After the beep of her voicemail message, I freeze, staring through the latticed window, mouth opening and closing but nothing coming out. I don’t know what to say anymore because I have to admit to myself that I don’t know who Grace was. She wasn’t the bright, shining spark of goodness I’d always thought. She wasn’t even the person I thought she was. My memory of her is of a cheerful, happy girl. But it’s all a lie.
She went to a therapist because of me. She was ill because I didn’t show her enough love.
Can a sociopath love?
Not usually.
The doorbell rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. I hadn’t even noticed the large 4 x 4 pulling into the drive. After jolting in surprise at the sound, I see Jenny is waving her arm manically, tottering across the drive with her long scarf blowing in the wind. I hurry through the house and into the hallway to greet them, but Michelle already has the door open.
‘Kat! How are you?’ Malc embraces me as always, planting a kiss on each cheek.
‘Oh, you know, still holding up.’
‘Listen, it’s so brave of you, hosting this. You know we would’ve taken on those duties for you if you’d needed us.’
‘It’s okay,’ I reply. ‘To be honest, I needed the distraction. And having everyone here is another way to honour her, you know?’
‘I get it.’ He nods. ‘And, hey, you look sickeningly good in that hunting jacket. Are you a secret equestrian?’
‘Emily Cavanaugh would turn in her grave if she thought I’d stepped even a toe into a stirrup.’
The quip makes me grin and Malc laugh heartily. We’ve always shared a dark sense of humour, and this is the first time since Grace died that I’ve found myself making a joke. Making someone else laugh feels wrong and right at the same time.
Before I can process that feeling, Jenny rushes in, with Alicia trailing behind. ‘Kat, darling, how are you? How are you?’
She grabs me with both hands as usual, holding me at arm’s length.
I offer her a sheepish smile. ‘I’m okay. It’s good to see you. Your hair looks gorgeous.’
‘Oh,’ she says, tucking a ringlet of strawberry blonde behind one ear. ‘I popped into Derby this morning for a makeover. But look at you. You look fantastic.’
She continues holding my arms, looking at me intently. ‘Did you call the psychic? I have a strong feeling that it would be good for you.’
Malc’s shoulders sag. ‘Jen, don’t.’ He flashes me a guilty smile.
Jenny raises her hands in apology. ‘I’m not; I’m just checking in.’
‘I haven’t called,’ I say, and then I add, ‘not yet, anyway.’ I may as well keep Jenny onside. Who knows, I might need her at some point. ‘Why don’t you come out into the estate? They’re setting up the shoot.’
‘Perfect.’
As Jenny links her arm with my own, I watch Alicia cautiously as she trails behind us with her flute case. Ethan is probably already here, setting up with the rest of the waitstaff, though he’s managed to avoid me. The thought brings back a memory of Grace asking me to hire this specific catering company, those puppy-dog eyes of hers widening, and a shiver runs down my back.
‘You know, I didn’t think you’d go through with today,’ Jenny says. ‘You’re so brave, Kat. I would’ve been a gibbering wreck these last few weeks, but you’ve almost managed to carry on as normal. I don’t know how you do it.’ Jenny is talking at rapid-fire pace, which usually means she’s had a few glasses of Prosecco. I’m also not too stupid to hear the slight dig in her tone.
‘I thought about cancelling,’ I admit, leading her out to the patio. ‘But I thought this might be another good way to honour Grace. She loved these events.’
‘Oh, she did,’ Jenny agrees. ‘She was such a social butterfly. Just like Lissy. Where are you, Liss?’ Jenny wafts her head back and forth to find her daughter, as though she’s afraid to lose her.
‘I’m here,’ Alicia says in a bored voice.
When Jenny glances at Alicia, I do the same. Our eyes meet and Alicia stares me down, her expression cold and emotionless.
Twenty-Four
The richest people in the north step out of their Range Rovers to join the shoot. A photographer from Tatler sets up next to the stables to take a few pics of those arriving, then moves around to the south field where canapés and champagne are being served.
The crack of gunfire sounds out and the men slap each other on the back as clay discs are obliterated in the air. Charles is a good shot, having been given lessons as a boy, and I can hear him ribbing the other competitors as he moves into the lead.
While the men compete, the women hang back, quaffing champagne and playing their own hunting games. Who can deliver the most efficient backhanded compliment? One of my favourites is to walk up to the Instagram influencers invited to the party and say, ‘I love how you don’t care how you come across on social media.’ Nearly all of them reply ‘Thank you.’
