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It’s then I feel the burning sensation on my lips and my throat tightens some more. I recognise the symptoms. This isn’t a reaction to the conversation, this is a reaction to something I’ve eaten. I’m going into anaphylactic shock. A symptom of my nut allergy.
I drop the spoon on the table and simultaneously push the chair back as I get to my feet. My EpiPen is upstairs in my bag. I had completely forgotten to bring it down with me, something I do as a matter of course when I eat where someone other than myself has prepared the food.
‘You OK, Carys?’ asks Joanne.
‘Shit,’ comes Andrea’s voice and I assume she’s realised what is happening.
The rest of the conversation is lost as I race upstairs as fast as I can. My legs feel wobbly and my breathing is becoming harder as my airways tighten in response to my allergy. From my handbag, I grab my EpiPen and flip off the blue cap, before plunging the pen into my thigh. As I wheeze I count to ten before removing the pen from my leg. I flop down on to the bed and, closing my eyes, I make a conscious effort to keep calm, to focus on my breathing as almost immediately the epinephrine takes effect. I massage my thigh at the same time to encourage the muscle to absorb the medication.
‘Carys, are you OK?’ It’s Andrea’s voice and I feel the mattress dip beside me as she sits down. She pushes a strand of hair from my face and holds my hand.
I squeeze her hand in response to reassure her as I gradually feel the reaction subside. The numbing sensation in my lips fades first; it’s not dissimilar to the feeling of numbness wearing off after a trip to the dentist. My breathing becomes easier as my airways dilate and I take longer, fuller breaths.
‘Do you want some water?’ This time it’s Joanne’s voice. She’s at the other side of the bed.
I open my eyes and Zoe is standing at the foot of the bed looking concerned, with Joanne and Andrea either side of me. I sit myself up and look at Joanne.
‘There must have been some sort of nut in that soup,’ I say, taking the water from her. My hand is a little shaky as I lift the glass to my lips.
‘There wasn’t. I promise,’ she says. ‘I’m not that stupid. We all know about your allergy.’
‘Did you check the ingredients?’ asks Andrea.
‘Of course I bloody did,’ snaps Joanne. ‘You can look at the box if you don’t believe me. No nuts. Not even a trace of nuts.’
‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ says Andrea. ‘Damage has been done.’
‘There’s no damage now,’ I say, not wanting this to turn into an argument. ‘I’ll be OK. I just need to rest here for a little while.’
‘But there must have been something in that soup,’ insists Andrea. ‘It’s hardly likely to have been cross-contaminated. Maybe you added something?’ She looks at Joanne, who scowls back at her.
‘I’m telling you, I never put anything in that soup. Why would I?’ Joanne stands with her hands on her hips, glaring across the bed at Andrea. ‘If there was something else added, who’s to say I did it?’
‘This is ridiculous,’ says Zoe. ‘Are you saying one of us put something in the soup?’
‘Someone did and it wasn’t me,’ says Joanne. ‘I left you in the kitchen on your own, stirring the soup.’
‘Seriously?’ says Zoe, shaking her head.
Joanne ignores her. ‘What about you, Andrea? Were you in the kitchen on your own?’
Andrea looks slightly taken aback. She looks at me before speaking. ‘Well, I was, but I only went in to get the glasses. Look, this is a stupid conversation.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Obviously, no one did anything on purpose. It was probably some sort of cross-contamination at source.’ I realise that my anaphylactic shock has probably shaken everyone up. ‘Let’s all forget about it. I’ll come down. I could do with a cup of tea.’
‘Good idea,’ says Zoe. ‘This has got us all a bit flustered.’
‘Too right,’ says Joanne. ‘Goodness, you gave us all a fright there. Come on, I’ll make the tea. We can have a slice of cake I made. And I promise, no nuts whatsoever.’
Andrea insists that I sit in the living room with a cup of tea while they clear away the lunch dishes. I feel a lot better now and am grateful that my allergy is on the milder end of the spectrum. Although it has shaken me up, the reaction wasn’t severe enough to warrant any further medical intervention. Which is just as well, considering where we are. I have no idea how far away we are from a hospital.
