The Bridesmaid

by Nina Manning

  I have chosen to pass the estate and everything on it to Caitlin. She has showed so much promise and consideration for me, something I felt you could not. You tried to defy me for so long because you were willing to put your obsession for a sickly being before the family name. I saw so much fire in Caitlin as she grew, and from you I only saw failure. I always felt bitterly disappointed with you. I can trust Caitlin to make sensible decisions and not let the estate fall by the wayside. I have lived a long and healthy life and it saddens me that I must leave with such a heavy heart. But you must know, Ava, that you were not worthy of Caitlin’s love and affection. She came to me for it in the end.

  Josephine

  Words that had cut her to her core and that she now needs to be rid of. Once this letter is gone, she can focus on the now, no longer hearing the callous echoes of disappointment from her own bitter mother.

  She can hear Maxwell in the garden with the grandchildren. He is doing a better job this time round, now there isn’t as much distraction from work. He is practically retired, although will still dabble here and there. It was he who had assisted Josephine back then, by making the right phone calls, but she had forgiven him over the years, for what did he know of post-natal depression?

  Ava had had a long and stressful delivery, and when the twin girls were born at Saxby, Ava went to a dark place. She blamed herself for Gabi’s disfigurement and allowed herself in her weakened state to be governed by her mother’s pitiless wishes. She would have done anything to turn back time. But the letters kept coming every year, saying how settled and happy Gabi was. But Ava couldn’t even bring herself to reply to them, let alone wish them well. She simply stuffed them in the bottom drawer of her desk. When Sasha had discovered them, she was terrified that Caitlin, who was already so influenced by Josephine, would disown her altogether. She had struggled to make an attachment to her only daughter after Gabi was taken away, and Josephine had been there, ready to jump into her place and offer praise and affection in such an abundance that Caitlin rarely saw Ava as a mother figure.

  Ava climbs out of bed, still in her nightdress. She can hear the whoops from the other grandchildren: a set of twin boys from Troy, and three girls from Abel. Just the one child from Caitlin. She had never wanted to be a mother – probably out of fear of having twins. Lauren was an accident – too many nights drinking and a forgotten pill, no doubt. But a happy accident as far as Ava was concerned. Lauren spent her summers at Saxby. She was the special one, the child that she had never known when she had been a mother to Caitlin.

  Ava hadn’t seen Caitlin in many years. It was Chuck who would drive Lauren up from London and stay with Ava, chatting long into the night, before leaving Lauren to enjoy a long summer with her grandmother. Saxby now belonged to Ava, but her boys were in the will and ready to take it on when she passed.

  Caitlin knew her mother would take care of the place and hand it down to the boys in a good condition. It was the closest she would ever get to a reconciliation. How could she explain after all these years that her hands had been tied? That she had been weak, mentally sick with post-natal depression, something no one recognised back then. Not even Ava had been able to work out what was wrong with herself. It was years later when Ava felt the guilt creeping in. No mother, no matter how sick, should let their own child be taken away from them. Ava tried to find solace in the fact that she had an abundance of love for Lauren. It was the surplus love she had been storing away since the day Gabi left and she was left with only one child, a child she had never known how to love without the twin sister she had arrived into the world with.

  Ava slips into a yellow cotton summer dress, puts on a straw hat and pads downstairs to the drawing room. She can hear the children still playing in the formal garden – the renovated pool is a firm favourite with them all. She takes a match from the jar next to the fireplace and strikes it hard on the bricks around the edge. She holds the letter in front of her and sets it alight. The flames eat it up greedily, turning the hateful words from a heartless mother to ashes. She drops the last edge of the letter into the hearth and watches it disintegrate to nothing.

  She hears the cries and laughter of the children and goes towards the patio door where she is greeted by the warm afternoon air. She picks up her gardening trug and her camera and heads out into the garden to join her family.

  Acknowledgments

  Well, who would have thought I would be writing another book during a lockdown! Whilst I have become adept at juggling the demands of the children and lockdown life, I am really looking forward to getting out and seeing people in the wild again and banking some observations for my next book.

  First, thank you, Amanda Ridout, for your wonderful motivational emails throughout the end of 2020 into 2021. Thank you to you and all the Boldwood team for all their hard work – you really make us authors so proud to be published with you. Thank you, Nia Beynon, for the first few read-throughs of The Bridesmaid and for all your enthusiasm and work on the front cover. Thanks for stepping in when you did, Emily Ruston, and helping me give the characters more life. I am really looking forward to working with you from here on in.

  Thank you, Rebecca Millar, for all your hard work on this book and The House Mate.

  Big huge thanks to all the bloggers and in particular to Ali Edwards, aka The Sunday Feeling, for all the readalongs and shout outs on your stories. They are always such a joy to watch and you are a lovely human.

  Thanks to my mum for the use of Taylor HQ when I needed to get away from the madness and for all the yummy food.

