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by Penny Parkes

  Jackie shook her head. ‘No, darling, he did not. And you know how sorry we all were that he slipped through the vetting process.’

  Anna shrugged. ‘I’ve been reading about sociopathic behaviour,’ she said. ‘The worst people are always the best at hiding it, did you know that?’

  ‘You might be right, Anna, but that doesn’t mean you should be thinking that everyone around you is like that!’ Jackie protested, clearly upset and shocked by Anna’s reading material.

  ‘So, I should just trust people?’ Anna said quietly. ‘Trust my mum not to leave me, my dad not to be such a fucking useless criminal that he can’t stay out of prison for five minutes? Or maybe trust my foster dad not to want to touch me up when his wife goes out of town?

  ‘Or maybe I should be trusting Kara and Ian to love me and take care of me, even when they’ve made it perfectly clear that I am, at best, a disposable daughter, a substitute for the baby they can’t make together?’

  Anna’s voice had risen higher and louder with each statement, and she now shook with the exertion of venting her rage.

  ‘So, Jackie, tell me – who am I supposed to be trusting now?’

  Jackie held on to her hand, her concern and, yes, affection for Anna etched on her face.

  ‘Could you trust me, Anna? We’ve come a long way, you and I. And I know – I know – that I’m the necessary evil in your life and you didn’t choose to have me in it. But I’ve got your back, Anna Wilson. And, do you know what – you may be small of stature but you’re big where it counts.’ She tapped her heart and her head. ‘And I, for one, am not going to let you down.’

  ‘Okay then,’ said Anna, suddenly unwilling to release Jackie’s hand, as though it were a life raft. ‘Another fresh start it is then?’ her voice trembled with the uncertainty of where she might land next. ‘Another new adventure?’ Marjorie’s words and the memory of her belief in Anna brought a wobbly smile to her face.

  ‘I think it might be for the best,’ Jackie reluctantly agreed.

  Chapter 24

  Dittisham, 2019

  Anna walked across the lawn at The Cove, drawn to the idea of Oliver’s bobbing red rowing boat, even as she shied away from the reality. Being out on the water was a double-edged sword – she loved the sense of freedom and possibility, but loathed with a passion the surrender of control. Henry’s deft handling of his skiff had been eye-opening. Because in her mind, sailing had never been so much a skill one could acquire as an act of faith.

  Kicking off her shoes and rolling up her jeans, she walked to the end of the tiny jetty and dangled her feet in the water.

  Close enough.

  Faith was something that seemed to feature pretty heavily in Henry’s life and it confused her and fascinated her in equal measure. Because, for Henry, his faith wasn’t about church on a Sunday and living by Commandments with a capital C – it was about believing in the very best of human nature and the possibility of happy endings. Faith in his ability to build a family in a way that suited him. Faith in lasting friendships and loving respect for his grandparents.

  Faith in her.

  And based on what? Nothing more than a few conversations and his own convictions.

  The very idea of keeping in touch only showed how little he really knew her. How little he realised about her life and the plethora of similar empty promises she’d heard over the years. How she went out of her way to avoid making them herself, even when her soul was craving a connection.

  She thought for a moment of a girl called Lucy Graham and the pain of saying goodbye to the laughter and rapport that had sustained her during some truly awful times. Yet still not enough to endure. She frowned, trying to remember whether she had even tried, or whether she’d simply walked away, making the decision herself to avoid the inevitable heartbreak later.

  She could blame her nomadic life.

  She could blame other people.

  But when it came down to it, there was an element of self-protection that Anna couldn’t ignore.

  She had the life she chose. She also had the friendships she chose. Or the lack thereof.

  She was hardly blameless, hardly a tumbleweed.

  And she could hide so many of her idiosyncrasies under the aegis of her role as a house-sitter, but she wasn’t a fool – she knew that whilst this erratic life of hers came with certain gratuities, hidden benefits beyond a roof over her head, there had always been trade-offs.

  In this case, Liza. Liza, who appeared to have mistaken the role of house-sitter for that of personal assistant.

