by Beth Corby
I stare at everyone, aghast, a bright blush blooming across my face. I wish I could stop it, but it only deepens. Honestly, how evolution ever thought lighting up like a beacon might be useful is beyond me. But as I bask in the heat of my own cheeks, being basted by everyone’s accusing glares, Donald’s laughter turns into a worryingly intense coughing fit. It’s so bad that, despite my disgrace, everyone’s attention is pulled to him. We watch, frozen, as he runs out of breath, hovering interminably at the end of his exhale, and Alec rushes to his side.
‘Breathe,’ Alec orders, his voice soothing yet urgent. ‘Come on! Breathe!’
There’s a moment’s indecision, then Donald inhales loudly, holding his chest, his eyes bulging in alarm. I’ve been holding my breath too, and let it out with relief.
‘Slowly, now. Are you all right?’ Alec asks him, and I’m struck by the tenderness in his tone. Lauren seems less impressed by his concern, but I reckon she’s still trying to evaluate whether Alec might be boyfriend material. ‘Slowly,’ Alec reminds Donald.
Donald raises his eyebrows and nods, his face pallid. He takes a moment to recover, but once I know that he’s all right, I seize the opportunity to slip out of the room onto the terrace.
I stand for a moment, allowing my mortified blush to recede and breathing in the cool wintery air, then give an involuntary shiver. It’s freezing out here.
I wrap my arms around myself and notice Grandpa Albert pottering about in the flowerbed immediately below the terrace – he’s an amazing escape artist when it comes to family parties. Taking care to keep away from the windows, I tiptoe over.
‘Hello, Grandpa,’ I whisper.
He jumps. ‘Ah! Hello Hannah.’ He gives me a distracted smile and returns his attention to the flowerbed. ‘Anyone looking for me?’
‘No.’ I decide not to mention what happened indoors. ‘I just came out for some air.’
‘I saw a nice bench down on the lawn, if that helps?’ He indicates the direction with a tilt of his head. ‘It’s in the sun, but take a coat – it’s chilly.’
Leaving Grandpa Albert to plunge ever deeper into the foliage, I thank my lucky stars that Dad hasn’t locked his car. I collect my coat and, keeping well out of sight of the house, hurry down the garden and find the bench. Making myself comfortable and, determined not to think about whether everyone now thinks I’m a complete bitch, I focus on a robin that’s hopping about on the lawn. It flies up the garden, possibly to see if Grandpa Albert has unearthed any worms, and I shift my attention to the clouds, trying to enjoy the peace of the moment.
Hearing someone coming down the steps, I sit very still, waiting to see who it is. But it isn’t Mum or Dad as I had hoped. It’s Alec. I feel myself redden as he sits down beside me, and risking a quick look at him, he raises his eyebrows in a way that suggests I should explain myself. I look down, knowing that he’s still watching me.
‘I thought it best if I make myself scarce,’ I explain.
‘Hmm. So you didn’t run away, then?’
‘No,’ I say, though we both know that isn’t true.
‘Well, you certainly made an impression. Or was that your intention?’ he asks, watching me closely.
‘No, of course it wasn’t. It was just a stupid joke that I only meant for Lauren to hear, but then the room went silent at exactly the wrong moment and everyone heard.’ I let out an exasperated sigh, annoyed at myself as much as anyone, and stare down at my fingers as I remember the chilling pin-drop silence, followed by Donald’s roar of laughter. ‘It wouldn’t have been as bad if Donald hadn’t found it so hilarious.’
‘You can’t blame Donald!’
‘I’m not! Not exactly. But you have to admit he made it worse, because now everyone’s blaming me for turning Nicholas into a laughing stock.’
I glance at Alec, but rather than showing understanding, his eyebrows have drawn together reproachfully. ‘You started it, and you can’t expect Donald not to laugh when your cousin’s face was such a picture.’ I roll my eyes. ‘And then there was your grandmother’s horror,’ he points out mercilessly.
‘Oh God,’ I say, rubbing my forehead anxiously. Grandma Betty is going to have a field day with this – or perhaps that should be a field decade.
‘In fact, I haven’t seen Donald laugh that hard in ages. You almost killed him.’ Alec frowns heavily at me. ‘But then perhaps that was your plan: knock off Donald and inherit his fortune?’
