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‘Holly!’ Martha called worriedly. Can’t she see? I’m with Charlie.
‘Charlie? Charlie?’ The unease became heavier, like lead in my chest. ‘I can’t see you. I can’t see you, Charlie!’
‘Holly?’ Martha called, but I was swimming away from her.
‘Come on, Hol,’ Charlie called, ‘catch me up!’ I’d found him but he was further away again.
‘Wait for me, Charlie, you’re too fast!’ I called, but still he swam. Why won’t he give me a chance?
Martha’s voice grew nearer.
‘Holly? Holly?’
Swim harder, Holly. You can get there.
‘Holly? Holly honey, wake up.’
Martha was gently rocking me, concern etched into her face. My heart was still thudding, not realising the trickery yet.
‘I’m awake,’ I whispered. Please go now. I could still get to him, he was still there, still within reach. I wasn’t ready to give him up yet, not ready to accept the day.
‘Are you OK, honey?’
Already I could feel him slipping. Now I’d never get him back.
I’d expected more dreams, it was coming up to that time. But not those ones. Not like the dreams that had plagued me last year.
That was when I’d stopped drinking with the girls. So that I wasn’t spending my weekends waking up after midday not only with a hangover but fewer hours to pull myself together again. It’s hard enough nursing an aching heart, an aching head helps nothing.
Don’t cry. You’ll upset Martha. Be grateful.
‘Hol? Were you having a nightmare?’ I didn’t think she would go, stationed eternally on the jetty.
In place of my self-imposed ban on girly nights, Martha instigated a non-negotiable scaled down version. For the two years since the accident, Saturday nights had been dedicated to the emotional well-being of her kid sister. She didn’t realise that staying here every week, eating with her and Rob, sleeping in their guest room—it didn’t take the edge off my loneliness as she hoped it would, it defined it.
‘Hey. No, I’m good.’ I sent her the lie with a smile. It worked and she sent one back. I preferred Martha with her dishevelled morning look. Before she perfected her makeup for the day and set her hair flawlessly in place, she was the most beautiful girl I knew I’d see all day. But it was pointless telling her. I’d heard Dad try when Mum was out of earshot. Gilding a lily, he’d called it.
Really, she didn’t need to gild anything. Martha had inherited all the good stuff, which was probably for the best as it would have been wasted on me. She had a respectable inch on my five-foot-six, that was without the heels, her eyes were more decisive as to the shade of hazel they wanted to be and she was bestowed our mother’s rich blonde waves. I, on the other hand, had taken after our lovely dad—less polished and less blonde, with that not-quite-brown, not-quite-blonde colouring that could have been either had I ever decided which way to go with it.
But despite our differences, and the things I kept hidden from her, there was no question that we were tight.
Martha was a good sister, the best even. But this staying over every Saturday night was really about her emotional well-being more than it was mine. She needed to feel that she was doing some good, and I loved her enough to go each week as a spectator in her blossoming family life. It was the least I could do for her, she lost Charlie too.
‘Rob’s making breakfast,’ she chirped. ‘He’s breaking the big guns out. Full English?’ I wasn’t a breakfast person, but Martha was hell-bent on taking care of me for the entirety of the time she was allocated each week. She was weeks away from giving birth to their first child and, happy as I was for them, I couldn’t help but think of my impending niece or nephew as a welcome distraction. Maybe then I could have breakfast-less Sunday mornings in my own home again.
Downstairs at the breakfast table Rob had spared no efforts in his quest to fatten me up. He was just shovelling the last of the scrambled egg onto an already mountainous pile when I bypassed him for the coffee pot.
‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he said, busying himself with the next bubbling saucepan. ‘Beans or tomatoes? Or both? I’m having both.’
‘You are not, you’ve got enough on your plate already,’ Martha warned him.
Rob leaned in to me and whispered, ‘She’s got that right.’ I stifled a smile while Martha scowled at him. ‘What? I’m a growing boy, I need my energy,’ he protested.