  And Anna, being Anna, had yet to alight on the perfect way to say no without irritating her client or wringing herself with recriminations for having dared to speak her mind.

  Yet to Henry, it had been immediately obvious that the trade Anna had been making all these years was so much greater: her own life, her own plans, her own desires all on hold. Slipping so seamlessly, as always, into the role of the ultimate pretzel. Bending to fit, diluting herself.

  Start small.

  Easier said than done, but as the waves lapped at her ankles and the hamster wheel in her mind inexorably turned, Anna allowed herself to ask what it was that she needed.

  She allowed herself to consider, however uncomfortably, how she might take back a little control of her own destiny. Getting to Oxford had been so huge as a goal, it had blinkered her every choice for years. Beyond that, she genuinely had nothing aside from the vague, naive ambition to be published, and it now seemed as though her life had been held in aspic, just waiting for her next considered chess move.

  It had been a long time coming and yet now – from the cruelty of one man and the genuine friendship of another – it seemed as though her eyes were finally opening.

  She picked up the phone. ‘Em, it’s me.’

  ‘She lives!’ Emily said, the joke only managing to mask her obvious concern just a little. ‘I’m so sorry that Liza’s being so demanding.’

  ‘I’m not sure Liza even sees it that way, to be honest,’ Anna said frankly, having almost forgotten the irritable message she’d left for Emily a few days ago.

  Her stay at The Cove had been, in part, a struggle of constant frustration, the sun bright and the sea beckoning her with a siren call, yet Liza’s interminable demands keeping her tethered to home base far more than she would like. Only the thought of those omnipotent star ratings on the Home Network profiles had kept Anna’s increasingly short fuse in check, if she were honest.

  That and the company of Henry.

  ‘Look,’ Anna said, realising that speaking up now might actually help someone else in her position later, ‘I’m only thinking that it might be a good idea to mention to clients upfront that we are house-sitters. There to take care of the house and the animals – not be their personal assistants while they’re away. You know, avoid any confusion and ill feeling.’

  ‘I know, I do. And you’re not the only person to mention it. It seems to be a thing this summer more than ever before. I don’t know if clients are just becoming more entitled, or whether we’ve all been so polite and helpful for so long that we’ve created a rod for our own backs…’

  Anna blinked. She could relate.

  ‘Listen, that’s not actually why I was calling. I wanted to talk to you about cancelling my next placement.’ Anna looked down in surprise at a sharp pain, to see that her nails had formed perfect crescents in her skin, so tightly was her hand clasped into a fist.

  Asking for what she wanted shouldn’t really be this hard.

  ‘Oh thank goodness,’ Emily said. ‘I can’t pretend I’m not hugely relieved. I mean, you’ve been through so much these last few weeks.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I was thinking I might have to stage an intervention one day soon.’

  Her words petered out as Anna remained silent at the other end of the phone line.

  Had her unravelling been so easy for everyone to see? Everyone, it seemed, but Anna herself. Sure, she normally prided herself on being even-tempered an
d easy-going. And, with the benefit of hindsight, she was aware that her message to Emily, ranting about Liza Lyndell, had been neither. Yet she hadn’t quite accepted how tightly wound she was, unable to let go, or move on. Either from that night at Gravesend Manor, or the quicksand her life had become, anchoring her in the past, no matter how far and wide she travelled.

  She thought of her conversation with Henry on the beach. The very notion of asking for what she actually wanted so alien by now, the dread of being considered ‘demanding’ far outweighing any small desires of her own. She frowned, actually furious with herself as she realised how her ingrained habit of pliability persisted.

  ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t clear. I just need a different placement, somewhere more vibrant. A beautiful city with lots of bookshops and libraries and museums would tick an awful lot of boxes,’ she said. She needed culture, diversion and distraction. The pretty cottage in Rye with roses round the door was not going to cut it.

