Salt Sisters

by Katherine Graham

  ‘So, Isabelle – any plans now that you’re going to be staying in Seahouses for the foreseeable future?’ Jake caught himself, his eyes widening. ‘I mean, er, work-wise? I think you mentioned that you’re in the financial industry?’ His cheeks reddened and my stomach flipped.

  ‘Actually, I have been thinking.’ I gazed down at my tea cup. ‘I’d really like to do something new, something different. I want to start my own business.’ I took a deep breath, faking confidence with a tight smile. ‘I’m going to try my hand at interior design.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful idea!’ Mrs Wheeler clasped her hands together. ‘Isabelle here has such a good eye for design, really, Mr Ridley, you must visit Puffin Cottage and see what she’s done with the place.’

  Jake caught my eye and we exchanged shy smiles.

  ‘Yes, I must visit sometime.’ The colour rose in his cheeks.

  I didn’t want to share too much with Jake and Mrs Wheeler just yet, but I had been thinking about how to make Izzy Morton Interiors a success. I knew from corporate life that a brand needed to have something unique if it was going to stand out, and I had just the idea – something that no other designer could offer.

  I was also thinking of asking Rachel to go into business with me. I’d need all the help I could get if I was to get a fledging business off the ground, and it would be helpful to have someone I trusted in a back-office role.

  Small towns have long memories, and I knew it would be hard for Rachel to go back to her life as it was – working at the hospital, where everyone had known Amy. It was a mercy mission, and I didn’t know how much use she would be, but I felt determined to offer my sister’s best friend a fresh start, if she wanted it.

  Mrs Wheeler gasped, which made me jump. She grabbed my hand with a surprisingly firm grip.

  ‘I have the perfect opportunity to get you started! My daughter, she might employ you!’ She nodded to herself and picked up her tea. ‘Yes, I’ll organise an introduction as soon as possible. Strike while the iron is hot, Isabelle!’

  ‘Your daughter?’ I thumbed the rim of my teacup. ‘Sandra?’

  ‘No, not Sandra,’ she said, as if I’d asked a stupid question. ‘My other daughter. Jennifer.’

  I wracked my brain. Jennifer… Nothing came to mind.

  ‘Jennifer Wheeler?’ said Jake. ‘The owner of The Stables?’

  ‘The one and same,’ Mrs Wheeler said with a smug grin.

  ‘The Stables is a boutique hotel,’ Jake explained for my benefit. ‘One of the most well-known hotels in the county – in fact, I believe it has won a number of awards?’

  ‘Indeed it has! It is Alnwick’s only luxury hotel, and Jennifer is planning a refurbishment this year. Your timing could not be better, dear.’

  I gulped. It was one thing to enjoy decorating your own place and secretly dream of becoming an interior designer, but quite another to take on a hotel refurbishment. That sounded like the sort of project you worked your way up to, not something for novices. Why had I said anything at all? My mouth went dry as I tried to think of a way out.

  ‘You could at least meet with her,’ Mrs Wheeler said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Talk to her, see if there’s some way for you to get involved.’

  She spoke so softly and looked at me so kindly with those sparkling blue eyes, I couldn’t say no.

  When we arrived at Mrs Wheeler’s, we had a back-and-forth as Mrs Wheeler attempted to give me Jennifer’s number. She didn’t know how to send a contact from her phone, and looking at her ancient handset, I wasn’t sure I would know how to, either. In the end she went into her house and wrote Jennifer’s number down for me. I promised to call Jennifer as soon as I could.

  As soon as I felt brave enough, more like.

  Once my mind was made up about leaving the bank, it made sense to make it official. Emailing my resignation letter felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and I found myself hoping that Annabelle would be happy in my big office. I sent a message to the woman who was subletting my apartment to let her know it was now available long-term. Tying up the loose ends of my old life was oddly satisfying.

