by A. M. Castle
The flash of appetite is another sign of recovery. What are we doing about breakfast? I’m sure Rachel has organised something. It might have been on that email but I have no intention of attempting to find it now. First, I need a shower. I think we kept to champagne, which makes it surprising that I feel this bad. A wash will put me right.
I didn’t bring a dressing gown. I stick my head out of the door and immediately spot Tom, peering round the corner of his and Gita’s room. Had to be him, didn’t it? I retreat, and sit on my bed, head in hands.
There’s a knock. I stiffen. ‘Come in.’
But it’s Gita. ‘You OK?’
‘Been better,’ I mumble gracelessly.
‘Here, have this,’ she says, proffering actual coffee.
‘Have I told you you’re a bloody goddess?’ My eyes are brimming with gratitude as I sip away. It’s scalding, but immediately things are better.
‘Not often enough. Why don’t you nip and have a shower? Tom’s just finished.’
For a second, I hesitate, then I see a fluffy towel on the floor, presumably where I threw it last night. Shall I ask her?
‘Did … did I behave myself?’
‘What? Last night? Don’t you remember? You were the life and soul.’
Just as that’s sinking in, Gita expands. ‘You were completely fine. No dancing on tables. No dropping any clangers. No eyeing up the hostess’s new husband.’
‘As if.’ I shudder. Then I remember. Rachel talking about eye colour. Raf’s, to be precise. Shit. Why did she suddenly mention that? All right, it’s easy enough to spill a secret when you’ve been a little, shall we say, over-served on the wine front. I’ve done it myself. I’ve said harsh things, to Bob, of course, and also to Raf. But Rachel wasn’t even tipsy. Did she realise what she was saying? I shake my head, then remember why that really isn’t a good idea.
I turn back to Gita, taking in the purple, bruise-like shadows under her eyes. She hasn’t done her make-up yet. ‘Is it me, or is all this a bit more of a strain than we’d bargained for?’
Her shoulders slump, then she flexes them. ‘I’m putting it down to first-night nerves. I just hope my lot will behave.’ For a second, I think she is just talking about her girls, but then my mind flashes to Rachel in that dress last night, and the look Tom was giving her. How does Gita stick it? I study her and there’s something in her eyes. Maybe the worm is turning? I can’t wait to see how that plays out, Gita finally taking Tom down for his behaviour. Then she’s speaking again and I try to concentrate. The coffee is helping. ‘Tonight’s feast is going to be great, you’ll see. And Rachel’s got plenty planned before then. You’ll love it.’
Organised fun. My favourite. Not. I let out the groan I’ve wanted to unleash since I opened my eyes. Gita just laughs. ‘Scoot along now. Otherwise my girls will get in there and you’ll have missed your chance. The teens alone take at least four hours apiece and Ruby is even worse.’
‘Can’t be the only bathroom in the castle,’ I grumble as I pick up my sponge bag.
‘It’s the only one within easy walking distance.’ Gita smiles, and for once the grin I return is genuine. At last, I’m beginning to feel I might just enjoy this.
Chapter 13
Rachel
Mount Tregowan, 31st October
Of course I’ve wondered what to do with them all, how to fill in the time before my special moment comes. The one I’ve been waiting so long for. That has to be in the Great Hall, and as close to midnight as I can get it. Just for the drama.
So today, before the feast, I’m going to keep my guests busy. We’re going to have a little hunt, all over the island. People will be finding clues, building up a picture. I hope it will point them all in the right direction – without, crucially, giving the game away. I wouldn’t want that. I won’t be cheated of my big reveal. And its consequences.
I can’t help but notice how much the group has frayed. People are wandering off at tangents, and even if they aren’t physically distancing themselves, they’re mentally all over the place. Once or twice, I’ve wondered quite simply if these people, my great friends, even get on anymore. I suppose a little of the blame lies at my door. I’ve been so busy with other things, I haven’t had time to bring everyone together. But it shouldn’t all fall to my lot, should it?
