by Lucy Diamond
There was this weird sort of – well, it was like an angry silence, if that was even possible, Izzie thought in alarm, staring at them all as they followed her inside. ‘Mum?’ she prompted. What was going on? ‘Are you okay?’
‘You’re soaked through,’ her mum said, sounding simultaneously irritable and as if she was going to cry. ‘Go and get those wet things off. I’ll be up in a minute.’
‘Okay,’ Izzie said, puzzled. Jack pulled a face at her as he stomped through to the kitchen, while George didn’t even meet her eye. Unsure what to think of all this, she went upstairs and began towelling her hair. Then she remembered the missed calls and message from Ruby and pulled out her phone.
Another text had arrived since the RING ME! RED ALERT! one, and her eyes widened as she read the words. Major major shit, Ruby’s new message declared. Mum got hold of my phone – long story – and read our group chat. Am grounded for fortnight. She is currently ringing everyone’s mums and telling them what we’ve been up to. She was shocked about you and older man. SORRY. Apparently she rang your dad too. SORRY SORRY SORRY.
All the breath seemed to have left Izzie’s lungs. All the blood had drained from her head. ‘Shit,’ she breathed as panic took hold of her. ‘Shit shit SHIT.’ Seriously? she typed, fingers clammy. You’re not winding me up??
Ruby’s mum Louise was such a gossip, she’d have been straight on to Mum with a full report. Izzie says she’s been getting off with your boyfriend – did you know about this, Emma? And she’d told Dad, too? Oh my God. This was a disaster. She was never going to live this down.
Her mum came into the room just then, her face utterly grim, and shut the door behind her. ‘Have you any idea what I’m about to say?’ she asked tightly.
Izzie burst into horrified tears. ‘Yes,’ she sobbed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘What on earth,’ said Em, ‘has been going on? I don’t understand. Why is your dad ringing me up saying these terrible things about George? Why have I got missed calls and texts from Louise, saying I need to ring her back urgently, she’s worried about you?’
Izzie had gone completely white and was gulping with such huge sobs she could hardly speak. ‘It was a . . . a joke,’ she said, not looking at Em. ‘I didn’t mean . . . It was a private chat.’
Em still couldn’t understand what had actually happened. ‘Your dad is under the impression that . . .’ It was hard to get the words out. ‘That you and George have . . .’ She stalled again. ‘Well, that you two have – I don’t know how to say it. Got naked and copped off.’ She stared at her weeping daughter, incredulous. ‘Why would he think that? Did you tell someone that?’
Izzie put her head in her hands. ‘Go away,’ she sobbed. ‘Please go away, Mum.’
There was no way Em was going anywhere. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, sitting down next to her on the bed. It went against all her maternal instincts not to soothe her, when Izzie was in such a state, but she felt too jangled by Dom’s phone call, by this weird, unpleasant conversation. She took a deep breath, remembering the black bikini and Izzie’s peachy young body. She had to ask. ‘For my own peace of mind,’ she said, ‘I need to know the answer to this. Has something happened between you and George? Anything?’
Izzie shook her head, tears dripping from her chin. ‘No,’ she said in a tiny voice.
Thank Christ for that. ‘Are you sure? Nothing? He hasn’t made you feel . . . uncomfortable in any way, or . . . or . . . touched you?’
‘No!’ Izzie was shuddering, still in her soaking wet top. Em picked up her dressing gown from where it had been flung on the floor and draped it around Izzie’s shoulders. Okay, well, that was something, she supposed shakily. Not that she had doubted George for more than a single freakish second, but all the same. Good to have it confirmed.
‘So . . . Look, talk to me,’ she said, wanting to establish the facts before she had to speak to Dom again. Louise too, for that matter. ‘What’s this all about? I don’t understand.’
‘I just . . .’ Izzie was still hiding her face. ‘I don’t want to say,’ she wailed.
‘You have to say,’ Em replied sternly. ‘Your dad’s making all kinds of accusations. I don’t know where they’re coming from.’
