Helen could have wept. She knew it was more than she deserved. She had imagined this moment many times, and it had never ended in anything other than total and utter devastation. To be given a second chance by Richard, to have a hope of saving their marriage, was more than she had dreamed of.
‘You won’t regret this, Richard. I promise. I love you. I’m going to prove it to you. If I have to spend the next nineteen years making it up to you, I will.’
Richard nodded again and opened his eyes. He took a breath. ‘We’ve both got a lot of making up to do, haven’t we? I guess I’m not totally blameless in this whole thing. I might have been a better husband, more attentive to you. I didn’t always listen to what you wanted . . . to what you needed. Let’s wipe the slate clean, shall we? Start again? Let’s you and I start from the beginning. Let’s do it for us . . . and for the girls. I’m sure they could both use us right now.’
Helen nodded sadly and as she thought of their daughters, and all the pain she had brought upon her family, she began to weep silent tears. Richard reached out and brushed them from her face with his fingers, and grateful for the compassion in his touch, she leaned her face into the palm of his hand, resting it there for just a moment. As she did, a teardrop ran down her chin and fell onto the scrap paper lying between them. It landed on the charcoal lines of the sketch, blurring the edges of the woman into a fuzzy grey mist, erasing them for ever. Helen looked down at the page and winced.
‘Let’s burn it,’ she suggested, sniffing and wiping her nose. ‘Let’s get rid of it, once and for all. I can’t bear to look at it.’
Richard nodded. ‘Good idea; a fresh start.’
He reached out a hand to pick up the piece of paper but as he did so he caught sight of something on the page and froze, mid-stretch.
‘What’s wrong?’ Helen asked, seeing him hesitate. ‘What is it?’
He didn’t respond, he just continued to stare at the piece of paper as the colour drained slowly from his face.
She looked down again, unsure what his eyes had fixed upon. He seemed to be staring at Tobias’s signature in the bottom corner of the page, the area where he had scrawled his name and scratched the date. Suddenly, the pit of Helen’s stomach gave way.
The date. There it was in black and white.
It was the day Alfie had gone missing.
Helen could see the cogs whirring in Richard’s mind; she could feel a maelstrom of emotion suddenly flood the room. Richard looked up at her at last, but his blue eyes were no longer filled with forgiveness. They were on fire with rage.
‘You were with him that day?’ It was barely a whisper.
Helen couldn’t reply.
‘You were with Tobias Grey on the day Alfie went missing?’
She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
‘You and that man were holed up in some cheap hotel conducting your sordid little affair while our son roamed by himself on the beach? You and your lover were screwing each other while our boy, our beautiful boy . . .’ Richard’s voice cracked with emotion, but he continued, spitting out the last words with venom, ‘. . . was lost in the waves . . . drowning?’
She stared at him in horror. The look in his eyes was devastating.
‘You said you were at work that day. You said you had been called onto campus. It was unavoidable.’ His words came fast. ‘My God.’ He shook his head. ‘All this time, you’ve kept the truth from me. All this time you’ve let me believe it was some terrible, tragic accident. And yet all along you’ve known that if it hadn’t been for your sleazy little affair, our boy might still be alive. You killed him.’
‘No!’ Helen cried.
Richard shook his head. ‘Look at this, go on, look at it!’ He waved the piece of paper in her face. ‘How can you deny it when the evidence is right here in front of us? You are a murderer. You murdered our son. You should be locked up! And to think you nearly had me convinced. I was this close . . .’ He held up his thumb and forefinger. ‘This close. My God! How could you?’
‘Richard, you don’t understand . . .’
‘What don’t I understand, Helen?’ He was roaring now. It was terrifying. Richard never raised his voice. She had never seen him so angry. ‘What can you possibly say that will redeem you from this disgusting, sordid mess?’
She looked up at him. He was right. There was nothing she could say. She had no defence. She was guilty of everything he accused her of. It was her fault Alfie was dead. It was all her fault.
‘Richard, please . . .’
‘Please . . . please . . . please what, Helen?’ he spat. ‘Please don’t leave me?’ he mimicked in a high-pitched whine.
‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice.
