives, and she regretted that you are no longer close.’

      ‘Yes, yes, we know all this. We’ve had the letter,’ said Rose.

      ‘Rose, no need to be abrupt,’ said Fleur. ‘Let