‘Rob, we aren’t going to fit in the bed if you carry on.’
Rob looked at his beautifully rotund wife and then threw me a collusive look.
‘Sorry, my love. I’ll tell you what, I’ll have half a grapefruit next Sunday morning instead. Hol will hold me to it, right, Hol?’
‘You got it.’ I grinned into my mug. Martha made good coffee. ‘Anyone else have a headache this morning?’ I asked, sitting down to survey the man-sized portion waiting for me. It smelled good, actually.
‘Only from Rob’s snoring. You two were the only ones drinking last night.’
‘Was that you snoring, Rob?’ I asked, biting into a triangle of toast. ‘I thought someone was firing up a Harley outside.’
Martha smiled over the top of her Sunday Journal.
‘Do you want some ibuprofen?’ she asked, already setting the paper down. It was pointless stopping her, she’d only fuss until I’d swallowed a few painkillers. ‘Didn’t you sleep too well last night?’
‘No, I slept fine.’ Memories of my dream made me wonder what Martha might have heard through the night while Rob snored on. Change the subject. ‘It’s been a grueller in the shop this week. I’m probably just a bit highly strung. You know what it’s like, as soon as you stop, it all piles on top of you.’ One of the reasons I kept myself busy.
‘Yes, Martha was flapping when she couldn’t get hold of you Friday night. How come you were working so late?’ Rob said as he chewed his way through a sausage. It was difficult to look at Rob without smiling. He reminded me in some ways of Dave, a little obedient maybe, but loyal to the core and utterly dependable. They were the gentle giants in my life, but whilst Martha’s tolerance flexed for her husband, it didn’t stretch to Dave. I guess Rob slobbered less. Just.
‘I had to deliver to a gentlemen’s evening, over at Hawkeswood.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Rob mumbled, a forkful of hash browns meeting its doom.
‘I use the term gentlemen loosely. Dave has better manners.’
‘Hawkeswood’s the property tycoon’s place now isn’t it, Martha?’
Martha settled back behind paper. ‘Hmm?’
‘Hawkeswood. Didn’t you do something there years ago with Parry & Fitch?’
Martha loved to talk about her work. It was a shame Parry & Fitch Interiors had to scale back, but the UK property market had taken a big hit over the last few years and most people we knew had been affected in one way or another.
‘Did you, Marth? What did you do there? I only got as far as the games room and that was impressive.’
Martha had taken voluntary redundancy, slipping into her new life as a domestic goddess with ease. But all that extra time meant she’d stepped up her attempts at finishing the decorating at my place.
‘The games room was original while we were there. Did you see the Orangery at the back of the main house? The views over the countryside are a-ma-zing. Who are the current owners?’ she asked.
‘The property tycoon, like I said. What’s his name, Martha? Andrews or—’
‘Argyll,’ I helped, trying to reduce the stack of mushrooms.
‘That’s him, Argyll. He’s been in some scrapes the last few years. I work with a chap who used to be with Scargill’s. They represent his company … that’s them, Argyll Inc. He keeps Scargill’s in a steady stream of work.’ Rob shook his head and carried on his assault on the food.
Why did that not surprise me? ‘Is Fergal Argyll the head of the company?’ I asked, reaching for more coffee.
‘That’s him. Fergal Argyll. He’s the big dog. Worked the whole empire up from scratch and then nearly lost the lot. Do you remember, Martha?’
‘He seems to be doing OK now,’ I said. ‘What does he do exactly?’ I asked, struggling to understand how a man like Fergal Argyll would have built anything but a dodgy reputation.
Rob finally took a breather between mouthfuls. ‘They’re a property company. I’m not sure, but I think he started out in construction. Small scale, extensions, that sort of thing, and then I think he got lucky and bought a bit of land while the prices were good. If I remember correctly, these days Argyll Inc. shoot for large scale property investment, developments, that sort of thing. But as with most of the construction industry, they’ve had their pain over the last few years. Didn’t he marry into the aristocracy for good measure, Martha?’