Realistically, there was always bound to be some tension within the couples. I mean, years on, things get tired, don’t they? We can’t all be love’s young (ish) dream, like me and Ross. I think of him and smile. But even with me, Vicky and Gita, things aren’t as they were. I suppose many years have passed, and when I’ve seen the girls (girls – they’re not that anymore, of course, but what else can one call them?) it’s been over the course of a dinner or a drink, not for hours on end.
I’m not regretting the whole thing, of course not. But part of me wants to fast-forward to tonight. That’s going to be the fun bit, for me, anyway. Till then, I’ll need to get everyone fed and watered, then out and about. I want them to get to know Mount Tregowan properly.
And, of course, it gives me more time to do what I like best: sit in my tower, surveying the mortals scurrying around my island like ants, and planning my next step.
All that sounds cold, but it’s not. I’m only interested in justice, in putting things right at long last. There will be consequences, and things will definitely be uncomfortable at first. But I want to help us all to move on, and to help everyone understand the part they’ll be playing in my future. I need to give tonight the best possible chance of success. And this is the way to do it.
Bear with me. Like all my most cunning ideas, it’s going to pan out beautifully.
And collateral damage isn’t such a big deal, is it?
Chapter 14
Gita
Mount Tregowan, 31st October
In the end it was Tasha who had read through the instructions properly and marshalled us all for breakfast, just in time. Everything was laid out in yet another large room just off the entrance. We were led there by a different maid. I’m not even sure how many of them there are. Tom might know – I’ve seen him giving them the odd glance. Or two. But I’m not going there. This weekend is our chance to reconnect.
I’m impressed with Tasha, I must say. Sometimes she’s more like me than I am myself. She rapped on our door, good and early. We didn’t need to disentangle ourselves, which was lucky I suppose. ‘Are you decent? Time to get up and get breakfast,’ she trilled.
‘Can you wake your sisters?’ I pleaded.
‘They’re already up,’ she said, before striding back to her own room.
‘Am I this bossy?’ I asked Tom, my eyes still shut.
‘No comment, m’lud,’ he mumbled.
‘Cheek,’ I said, mock-whacking him with a pillow.
Just as well I checked on Vicky and got her into action. Tasha couldn’t quite have taken that on. But Vicky’s always fine after she’s eaten something.
I can’t help exchanging a tiny smug glance with Tasha when poor Jane trails down to breakfast with Geoff, just in time to see the staff clearing the last of the plates. She looks around mutely and it’s Tasha who tells her, ‘The email did say breakfast until 10.30. There’s a coffee machine, though.’ Geoff almost tuts at that and strides off after the maid. He’s back a few minutes later, all self-satisfied, telling Jane it’s sorted.
‘It’s like a hotel … but not,’ Jane says quietly to me, and I signal agreement with my eyebrows. I don’t feel right criticising Rachel overtly. She’s hosting us all, for goodness’ sake. The least we can do is obey her rules.
I’ve never pegged Jane as a rebel before; she always seemed too meek. But she’s pretty unconventional, now I think about it. I suppose creatives have a different take on things. Even today, after moaning about being stuck in her fleece last night, she’s in something pretty much identical now, a sweatshirt and some sort of jeggings. I understand the need for comfort, of course I do. But this is Rachel, after all. Her dress
for the last Met Gala turned into an Internet meme. She really doesn’t do casual.
Speaking of our hostess, there’s been no sign of her yet. I’m happy to linger over my excellent coffee – there’s a clever little machine dispensing barista-type brews, and flasks of hot water for tea – but Nessie and Ruby are getting restive.
‘Muuum, there’s no mobile signal at all.’ Ruby’s tone is bewildered. How could anyone do this to her? Actually, I’m a little surprised myself. I think my phone was connected last night. I take it out, and sure enough, there’s nothing now, not a single bar.
‘You two can go out and chase a signal – there’s bound to be a spot where the reception is great,’ says Tom.
I’m about to say be careful, but Tom gives me a look. ‘Let them live a little, for God’s sake,’ he says. I suppose he’s right, I shouldn’t transfer my own anxieties onto them. And nothing bad could happen here, could it?
Ah, here’s Raf, sauntering in. He’s keen to grow his personal trainer business so we’re soon discussing all his latest ideas. It’s lovely chatting to him, I hope he and Vicky will get a chance for that proper heart-to-heart today.
