by Vikki Patis
‘It should be in there.’
‘Voila!’ she says, holding the tube in the air and turning towards the mirror. ‘You should get in the shower. It took forever for the water to heat up.’
‘Oui, Maman,’ I say, lifting my mug and tilting my head to one side. ‘Après mon café.’
She shakes her head at me as she finishes applying her lipstick. ‘I went for a walk this morning, down on the beach.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘You looked so peaceful. I thought you could do with the rest.’ She smiles at me in the mirror, reaching for her eyebrow pencil. ‘It’s lovely here. So quiet. Is this where you grew up?’
‘No, it was along the coast a bit. But we came here often enough.’ A memory flashes through my mind: Saffy walking along the cliff towards Chapel Porth, her hair flying behind her as I followed, my step less steady, less sure. Saffy was fearless, forever climbing trees or scrambling across rocks, and Mum had to make sure the first aid kit was always stocked so she could tend to her cuts and bruises. I was more careful, the elder daughter responsible for the safety of the younger. But I could never keep Saffy on a leash. She was the wild one, always going out of her depth or straining against the rules our parents put in place. Is that what happened the day she disappeared? Did she go too far, too high, too deep? Over the years I’ve had visions of her body washing up on a beach somewhere, unrecognisable, one small foot missing a boot.
I shake myself, forcing the image out of my mind, and get out of bed. ‘Right, shower,’ I say, more to myself than to Fleur.
In the bathroom I lather up the shampoo bar, breathing in the citrus scent and trying to push my memories away. I let the water run over my face, my eyes closed against the stream, and try to focus on my breathing. I feel as if I’m a second away from a panic attack, my chest tight and my heart pounding. It’s being back here, in England, in Cornwall. Where Saffy disappeared, where my father lies dead. Where my ghosts have been waiting for me.
I squish the water out of my hair and apply a cream, watching the curls form beneath my fingertips as I scrunch. My newly cut hair will dry within the hour, even in the cold December air, while Fleur’s hair can take hours to dry. I can hear the whine of the tiny hairdryer we found in one of the drawers as I exit the bathroom. She rolls her eyes at me as I pad into the bedroom, running her fingers through her damp hair as she swears in French, pulling out the strands which will dry in soft waves down her back.
I do my make-up quickly, dabbing concealer on the purple rings beneath my eyes, and dress in black jeans and a plain black T-shirt, before stuffing my feet into my boots.
‘They need a clean,’ Fleur says, switching the hairdryer off and pointing it at my feet. ‘They’re all muddy.’
‘They’ll only get muddy again as soon as we step outside,’ I say, glancing out of the window at the grey sky. The clouds are heavy, full of promised rain. I riffle through my backpack to pull out an umbrella. ‘Didn’t you know it always rains in England?’
Fleur gives up on her hair and starts putting on her almost identical clothes, sitting on the bed to do up her boots. We are silent in the way that two people in sync can be, comfortably moving around one another, communicating without words. As I’m making the bed, the clock ticks over to half past nine. Time to go.
We stop at the Starbucks, filling up on caffeine and a blueberry muffin each, before getting on the road towards Truro. I balked at the idea of getting into one of the funeral cars, sitting beside my so-called family and watching the body of my father in the hearse in front. Not that I was invited, mind. Not that I’d expected to be a part of it all.
We arrive too early, as we always do, and I park the hire car at the far end of the car park. Fleur lights a cigarette, passing it to me before lighting her own, and we sit again in silence, eyes on the building before us, minds on the day to come.
There was no question about Fleur coming with me. She is the most reliable person I have ever known, the one person who will always follow through, who will always do what is expected of her. Her promises are concrete, her love secure and enduring. She has never let me down yet.
Unlike him. Richard Asquith, my father. He could never be trusted.
10
The Deceased
THEN
‘You’ve got a face like a slapped arse,’ Richard hissed to his daughter, his fingers tightening around her arm. She scowled at him, wrenching out of his grip, and he tried to relax his features. ‘Come on, Skye. Don’t ruin this for me.’
