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Therese settled her tray down on the table, took the pot from me and motioned for me to sit down.
“So,” she said, pouring the first cup, “you’ve come home.” The ‘at last’ went unsaid.
I nodded, picking up a biscuit to nibble. “Nathaniel called and asked me to. Said he had plans for the Golden Wedding.”
“God save us from my brother’s plans.” Therese settled into her seat. “I’m glad he did, anyway. I was worried that your invitation might go mysteriously astray if it was left to Isabelle.”
I winced. “I never did actually receive an invitation.” Isabelle was always meticulous about sending invitations. I remember being made to handwrite invites for my eighth birthday party, not only to all my classmates, but also my own sister, even though she was sitting next to me as I wrote it. If Isabelle had wanted me there, I’d have been sent an invitation. And the fact I hadn’t… Well, it stung like a needle pressed up against my heart.
“Typical Isabelle,” Therese said, selecting the biscuit with the most chocolate coating. “They were hideous, anyway.”
“So Nathaniel said.” I sighed. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell anyone I was coming.”
“I imagine that you’re part of Nathaniel’s plan. You know how he likes surprising people,” Therese said. “More fun that way. Besides…” she laid a hand on mine “…this is your home. You have as much right to be here as anyone else.” Maybe I could just stay in Therese’s cottage for the duration, I thought.
Therese polished off the cookie and reached for her teacup. “Now, tell me about Scotland.”
So I did. I told her about my flat on the edge of Perth, and how it wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but I’d finally got the inside the way I wanted it – cosy and bright. I told her about the newspaper, about my job, and when she said, “But what are the prospects like? When are we going to read you in the Guardian?” I distracted her with a story about a police press conference on an operation to confiscate alcohol from teens in the local park that had to be curtailed when half the cans and bottles went missing.
Therese laughed in the right places, but somehow I still got the impression that she was just humouring me. And, as I finished my last story and my cup of tea, she pounced.
“So, tell me about your young man,” she said, picking up the pot and refilling my cup. “Because I can’t believe you haven’t got one, pretty girl like you.”
“Just one?” I laughed, hoping vainly to throw her off the scent. Yes, there was a man, of sorts. But Duncan and I were casual, fun… and just a little bit too complicated to explain to an elderly relative. Still, it might not be a bad idea to let everyone know that I’d moved on, that I had a new life, a new romance in Perth. Even if that wasn’t quite the truth.
“Only one that means something, I’m sure.” Her voice was placid and immovable. “So, tell me about him.”
“Well, his name’s Duncan,” I said, sifting through my mind for what could be considered safe to talk about, and how to say it without using the words ‘friends with benefits’. “He works with me – he’s our new editor, actually. Brought in from Edinburgh earlier this year.”
“Ah, so it’s all quite new, then?” Therese leant forward. “I understand. Still all flowers and romance and sex all day on Sundays. Still in that private, special world where there’s only the two of you.”
Quite aside from the fact that hearing my great-aunt talking about all-day sex sessions had rendered me incapable of speech, there was just no way I was going to explain to her that, actually, it was less flowers and romance and more the second part, so I just smiled weakly and nodded.
Therese patted my hand and said, “I understand,” again.
“Anyway,” I said, regaining my voice, just in time to change the subject. “I meant to ask – what’s with the clothes shop inside?”
Her face lit up with an excitement I’d only ever seen on her before at the Harrods sale. “So you noticed my little enterprise! Caro helped me set it up.”
I wasn’t quite sure when my baby sister had become an established business guru, but then, I still wasn’t entirely sure what the business was. “Really.”
“Oh yes. She figured out with me how to get an account on eBay, and PayPal, and how to list things and set prices. Turned out that there was quite the market for some of my old evening dresses and such.” Therese smiled a little ruefully. “Only it takes a lot of restraint to only sell, and not be tempted to buy.”
“So, all that stuff inside…”
“Waiting to be sold on,” Therese said, firmly. “See, it turns out that a lot of people want to get into vintage wear, but don’t know where to start, or what size to buy. So that’s my USP.”
Which sounded more like something you’d use to track ghosts than sell clothes. “USP?”
“Unique selling point. They send me their measurements, and a photo, and a bit of information about them and what they want the clothes for, and I put together a one-of-a-kind vintage outfit, including all accessories, for their specified occasion.”