‘You know, I always knew, right from the start, that you didn’t really love me.’
Helen looked at him in shock, unsure what he was saying.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he continued, ‘I know you think I’m stupid, but I always knew. I was prepared to gamble. I was prepared to wait. I thought I could show you what real love was all about. I thought I could make you love me. But I was wrong.’
‘No,’ shouted Helen desperately. ‘I do love you, Richard.’
‘Ha!’ He gave a sour little laugh. ‘Love? You don’t know the meaning of the word, Helen. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of this diseased marriage. I don’t want to be a part of it any more, do you hear me? I can’t bear to be around you. I can’t bear to be near you. You disgust me.’ Richard stood from the kitchen table. He moved with such force the chair he had been sitting on tipped and fell to the floor behind him with a crash. He didn’t seem to notice. ‘I’m going upstairs but I really don’t think you want to be around me right now, Helen.’ He was wringing his hands violently. ‘I don’t trust myself right now. Just stay away.’
‘Richard,’ she sobbed. She had no more words but she looked up at him imploringly, tears now streaming down her face.
‘What? You want me to feel sorry for you? Is that it? Forget it, Helen. Just stay away from me. I mean it.’
He turned and stalked out of the room. The door swung shut heavily behind him and Helen was left standing alone in the kitchen next to the overturned chair and the little piece of paper that had brought their whole house of cards tumbling down around her. She sank to the kitchen floor and gave in to her tears.
Richard left an hour later. He packed a bag, made a couple of quick phone calls and then fled down the stairs towards his car, spitting his final words to her.
‘I’ll call you – in a couple of days. I’ll let you know where I am, in case the girls need me,’ he added pointedly. It was clear he couldn’t care less about Helen’s needs any more.
She merely nodded and bit her lip, terrified that if she opened her mouth she might start to plead and wail all over again.
It was over. There was nothing left to say.
Moments later Richard’s car hurtled down the driveway and Helen was left with nothing but the eerie silence of the vast, empty house echoing all around her.
DORA
Present Day
Dora pulls the car up onto a scruffy verge and stares at the crumbling old manor house ahead. She glances back down at the address she holds in her hand, scrawled across the back of a tatty envelope: Swan House, Little Oxington. It’s definitely the right place, but the old ruin standing at the end of the drive is not what she’s expecting. It is in stark contrast to the crusty boarding house she has imagined over the past few years. Passing comments her parents have made about Cassie and her location have made her think of some sort of commune for pot-smoking hippies and hemp-clad drop-outs, but this place looks anything but. It is a glorious country estate.
A decade is a long time. It’s a long time to pretend that a once-idolised sister no longer exists, and Dora has done a good job of it. When she looks back now, her memories of Cassie are a strange jumble; a series of glossy childhood snapshots mixed up with darker scenes and images from a troubled past. Yes, among the ha
ppier times lurk the tantrums and door slamming, the black moods and impulsive behaviour, the long periods of self-imposed isolation. It’s a confusing swirl, but above all, Dora remembers the overwhelming sense of rejection at being left by a sister who had the world at her feet and still chose to send herself into exile.
Yes, ten years is a long time and Dora believes she’s mastered her anger now. She’s not the same person any more; long gone is the naive, daydreaming teenager, always eager to please, always eager to keep the peace. She has a career, a boyfriend, a home . . . and now, a baby on the way. But if ten years can bring about such dramatic changes for Dora, she can’t help but feel nervous about whom she will greet inside the house. It’s terrifying but Dora knows the time for hiding is over now. She needs to confront Cassie, if only to try to put the past finally to rest.
She shifts uncomfortably, remembering it all as she navigates her car around a huge stone fountain standing in the centre of the driveway, its pale young nymphs staring back at her with dead eyes. She turns away from the white stone faces, uncomfortable under their gaze, and pulls up outside the elegant manor, switching off the car engine and breathing deeply as a fresh surge of guilt washes over her. She should have visited before now. She should have made the effort.
She sits there, rooted to the spot, flooded with guilt and nerves. Fighting the overwhelming urge to turn the key in the ignition and speed off down the driveway, Dora grabs her handbag and steps out into the heat of the day.