I give him a sideways glare. I assume he’s joking, but it’s impossible to tell.
‘Only an idiot would think I could engineer a lethal coughing fit through hysterical laughter,’ I say acidly, and there’s a nasty silence. ‘Is he OK?’ I ask more gently.
‘He’s fine. Still chuckling every so often, which makes Nicholas blush.’ Alec tries to look forbidding, but the corners of his mouth are twitching.
I close my eyes for a second, wishing I could redo the last half hour. ‘I’m never going to hear the end of this.’
‘Probably not,’ agrees Alec, his voice indifferent. He clearly couldn’t care less.
‘So, why are you out here? Or did you just come out to accuse me of attempted murder?’ I ask, glaring at him.
‘Actually, Donald sent me. He would like you . . .’ Alec sketches a flourishing and yet sarcastic bow in his seat ‘. . . to be his companion at lunch.’
‘Why?’ I blurt out, and he stares at me, taken aback. ‘What I mean is, I’m not interesting, and if I say anything else, Grandma Betty’s going to skin me. Try Lauren,’ I offer, and immediately hate myself for saying it.
‘He asked for you, not Lauren,’ says Alec. ‘Although I can’t think why,’ he adds, then sighs. ‘Just say yes,’ he says impatiently.
That’s easy for him to say. I blow out a breath and gaze at the church spire peeking out from behind the trees and the pretty varied roofs of the village with fields and rolling hills behind them. I suppose Uncle Donald did choose me over Lauren, which makes a pleasant change, and since I’m already in trouble with Grandma Betty . . . My stomach gives a hungry groan.
‘What’s the problem?’ he asks irritably. ‘You’re only being asked to eat some food and have a chat. You should give him a chance – he’s giving you one,’ says Alec, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t think I deserve it.
I sigh, trying to understand Donald’s motives. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘You can ask,’ he says, leaning back and regarding me warily.
‘Why has he invited us here after all this time?’
Alec’s eyes dart to mine. ‘That’s for him to say, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so. I was just trying to figure out why he would want to see any of us.’ Alec’s eyebrows flick up involuntarily. It seems I’ve struck a chord. ‘What’s he like?’ I ask, changing tack.
‘He’s great,’ says Alec guardedly. I’d get better answers from the bench we’re sitting on.
I persevere. ‘I mean, what’s he really like, as a person?’
Alec hesitates, then pushes his hand through his hair. He looks out at the view. ‘He’s honourable, decent, fun, clever, excellent company . . .’ As Alec turns, his expression holds a warning. ‘He’s the best of people.’
OK, I get the message. ‘What about his great sense of humour,’ I ask drily, meeting his eyes and daring him to admit that he’s laying it on a bit thick. ‘Or his clear naughty streak?’ I saw how much he enjoyed baiting Grandma Betty, and I know Alec did too.
Alec smiles, despite his clear intention to remain defensive and annoyed. ‘Yes,’ he admits grudgingly. ‘He can be extremely badly behaved.’
I can’t help laughing. ‘I like that about him – it’s refreshing.’
Alec looks at me quizzically and, for a moment at least, we’re on the same page. ‘What do you make of him?’ he asks curiously.
I stare at him. He has very long eyelashes. Not that I’m swayed by looks. I shift my gaze across the valley and collect my thoughts. ‘I’m not sur
e. I think he’s clever, because he’s seeing through all the rubbish my family are trying to lay on him.’ Alec nods. I wait for him to say something, but he just stares at me, a light crease forming between his eyebrows. ‘Apart from that . . .’ I shrug, looking at the view again. My stomach gives another embarrassing groan, and I have to bolt my jaws together to stop myself from giggling.
‘I guess it’s lunchtime,’ he says, like it was a clock chiming, but just as I think he’s going to smile, he gets up and starts to walk off. ‘I’m going, even if you aren’t,’ he calls without looking back, and I roll my eyes.
‘Of course I’m coming,’ I say, getting to my feet and hurrying to catch up. ‘It’s not like I have a choice,’ I mutter.
Alec stops and turns so abruptly that I almost bump into him. ‘I’ll make sure to tell Donald you leapt at the chance to sit with him, shall I?’ he asks scathingly. I glare up at him, but suddenly we’re too close for comfort and he steps back. ‘After you,’ he says, holding out his hand to show the way.