I blinked. That was actually a really good idea. “That’s… great.”
In a sudden movement, Therese was on her feet, motioning for me to stay where I was. “Actually, I have something that would be perfect for you,” she said. “For tonight. Just wait here.”
She was back within moments, holding out a navy dress on a satin padded hanger. “To wear for dinner.”
I reached out a hand to touch it. The dress was of a style that had been popular in the 1930s, and the cut was exquisite, with fluted cap sleeves and a silky bow at the neckline, above the narrow waist belt. The cotton was soft and worn under my fingertips, but the colours were still crisp and bright. It was only as I looked closer that I realised; this was the dress Therese had worn in the photo on the mantle.
“It should fit, I think,” she said, pushing the hanger into my hands. “You’ve lost weight since you’ve been away. Hold it up against yourself.” I did as I was told, and she looked at me critically.
“It’s lovely,” I said, swishing the skirt from side to side. “But you don’t think it’s a little… too much?” Even at Rosewood, dressing for dinner didn’t usually require evening gowns, as such. Not that this was – it was just a hundred times nicer than anything I had in my suitcase.
“Nonsense,” Therese said. “George always said that a person could never really be overdressed – merely better dressed than everyone else. Now, you’ll need the shoes and a bag too, of course. You’re a six, yes? Come with me.”
She trotted back into the cottage and I followed obediently. Maybe a makeover was just what I needed to get through the rest of the visit. Maybe Ellie wouldn’t remember what I’d done if I looked like someone else.
I returned to the main house some time later, laden down with hangers and bags, to find the place deserted. Assuming that people were getting changed for dinner, I followed suit and sneaked up the stairs to my allotted room, pulling a face at the yellow walls as they glowed in the slowly fading sunlight.
On the other hand, I realised, the one good thing about the Yellow Room was that it had an en suite. I decided to take advantage of it, hoping that a shower might wash away the ache that comes from sitting on trains too long, and the tension that came simply from being home. Besides, tea with my great-aunt had left my head overflowing with thoughts, and some hot and steamy water was the best way I knew to flush them out.
The shower didn’t help as much as I’d hoped. In less than an hour I’d be sitting down to dinner with my entire family, something I hadn’t done in two years, and I was going in with nothing but a vintage outfit and a vague hope that Nathaniel had a plan.
I didn’t even know how much Ellie had told the family, or how much they’d guessed, about what had happened.
And then there was Greg.
Tonight, I’d see Greg for the first time in two years. For the first time since the wedding.
Two years, and I still wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I ever would be.
Part of me wanted to see him, more than anything. To get it over with. To know, for sure, that there was nothing there between us any more. To be certain that my heart wouldn’t beat too fast when he was in the room, that I wouldn’t find my eyes drawn to him every few moments.
To show that I was no longer in love with my sister’s husband.
The rest of me just wanted to put the inevitable off for as long as possible.
The love Greg and I had shared had been childish, irresponsible – and all-encompassing, for a time. The sort of love that makes you abandon caution and sense and morals. The kind of love that causes pain.
I never wanted to feel that sort of love again.
But seeing Greg was nothing compared to my terror at seeing Ellie again. I could take any reaction from Greg – anything from love to hate. It didn’t matter; it couldn’t change anything now.
But Ellie… the thought of seeing the same hate in her eyes as the day she found out, of knowing for certain that nothing had changed, and never would – that filled me with the same paralysing fear that had kept me away from Rosewood for so long. When I was hundreds of miles away, there was still a chance that she might have forgiven me. Once I saw her again, whatever she felt was the truth, and I couldn’t spin it into possibilities any more.
And that idea frightened me more than anything.
I ached across the shoulders, and my eyes still felt gritty, but at least I was clean. Wrapping one towel around my hair and another around my body, I wiped beads of water away from my eyes and opened the bathroom door, letting the burst of steam obscure the alarming yellow of the bedroom walls.
My skin burned, and I knew I’d be bright pink from head to toe. I liked my showers hot – hot enough to leave me gasping for breath when I stepped out.