It is glorious; the warm air wraps itself around her like a blanket, carrying with it the heady scent of summer and the distant call of a blackbird high up in the trees above her. Her shoes crunch on the gravel, and as she reaches the grand colonnaded entrance of the old house she pauses to look up. The doorway stands before her, dark and forbidding, a gaping black mouth in stark contrast to the lightness of the day around her. She shivers, and then summoning a final burst of courage, takes the steps two at a time, suddenly eager to confront whatever lies inside. She’s come this far. All she has to do now is get it over with as quickly as possible, and then get the hell out of there. She takes another step forward and, before she can change her mind, presses decisively on the doorbell.
A very tall man with braided hair and drooping spaniel eyes opens the door. He peers out at her suspiciously. ‘Can I help you?’ he asks, his eyes flitting nervously up the driveway behind her. It’s almost as if he expects Dora to jam her foot in the frame and barge her way inside, uninvited.
‘Is Cassie here?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘I’m her sister, Dora.’
The man seems to relax slightly and looks her up and down. ‘You don’t look much like her.’
‘No,’ she agrees. She waits a moment longer, hoping to be invited inside, but the man remains where he is, solidly blocking the entrance until another voice booms out loudly behind him.
‘Who is it, Jacob?’
The ponytailed man jumps. ‘It’s someone for Cassie. She says she’s her sister.’
The door is suddenly wrenched open and Dora comes face to face with another man, attractive with smooth, nut-brown skin, unruly curled hair and high Slavic cheekbones. He is grinning at her. ‘You must be Dora,’ he says, offering her his hand. ‘I’m Felix. Felix Reveley-Jones. Good to meet you. Sorry about Jacob here, he’s our resident conspiracy theorist. He thinks everyone who shows up on the doorstep is either a spy or a journalist, ready to put the kibosh on our little Secret Garden project.’
Dora smiles politely and shakes his outstretched hand, not quite sure what he is talking about.
‘Cassie’s expecting you,’ Felix continues. ‘Come on in. She’s probably out the back. Did you find us OK? You drove out from London, didn’t you?’
Dora nods again and looks about surreptitiously as the man called Felix leads her into a grand entrance hall, her heels clicking noisily on the marble floor. There is nothing much in the room: a few muddy boots lined up by the door and an old oak table housing a landslide of unopened post, over which hangs a gilt-framed portrait of a severe young man dressed in black, the whiteness of his dog collar shining in stark contrast to the faded colours of the painting – the man seems to peer into the middle distance, as though contemplating a bleak and unpalatable future. There are grey shadow marks on the walls around, marking where other paintings presumably once hung, but the rest of the hall is empty besides an elegant wooden staircase that spirals away into the upper levels of the house and which is missing a few balusters here and there.
‘Jacob, go and find Cassie, will you? I’ll look after Dora.’
The ponytailed man throws Dora another suspicious glance before disappearing wordlessly through a doorway.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ Felix continues, ‘he’s really very nice when you get to know him.’
Dora smiles and shuffles awkwardly, hoping her sister won’t be too long. Her nerves are jangling. She glances again at the portrait on the wall. The man really does look quite miserable.
‘My great-grandfather,’ says Felix, following the direction of her gaze. ‘The Reverend Robert Reveley-Jones, quite the comedian, apparently.’
Dora smiles despite her nerves.
‘God knows how he wooed my great-grandmother, Lady Catherine Swan, but thank goodness he did, because, well, here we are.’ Felix throws his hands out wide to indicate the enormous manor surrounding them.
‘It’s been a while since you and Cassie caught up, hasn’t it?’ Felix asks, staring at her with open interest.
It is Dora’s turn to be suspicious. She wonders if he’s Cassie’s boyfriend and how much he knows about their past. She blushes at the thought. ‘Yes,’ she says, clearing her throat, ‘it has been a while. A few years.’
‘Well I know she’s looking forward to seeing you and showing you our little outfit here. The Secret Garden is pretty much all thanks to her, I have to say.’
‘So you work here too then?’ Dora asks, still unsure what exactly this ‘Secret Garden’ is that he keeps going on about.
