by Lucy Diamond
‘I mean . . .’ she began – and it had been like a delicious game for a moment: this tragic love-triangle, with her right at the centre, loving the torment of her dilemma. But she’d never finished her sentence because all of a sudden, a sharp bend was coming up and Aidan was still staring at her, distraught. ‘Watch the road. AIDAN, WATCH THE ROAD!’
Afterwards, everyone had wanted to establish how it had happened. The police, the doctors, Lorna, her dad, friends . . . they’d all asked so many questions.
Had he been drinking? Not a drop.
Was he speeding? She was pretty sure he wasn’t.
He was such a careful driver, though! Did anything startle him or distract him? Well . . .
She’d never been able to tell the truth in answer to that last question. How could she have done? She was only just eighteen herself and was hazy about the liability of heartlessly trying to dump your boyfriend moments before he crashed his car. Did that make her responsible for his death? Would she be arrested if she confessed to the real story? The whole town would hate her and judge her for it. Lorna would probably have taken a swing at her. Her dad might have disowned her with the shame.
Instead they had all been so kind to her. So concerned and tender, as if she warranted any of their sympathy. In a horrific moment of irony, Lorna had even apologized on behalf of Aidan that Olivia had ended up in hospital with whiplash and concussion! How Olivia had managed to keep a poker face while she deflected the apology she would never know, but somehow or other, her secrets had remained intact. And here she was back in Falmouth, staying in Lorna and Roy’s beautiful cottage, when there was so much they didn’t know. What a hypocrite she was.
Maybe she should just tell them and allow them to get their hatred and anger out on her in return. Let them hurt her as much as she had hurt them. Maybe Lorna needed to know the kind of person Olivia really was. For Olivia to end up despised by the one woman who had looked after her would at least feel like a proper punishment.
‘What do I do?’ she murmured aloud. ‘What do I do, Aidan?’
She waited for some kind of sign – anything at all. A bird alighting on her hand perhaps, its black beady eyes full of compassion and understanding. A white butterfly flitting past her that might represent absolution. Even, you know, a massive judgemental thunderclap above, then a bolt of lightning that stabbed through her head, killing her immediately, with Aidan’s voice rumbling ‘JUSTICE’ amidst the thunder. At least that way she’d know where she stood.
‘Ready when you are,’ she said shakily, but nothing came. Nothing changed. No bird or butterfly, no crack of thunder above her head. Of course it didn’t. She was being fanciful.
Leaning back against the tree trunk, she took a long deep breath. The ground was solid beneath her, the air smelled of baked earth with just a hint of ozone on the breeze, and there were dog roses flowering nearby in a brambly cluster, she noticed. The birds were still singing. Such summery woodland beauty only made her feel worse than ever.
‘I’M SORRY!’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘I’M SORRY, OKAY?’
A bird flapped away, startled at the sudden noise and she put her head in her hands. Idiot.
Although there was still that one thing she could do, by way of penance to Lorna and Roy, mind, but . . .
She looked up in the next moment, turning it over in her head. No. It was unthinkable, after all this time. Think of how it would shake up all of their lives – not just Lorna’s and Roy’s, but hers and Mack’s too. Stanley’s. Harry’s. And . . .
No, she thought again, before her thoughts could take her any further. Some things were best left undisturbed. She should leave well alone, keep the past behind her.
Shouldn’t she?
Chapter Twenty-One
‘So what are we doing for you today?’
Maggie met the eyes of the woman in the mirror. After her dream that morning, she had sat in bed and googled ‘How to change your life’ and one of the first pieces of advice that had come up was that sometimes, if you changed yourself from the outside, you then felt more able to change from the inside. Try a new hairstyle, the writer had enthused. A great new cut is the perfect way to start reinventing yourself: you’ll feel younger and more confident – it’ll put a spring in your step!
Maggie was in her forties and no longer believed in fairy stories, but what the hell – it was worth a go. Being on holiday meant you were removed from your usual boundaries and routines, she figured: you could branch out a little, try new things. Besides, she couldn’t actually remember the last time a professional had been let loose on her hair – at least six months ago, she estimated, and as a result her thick brown hair currently fell like drab, heavy curtains around her face. Not for much longer, though, because here she was at Salon Suzanne, just off the main street in Falmouth, and the hairdresser – Suzanne herself – was waiting for her to reply.