Izzie scrubbed her face with the dressing-gown sleeve, streaking make-up everywhere. ‘They came from me,’ she said in a low voice. She hiccuped. ‘It was just a stupid game. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. It was like . . .’ She remembered Olivia’s words from the beach that day. ‘Fake it till you make it. You know?’
‘So you said those things? About George? You said you’d got off with him?’
Izzie looked utterly mortified, as well she might. ‘I want to go home,’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t stay here. I’ve ruined the holiday. Can I go home?’
Em stared at her, unable to get her head around this. Her own daughter telling such vile, awful lies. Izzie had always been a good girl. Such a nice person! Whatever had possessed her? ‘You could have got George into so much trouble,’ she said. ‘Your dad was all set to kill him, for one thing. Louise will have passed it on to everyone in town by now . . . they’re all going to think the worst of him. When he’s done nothing wrong!’ This was just horrible, she thought in despair. So completely awful for George, if anyone were to believe Izzie’s lies. The best and loveliest man, ruined by her daughter – for what? What was going on in her head?
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ Izzie said, just as there was a knock at the front door downstairs. Then she jerked up in alarm and ran to the mirror. ‘Oh, shit!’ she said.
‘I’ll get it,’ came George’s muffled shout.
‘If that’s for me, I’ll have to – oh God, look at my face,’ groaned Izzie, staring at her reflection.
‘What do you mean, if that’s for you?’ Em asked, feeling more bamboozled by the minute. ‘Who’s going to be knocking for you?’ She could hear a female voice from downstairs – probably Lorna, she guessed, checking that everything was okay. Ha! What a time to be asking such a question. ‘Look, you’re going to have to put this right,’ she said fiercely, turning back to the matter in hand. ‘You’ve got to tell everyone – including Dad, including Louise – that you lied. You have to do that, do you understand? You need to apologize to George.’
‘No! Please!’ cried Izzie crumpling all over again. She looked petrified. ‘Does he know, then? What I said? Please don’t make me say anything to him. I’d rather die.’
Em didn’t know what to say any more. She could see Izzie was limp and squirming with embarrassment – had she had a crush on him? she wondered. Was that what this was all about?
‘Please, Mum, can’t we just go home? Finish the holiday early?’ Then something seemed to cross her mind, because in the next moment she blurted out, ‘Oh, but then Fraser—’ before snapping her mouth shut again.
Em felt very, very tired all of a sudden. Very tired and confused. Right now the prospect of going home early wasn’t even such a bad idea. It had been a mistake asking George on holiday with them, she thought dully. They didn’t know each other well enough. Their kids hadn’t particularly gelled. And now here was Izzie, prostrate with guilt and wretchedness over some terrible crush she’d developed, some joking around that had gone horribly wrong. Izzie hadn’t wanted to share the family holiday from the start – it had been Em who’d pushed everyone into it. What a disaster. Maybe it was time to pull the plug. Enact a mercy killing.
‘Look,’ she said weakly, ‘how about if I ask George to go home early? Seren’s due to go back tomorrow anyway, maybe I should just—’
But at that moment there came a gentle knock on Izzie’s bedroom door and then George himself put his head around it. He looked strained and apologetic, and Em’s lungs seized with terror that he might have been listening to their conversation.
It turned out that something even worse had happened, though. ‘Er . . . Charlotte’s here,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
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sp; As the rain tipped down, Maggie sought shelter in the café, queuing up for a cup of tea and flapjack, then managing to bag the last free table. She had come to Trebah, a beautiful botanical garden, as recommended by Paul in the guidebook he’d lent her. After the encounter with the pebble artist on the beach, she had returned to the car and flicked through the pages, trying to decide what to do next. It was only then that she really took note of all the messages Paul had left for her amidst the entries.
This is lovely – highly recommended, he’d written on one page. Watch out – expensive car park, he’d warned elsewhere. Fabulous at the end of the day when the crowds have all gone, read another pencilled addition. In his own quiet way, Paul had been telling her for years that he cared about her, she realized. Just look how he’d annotated his own book for her. You’ll love this place. This is right up your street! Bit overrated, she read on other pages. Even the act of studying his handwritten notes made her feel warm inside.