‘Kat, there you are.’ Malc pats me gently on the back and hands me another glass of champagne. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Annoying the Instagram models.’ I nod across to a blonde taking a selfie next to a bottle of champagne, with a Formula One driver at her side. ‘Look at her eyebrows. A toddler could do a better job with a Sharpie.’
Malc laughs. ‘Did you set a dress code for tonight? Only that is certainly an unusual dress to wear to a shoot.’
‘Yes, “surprised escort” wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I suggested “Sloane chic”.’ I bite my lip, that same sense of good and bad squirming inside me. It feels wrong to make someone laugh, to laugh myself, but at the same time it feels good to let loose. I hadn’t realised quite how tightly wound I’ve been since Grace died, though the pain of missing her never goes away, not even for a second.
Malc’s voice softens. ‘It’s good to have your sense of humour back. I’ve missed it.’
I take another sip of champagne. ‘It does always seem to be us at the back during these events, cracking jokes about the guests, doesn’t it? When we used to have parties here, Grace would come out and we’d be tipsy and joking and she’d pretend to understand what we were laughing about.’
‘She looked up to you,’ Malc says. ‘Everyone saw it.’
My throat becomes thick with emotion, but I chase the sensation away with my champagne. Now isn’t the time to crack.
Malc nudges me in the ribs and I get the impression he’s about to lighten the mood. ‘Hey, those Instagram models reminded me of something. What was that joke you told me at the parent-teacher mixer last year? About narcissists?’
I frown, trying to remember. Then a laugh bubbles up from my throat. ‘Oh, the one my therapist told me? A narcissist and a sociopath walk into a bar. The narcissist starts telling the bartender stories about how great he is. The sociopath isn’t talking; instead he’s planning how to steal the narcissist’s watch.’
‘Shall we go steal their watches?’ he says, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
‘I already have,’ I reply, finishing the last of my champagne. At that parent-teacher event, Grace’s maths teacher had told me she was getting straight A’s. We’d been talking about her possibilities regarding higher education. It feels like a lifetime ago.
‘Another?’
But I shake my head, forcing away my memories and the desire to drink even more. I need to focus. ‘How is Alicia doing? I’m sorry I haven’t been to the house much.’
‘Honestly, I’m worried about her,’ Malc says. ‘She’s bottling something up. She goes around like everything is normal, and she never talks about Grace, then all of a sudden she’ll be in floods of tears about it. She lost her phone, which is very unlike her. And’ – he glances left and right, as though checking there’s no one around – ‘don’t tell Jen this.’
I mime my lips being sealed.
‘Well, Jen isn’t helping at all. Lissy only gets upset after Jen has been winding her up. First of all, that psychic t
hing? Well, she made Alicia do it. I was furious, Kat, I can’t even tell you.’ He shakes his head and grips the champagne stem tight enough to turn his fingernails white. ‘She had Alicia walking around saying that, according to the psychic, Grace forgives her. It’s plain wrong.’
I glance away, considering whether there were any important nuggets of information to be mined from that or whether Alicia is bullshitting again. Does Alicia want forgiveness? And if so, what does she want to be forgiven for?
‘Oh God, I’m such an insensitive arsehole. I shouldn’t be talking about this to you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Malc.’ I place a hand on his arm to reassure him. ‘I asked you how she was and I wanted to know. The psychic business doesn’t faze me at all. I know it’s a load of rubbish, but I don’t have the heart to tell Jenny what I think about it.’
‘Me neither.’ He drains his glass then glances down at my hand, which I’ve purposefully left on his arm for a moment too long.
I clear my throat as I remove my hand, blinking a few times to make my eyes shine, all the while aware of Malc watching me intently. Oh, I’m no idiot. I’ve seen his lingering gaze and the way his eyes trail my body. I know that he’s turned on by my spontaneity and wicked sense of humour. But I’ve never acted on it before, perhaps because I’ve never needed to. Or perhaps I’m simply a very loyal friend and wife. But now I’m going to use every means available to discover what happened to my daughter.
Both of us look away awkwardly, and I find Alicia staring at me from behind the patio doors, her eyes narrowing.
* * *
After the shoot, the guests make their way upstairs to change out of their wax jackets and boots. The thought of people using the guest rooms on Grace’s floor is horrifying to me, but I’ve locked her door to prevent anyone going in there. While the staff prepare for the evening festivities, I head up to the bedroom to change into my evening dress.
I’m fiddling with an earring and making my way back down the stairs when a man passes me. His face is instantly familiar but I can’t place him. He gently places a hand on my shoulder and says, ‘I’m sorry. About Grace.’