She said nothing, turning her face away from him and looking out of the window. He saw Fiona glance in the rear-view mirror, her mouth pinched, and he suppressed a sigh.
Today was his fortieth birthday. Forty years old, and what did he have to show for it? Three ungrateful kids, a bitter ex-wife, and a paranoid new one. A grey hair discovered that morning, nestled amongst the brown like a cuckoo in a nest. He plucked it out, throwing it into the sink, where it curled up like a worm before the water from the tap flushed it away.
His first present of the day. A grey hair. More lines around his eyes, ‘laughter lines’ that were actually caused by stress, and a sudden roundness around his middle. Richard worked well under pressure, but his body was starting to suffer from the late nights and unhealthy meals grabbed whenever he could. And the alcohol, there was that too. A glass of wine at lunch, a gin and tonic in the pub after work, a bottle or two of beer with dinner. Was he really drinking every day? At least he had given up smoking, had smoked the last cigarette in the pack six months ago and refused to buy any more. But how he missed it. He’d taken to nibbling biscuits at his desk instead, crumbs scattering across the keyboard and paperwork. That was it; it was the biscuits that were at fault. He resolved to replace his stash on Monday with fresh fruit and those packets of nuts Fiona kept in the cupboards at home.
Forty years old. How did he get here? It seemed like only yesterday he was at university, drinking pints in the student union, sitting hunched over textbooks in the library until the early hours, fretting over his exams. Time flies, he thought, watching the countryside flash past as Fiona negotiated the tight roads. Time flies when you’re no longer having fun.
Fiona was looking good for her age, he had to admit. No grey hairs – at least, none the hairdresser had failed to cover up – and her skin was still smooth, her stomach taut. It’s the swimming, he thought, glancing down at her hand on the gearstick. She has all the time in the world to look her best when I’m the only one bringing home the bacon. Not that Fiona let him eat bacon anymore. Fried breakfasts were a thing of the past, just like cocktails at 3pm and Sunday morning sex. No, he had already outlived his use as far as Fiona was concerned, now she had the money, the kids, the house.
Richard had bought their new house only last year, a new build straight off the plans, with an enclosed swimming pool and a tennis court at Fiona’s demand. Seven bedrooms, five bathrooms, two reception rooms, and a long dining room with a table to fit twelve. He’d always wanted a pool, but so far he’d only managed to use it twice himself.
I work too much, he mused. Too hard. Too much pressure. Not enough fun.
But now he was forty. Forty! And he intended to make some changes. First his diet, then his family. Start off easy, he told himself, knowing that Fiona would be the hardest of all. She spent too much money, flashing the card for their joint bank account far too often. He watched with dismay as the balance continued to dwindle, despite all the money he put in. It wasn’t enough, not for him. He was building an empire, and he intended to retire by the time he was fifty-five. They wouldn’t have two pennies to rub together if Fiona carried on the way she was.
‘Are we there yet?’ Felix piped up from the front seat, and Richard frowned from his seat in the back of the car. Why am I in the back? he thought, not for the first time. I bloody bought this car. But Felix, the apple of his mother’s eye, had to sit in the front because he ‘got travel sickness’. Bollocks, Richard thought
unkindly, turning to look at his other son, who was reading quietly beside Skye.
‘What you got there?’ he asked, and Tobias looked up, his eyes wide with the apparent fear he showed whenever his father spoke to him. It always irked Richard.
‘Sabrina.’
‘Sabrina?’ Richard looked at Skye, who shrugged.
‘It was mine. I gave it to him.’
‘You’re reading a girl’s book?’ Richard was incredulous.
‘It’s not a girl’s book,’ Skye scoffed, and he glared at her. ‘It’s just a book.’
‘About a girl. A’ – he reached out and took the book from Tobias, who opened his mouth to protest – ‘teenage witch?’ He shook his head. ‘Did you know about this, Fi?’
‘Hmmm?’ Fiona said, glancing up at the rear-view mirror. ‘What’s that, darling?’
‘Your son,’ Richard said, holding the book up, ‘is reading a book about a teenage witch.’
‘Is he now?’ she replied, her eyes back on the road, her tone flat.