Martha lifted her nose from the paper, and gave Rob a considered look.
‘The hunky playboy!’ Martha yelped. ‘You mean this guy?’ she said, shuffling through her paper. Martha split the paper open revealing a small thumbnail of the young Argyll and the ice maiden.
‘Yeah, that’s his son,’ I said, examining the picture. He was a handsome man, but there was a melancholy about him, and melancholy knew its own reflection. On the page opposite, computer-generated images of starter homes, soon to be built on recently sold forest land, made my stomach flip over.
‘Hel-lo Ciaran Argyll. He’s utterly gorgeous, Hol, don’t you think? A womaniser, but gorgeous. I can’t believe that they live around here!’
Charlie had worked tirelessly to protect the forests from sale.
‘Keep your knickers on, my love. I think your hormones are playing up.’
Martha swatted Rob with her paper.
‘Rob? I can’t eat any more. Please may I be excused?’ I asked wryly.
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘You’re washing up.’
‘Er, you’re washing up, Rob. You made the mess, you ate it, you’re cleaning it. Hol and I are going to talk colour swatches.’ Martha lifted a handful of binders onto the table in front of her. Inwardly, I groaned. ‘So I was thinking, and feel free to say no, but—’
‘No.’
‘You don’t know what I’m going to say yet,’ she countered.
‘I do … you’re going to say, Holly, it’s nearly October, and then it will be Christmas and before you know it, your lounge and hall and wherever will have been left whitewashed for nearly three years, and—’ The look on Martha’s face was enough to stop me mid-flow. Damn it, why can’t you just leave this alone?
Six months after the accident, she’d talked me into letting her finish the bedroom for me. She’d made a beautiful job of it, all soft greys and dusky blues against the deep stain of our antique furniture. She’d made my bedroom look as though it belonged to a boutique hotel. The problem was, Charlie had never been in that boutique hotel with me, and so I couldn’t picture him in it. It wasn’t our bedroom any more, it was just mine. I couldn’t tell Martha that was the reason for fobbing off her offers to decorate the rest of the house for me when she was so desperate to. It would have devastated her that I felt that way about the room she’d already finished for me.
‘Look, Martha. I’d love you to come help me, but I’m absolutely rushed off my feet in the shop and—’
‘Well that’s what I was going to say!’ A smile filling her eyes again. ‘Rob has some time off before the baby’s due, but I’ve already sorted everything out. I’ve decorated the nursery, put the crib together, packed my hospital bag, written my birth plan, A and B actually. I’ve even vetted both of the nurseries we’re thinking of using.’
‘You’re thinking of nurseries?’ I said. ‘Already? When will the baby start nursery?’
‘When they’re three.’
‘Months? Are you going back to work?’
‘No, years. Well, I want to be prepared, Hol.’
I knew it. I’d always known it. My sister was a domestic android. ‘So, Rob can come and do some DIY-ing for you.’ I looked at Rob, who looked about as enthused as I was.
Lie, lie, lie.
‘You know what, Marth, I would really love that. But I kinda have a more pressing problem, if you guys wouldn’t mind helping me out?’ I knew how to reel Martha in. I had a childhood’s worth of practice under my belt. ‘The shop’s due an inspection some time in the new year, and it could really do with some TLC.’ Rob’s face dropped, he thought we were a team. ‘Nothing drastic, just a few maintenance issues, maybe a little painting. It’s just too big a job on my own. If you could spend a few days in the shop, Rob, I’d appreciate it.’
Martha didn’t look convinced, but then Martha’s sole wish was to do what she could for me and I was at least offering her an inch in place of her mile.
‘Um, OK. But what about the house? I have some ideas I think you’ll like, Hol.’
The guilt twisted in my stomach.