‘I’m not exactly sure,’ Maggie began apologetically. This was one of the many reasons why she was generally so reluctant to go to the hairdresser’s – because she didn’t know the terminology, she never quite knew what to ask for. She didn’t even know what suited her. Just a trim, was what she usually said, and you could always see the disappointment in the hairdresser’s face – yawn!
Today, here in Cornwall, she didn’t feel like trotting out the same old, lame old phrase, though. Today she wanted to change her life. ‘What do you think would suit me?’ she asked instead.
Suzanne’s eyes lit up at once. ‘Ooh, let’s see – well, we could take some of the weight out of your hair, perhaps bring it up to your shoulders, and add texture with a few layers.’ She a ran a hand expertly through the strands, lifting up the hair so that it reached Maggie’s shoulders to demonstrate. ‘What do you think?’
Maggie turned her head from side to side. She had a neck! Who knew? ‘Yes, please. That sounds good,’ she said. And then, because Suzanne had such kind brown eyes and seemed to really care about Maggie’s hair, she found herself adding, ‘I just want to feel more confident, to be honest. I’ve felt a bit . . . invisible lately. An invisible middle-aged woman. You know?’
Suzanne probably didn’t know, because even though she looked as if she might be a similar age to Maggie, she had beautiful dark-auburn hair that tumbled halfway down her back, thick and strong, and a really sharp fringe that fell just above her eyebrows. You could have used it as a ruler, it was so straight and angular. Not for Suzanne the humbling cloak of invisibility – and yet she was nodding sympathetically. ‘It’s a shock, isn’t it, when you realize you’re getting older,’ she said. ‘It happens to us all. But let’s see what I can do to help. Now, did you want any colour today, with the cut? We’re fairly quiet this morning, so I could do that for you as well, if you wanted.’
Colour! Maggie hadn’t dyed her hair since she was a student, and that had been with cheap packet dyes that left her hair unnatural shades of tomato soup and aubergine. ‘Um . . .’ she said apprehensively.
‘We have some lovely warm tones that might just soften things up a bit, that’s all,’ Suzanne went on. ‘A nice shiny chestnut, perhaps, or more of a cocoa brown . . . Shall I show you the range so you can have a think?’
Maggie glanced in the mirror at the sprinkling of grey hairs that speckled her parting. Remembered how some of the Year 9s she taught had commented on them at the end of term and started calling her ‘Granny Laine’. She was not a vain person by any means, but even so, she didn’t want anyone thinking of her in grandmotherly terms just yet. Take the plunge! the banner from her dream encouraged her and she found herself nodding. ‘Yes, please,’ she replied, suddenly emboldened. ‘Why not?’
This was nice, she thought a few minutes later as a younger woman washed her hair and gave her a head massage so blissful it sent shivers down her body. When had anyone last touched her like this? It felt so good, so luxurious. She was not a naturally touchy-feely person herself, wasn’t the type to go around hugging or kissing others willy-nill
y, but her whole body was reacting to this woman’s fingers as if it had been starved of attention for the longest time. As if she was ravenous for the human touch.
A lump the size of an egg seemed to be in her throat. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked at the end, as a towel was gently wrapped around her hair and wound into a neat turban. Her nerve-endings were still tingling. ‘That was wonderful.’
Time passed pleasantly by as Suzanne pasted the dye onto sections of Maggie’s hair, then wrapped them in foil, while they chatted about this and that. Before long, Maggie resembled a silvery hedgehog, a strange creature with shimmering scales around her face. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ Suzanne laughed, seeing her apprehensive expression. ‘You’ll be feeling a million dollars when you walk out of my door, I promise.’