  That afternoon, I called a store in Newcastle that bought and resold designer handbags. I listed the bags I wanted to get rid of, and the girl on the phone sounded disbelieving that I had such a collection. Who knows, maybe they were used to calls from luxury-goods fantasists? She reminded me several times that they only dealt in genuine products and would thoroughly inspect all items for authenticity.

  Despite her scepticism, she was interested, and told me that if the bags were judged to be of good quality, they could offer me as much as fifteen thousand pounds. I had already squirreled away a couple of my favourites, plus some to gift Rachel, and the girls, once they were old enough. As for the rest of the collection, I was happy to free up the closet space and boost my bank account. If I was going to even consider taking on a hotel refurbishment as the first project in my new venture, I’d need all the cash I could get my hands on.

  My final call for the afternoon was to Jennifer Wheeler. I drank a glass of wine to settle my nerves, looking in the mirror and telling myself out loud that I could do this. It wasn’t very convincing.

  Jennifer sounded just like her mother, with that booming, no-nonsense voice. Thankfully, Mrs Wheeler had called ahead and briefed her, so Jennifer cut right to the chase. She was all for supporting local businesses, she said, and would much rather help a new firm get off the ground than spend her money with an established agency who blew half of it on overheads and outsourced all the work anyway.

  So this was it – she was giving me a chance. She would email me a brief, with details of the rooms that were to be renovated, and I would be invited to pitch to her and the hotel manager. All I had to do was to prepare mood boards, propose new design concepts, and provide cost estimates. It sounded like a lot of work, but I hastily agreed, grateful to have this opportunity.

  I poured another glass of wine and started flicking through Pinterest, jotting down notes as inspiration came to me. I lit a scented candle and dreamily thought back to some of the hotels I’d stayed in, wracking my brains for what had made them feel special. Once I started thinking about it, the ideas came quickly. A project of this size would take a lot of planning – I would have to assemble a team sooner rather than later.

  I opened the cupboard next to the fireplace in search of another notepad. On the top of the pile was the yellow plastic folder of Mike’s credit card statements that we’d found amongst Amy’s things. I’d tossed it in here on Sunday when I got home and completely forgotten about it after Rachel’s phone call.

  Perhaps I’d missed something the first time around. I slid the papers out and took a closer look. There was nothing on the first two pages but on the third page, one of the transactions was underlined in black pen. I flicked through the rest – there were a dozen lines, all highlighting transactions from ‘The Highwayman Inn, Alnwick’. The print blurred as the pages began to tremble in my hands.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Was I reading this right? I checked the details again: Mike’s credit card statements, or at least certain pages from them, with hotel transactions highlighted. All hidden away in a sealed file. I tried to think of a simple explanation, but nothing came to mind.

  I noted several of the dates on my phone, pulled my shoes on and ran out of the door. It was raining lightly, but I didn’t go back for my umbrella.

  At Amy’s, I let myself in. Mike called out from the kitchen.

  ‘Izzy! We weren’t expecting to see you. I hope you’ll stay for dinner.’ He wiped a hand on his apron, nodding towards the stove. ‘There’s certainly enough for one more.’

  Lucas was cooking Amy’s signature sausage casserole, which contained surprisingly few sausages and a whole lot of other ingredients, which he started to reel off to me with great enthusiasm.

  ‘Sounds wonderful – can’t wait to try it,’ I interrupted him. ‘Let me just go and see what the gi
rls are up to.’

  I made my way upstairs to Betsy’s bedroom.

  ‘Knock knock!’ I called out, before sticking my head around the door.

  Hannah was styling Betsy’s hair in French plaits.

  ‘Auntie Izzy – look at my hair!’ Betsy cried in delight. ‘This is how Mummy used to do it.’

  Hannah grimaced, then looked up at me with a brave smile and a shrug of her shoulders.

  ‘Looks awesome, guys. Mummy would be very proud of you both. Now, I’ve just got to check next week’s activities on the calendar. See you downstairs in a second.’

  I paused on the landing, listening to check that Mike was occupied with Lucas in the kitchen, before quietly slipping in to the office. I logged on to the computer, opening the calendar and pulling up the list of dates from the credit card statements on my phone. I scrolled back through several months until I arrived at the first date on my list.