Pulling the towel from my head I shook my wet hair out across my shoulders, and clutched the towel around my body tighter as I crossed the room to open the balcony door. Fresh air filled my lungs as I stared out over the Rose Garden. Edward was there, I realised, his blonde head moving between the remaining blooms. Isabelle had been right; I did have a magnificent view of the Rose Garden. I felt I could almost reach out and pluck one from its stem.
Suddenly, something else in the garden caught my eye. Another figure, too pale in the sunlight. She seemed to move in a different plane to Edward, as she ran her hands over the decapitated rose bushes, as if to her they still bloomed.
Was it really the Rosewood ghost?
I leant further out across the balcony railing to get a better look, until a rush of cold air told me that my towel hadn’t leant with me. I grabbed for it, yanking it back up over my breasts, but not before Edward turned towards the house again.
Even at a distance, I could see the sardonic eyebrow he raised at my state of undress. Then he turned his gaze away and walked slowly towards the other gardens.
Damn.
I was beginning to think that I hadn’t made the best ever first impression on my grandfather’s new assistant.
Chapter Two (#ulink_7f149ac4-067b-5404-a45b-95435b4eff50)
Family is who you have left when there’s nothing and nobody else. When the wind blows cold and the waves batter the cliffs, when night falls and darkness seeps in… family is still there.
On A Summer’s Night, by Nathaniel Drury (2015)
When Ellie and I were young, we visited Rosewood every weekend. Then, as now, my parents kept a house in Manchester, to be near the university – a small, untidy, cosy terrace house not far from where many of the students lived. Day to day, a perfectly ordinary existence for the daughters of a professor and a secondary-school drama teacher. But at weekends and holidays, we were spirited away to the magical, mysterious grounds of Rosewood, where there was always something new to discover or explore.
Rosewood was a grand old manor house from the Georgian era, hidden away in the Cheshire countryside behind wrought-iron gates and too many trees. It had been crumbling when Nathaniel and Isabelle bought it, back in the sixties, but slowly they’d invested in it. First, just enough to keep it standing and habitable. Then, as Nathaniel’s career continued to blossom, enough to make it a proper home.
The house’s flat-fronted brick exterior was punctuated by white frame windows betraying the sheer quantity of rooms in the place, and the acres of gardens surrounding it led straight onto the woods. The symmetrical chimneys still puffed smoke, and every room held a new surprise, even now – decorated ceilings, or a hidden door, or a story. Isabelle had redecorated a dozen times since they moved in, but she couldn’t paper over the magic and the history of Rosewood.
It was my favourite place in the world.
From my usual attic bedroom over the main staircase, which had long ago been the servants’ quarters, I could hear everything that went on down below: the sound of feet stomping up the stairs, the laughter floating up from the terrace as my grandfather mixed cocktails for his friends, a couple arguing on the landing.
The Yellow Room was clearly more suitable for guests – situated to the far right of the building, above the back drawing room (rarely used because of the rotting window frames, and the awful draught that blew through every afternoon), away from anything interesting that was going on. It was disconcerting, I found, to be at Rosewood and not know what was happening elsewhere in the house.
But by the time I’d changed into my costume for the evening – Therese’s blue dress and sandals, bright red lipstick and my dark, bobbed hair curled into waves around my face – I felt strangely more like myself again, and almost prepared for the night ahead. Almost.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel quite ready to see my sister again, or Greg. But neither could I stay away.
As I made my way down the main staircase into the hall, I could hear the strains of jazz music emanating from the kitchen – a sure sign that my father was cooking. I smiled. Whatever he was making smelled like home to me.
Sticking my head around the kitchen door, I checked to make sure I wouldn’t be interrupting a moment of culinary magic by stopping in to say hello. And if it put off seeing Ellie for a few more moments, well, I wasn’t going to complain.
“That smells good,” I said, slipping through the doorway.
Dad dropped his wooden spoon into the pan and turned, beaming, wiping his hands on his apron even as he stepped towards me for a hug.
“Kia! I’d heard you were home.” He held me close, then stepped back to inspect me, just as Therese had done. “You know I’m not one for formalities, but I believe an RSVP is usual for one of Isabelle’s events…”
“And if I’d received an invitation, I’d have sent one,” I said, as brightly as I could.
“Lost in the post, huh?” Dad asked, but I could tell from his tone that he knew full well it hadn’t been.