Once the dye was on, Maggie was given a selection of magazines and a fresh cup of tea as she waited for the colour to take. She glanced at her reflection, feeling excited at her own boldness. Amelia wouldn’t believe it if she knew her boring old mum was here, getting a makeover. Should she take a photo – get her guessing? Or would that be kind of naff while Amelia was with her dad, as if Maggie was tugging at her daughter’s sleeve: Look at me, look at me, give ME some attention now?
She sent a text without mentioning her whereabouts. It could be a surprise, her new image, when they saw each other again. (A good surprise, she hoped, rather than a moment of hilarity.) How are you today, my love? she wrote. Hope you’re having fun. Ring me if you get the chance, won’t you? I tried a few times last night, but kept getting your voicemail. Love you. xx
It was the not-knowing that was so hard to deal with, she thought, pressing Send. Of course she and Amelia had spent time away from one another in the past, what with school trips and sleepovers and Amelia’s gradually increasing independence, but this was different. For the first time ever, she felt as if her daughter might be vulnerable and unprotected without her. Could Maggie rely on Will to look after and love her? No, not even slightly. Anything could be happening there.
After a while the foil squares were removed, the dye was rinsed off and Suzanne began deftly snipping. Maggie felt pliant and rather absent as locks of hair pattered softly to the floor around her. It was surprisingly relaxing, handing yourself over to another woman, an expert, and saying, Please sort me out. Improve me. And then, once Suzanne was satisfied with the cut, out came the blow-dryer, roaring heat around her head, and she watched, fascinated, as the new Maggie Laine took shape in the mirror.
Goodness. It was a transformation.
There in front of her was a woman with shiny conker-brown hair that looked light and swingy as it curled under at the neck. Suzanne had given her a side-parting, rather than her usual centre one, and Maggie turned her head slowly, marvelling at the way her hair framed her face so differently, how her cheekbones seemed more prominent all of a sudden. Goodbye, Granny Laine, she thought, noticing how the salon lights bounced pleasingly off the warm tones of her hair. Farewell, invisible woman. Here I am, world. What do you think?
‘Lean forward just a fraction for me,’ Suzanne said, snipping carefully against her neck. ‘There. All done!’ She held another mirror behind Maggie’s head, and Maggie blinked a few times, startled to discover that her eyes were damp at the corners as she took in her lovely new style from all angles. She was almost embarrassed by how much hot, devout love she suddenly had for Suzanne, wrangler of miracles.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said thickly, but the phrase didn’t even touch how good she felt. ‘I feel . . . amazing,’ she went on. ‘Like a new person.’
‘You look like one too!’ Suzanne replied. ‘You look as if you’re ready for anything now – and you’re definitely not invisible. You’re ready to take on the world!’
Maggie couldn’t stop staring at herself. Then she smiled. ‘I think I am,’ she replied.
With pizza and apologies having restored some holiday harmony the night before and Izzie even deigning to spend time with Seren and her Sylvanian Families collection, once back at the cottage, Em was confident that they had all moved on a step. And the next day started pretty well too, with Jack and George having a bit of a kick-around with a football outside. They both seemed to enjoy that kind of argy-bargy and tussling, with George temporarily becoming a rather adorable teenage boy again in the process, while Jack couldn’t get enough. He’d missed having a dad around since Em and Dom had separated; by the sound of things, Michelle never gave them much time alone to just hang out and be daft together.
She smiled, hearing their whoops float through the open kitchen window. This was good, she told herself, packing up a picnic for later on – but just as she was thinking those words, she heard a loud splash and a yell, and hurried to the window to see George flailing about in the pool fully dressed where he had fallen in. It was hard not to laugh as he emerged up the steps, absolutely drenched, with water pouring from his clothes – Jack was certainly roaring his head off in true unsympathetic style – until George clapped a hand to his back pocket and groaned. ‘My phone,’ he said in dismay, at which point even Jack managed to stop laughing. Oh dear. ‘Shit. It’s completely dead,’ he said, examining it.
So that was the first setback of the day and then, minutes later, Izzie announced she wasn’t coming out with them and wanted to stay at home, which had Em wheedling and cajoling, to no effect. ‘I’m sixteen and I’m an introvert,’ Izzie said, not budging an inch. ‘And I’ll be fine on my own. Don’t worry, I won’t drown or anything. Or let any burglars in while you’re out.’