  The entries for that day showed that Betsy had football and Lucas had computer club. Mike was marked in grey – I clicked on his name. It said ‘London – overnight’. My hands were shaking. I took a deep, slow breath.

  I scrolled further back, looking for the next date from the statements. Mike was listed as being overnight in Dublin. I double-checked the date on my phone, just to make sure. I continued, checking through half a dozen dates, and each one listed Mike as having an overnight trip. None of them mentioned anything about Alnwick.

  My breath was shallow. I was starting to pant as the panic was rising in my throat. A dark cloud was beginning to gather around the edges of my vision, and I felt the room slowly start to spin around my chair. I placed a palm on the desk to steady myself.

  Had Amy figured out that Mike wasn’t where he said he was? Had she gathered up proof and hidden it away for one of us to find, in case something happened to her?

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I gave an involuntary gasp, my fingers gripping the desk. I hadn’t even heard Mike coming up the stairs. My pulse quickened.

  ‘Just wanted to let you know that dinner’s ready…’ He trailed off. ‘What are you doing?’ He stared at me. ‘Are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  All the calendar windows were still open on the screen in front of me, seven little boxes of proof that Mike had lied, and he was standing just on the other side of the monitor. I gave him a weak smile and slowly moved the mouse to start closing them. It made a loud click every time.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked again.

  I wished I could look nonchalant and play it cool, but the heat was rising in my cheeks and the back of my neck burned.

  ‘Just had to check something on the calendar,’ I said, in as breezy a way as I could manage. Fake breezy. Trying-too-hard breezy. Mike eyed me suspiciously.

  ‘Don’t you have it all on your phone?’ He took another step towards me, arms folded across his chest.

  ‘I tried to add it, but I couldn’t get it to sync. It’s fine, I’m done here.’

  I closed the last calendar window and rolled the mouse to bring the view back on to the current month.

  ‘Let me see, maybe I can fix it.’

  Mike reached out for my phone. The list of underlined dates from his credit card statements was still open and would be the first thing he would see.

  I tried to grab it before he could get to it, my hand moving towards his, but I was too late – he picked it up and scrutinised the screen. My heart pounded in my chest.

  Mike’s face melted into a soft smile.

  ‘Such a great photo,’ he said, holding up the phone.

  I’d changed my lock screen to an old picture of me and Amy.

  He passed the phone back to me. ‘Let’s take a look after dinner,’ he said.

  I exhaled slowly. I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding my breath.

  Skylarks danced in the dusk sky above me. My legs were heavy, like they weren’t properly connected to my body, and the walk home took twice as long as usual. I wished I could move faster. Back at Puffin Cottage, my key clattered in the lock like chattering teeth. I shivered as I bolted the door behind me, shutting out the world for the night.

  As I poured myself a glass of wine, I kept running over the possibilities. Had Amy known that Mike was having an affair too? Had she run into Phil’s arms when she’d found out that Mike was cheating on her? Maybe they’d had some kind of agreement – an open marriage?

  Or perhaps Mike hadn’t been unfaithful – maybe he had just needed a night away from home once in a while? I could understand the appeal of escaping from time to time.

  But who had he been with in Newcastle last Saturday? It was definitely a woman, but I hadn’t seen her face. I tried to remember the scene from the street that day, trying to recall the details, but the whole thing had happened in a matter of seconds. With everything that had happened since, I hadn’t asked Mike, and Hannah hadn’t brought it up again.

  Still, there was no question that the folder of his credit card statements had been placed in that box in the attic quite deliberately, and I had to assume that it was Amy who’d put it there. It followed, then, that the lines marked the dates when she had been suspicious of Mike.

  I ached for my sister in that moment. Not this Amy, who had been cheating on her husband, who had caught him out in a web of lies – Amy from before. From before I left, before Mike. The Amy from the time when all we’d had was each other. I focused on that girl, and the girl I’d been back then. I needed to find out the truth for her. For both of them. I sent Amy a message.