‘Yes, I suppose I do. This is my house. I own the building and the estate. I’m your typical trustafarian, I’m afraid: spoilt little rich kid living the dream off his inheritance. I just don’t have the crusty dreadlocks to prove it.’
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ Dora says.
‘Yes, isn’t it? Of course it was far more beautiful in its heyday, but it suits us fine for now.’
As they are chatting two women wander through the vestibule. They are carrying large boxes of vegetables in their arms and throw shy smiles at Dora and Felix as they walk by.
‘Hello!’ greets Felix, before turning back to Dora. ‘That’s Scarlett and Sophie, our resident cooks. You should stay for dinner, if you can. You’d be very welcome.’
‘Thank you,’ murmurs Dora, wishing Cassie would hurry up, ‘but I should probably get back.’
‘No trouble, another time perhaps?’
Thankfully Jacob is back, sidling into the room with his hangdog expression. There is someone else behind him.
‘Here she is,’ says Felix.
‘Hey, Dora, long time no see,’ Cassie says, appearing from behind Jacob. She moves across to Dora, a smile playing on her lips and pulls her into a hug.
Dora submits herself to her sister’s arms, but she feels stiff and awkward in the embrace.
‘So, what took you so long?’ Cassie asks.
‘Sorry,’ says Dora, breaking free to try and get a better look at Cassie. ‘The M25 was a nightmare . . . terrible traffic.’ The words are out of her mouth before she realises Cassie isn’t referring to her lateness that morning, but rather her glaring absence over the past few years. She blushes and gazes around the empty hallway in panic. It’s going wrong already. She should never have come.
‘God, lighten up, will you? It was just a joke!’ Cassie lets out a sharp bark of laughter, reminiscent of their father, and the sound of it takes Dora straight back to Clifftops; to sitting around in
each other’s bedrooms, trawling through magazines for new hairstyles and clothes, gossiping about some new supermodel or another washed-up pop star. She relaxes slightly. She is still Cassie, no matter what has passed these last few years.
‘Sorry, I’m a bit nervous,’ Dora admits.
Felix clears his throat. ‘Well, we’ll leave you ladies to it. It was nice to meet you, Dora. See you again, I hope.’
Dora nods. ‘Yes, thank you. Nice to meet you too.’ She turns back to Cassie. ‘You look good,’ she blurts. It’s true. Cassie is not the pale recluse Dora has imagined on the drive down, but rather she looks fit and tanned, as though she has just returned from a Mediterranean holiday or an expensive spa break. Dora is surprised to feel a tiny tinge of jealousy well up within her. Cassie has always been the beautiful one.
Her sister, however, doesn’t seem to register the compliment. ‘I thought we could go for a walk, if you fancy it?’ she suggests. ‘You know, get out of the house and get some air, if you don’t mind?’
Dora nods. ‘That sounds great. I’d like to stretch my legs and it’s a beautiful day.’
‘Good. Come on then.’
Dora follows Cassie out of the marbled entrance hall and back into the daylight. Her sister walks fast, her long legs striding down the steps and across the drive, before turning down a gravel path running along one side of the house. As Dora races to keep up she notes Cassie is taller than she remembers and she wears her hair pulled back into a single, thick plait that hangs down the centre of her back and glints golden in the sunlight. She is dressed in a white T-shirt, trainers and an old pair of Levi’s; a simple outfit that makes Dora regret her own careful choice of summer dress and kitten heels. She’d thought she’d feel poised and in control but instead she feels fussy and formal by comparison.
They round the side of the building and emerge onto an ornate carved terrace that runs along the back of the house. From its elevated position she can see across beautiful landscaped gardens flowing away down the hillside. Dora makes out the distant glint of water through the trees but instead of heading down towards the lawns, as she thinks they might, Cassie continues her gallop straight across the terrace and down a few more steps before passing through a discreet wooden door set into a brick wall. Dora has to bend slightly to fit through it and she follows her sister blindly, taking three or four more steps forward before stopping dead in her tracks. She shields her eyes from the fierce glare of the sun and looks around in wonder.
Secrets of the Tides Page 32