‘This one’s about a cat, actually,’ Tobias said, and Richard sighed heavily.
‘Oh, well that’s all right then.’ He gave the book back to his son, who immediately buried his nose inside the pages, hiding from his father’s judgement. Richard studied his daughter’s face, her untidy eyebrows, her flushed cheeks. She was sixteen now and almost constantly in a fury. Why was she always angry with him? Since her mother kicked him out of his house – until she eventually ran off back to Scotland and he could finally sell it, that is – Skye had seemed to view her father with nothing but contempt. She didn’t like Felix much either, though she did seem to have a soft spot for Tobias.
No surprise there, he thought, crossing his arms over his chest. He may as well be a bloody girl, the way he carries on.
They arrived at the beach, leaving the car in the car park and walking down towards the pub. They’d booked the entire place for the night, it being Richard’s favourite place, and he was looking forward to an evening of flowing booze and good food. The diet would start tomorrow, he told himself, opening the door to let his family go in before him. And maybe Skye could do with going on it too. She was starting to look a bit porky.
At around nine o’clock, Richard found himself on the terrace, leaning over the glass railing with a glass of champagne dangling from his fingers. The sun was setting, the sea turned a deep pink-gold, and the children were on the beach, building sandcastles in the fading light. Fiona came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his shoulder. He turned and kissed her, tasting the lemonade she’d been drinking all night. The designated driver.
‘Happy birthday, darling,’ she said, pressing herself against him, and he felt arousal flood through him for the first time in, well, too long. She moved so she was leaning against the barrier, one bare foot pressed against the glass as he kissed her neck. She reminded him of their early days then, the days of their illicit affair, when she would wait for him at her flat, naked beneath an apron, dinner keeping warm in the oven while they fucked on the kitchen table. She was exciting, then, young and interesting and new. She wasn’t Fearne, with her unsightly caesarean scar and limp hair; she was fresh, alive, and she made him feel alive too.
‘We should go somewhere more private,’ she whispered in his ear, tugging on his hair, and he looked up, seeing the hunger in her eyes. But something moved beyond her shoulder, a shadow flitting across the beach, and his eyes followed it automatically. It was Skye, her long red hair flowing behind her, the spitting image of Saffy, and his heart lurched at the ghost of his lost daughter.
‘What is she…?’ He trailed off as he watched Skye run fully-dressed into the waves. A shout rang out and Fiona’s body jerked, her head snapping towards the sound.
‘Felix!’ she cried, shoving Richard away and hurtling down the steps, stumbling across the sand. Richard watched as she reached their eldest son, her arms going around him as he spoke to her, his words too low for Richard to hear. Fiona turned back towards him then, her mouth open in horror. ‘Tobias!’ she screamed, her eyes meeting Richard’s, and understanding flooded through him.
‘Shit!’ He left his glass on the table and ran towards the beach, passing his wife and son and plunging straight into the sea. He gasped as the cold hit him, his eyes focused on the two figures a few feet away, struggling against the current. Skye’s hair was plastered to her head, one arm wrapped around her half-brother as she dragged him towards the shore. Richard met them halfway, reaching out and grabbing Tobias and throwing him over his shoulder as he waded through the water. Skye swam at his side, the pale skin glinting in the dim light.
‘Tobias,’ he said, laying his son down on the sand and patting the boy’s cheek. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack, and Richard felt his own mouth go dry as he looked down at him. ‘Tobias!’ He sat back on his heels, trying to remember the first aid training he’d received at work a few years before. Would he have to give mouth-to-mouth?
Skye pushed past him, her wet hair falling over her brother’s face like strands of seaweed as she placed her ear by his mouth. Richard watched, stupefied, as his daughter began pressing on his son’s chest, her upper body moving up and down with the motion. After what felt like forever, Tobias coughed, and Skye moved back as seawater came spewing from his mouth.
‘Oh, thank God!’ Fiona cried, falling upon her son like a Victorian widow. Tears rolled down her face as she pushed Tobias’s wet hair away from his forehead, and he blinked up at her, his mouth working but not making a sound.