I adjust my coat and, annoyed by his pointedly excessive show of manners, stalk past him up the steps, only just remembering to call Grandpa Albert as I go.
Chapter 4
Call me a chicken, but I hide behind Alec as we enter the drawing room. I needn’t have bothered, because Donald is waiting for us and he takes my arm, folding it into his own, before announcing that it’s time for lunch.
‘Tell me, Hannah,’ Donald says, as he leads me along the corridor. ‘What’s the story between you and Betty? I couldn’t help noticing there was a little friction there.’
I shrug, wondering what to tell him. It feels wrong to talk about her behind her back, but it’s not like she makes much effort to be fair to me. ‘I’m not one of her favourites.’
‘I gathered that,’ he says with a small smile. ‘How come?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m not sure really. I think it goes back to when I was little. Every time Lauren pulled my hair or something similar, Grandma Betty was only ever watching when I did it back. She got the impression I was a bit of a troublemaker.’
‘And how does that make you feel?’ asks Donald.
‘Usually it doesn’t bother me that much, but sometimes it can be very irritating. Like today,’ I add, feeling hot just thinking about it.
‘Yes, but luckily for you, I know her of old!’ he says conspiratorially as we enter the dining room. I stare at the massive dining table laid out with enough cutlery and glasses for a banquet. It’s how I always imagined royal dinners would be. I sit down in the chair he pulls out for me.
‘Though I’m surprised she didn’t see through that ruse, considering it was one of her tactics when we were children. Hmm,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Maybe she and Lauren are kindred spirits,’ he says, taking his seat at the head of the table.
I bite back a smile at the thought of presenting this theory to Lauren, and watch everyone else file in. Alec sits opposite me, fixing me with a look that lets me know he’s watching my every move. I give him a scathing glare, and promptly look away as I notice Donald watching us beadily. Mum, Dad, Aunty Pam, Uncle Nigel and Lauren all sit further down the table near Nicholas, leaving the place next to me empty, perhaps shunning the traitor who showed him up. Grandma Betty comes in last with Grandpa Albert, muttering darkly about ‘muddy trousers’. She takes the stately chair at the opposite end of the table from Uncle Donald, and Grandpa Albert comes sheepishly to take the empty seat next to me.
Grandma Betty glares at us and picks up a side plate to examine the maker’s mark. I can only assume it’s a good one, because she mumbles ‘so ostentatious’ before putting it down and allowing the waitress to pour her wine.
Donald smirks. ‘She’s certainly fulfilled her potential,’ he whispers, nodding at Grandma Betty. ‘She’s the younger of the two of us, and yet she was always a force to be reckoned with. Bossy Betty – quite terrifying, even at a young age.’
Grandpa Albert picks up his napkin and drapes it across his knee with excessive care. I bite my lip, worried he heard Donald’s comment, and watch Aunty Pam nod enthusiastically to the waiter offering her wine. I smile gratefully as the waitress pours some for me.
‘To a magnificent lunch!’ toasts Uncle Donald when we all have full glasses, and everyone takes a sip. It’s nice wine, but what with the Pimm’s and now this, I can’t help wondering if he’s trying to get us drunk. If so, given how the day’s going, I’m all in.
The waiter and waitress return carrying bowls of soup and baskets of bread. There are even little dishes of butter curls sprinkled with sea salt. It smells lovely and I’m dying to dig in, but everyone is waiting for Donald.
‘Winter squash soup,’ he explains, and reaches for his spoon. ‘Wonderful on a chilly day,’ he says, and as his spoon touches his soup, we all tuck in.
After a few seconds of only the chink of cutlery on crockery, the atmosphere loosens and everyone starts to relax. The conversation levels gently rise and I wonder whether I should be making conversation too. I peek at Grandpa Albert, but he’s concentrating on buttering his bread. Alec’s eyes are on me, but I think we’ve talked enough.
‘So, having not been politely introduced, how about we start with the fundamentals?’ asks Donald, turning to me with a polite smile.
I smile back. ‘I’m Hannah, female, age twenty-five, studying English. Lauren’s my sister.’ I cast around for something else he might find interesting, but can’t think of anything. ‘What else do you want to know?’
‘I suppose that’s the real question, isn’t it,’ says Uncle Donald. ‘What do any of us want to know about our fellow man?’ He nods thoughtfully. ‘How about we start with the fun stuff? What is your favourite thing to do?’ There’s a subtle challenge in his eyes.