  To all my sisters from other misters who I couldn’t have survived without and who have been rocks this last year. Frankie and Hannah, you are spectacular women. Mrs Nesbitt, I hope you are happy where you are. I look forward to the day we meet again.

  Chris, I love you and the kids. Thanks for letting me lock myself away from you all to write.

  Book Club Questions

  Can you identify where Sasha displays signs of co-dependency throughout the novel?

  Looking back over the novel, can you see where Sasha might have mistaken Ava’s behaviour as threatening? Do you think Ava liked Sasha?

  How did Caitlin’s behaviour change towards Sasha each time her parents hadn’t given her the attention she craved?

  Do you think Sasha and Chuck could ever have been a couple?

  Do you think society puts pressures on women to make them feel they need to make big achievements before they settle down and have a family?

  If Caitlin and Gabi had been born in 2021, do you think Ava might had received the post-natal care she needed?

  Did Sasha make the right decision to pass on the Clemonte heirloom to Gabi and her family?

  More from Nina Manning

  We hope you enjoyed reading The Bridesmaid. If you did, please leave a review.

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  If you’d like to gift a copy, this book is also available as a paperback, digital audio download and audiobook CD.

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  Read on for an exclusive extract from Nina Manning’s first novel, The Daughter In Law:

  Prologue

  I sat very still and felt the fear wash through me as the reality of the situation became clear. Little shots of pain pulsated around my body; my abdomen contracted. I felt dizzy and realised that at any point I could lose consciousness. I never thought it would be so easy to surrender myself but teetering on the edge here, I was faced with a choice: carry on or give up.

  I tried to cast my mind back to a time when everything made sense, but I couldn’t remember when that was. He was supposed to save me. Now I was lost and another part of me was missing. What was the point in fighting any more? Where could I go from here? I knew I deserved this. It had been inevitable. I had got away with it for too many years already. This was my comeuppance.

  Yet somewhere deep within me,
a spark was still ignited. If I concentrated hard enough, I could feel it whirring quietly, like a small vibration. An instinct was pushing me forward, forcing me to fight and recover what was mine. It was a desire that was becoming more urgent. I knew what I needed to do and somehow, I would try to push past the weight of despair to find my way to the light again. To find my way to my love. And to the beautiful gift that was stolen from me.

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  Chapter 1

  Annie

  My favourite room is the spare bedroom at the front of the house. It gets all the light in the morning and looks so inviting. I’ve done it up like a picture I saw in a lifestyle magazine: a checked throw across the end of the bed, floral sheets and hooked back curtains, a little wicker chair in the corner with a few well-read paperbacks stacked on top of it, and a white vase on the bedside table. It really is the most comforting place to be. Of course, no one ever uses it. I like to keep the house looking nice. But it was only ever going to be me and my son.

  Getting out of bed was particularly hard this morning. It has been every morning since Ben left. I keep thinking, what is the point? I’ve been feeling that empty hopelessness for several months now. Since Ben deserted me.

  For her.

  I’d heard all about empty nest syndrome but I never imagined for a moment it would happen to me. I never actually thought he would leave. I thought we would just keep existing together. Forever.

  He kept so much of his stuff here initially, that I felt sure he would return – but just last month, he came and took the lot.

  It’s so quiet here now. It was quiet anyway, that’s why I took the house. It’s the house I grew up alone in with my father, but fled from as soon as I was able to support myself.

  How do you define an unhappy childhood? In those days it was unheard of to make an allegation about your relative. I accepted the violence – it was, after all, part of him and all I had ever known. Throughout my motherless upbringing, the beach house provided a sanctuary for me with plenty of places to hide. I got stealthier as I grew and with my legs pulled up tightly into my chest and my head pressed to my knees, I would squeeze myself into an alcove, the airing cupboard or the shed with the ringing sound of my father’s threats in my ear. Later on, I would sneak out and find my way back to my bedroom past my father’s drunken snores. The next day he wouldn’t remember a thing. Had I not been able to escape down to the shore to skim pebbles or poke about in rock pools, then I would have run away sooner. The sea kept me safe. But as soon as I turned sixteen I took myself hundreds of miles away. I never heard a whisper from my father, who had told me daily I reminded him too much of my brazen excuse of a mother. Then he was dead and the beach house was mine. I left it sitting empty for a while, too scared to return, too busy trying to salvage my own marriage. Then Ben arrived and I knew it was time.

  When I returned here all those years later with my son, it was fairly run down and rotting in places I couldn’t get to, much like my father for all those years. The brown weather-worn cladding needed a sand down and varnish and the white framed windows were peeling, but overall the exterior wasn’t so bad. I did the best I could with it and I could overlook most of the natural decay when I scanned the vast horizon and breathed in the fresh sea air.