I’m worried about Vicky. She’s drifting farther and farther away from us, her friends. She’s been putting off our catch-up lunches for ages, now. She hasn’t really been the same since Raf left.
Things are spiralling; anyone can see that. She was late to our last lunch, with Rachel. I didn’t say anything then, I knew she’d be furious. But as soon as she sat down, I could smell why. That tell-tale waft. Vodka.
It sounds melodramatic, but sometimes I think she is in danger of disappearing altogether. Maybe she thinks she’s protecting her little secret, though it couldn’t be more obvious if it tried. Raf hasn’t said a thing to us, but I’m sure her drinking is the reason why he moved to Bob’s. And why he spends time with us.
Poor Vicky. I want to help her.
But will she just shoot the messenger?
Chapter 15
Vicky
Mount Tregowan, 31st October
I feel better once I’ve grabbed a few things from the buffet. It’s not Downton Abbey; no kippers under silver domes, but there’s fancy granola, fruit. An array of cheeses and hams, very continental. And those dinky packets of cereals I used to hanker after as a child. No chance of those for us; my mother only lugged home the monster own-brand boxes.
Normally I’d dig in, bit of everything, but today I’m just after portable booty. I snag a few croissants and pastries, wrap them in napkins, and fill my travel cup right up to the brim with the coffee. It’s hard manipulating the big front door with all this stuff, I have to put it down to fiddle with the catch. A maid glides into view and whisks the bolts across before I can even ask. I’m embarrassed. I wonder if she saw my hand shaking? Does she think I’m a lush? I look away and mumble my thanks.
Outside, the wind is still up but it’s a bit less mad than it was on the beach yesterday afternoon. God, we’ve been here forever already. The place is beginning to feel curiously familiar.
Now where shall I sit, to have my breakfast? I look around, and despite myself I gasp at the view. I mean, it’s breathtaking. I can see white horses on the waves nearest us. The sky is a piercing blue. It looks almost as good as it did in the picture Gita showed me of that surfer lad, though it’s pretty brisk.
God, I hope Raf won’t try surfing here – those rocks below look lethal, sharp as knives. I don’t want to peer down anymore; it’s making me dizzy. So I look around instead. There’s a path skirting the castle, and rockeries built between the boulders, allowing whatever plants can stand the wind and salt to lodge and grow. I can see it’s been professionally done, with great cushions of tessellated greenery. I’ve seen stuff like this on Instagram.
Here, at the point furthest from the mainland, round the back of the castle and facing straight out to sea, is a bench. I sink onto it gratefully. The rocks on either side act as a natural windbreak. It’s a bit like being at a hair salon, inside one of those old-fashioned dryers. There is noise all around you – wind, waves – but you can tune it out. I prise the top off my coffee and take a long swig.
This is heaven. And it is Rachel’s. I’ve envied her before, more often than I care to admit. But today I really understand for the first time the difference money can make. Imagine owning this, a chunk of the world that is yours and no one else’s.
Well, apart from her husband, of course. And those middle-aged children. Rachel, with kids at last. I snort to myself as I remember their faces. Penny, so twitchy, and Roderick, with that slightly moist look. Good luck bringing those up, Rach.
There’s a cough right behind me. I turn, and of course it’s Roderick. Had to be. For a dreadful moment I wonder whether I spoke out loud. I say hi, to cover up. ‘Just enjoying this amazing view.’ It’s hardly original, but we can’t ignore each other, or the sea, I suppose.
‘I love this spot. It was one of my mother’s favourite places,’ he says, sitting down next to me. I suppress the instinct to scoot over to the far end of the bench. I hope he can’t smell any backwash of alcohol. They say it leaks out of your pores for hours. Yes, I’ve read all the stuff on those websites that try to put you off. It works brilliantly until about 6 p.m. every night.
I search for something to say, latch on to his melancholy remark. ‘You must miss her.’
To my horror, he fishes a tissue out of his pocket and stems his brimming eyes. ‘Every day.’
Oh God, I’m so bad at this. And hasn’t she been dead for years? ‘I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to make you …’
‘It’s not you,’ he says indistinctly. ‘It’s just … this weekend.’