Andrea, Joanne and Zoe are all very aware of my allergy and, despite my assurances to them that it could easily have been contaminated at source, I know it’s unlikely, especially these days with health and safety so stringent. This leads me to poke around in the dark corners of my mind where other thoughts are crouching: what exactly was put in the soup and how did it get there … which leads me to question who and why.
I feel restless at the thought and try to distract myself by inspecting the bookcase, idly skimming the spines of the books. There’s a wide range of fiction, although most of the novels look several years old and well-thumbed, as if they have been rescued from a charity shop. There are some larger coffee-table books on the lower shelves. Most of them appear to feature the Scottish landscape and traditions. There’s one about Victorian London, which seems out of place but, again, probably a rescue book. At the end of the shelf is a small stack of DVDs.
A Disney film, Lion King; an old John Wayne western, and a thriller called Rogue Trader. None of them appeal to me. It’s then I realise that I haven’t seen a television in the croft, never mind a DVD player.
‘Aha! Caught you,’ says Joanne, coming into the room.
I jump unnecessarily and spin round. Joanne is carrying a mug of tea. ‘You’re supposed to be resting,’ she says, placing the mug on the coffee table.
‘I was having a look at the books.’
‘Found anything interesting?’
‘Not really. Although there are three DVDs here and yet no TV. Seems odd.’ I hold the boxes up.
Joanne gives them a cursory glance. ‘Maybe there used to be a TV here or perhaps the last visitors left them.’
I return the cases and sit down next to Joanne. ‘This is a lovely croft,’ I say. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for this weekend.’
‘I’d been toying with the idea for a while,’ says Joanne. ‘It was actually Zoe who made up my mind to go ahead with it.’
‘Really?’ I give Joanne a quizzical look. ‘I didn’t think any of us knew anything about it.’
‘Oh, she didn’t know. It was something that was brought up in conversation one day and it spurred me into action.’
‘It’s very generous of you.’
‘The pleasure is all mine. You know I love organising parties. Who better to organise my own than myself? That’s what I told Tris. This way, I get to totally please myself.’
‘You have a point.’
‘Not to mention your birthday too.’ She stands up and calls from the doorway. ‘Come on, you two. We’ve got a game to play!’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_d207d6de-b355-53ae-8797-04670151df75)
‘Is everyone ready for their next surprise?’ asks Joanne, once Andrea and Zoe have settled themselves in the living room.
‘Ready as we’ll ever be,’ says Andrea, leaning back in her chair.
‘Excellent.’ From the pocket of her jeans, Joanne produces three white envelopes. ‘Here we go. One for you, Carys. One for Zoe and, Andrea, one for you. Now, don’t open them yet. I have to explain the rules.’
‘The rules?’ says Andrea, inspecting her sealed envelope.
‘Listen up. I’ve called this game “What’s My Secret?” Inside each of the envelopes you’ll find a card with a name of a famous person who could be living or dead. That’s your secret identity for the weekend. Underneath is their well-known secret.’ She dabs the air with imaginary quotation marks. ‘You can’t tell each other who you are. It’s up to them to guess and then to try to work out what your secret is. You with me so far?’
‘Is there a prize for guessing right?’ asks Zoe.
‘Oh, yes, there’s a prize, but …’
‘Let me guess,’ I interject. ‘It’s a surprise.’
‘A surprise prize,’ mutters Andrea, seemingly unimpressed with the game.
‘Absolutely,’ says Joanne, beaming at us. ‘There are clues as to the identity and what the secrets are all around the house. Bonus points for each clue you find.’
‘How long have we got to find out the identity and secret?’ I ask. I must admit, it is rather intriguing. If I can say anything about Joanne, it is that she has a fantastic imagination and is excellent at these sorts of things. It reminds me of a murder mystery dinner Joanne held some years ago. It had been a great success and she had gone on to make it a murder mystery weekend the following year for Darren’s thirtieth birthday. We’d had a lot of fun. As with every time I think of Darren, a stab of guilt strikes me. I push it to one side, not wishing to dwell on it. Blocking it out is probably not the best coping method, but right now, it is the only way I can cope.