‘Reading,’ I say, and smile at this innocent conversation stopper. This is usually where people falter, drift away, or talk to people on their other side.
He laughs, and I get the feeling he knows exactly what I’m thinking. ‘Where?’ he asks. Where? What a weird question.
‘Umm, anywhere really?’ His eyebrows raise expectantly, and I stare down at my bowl, racking my brains for a more interesting answer. ‘Outside, under a tree is nice. Or, if it’s raining, on the window seat at the turn of the stairs at my parents’ house.’
‘What do you like to read?’
‘Anything well written: I love the classics, I relax with mysteries, and I even like children’s books. It depends on my mood and how robust I’m feeling.’ I try to focus on my plate, but it’s hard to resist checking how he’s taking my answers.
‘And what’s your favourite book?’
I stare at him in consternation. How can he expect me to choose just one?
He must sense my bewilderment because he chuckles. ‘The book you go back to when you’re too exhausted to cope with anything new. The book you turn to when you want to hide. Your comfort book,’ he clarifies, watching me closely.
‘What’s yours?’ I ask, suddenly curious.
‘John Buchan, The Thirty-Nine Steps. Boys’ adventure! Always loved it.’
‘Mine’s Jane Eyre.’
Uncle Donald nods. ‘Displaced, unappreciated, feisty female, celebrated for her intelligence not her looks, and far from being rescued by her beloved, does the rescuing.’ My spoon stops halfway to my mouth and I stare at him. I can’t believe he’s read so much into my answer. And it’s all true.
Alec huffs sceptically, and I glare at him, daring him to question my choice. Donald warns Alec with an admonitory glance and continues.
‘Good choice. Do you hold grudges?’ he asks, catching me off guard with another swift change of topic and easily pulling me back into our conversation.
‘Erm . . . not grudges, really, but I’m not sure I always like people very much. What about you?’ I say, trying to turn the conversation away from myself, especially since I suspect Alec’s listening.
‘I’m careful who I trust,’ he says lightly. ‘What are y
our goals in life? Betty mentioned teaching?’ I freeze, and Donald holds up his hands in apology. ‘I know the interview went badly and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I just wondered whether that was your dream?’ We sit back so the waiter and waitress can clear our bowls, but I can tell he isn’t deterred.
‘No, it’s not my dream,’ I say, sitting forward again. ‘And I think that might have been the problem. My interviewer knew I was treating it as a fall-back position, and it went downhill from there.’ I glance at Donald, and he pats my hand.
‘It wasn’t meant to be,’ he says reassuringly.
‘Especially not after I likened children to brutal dictators and recommended animal cruelty as a sensible course of action.’
Donald barks out a laugh. ‘I’ll take your word for it. So, not teaching,’ he concludes, taking a sip of his wine, clearly ready to start up again with his questions. ‘So, what do you want to do – no holds barred, fairy tales allowed?’
I glance at him, puzzled. Why is he so interested in me?
‘Really, truly?’ he adds, his smile both mischievous and kind. ‘I promise I won’t laugh, or judge, and I definitely won’t tell anyone.’ He glares meaningfully down the table.
To my surprise, I actually want to tell him, which is odd because I’ve never told anyone. But for some reason I trust him. ‘I want to be a writer,’ I say, so quietly I’m almost mouthing it. Alec’s watching us, but I don’t think he heard.
Donald leans in a little closer, enthralled. ‘What’s stopping you?’ he asks just as quietly.
It’s a fair question and I hunt for the answer. ‘Me, I think? I had a bit of a bad experience when I was younger.’ My eyes flick involuntarily to Lauren. ‘And it took a while for me to start writing again. When I finally had a full manuscript and got up the guts to send it to agents, they all rejected it. It was heartbreaking. The ones who wrote back told me my writing had promise but lacked depth . . . and if I’m honest, they’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to be . . . I don’t know . . . blissful, petrified, exhilarated, in love or successful. I just know what it’s like to be . . . well . . . me. So I write for myself and I enjoy that.’ I can’t help frowning. ‘I really do, but it doesn’t pay the bills, and I doubt it ever will.’ I look at Donald, suddenly frightened by how honest I’ve been. ‘Sorry, I’ve let my mouth run away with itself.’