Sometimes you just couldn’t force a person to have fun. Never mind. The remaining four of them could still have a good day out. George had suggested a boat trip out to Truro, stopping on the way at Trelissick, a beautiful old country house with gardens and woodland to explore. Lovely! That would do. ‘We might not have mobile reception the whole time because we’ll be out on the river,’ Em told Izzie before they left, ‘but if you have any problems, just go and knock at the big farmhouse up there. Remember Lorna, the lady who gave us the keys? She may be able to help if you need her.’
A picnic packed, sun cream applied, and with George’s phone stuffed in a bag of rice to dry out, they finally set off in George’s car. It was weird – and not completely to Em’s liking – the way they had settled into holiday roles this week, she thought, opening the map on her phone so that she could give him directions. Before now, they had been just Em and George in their relationship: two adults who liked each other’s company and found each other attractive. Simple. But ever since they’d been in Cornwall, they had become more like Mum and Dad, whose main preoccupations were their various children. Em seemed to be doing all the cooking and organizing, just like she’d done in her marriage to Dom. George seemed to be doing all the driving and the larking about with kids – again, just like Dom had done when they’d been together.
Em wasn’t sure she relished being slotted back into that old pigeonhole. She’d preferred it when they had their own separate spaces and lives. It wasn’t that she didn’t like George any less than before, it was more that she didn’t want to be Mum-Em when she was with him. How did anyone get the balance right? Was it even possible? She . . .
‘What am I doing here?’ George asked just then as they approached a T-junction and Em snapped out of her thoughts, prodding hurriedly at her screen, which had gone unhelpfully blank.
‘Um . . . left, I think,’ she guessed. ‘No – right. Sorry! Right!’
Oh God, and wasn’t this exactly how it had been with Dom too – stressful navigating, as he ended up becoming crosser and crosser at her flakiness and lapses of concentration? Did she want a man at the steering wheel groaning at her incompetence all over again, and making her feel useless? No. She bloody well did not. ‘I’ll drive on the way back, by the way,’ she said lightly, feeling the need to assert her own ability. Pigeonholes were for pigeons.
‘Say no, if you value your life, George,’ Jack said immediately from the back seat.
Em opened her mouth to protest – after all the effing football matches she’d driven Jack to and from as well – but George was too quick for her. ‘I’d love you to drive back,’ he said, with a sideways wink. ‘That is very kind. What am I doing at this roundabout by the way?’
Once again Em had to stab frantically at her phone. ‘Whoops. Sorry. Er – straight ahead! Is that the second exit? Yes – second exit,’ she babbled. ‘I hope that’s not a smirk at me, mate,’ she added, seeing Jack’s grinning face in her sunshade mirror.
‘As if!’ he cried, the innocent.
‘He’s texting his girlfriend actually,’ Seren replied smugly on his behalf. ‘I saw.’
‘What? Who?’ cried Em, while Jack swung away in irritation, saying, ‘No, you didn’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, I do. And you put kisses. He put kisses on his message, I saw!’
‘All right, that’s enough,’ said Em, wondering if the girl in question was Maggie’s daughter. She’d put the thumbscrews on him later, try to find out. In the meantime Seren really needed to learn that nobody liked a grass. ‘Look, we’re nearly there, let’s just—’
‘Am I following signs to the docks here or . . . ?’ asked George, somewhat impatiently.
‘Er.’ How had this happened again? ‘I’m not sure, sorry. Let’s guess at . . . yes?’
‘You do know the boats only go every two hours, don’t you? I mean – if we miss this one . . .’
‘We’re not going to miss this one. I’m on it, don’t worry. See that parking sign? We’re turning off there. No – the one on the left. That one!’
To think that she would look back later on at this car journey with something bordering on nostalgia: a time when all she had to worry about was kids bickering, and the prospect of missing a boat trip, because of her crap navigation skills. Because what she didn’t realize was that the day was about to get so much worse. Her entire holiday was about to collapse like a house of cards around her, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to prevent it falling.