  Did you find out about Mike? Did you know he was having an affair?

  Adam had tried to call me. My finger hovered over the button to call him back – how badly I wanted to cry on his shoulder. But I needed to focus. I’d phone him once I was done.

  The wine was making me fuzzy and I needed to be sharper. I took a bottle of vodka from the freezer and poured a small glass, downing it in one icy kick.

  The Highwayman Inn in Alnwick didn’t ring any bells, so I googled it.

  There were some mentions on hotel review sites which initially sounded promising, and articles about historical sites of the same name, but none of them were local. Nothing showed up when I searched the online maps, at least not in Alnwick. I tried ‘High-way’, ‘High Way’, ‘High Way Man’. Still nothing. The closest Highwayman Inn was in Durham, more than fifty miles away. In desperation, I called them, asking if they had another hotel in Alnwick – the receptionist was bemused by my question and politely told me that she couldn’t help. Had Amy reached the same dead end?

  I wished again that I had her phone – surely there would be some record, somewhere on it, of her having gone through this same search. Would she have shared her suspicions with someone? Who could she have confided in? She couldn’t talk to her best friend, of course. Perhaps because she’d been involved with Phil, she’d felt like she couldn’t speak to anyone about Mike. I kept circling back to my first question – had she strayed first, or had she turned to Phil for comfort when she discovered what Mike was doing? My heart ached for Amy – as mad as I was, I felt so sad that she hadn’t had anyone to talk to. Not even me.

  The timing was weird, too. The most recent page of the credit card statements was from October last year, just before Amy had changed her will. Nothing after that month. I went to look again at her letter. I had read it several times in my feeling-sorry-for-myself moments, usually looking for guidance on how she expected me to look after the kids, trying to read between the lines for parenting clues. There had been one part that had always stood out and hadn’t made much sense. I scanned the page:

  …I am running out of time.

  When I’d first read it, I’d thought she was talking about never finding the time to speak to me. But could she have meant that there was some other pressure on her? Some deadline? What had made it crunch-time?

  Perhaps she had been planning to leave Mike. But she had broken up with Phil – that suggested she wanted t
o work on her marriage. Had she been worried that Mike was going to leave her?

  What had made her believe that things were coming to a head?

  I stood up, looking around at the scattered mess of papers on the floor. There were also notes in my phone, screenshots, and some information I’d tried to commit to memory – I needed to file everything properly, make sure it was all written down in one place. There were gaps in this story, and I needed to see where they were. Grabbing a pen and paper, I started to put together a timeline of what I knew, and make notes about what I still had to find out.

  When had Amy ended things with Phil? That seemed like a crucial piece of the puzzle. I poured myself another vodka and picked up the laptop to log back into Amy’s Facebook account.

  I hadn’t looked at her page since I’d first found the messages from Phil, and it was full of new posts. Her friends had shared quotes, photos and memories of her. Some were paragraphs long and others just a line or two. As I scrolled down through her page, seeing them all knocked the wind out of me. I allowed myself to read a few, just for the sweet indulgence of seeing other people share my grief, validating my pain.

  The newest posts were angry commentaries on Phil’s arrest. I read these recent additions carefully, combing for clues, but nobody else seemed to know any of the details – yet. At least, nobody was sharing them here. Another nurse from the hospital had uploaded a photo of herself with Amy, and my sister’s beautiful smile transfixed me for a moment before I scrolled on. People were sharing the donations that they had made to charities in Amy’s name. There were tributes from university friends, work colleagues, people who she’d known from her various community groups. There must have been hundreds of messages.

  I scrolled down, looking for names I recognised – there was Richard Pringle. He had posted a photo of Amy at a school bake sale, smiling down at kids as she handed out treats. He was standing behind her, and the angle of the photo had cast him in a shadow, gazing at Amy. He would be heartbroken when he learned that she wasn’t as perfect as he thought.