Paul was such a good person, with his shy smile and brown eyes, his habit of taking off his glasses and rumpling his thick sandy hair with the palm of his hand whenever he was thinking deeply. Seeing his handsome, smiling face across the staffroom always made her feel better: thank goodness, there he is, that person who understands me. And yet each time he had ever dared approach her about pushing their relationship to a different level, she had slammed down the shutters and backed away.
What are you so scared of, Maggie? It was a good question.
An image came to her of the pebble she’d thrown into the sea that morning, a slow-motion film running through her head of it tracing an arc across the forget-me-not-blue sky. The splash as it vanished beneath the surface. Would her chalked letters still be visible on the pebble or would the sea already have taken them away, washed the stone clean?
She reached down to find the other pebble at the bottom of her handbag and pulled it out. COURAGE, it said to her as she put it in the middle of the table. She bit the corner off her flapjack and chewed thoughtfully, then rummaged in her bag a second time and pulled out her phone.
Hi! Having a great time at Trebah today – thanks for the tip! She typed in a new message to Paul. The guidebooks are coming in v handy – much appreciated. Hope you’re having a lovely summer. Maggie.
She scrolled through the photos she’d taken that day, eventually settling on her favourite, which had been taken at the top of a downward path towards the water garden. From there you could see umpteen palms and cordylines, which looked fabulous silhouetted against the sky. Even by her own cack-handed photography standards, it was a good shot.
Attaching it to the text, she pressed Send. There. Okay, to a normal person, it wasn’t particularly courageous or daring, but Maggie had never been the one to start a conversation with Paul, she realized now. Never initiated anything with him, preferring to wait and let him call all the shots. It was a tiny thing, but she didn’t want to be the one who always reacted any longer.
Outside it was still raining. There was still no further word from Amelia, despite all of Maggie’s many texts and attempts to call, and the nagging worry at the back of her mind was starting to build to an anxious crescendo. Will had seemed pretty shambolic in terms of health and safety; what was to stop Amelia falling off a cliff or into the river under his so-called supervision? Maybe she’d come down with a bout of salmonella – Maggie had seen that kitchen, after all. So full of angry pride at the time, she hadn’t thought to ask for Will’s number and now was unable to check that everything was all right and her daughter was still alive. Although she could have a quick look at Amelia’s social media, she supposed.
Maggie dithered for a moment. She knew that some parents were constantly snooping on their children’s online activities, but her conscience was always faintly ill at ease with this idea. It wasn’t spying, it was parental concern, she had to tell herself, opening the app. In fairness, she hardly ever looked at Amelia’s Instagram account – and Amelia had no idea she even knew her account name there, let alone followed her – but needs must today, frankly. Was that so terrible?
Okay, so she was alive, Maggie saw as soon as she opened the app and clicked onto Amelia’s account to see lots of new photos.
Having an amazing time with my famous dad!!! That was a selfie of them in a wood somewhere. Amelia looked happy enough, she decided, with her arm around Will, beaming into the camera.
First photography lesson with Dad – lucky me! Will on his own this time, setting up a tripod, looking earnest in a dark-green T-shirt and knackered old jeans.
Some shots from the top of a hill – Maggie zoomed in, but couldn’t tell where the pictures were taken, although Amelia had written I love Devon as her caption.
There were photos of the younger children too: the little boy pressing a cutter into some red rolled-out Play-Doh on the kitchen table at home. Amelia had caught him from the side and you could see his gorgeous long eyelashes and a frown of concentration; he looked lost in the moment. There were pictures of the little girl as well: running after the chickens in the garden, barefoot, with a purple dress floating out at the sides as she charged about. A blurry smile, her curly hair springing around her face – good action shots, thoughtfully taken. Nice domestic scenes.