  It’s a remote spot, perched right on the edge of the peninsular before it slopes round into the sea. Standing in the garden or looking out of the window, you would be forgiven for thinking there were no houses for miles, but there is one around along the shore and to the left and then they begin to scatter more frequently as they feed towards the village. People rarely walk this far down as the shore is a little more rustic with huge pieces of driftwood and great mounds of seaweed washing up daily. Besides, the stretch of beach at the end of the garden and over the low battered wall essentially belongs to me. We are protected a little from the wind by a few surrounding trees, but it does get a little breezy here at times. But when it’s still and the sea looks like a flat piece of mirror you could walk across, that’s when I love it the most. Of course, I love the waves too, especially the ferocious ones that thrust themselves towards the wall. I like to watch those waves and feel my own fury in them.

  A house on the seafront, much like a savannah plain, is the perfect spot to see when enemies are approaching. And anyone who tries to come between me and my son, I consider an enemy.

  But despite the weather and the waves, I know the house is empty. And although I try to fill my days with mundane daily tasks, I too feel empty. I need to feel fulfilled again. I need my son back. Back where he belongs.

  There’s no one downstairs humming a tuneless song whilst they make their breakfast. There are no dirty trainers in the hallway, or piles of washing in the laundry basket. There are no toast crumbs on the kitchen side, or butter streaks in the marmite. The house is so eerily quiet. I have never experienced this. Not since having Ben. I forced all the bad memories away from the time I lived here as a child and made it all about me and Ben. It’s our sanctuary; our hub. Our place away from the world.

  Now he’s gone. He hardly texts or rings. She has him wrapped around her little finger. Calling all the shots no doubt.

  It was a real shock when Ben told me he had met someone. It was more of a shock when he told me he had gone and got himself married. He had been spending a lot of time at her house, that I knew. But I had no idea things had evolved so quickly. And to have done it without telling me, his own mother, first. We used to be so close. I am not coping so well.

  I did the right thing, of course. I invited them over for something to eat – mostly because I needed to get a good look at the woman who thinks she has replaced me.

  But I know it’s only temporary. I can’t be replaced. My son can’t live without me.

  The thought of her coming into my house tomorrow, the woman who I have never met who has taken my son away from me, was almost too much to bear. But I caught the despair before it developed into something more distressing and just felt thankful that Ben was coming home to see his mum.

  I stood in the front spare room, letting the light from the morning sun heal me all over. The faint salty smell from the shore just a few feet away creeps through the open window. I could hear the gentle lap of the waves and I like the way a little of nature sneaks inside. Even on a bitter winter’s day like today this room brings with it a feeling of hope. A promise that today will be the day. It’s encouraging me to feel something. And I can. Just about. The sun edges around the house to my bedroom later in the day – at different hours depending on the season – and occasionally I take my time to lie down and bask in its glorious rays. I almost go into a state of meditation. I’m not a meditator. I wouldn’t even know if I was doing it right. But something about it feels so relaxing that it must be doing something to my soul.

  I looked out of the window at the ocean at the way the morning light glitters across the tips of the waves. It still fills me with awe and a profound sense of invigorating peace. I couldn’t possibly be anywhere else but here. I chose well when I decided to raise a family here.

  Ben and I made some glorious memories.

  I like to get out at least two or three times a week. Since retiring from the pharmaceutical business a few years ago, I have endless units of the day to fill. Of course, when Ben was here I filled it with tending to his needs. Now it’s just me and the sudden spate of time before me every day.

  I drove my little blue Fiat car into the village, found a space in one of the bays and took my basket into the small greengrocer’s. It’s so nice that certain things just stay the same. I’ve been going there for over twenty years and it is still owned by the same lady that owned it back then.

  I walked into the grocer’s and heard the sound of the bell above the door let out its familiar ping. June looked up from behind the counter and beamed one of her smiles.

  ‘Hello, Annie.’

  ‘Hello, June.’ I walked over to the vegetables and started placing items into my basket all the while
thinking about what I would cook tonight.

  I have been so used to whipping up meals for the two of us that now I find cooking for one difficult. Ben has such an appetite that it was like cooking for a family of four. He would always go in for second and third helpings and finished up the leftovers without hesitation.

  So I started to freeze meals, my intention being that every time Ben visits I can send him off with a batch of homemade food. But he hasn’t visited. Not for over a month. And I cannot conceal the contempt I feel, the anger that begins in the pit of my stomach and then consumes me so I feel the need to run out to the wall at the bottom of the garden and scream into the vast ocean.

  I can’t imagine for a moment that Ben’s new wife has time to stand and cook a meal at the stove like I do. Of course, I couldn’t always cook. There was a time when cooking terrified me. But I had to do it. It was expected of me and once I began, I enjoyed it. Being able to create something from raw ingredients and watch it develop into something wholesome and magnificent is truly a satisfying experience.

  ‘Any tomatoes today?’ June hollered, wrenching me from my thoughts. ‘Got some lovely ones over here.’ She pointed to a large box of ripe red tomatoes next to her.

  ‘Oh yes, go on then.’ I walked over to the counter. ‘I’ll take six.’ I thought about Ben as I watched June choosing the tomatoes and how he loved one grilled for his breakfast.