  ‘Ooh, okay. Libraries. Got it.’ Emily paused, and Anna could almost hear the cogs turning as her friend scrambled to readjust. ‘Have you research to do for your book then?’ Emily asked, her whole demeanour more relaxed, relieved even. ‘Leave it with me, I’ll see what I can do – Edinburgh, Bath, Cambridge, somewhere like that do you?’

  ‘Perfect,’ breathed Anna, as ever comforted by even the proximity of the academic life she had loved so much and a little surprised by Emily’s easy acceptance. Was the concern about being difficult all in her head?

  She tilted her face back to the sun.

  Small change; big difference.

  One tiny element of control in her own destiny.

  One eye-opening realisation that she had been kidding herself for years: footloose and fancy-free did not necessarily translate as liberty or autonomy, when the constraints were carried with you, in your own mind. By your own actions.

  Chewie stuffed his face into her lap, desperate for attention, and she scruffed him absent-mindedly behind the ears, feeling good, time elastic with the ebb and flow of the water and the cacophony of seagulls overhead.

  Her phone pinged and she took a calming breath to see what Liza had in store for her next, yet it was Emily’s icon that flashed onto the screen.

  Week in Bath – stone’s throw from the Royal Crescent – so you can fill your literary boots AND let your hair down. Least demanding clients I have ever met. Almost jealous. Will send details. E x

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Anna exclaimed, gaining Chewie’s immediate attention. She was astonished by Emily’s speed and efficiency, and delighted by the result. ‘Geroff, you daft hound, stop licking my face!’ Anna laughed, batting him away.

  ‘A week in Bath! Can you even imagine, hey Chewie? All those antique markets and bookshops. I mean, we can ignore Jane Austen, right, although I’ll bet she’s bloody everywhere with her bonnets and bonhomie.’

  She breathed out slowly. Happily. Prepared to concede that Henry had a point.

  Small change, big difference.

  And a week in Bath to consider her next move.

  Chapter 25

  Bath, 2019

  With Leia’s plaintive rendition of ‘Bye Bye Baby’ still echoing in her ears several hours later, Anna felt her spirits lift as she crested the hill and saw the city of Bath laid out below her. There was something immediately and instinctively appealing to her about the precision and order of this Georgian city; the way the crescents of soft Bath-stone terraces layered their way up the steep hillsides, flowering out in concentric symmetry around The Circus. And The Circus itself was Anna’s destination, if only she could navigate the one-way system and various bus gates that seemed to thwart every logical avenue of approach.

  The honeyed stone caught the early-evening sunlight and warmed the whole city to a golden hue of welcome and a smile quietly lit up Anna’s face, even as she tackled another particularly tricky hill start, the Mini furiously protesting the gradient and oblivious to the charm. The notion of a circular terrace of Georgian houses was appealing enough, yet the whimsy surely lay in the name – The Circus…

  Anna could only hope that the entertainment inherent in the name was largely of the metaphorical variety – she’d had enough entertainment getting away from The Cove to last her a lifetime. Liza and Oliver’s return had been several hours early and unnecessarily dramatic, but then who would have expected anything else?

  Slipping away, her services no longer needed, was par for the course.

  Being pulled into the middle of a marital dispute was hardly new.

  But for Anna, standing there, bag and car keys in hand, to be on the receiving end of a parting tirade from Liza, Ruth’s jar of homemade jam in her hand as proof of Anna’s apparent duplicity, had been a bridge too far.

  Anna had called upon every last ounce of professionalism she had and worked hard to keep her cool. Rather than flare, she simply listed the tasks that had been handled and updated her client on Chewie and Leia. Rather than bite back, she simply counted down the moments until she could leave. Rather than tear strips off this clearly unstable woman, whose insecurities seemed to be warping her every interaction with the world, Anna focused on the tiny gold stars on the Home Network website and met every criticism with grace and diplomacy.

  As always, knowing she was leaving made everything so much easier.

  Although leaving Henry and Oscar the night before had been so much harder than she’d imagined.

  ‘Let the girl go, Liza,’ Oliver had interrupted eventually, bundling a few crumpled banknotes into Anna’s hand by way of a tip. ‘And thank you, Anna. Truly appreciate all your hard work this week.’