Then there was a selfie of Amelia alone, collapsed in the middle of the grass, her limbs arranged artistically like a model, with bright flowers spangling the green. She looked beatific, blissed-out, as if Celeste had slipped her something trippy in the green tea. (She better bloody not have done, Maggie thought immediately.) So happy! ran the accompanying caption.
Maggie sipped her tea and tried to swallow back the dark swirl of feelings inside her. Of course she was glad that Amelia was having such a good time, she told herself, although this reaction was battling quite strongly with a response that felt a lot like insecurity. She doubted Amelia usually posted anything quite so positive about days out with Maggie, for instance. In fact, now that Maggie checked, there had been a stony silence about their entire trip to Pendennis, although the day before that . . . wait. What? Why was there a picture of Amelia holding a tequila bottle down by Falmouth docks?
Startled, she flicked through the other photos from that day. The tequila bottle seemed to feature prominently, she thought, eyes wide. In fact . . . hold on. She zoomed in to take a closer look. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was the exact same tequila bottle that Maggie had won at the tombola stall at the school summer fair in June. The tequila bottle that Linda Barber from the PTA had handed over to her with a wink, saying, ‘Someone’s in for a good night tonight!’ Maggie had smiled politely and then, once home, had added the bottle to her meagre drinks collection, imagining it would be there for several years untouched, until she remembered to give it away for another school summer fair.
It was the same bottle, she was sure of it. And then Em’s cryptic comments about that day came back to her in the next moment – what was it she’d said? Those naughty teens, or something. Was this what she’d been referring to? Oh my goodness. And there Maggie had been, assuming that the other two had been a bad influence on her angelic daughter. Had it actually been the other way round? She wouldn’t have believed it herself, had the evidence not been right there, in front of her, captured for posterity on her daughter’s camera roll.
Okay then. So that showed what she knew about her own flesh and blood: a lot less than she’d assumed. Did that make her a bad parent or Amelia a bad daughter? She picked up the pebble and stared at it. Help me, she thought. Any ideas how I’m meant to tackle this one?
After numerous attempts and several changes of mind, Olivia had finally finished her letter to Lorna and Roy, and now she was in Falmouth saying her goodbyes.
She probably wouldn’t come back again, she had decided. After Lorna read what she had to say, she might not be welcome any more, for one thing, but also this was a place with so many memories of the past that she wanted to leave it behind now. So this would be her last day here and she was going to ac
t like a holidaymaker: enjoy the town’s loveliness before she went on to spend the evening indulgently alone, doing all the things that motherhood had taken away from her. Eating late, drinking a lot, another long bath, a silent luxurious night. And then tomorrow . . .
Her thoughts kept snagging on that word. It was Thursday tomorrow and by then she would have spent four nights away from home, by far the longest time she’d ever been separated from the twins. Lorna and Roy had made it clear that the cottage would be empty until Friday and she could stay that long if need be, but Olivia didn’t want to overstay her welcome. Like it or not, she would have to make some decisions.
Not right now, though. Right now, she was going to revisit some old haunts around the town – her farewell tour, if you like, and then head out on her favourite walk, along the coastal path to Maenporth. Before she’d left them, her mum had loved this stretch of coastline and they’d gone there many times, rain or shine, in Olivia’s childhood. She could still remember her mum crouching beside her, pointing into the sea where a seal’s sleek fat head had popped up. ‘Look! Can you see it?’
Her thoughts turned to her own boys then – how she had crouched similarly between them, pointing out a horse on the downs, a huge tipper truck, a cat on a shed roof. Their little faces lighting up with wonder, their eyes shining as they all watched together. It hadn’t all been bad, she told herself. They’d shared some good moments, hadn’t they?
She was on Church Street, the bunting flapping in cheery zigzags above her head, following the crowds past a surf shop and a café, the streets full now that the rain shower had blown over. Overtaking her just then was a mother who seemed to be in charge of five children, including a baby in a papoose and a dozing toddler in a pushchair. ‘Okay, because you’ve all been so good this morning, you can each choose a book from the bookshop,’ she told them, at which the older three whooped and ran into the shop ahead of her.