‘Well let’s see them then! If Rob moves his ass quickly enough, we might get started on the back bedroom before junior arrives.’ I could keep Rob busy at the shop for as long as I needed to. All I had to do was keep Martha sweet until the baby was born, then she wouldn’t have the energy, or the inclination, to pimp my house any more. That was my grand plan.
Martha, instantly gripped with excitement that I was showing interest in her ideas, left the kitchen for yet more magazines. Rob fixed beady knowing eyes on me.
‘Don’t worry, big guy. You can eat cake all day and we’ll just splash a little paint on your face before we send you home.’
CHAPTER 5
Things were only going to get quieter until Christmas fever kicked in.
It was Monday, I was tired, and thanks to Dave’s eating habits, I was late.
Jesse, reliable wingman that he was, had opened up and made a start on the freshly baked cupcakes and cookies we offered alongside the bespoke services. It wasn’t big money but it was consistent, and when the brides thinned out the lowly cupcake paid Jesse’s wages and kept us going. We didn’t open to the public until ten each day, largely because few people wanted to munch on cupcakes much before noon but it also gave us a good three hours to get the fresh bakes out and on display, ready for the lunchtime rush.
There were only a handful of people milling around on the cobbled high street when I parked up and walked the hundred yards or so to Cake. I didn’t like to park directly outside unless I needed to load up, preferring for passers-by to see the fantastical cakes Jesse and I had on display in the two huge windows. This morning, someone had already parked there anyway.
Hunterstone was a nice town. Too expensive to buy a house in, unless you were like Martha and Rob, but nestled halfway between the big city and the national park, everything you could want was in reach. The castle pulled in a reasonable flow of tourists and the clean leafy Georgian streets housed a nice selection of eateries, galleries and shops to keep the tourists there a little longer.
We’d put a lot of effort into fixing the shop up, but the architecture of the building had helped make us the perfect place for a visit by beautiful brides between champagne dress fittings and floral consultations. Charlie had painstakingly finished painting cream all the fiddly nooks and crannies of the typically Georgian decorative façade after I’d gotten fed up with it. He’d also added the topiary outside, making our little shopfront every bit as tempting as the cakes inside. A swinging vintage sign was the only thing to throw off the symmetry of the frontage, declaring in burgundy and gold the nature of our business. Cake.
I skipped up the two stone steps to the doors and pushed my way in with a jingle overhead. It was already nearly eleven and Jesse would be about ready for a refuel. He ate more than Rob and never gained an ounce.
‘Hey! I’ve got bagels and posh coffee,’ I called from the showroom as I threw a few new bridal magazines next to the sofa. I reached the counter and could already hear the drone of the mixers in the bakery out back. He wouldn’t have heard me probably.
I took Jesse’s breakfast through to where he was busily piping several trays of cupcakes in pale lilac buttercream, before finishing each one off with a sugar-frosted violet.
‘They look great,’ I called, wiggling the warm paper bag in my hand. Jess left the island worktop and moved over to shut the mixer off.
‘Hey, Hol, how’s Dave?’ Jesse took the bag from me as I set the coffees down and hung my things in the far corner.
‘He’s OK; he has a bad tooth. I’ve left him moping in the garden. Mrs Hedley will throw him treats over the fence all day no doubt.’ I wondered if that was part of the problem. She’d been the same with Charlie, making him second lunches when they thought I wasn’t looking.
Jesse came over and started digging into the bagels as I slipped an apron over my head and started the first of a hundred hand-washes. I dried off and went to grab a bagel for myself but he pulled the bag away.
‘You can’t, you have a customer,’ he said, grinning at me.
‘What customer? No one’s booked in are they?’ I said, scanning the counters for the cake diary. We did the occasional wedding consultation in the mornings but they were nearly always booked in for weekends when the mother of the bride was in town and the fiancé had no excuses not to attend.
‘They are now, he’s been here since I flipped the sign over.’