  It was only when Anna had finally got to the car that she realised all four banknotes were salmon pink. Maybe Oliver knew exactly how demanding his wife had been?

  * * *

  Flat 2.

  Hardly the most beguiling of addresses, yet Anna stood in the entryway of the building where Brock Street met The Circus – the architectural punctuation point below the question mark of The Royal Crescent – and breathed in. The air was warm, slightly humid, and the excited chatter of Italian schoolchildren milling around in packs made the atmosphere feel almost frivolous and holiday-like.

  The aroma of sautéed garlic and freshly baked baguettes wafted across the street from the tiny French bistro opposite and Anna’s stomach rumbled appreciatively. She’d already decided to take Emily’s advice to heart this week and embrace the role of holiday-maker and tourist, eschewing her usual desire to seamlessly blend in like a local. Indeed, she could almost visualise the pages of her journal she would fill while she was here.

  It was a welcome return of her inspiration.

  ‘You’re here! How divine – and just in time for lunch.’ The invitation was extended even before the door was fully open and caught Anna on the hop, gusts of Chopin drifting down the stairs and out into the street.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, holding out her hand in greeting. ‘I’m Anna.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ said the graceful dowager before her, hair perfectly coiffured in vibrant shades of silver and gunmetal grey, which somehow gave her the appearance of vitality rather than age. ‘Now, quick, quick. Let’s get your parking permit sorted before those bastard traffic wardens shake you down.’ She looked left and right as though hunting her prey and Anna immediately pitied the traffic warden who had the temerity to ticket Eleanor Harvey.

  ‘I’ve paid and displayed so there’s no rush,’ Anna said easily.

  ‘Ugh. Robbers.’ She thrust a laminated card into Anna’s hand. ‘Get that on display and then we can have a little glass of something to say hello.’

  There would be brooking no argument with her new client it seemed and ‘a little glass of something’ was apparently neither the first of the day nor optional.

  ‘Richard!’ Eleanor bellowed through the lofty communal entrance hall. ‘She’s here already. Lay another place for lunch.’

  Making short work of the stairs and pushing open the door
to the first-floor flat, Eleanor revealed the sweeping high ceilings and elevated sash windows that made Anna’s heart swoop with joy.

  Somehow, she hadn’t equated the banal moniker of ‘Flat 2’ with the prime location within a Georgian house. Her face lit up as she took in the cornicing, the fireplace central to the sitting room and the light – oh the light that danced through the windows and illuminated the whole space, giving it a timeless, rose-hued quality. And then there were the books. Floor to ceiling.

  ‘Wow,’ she breathed, words mainly eluding her. But then she could work on that. She could already imagine filling the pages of her journal with descriptions of this stunning room. A balm to her very soul.

  ‘Good girl,’ Eleanor laughed. ‘That’s exactly the reaction we like. Now pop your bag down there, and we’ll get you settled in after lunch. Hope you’re not one of those faddy feeders – we’ve got bread, cheese, and some of that lovely Parma ham. Wafer-thin, the way it should be.’ Eleanor looked at her expectantly, defying her to announce that she was gluten-free, vegan or some similar transgression.

  ‘Perfect,’ Anna said. ‘And thank you for inviting me to join you. I know I’m a little early, but I thought it would take an age to park.’

  ‘Rosé or white?’ called Richard – or so she assumed – from the adjoining room.

  ‘Might I have a glass of water first?’ Anna prevaricated, catching Eleanor’s tiny slump of disappointment. ‘It’s been a long drive up from the coast and I’ll confess to being incredibly thirsty.’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘Of course.’

  Opening the door into the kitchen allowed the light to flow directly from front to back of the apartment, and gave Anna her first view behind the scenes of Brock Street: the garden must have extended seventy feet to the south of the building, delineated by the same stone walls of the houses, and the strip of manicured lawn surrounded by flowering shrubs and borders. An oasis in the heart of the city.