Richard knelt there, in his wet, sandy trousers, his erection long since withered away, the pleasant buzz from his birthday party all but faded, and wondered what he’d done to deserve a child as stupid as his second son.
11
The Mistress
I stand in the hallway, the clock hanging on the wall telling me that it is almost quarter past nine. Time to get a wriggle on, as my late mother would have said. Despite Felix’s message, I will be attending the funeral today. I will say goodbye to the man I loved. The man I thought I knew, anyway.
My right hand goes automatically to the ring finger on my left, and the diamond that has sat there for almost two years. It was a gift from Richard, presented to me on Christmas Eve as we ate the meal I had spent all day preparing. My fork clattered against my plate as he went down on one knee, his lips stretched into a grin.
‘Ellie,’ he said, reaching out and taking my hand. And that was all he had to say. I knew what the question was, knew, instantly, what my answer would be.
‘Yes,’ I gushed, feeling a wave of emotion roll over me as he slid the ring onto my finger. ‘Yes, Richard. Yes!’
We made love on the kitchen floor, the blinds wide open, the candles burning down as I lay in his arms. It was perfect; he was perfect. I had never been so happy. Even when my ex-husband proposed when we were both nineteen, I had wondered if I was doing the right thing. And when my son was born, my beloved Sean, I was filled with a mixture of pure love and pure terror as I held him in my arms. I checked on him constantly when he was small, carried the baby monitor with me wherever I went, even to the toilet. I was a young mother, barely twenty-one when he was born, and sometimes I felt as if I would never get it right. And when the cancer came to take him away, I knew it was because of my failings. I was never cut out to be a mother, should never have let people’s opinions and expectations force me down a road I’d never wanted to take. God help me, but sometimes, on the darkest of nights, when I am alone, I am glad Sean didn’t live long enough for me to let him down.
I try not to cry as I pull my coat down from the hook and pick up my handbag. Images of Sean’s funeral flash through my mind as I leave the house and get into the car. His tiny coffin, his little toy bear propped up on top; the flowers, so many flowers and wreaths filling the hearse. My husband’s pale face, his mother’s hand on my arm, fingernails digging into my skin as she struggled to stay upright. And my gaze focused on the
cross nailed to the wall above my son’s coffin, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, drowning out the vicar’s words, my eyes bone dry.
I roll down the window as I drive, breathing in the cold air. Too late, I realise I will pass the tree Richard crashed into and knocked sideways, its roots lifting from the soil. I slow down as I draw nearer, my eyes glued to the skid marks on the road. This is where it happened, where my life changed again. Images fill my mind as I crawl past, the road blurring before me.
He was three times over the limit, according to the coroner. He had been coming to see me; I had called him, asked him to come over. It was important, I said, and it had been. Life or death.
‘I’ve had too much to drink,’ he hissed down the phone at me. ‘Fiona is coming to pick me up in an hour.’
But I insisted. Begged. Threatened. And he came, but he never arrived. So I went to look for him.
I turn my attention back to the road, speeding up as I notice another car behind me, and make my way towards the crematorium. I park at the far end, a few spaces away from another car which contains two young women. I wrinkle my nose at the smell of cigarette smoke and close the window, leaning my head against the seat, eyes fixed on the building ahead.
I am not wanted here. Fiona knows who I am, as does Felix, and probably everyone else does too. I know Richard’s brother and many of his friends; there is no chance of me slipping in unnoticed. But I have to try. For Richard, for what I thought we had. Otherwise it will all have been for nothing. Otherwise I will have wasted three years of my life with a man who did not deserve me.
Movement from my right catches my attention, and I turn to see the hearse arriving, two cars following closely behind. Here he is, hidden beneath a dark wooden casket and large flower displays. I close my eyes and picture him dressed in his best suit, the white shirt crisp and spotless, his favourite tie – the one I bought him on a trip to Oxford – sitting neatly down the row of buttons. His shoes will be polished to a shine, his hair slicked back in its usual timeless style. Nausea rises as the image of the night he died flashes through my mind. His face slack, his eyes open and unseeing. No, I should not remember him like that. I cannot bear it.