‘The game finishes Sunday evening,’ says Joanne, passing each of us a pencil. ‘Once you’ve decided who you think the others are, you write it down in these notebooks.’ She passes A6-size books to each of us. ‘You will get one mark for each part you get right. The person with the most points is the winner. If no one guesses you, then you’re also a winner. Two winners, two surprises.’
‘And if you lose?’ asks Andrea.
‘The loser also gets a surprise,’ says Joanne.
‘This is going to be such fun,’ says Zoe. ‘Just one thing, how do we find out who each other are?’
‘You can ask three questions each day, but the person being asked is only allowed to answer yes or no. You must pick your questions carefully. And if you’re being asked, you must answer honestly. No cheating! Everyone clear?’
The three of us nod. ‘I think I can follow that,’ I say. ‘When can we open our envelopes?’
‘Open them now, but take care not to let the others see them.’
‘And what are you going to be doing the whole time?’ asks Andrea. ‘It’s not like you can play, you know the answers already.’
‘Exactly. I’m the Oracle. I am the holder of all knowledge. Once you’ve asked your three questions, if you’re still stuck you can come to me for a clue, but if you do, I will deduct half a point off your final score.’
‘Let’s open the cards,’ I say, not even attempting to follow Joanne’s convoluted marking system. I lean back in my chair and slip my thumb under the edge of the flap, tearing the paper open. Inside is a black card with the same pattern as the original invitation and with the same white font. I read mine.
DIANA, PRINCESS OF WALES
1 July 1961 – 31 August 1997
First Wife of HRH Prince Charles
Had an affair
‘Keep your card with you at all times so no one sees it,’ instructs Joanne.
I look up and watch Andrea open her card and then give a small frown before replacing it in the envelope. Zoe is flicking the corner of her card between her finger and thumb.
‘Are these real people?’ she asks.
‘Is that a question for the Oracle?’ replies Joanne.
‘No, I—’
‘Shhh. Don’t say anything. Remember the rules. You can ask three questions only and then you can ask the Oracle for one clue only.’
‘OK. I get it,’ says Zoe. ‘Can I go first?’
‘Fill your boots,’ says Andrea, holding her envelope to her chest.
‘I’ll ask Carys first.’ Zoe turns to me. ‘Are you alive or dead?’
Joanne interrupts before I can answer. ‘Carys can only answer yes or no.’
Zoe pokes her tongue out at Joanne and looks at me. ‘Are you dead?’
I laugh. ‘I don’t think so. No, sorry, that wasn’t the answer. Am I dead? Yes.’
‘My second question,’ says Zoe. ‘Are you female?’
‘Yes.’
‘Last question for today. Were you born in the nineteen-hundreds?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm, that doesn’t help much.’
‘Right, let me ask my questions now,’ says Andrea, entering the spirit of the game. ‘Are you a criminal?’
‘No.’
‘Did you die before your sixtieth birthday?’
‘Yes.’
Andrea drums her fingers on the table. ‘This is hard.’ She looks around the room. ‘And you say there are clues in the house?’
‘That’s right. And don’t forget you can ask the Oracle for one clue each day. Of course, you may want to ask that in secret, or you can share the information with each other.’
Andrea narrows her eyes. ‘I’ll ask the Oracle later. Right, Carys, my last question. Do you have children?’
‘Yes.’
‘That still hasn’t helped much,’ says Zoe. ‘I’m going to have a look for some clues. Unless anyone wants to ask me some questions.’
‘I do,’ I say.
‘And me,’ says Andrea. ‘Then you can ask me some.’
As we ask our questions and get the yes or no replies, we all scribble in our notebooks. ‘So far, I’ve got this about you, Andrea,’ I say at the end of the questions. ‘You are female. You are dead. You lived in the 1800s. You were married more than once. You had children. You were a criminal.’
‘I have no idea who she can be,’ says Zoe.
‘Neither do I,’ I admit. I look at the next page in my book. ‘Zoe, you are male. You are alive. You are British. You are famous for a crime but it’s not a violent crime. You are not a celebrity.’