“Something like that.” I boosted myself up to sit on the edge of the kitchen table, my feet swinging, as Dad turned back to his bubbling pot. “So, what have I missed around here?”
“The usual. Can you hand me the basil from the windowsill?” Dad held out a hand, and it was as if I’d never been away at all. I smiled to myself for a moment before moving to the window to retrieve the herb. “Nathaniel is writing and won’t tell us what; Isabelle is fretting that he’s really just up there playing solitaire and avoiding her, which he might be. Mum’s latest class musical was Les Misérables, so we’ve been eating garlic and misery for months. Ellie…” He stuttered to a stop. “Well. Ellie and Greg are well. And Caro thinks she’s a fairy. Still. Didn’t you grow out of that sort of thing by ten?”
“I don’t remember,” I said, absently, as I handed him the plant. I was more concerned with what he wasn’t saying about Ellie. “So, Ellie’s okay? I mean, she was?” I didn’t imagine that discovering I’d returned home had filled her with any particular joy.
Dad sighed, and started stripping the basil plant of its leaves with unnecessary force. “As far as I know. I haven’t seen her since we got back from town, but she was happy enough at breakfast.”
I bit my lip. “Do you think—”
“Saskia,” Dad interrupted me. “I don’t know exactly what happened between you and your sister, and that’s fine with me. Because it is between you and Ellie, not the rest of us. And if you’re hiding in here to avoid seeing her…”
“Can’t a girl come and get a ‘welcome home’ from her father these days?”
Dad turned and flashed me a smile. “Of course she can. And, sweetheart, I am so very glad to have you home. I’ve missed you.”
A warm glow spread through me at his words, one that had been missing ever since I left Rosewood two years earlier. “I missed you too.”
“Good. Then maybe you’ll visit a bit more often after you go back to Perth.”
“I will,” I promised, and hoped I wasn’t lying.
“And in the meantime…” He pointed towards the door with a wooden spoon dripping with sauce. “Go say hello to the rest of them. Because it won’t get any easier the longer you put it off, and dinner is nearly ready.”
“Yes, Dad.” I gave him a small smile, and headed for the lounge, the heels of Therese’s sandals clicking on the wooden floor. I paused at the door, and sucked in a deep breath. Dad was right. Might as well get this over and done with.
My mother was mixing some luridly coloured cocktails at the sideboard under the window, while Isabelle critiqued her bartending capabilities from her cream wing-backed chair. Therese, leaning against the gold and cream sofa, was the first to spot me.
“Oh now, there,” Therese said, beaming. “It looks perfect on you. Doesn’t it, Sally?”
My mother turned away from the drinks tray, the multicoloured chiffon scarf around her neck clashing with the cocktails. She smiled, but it seemed a little forced. “Kia, darling, there you are! What a wonderful surprise.” Glass still in hand, she bustled over and wrapped her free arm around my waist. “If only you’d told us you were coming, we’d have collected you from the station.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told Mum. “I got a taxi easily enough.”
“Yes, so Isabelle said.” Mum glanced briefly over at Isabelle, then smiled at me again, more naturally this time, squeezing my waist with her arm. “It is lovely to have you home, sweetheart.”
“Where’s everyone else?” I asked.
Therese patted the sofa beside her and I went to sit as instructed. “Your grandfather is still writing, or so we are given to understand.” Isabelle made a small, disbelieving noise that, coming from anyone else, would be termed a snort.
“Edward’s gone out to fetch Caroline from the woods,” Therese went on, ignoring Isabelle completely, as was her usual technique for dealing with her sister-in-law. “Greg isn’t home yet and Ellie is…”
“Here.” The voice, soft and familiar, was calm and expressionless, without feeling. But the sound of it made my whole body freeze, just for a moment, waiting for a reaction that never came. I forced myself to turn, to look, to accept whatever truth I found in my sister’s eyes.
And there she was, pale and blonde in a pastel blue skirt and camisole, her fringe framing her face. Biting the inside of my cheek, I searched Ellie’s face for the answers I’d come home to find, but they weren’t there. Her eyes were still as sad as I remembered from the day she left for her honeymoon, but there was nothing else. No hate, no recriminations – but no forgiveness or love either. Nothing.
It was as if I didn’t matter to her any more at all.