‘Ah.’ Oh dear. I don’t think any of us gave Rachel’s newly acquired in-laws a thought, least of all worried about their sensitivities. I rack my brains for a sympathetic comment. ‘It must be so difficult.’
It’s lame enough, but does the job. ‘You’re very understanding,’ he says, turning watery eyes to mine. I’m not, but now isn’t the time to disabuse him. What do I do next? Try and get him to talk about his dead mother? No, that’s a bit amateur therapist, isn’t it? Plus the idea of more tears appals me. Change the subject? Thank goodness, before I have to decide, footsteps crunch round the corner. Gita, I hope – she always knows what to say.
But it’s Penny. Christ. This could turn into a real gloomfest. I’ve had my reservations about Rachel, over the years, but I feel sorry for her, lumbered with this pair. ‘Morning, Penny. Well, erm, I’ll leave you two to enjoy the view.’
I’m expecting some sort of encouragement to stay, after all they can sit here any time and I’m a visitor. But there’s a leaden silence and so I get up awkwardly, collecting my half-eaten breakfast, and off I go.
Just before I’m out of earshot, I hear Penny saying angrily to Roderick, ‘Look, you’re not going to weasel out again, are you? She’s going to tell everyone. We have to do it first. We simply have to deal with Daddy tonight.’
Chapter 16
Gita
Mount Tregowan, 31st October
I’m always dreaming of moments like this. Work is hundreds of miles away; the girls are busy who knows where. And Tom and I are together, for once. He’s dominating the table, manspreading everywhere, paper flung wide. But I smile.
‘What?’ He looks up.
‘Nothing, just thinking how lucky I am. How lucky we are to be here.’
He drops his warm hand onto mine for a second and it’s all worth it. But, while I ought to be relishing this little bit of us-time, I can’t help it. I start worrying about the girls, my mind full of cliffs, winds, seas … I’m a city girl who’s produced three more city girls; you hear so many stories of selfies taken on the edge of promontories … I hope Tasha and Ness are keeping an eye on Ruby.
When I’m at work I’ve trained myself not to fret, and concentrate on my newspaper family instead. But at weekends I switch back. If I can’t see them, something’s missing. I feel
the family is as fragile as a house of cards or a pile of bone china plates. One slip and the lot could come crashing down.
I suppose I can guess what they’re up to, roughly. Nessie and Ruby will be waving their phones around to try and magically attract some internet beams; Tasha, going through a secretive phase, will be snatching a solo walk.
We’ve always tended to lump the girls together, making them into a little team against the world. But Ruby is so much younger. She’s not the teenager she’s longing to be at all. I turn to Tom. ‘Do you really think it’s safe? For Ruby to be out there, without one of us?’
He flips down the top of the paper. Rachel is so tactful, she’s got copies of mine in as well as the rest. Briefly I wonder how they were delivered. I suppose the causeway must have been open this morning? But Tom is speaking.
‘Course it’s safe. Apart from the wild animals and quicksand.’
They say a shared sense of humour is key. But this is our child, after all. ‘Maybe I’ll just go after her.’ I push my chair back. But he’s up before I’ve got to my feet. ‘I’ll do it, don’t you worry.’
When he’s gone, my mood plummets. I know it’s ridiculous, I wanted to make sure the girls were OK. And it’s also great that Tom’s a concerned dad. All the same … But before I have time for too many regrets, here’s Rachel. I’ve always loved the way she comes into a room. As if she owns the place. Which she so often does.
Her legs are endless. Those low-waisted jeans would make me look like one of Snow White’s roommates. And that silk blouse is perfect, the quintessential dress-it-up, dress-it-down staple that’s always on the paper’s fashion pages and never in my own wardrobe. I feel wistful for a moment, then remember her bypass. Thank God I’m not so hung up on externals.
‘The croissants were so delicious.’ I smile as Rachel slides into the seat Tom has just vacated. ‘My waistband is already feeling tighter.’ I’m not joking – I’m glad the serving staff have removed my plate. The tell-tale pile of crumbs was almost as high as Mount Tregowan itself.