But I instinctively move away, dropping the back of my earring. I mutter a curse word and glance around for it, lifting up my tight skirt to allow me to bend down.
‘Sorry,’ he says, reaching down to help me. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
The tiny piece of metal eludes me. ‘You didn’t. It’s a fiddly little thing.’
‘Here.’ The man holds up the butterfly clip triumphantly.
‘Thank you.’
As I press the clip onto the stud, he regards me with friendly brown eyes. ‘I was Grace’s music teacher. Daniel Hawthorne.’
‘Oh, Mr Hawthorne, hello.’ Daniel Hawthorne, the young, attractive teacher whom all the girls fancied. He wrote a sweet message on her condolence card. I take his extended hand. ‘You must be here with the orchestra then.’
He nods. ‘Our first event since Grace passed away. We all miss her an awful lot.’
‘The house is too quiet without the sound of her violin. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that. Whenever I walk in the front door, I expect to hear her practising.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He takes half a step back, as though repelled by the grief emanating from me. ‘I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.’
‘You haven’t,’ I say. ‘They’re happy memories. Or at least they’ll get less painful over time. She talked about you much more than her other teachers. You were definitely her favourite.’
‘She was a great student. Unbelievably talented. The entire orchestra misses her.’
‘Thank you for the card. That was very kind.’
‘We all meant every word. Grace touched all of our lives in some way.’
I understand that by nature I am suspicious about other people and their motives, which means I can’t always trust my own instincts; but at the same time, I find it difficult to shake the notion that Daniel Hawthorne’s words sound rehearsed in some way. However, as I’m thinking of a response, my name is called by someone downstairs.
‘Would you excuse me?’ I say.
He smiles. ‘Of course.’
As I walk away, I can’t help but look back at the handsome young man on the stairs. Now I know why Grace talked about him so often. Teenage girls easily become fixated on young, good-looking teachers, but there are times when that fixation can develop into more.
‘Kat, there you are.’ Charles appears from the kitchen and, to my surprise, wraps an arm around my waist, leading me into the vast dining room where Cavanaughs have hosted events for generations. The pared-down ensemble from the school orchestra is all set up, and a microphone is waiting at the end of the room. ‘It’s time for your speech.’
When I nod to him, acknowledging his reminder, he smiles, as though our relationship is as rock solid as ever. No one warns you, when you step into a different social class, that there are rules and expectations. Putting on a smile and pretending everything is fine is one of those rules that the upper classes follow exceedingly closely. I quietly clear my throat and make my way towards the microphone. It was agreed that I would toast Grace before the dinner began. We can’t go through an event like this without referencing her.
I grab a glass of champagne from a tray and tap it gently with a knife. All at once, the room hushes and glamorous faces regard me from the crowd. Now isn’t a good time to falter, like I did at Grace’s memorial. This is the time to fake a smile and share heartfelt words.
‘Thank you for coming, everyone. Charles and I almost cancelled this event…’ I pause and put on a brave smile. ‘But then we decided to carry on. It’s not in us to hide away behind these walls. We want to share this house with our friends and family, and that’s what we’re doing tonight. The house has been particularly quiet recently – many of you know about the terrible, awful tragedy we suffered just a few weeks ago.’ I stop and clear my throat. ‘Grace meant the world to us. She was bright, loud, always playing the violin. She filled every room in this house with laughter, and that is what I want you all to do tonight. I want you to honour her. Think of Grace at her best, at her most beautiful, at her funniest. I know most of you knew her. Think of her and give generously, because Grace picked this charity. She picked this food and she chose for her own orchestra to provide us with entertainment while we eat. Remember the amazing, clever and beautiful person she was – and for God’s sake crack a smile, you lot, will you?’ I pause for laughter. ‘To Grace, who is definitely cracking a smile right now, wherever she is.’
The room fills with gentle laughter and the guests echo my words: ‘To Grace.’
I nod towards the orchestra. Daniel Hawthorne smiles, before facing the girls and their instruments. The music begins to play.
Twenty-Five
For the first time since Grace died, there is laughter in the house. No one knows that I’m completely numb all the way through as I eat, make conversation and even find some of my sense of humour again. The night is going surprisingly well, and even Charles manages to hide his disgust for me by occasionally putting his arm around my waist or holding my hand. I’m impressed with him. I never knew he had this steely, determined side.
Some of the day guests have already left. Not everyone at the shoot would have been able to fit into the dining room for the banquet. But I don’t cry any tears for the Instagram models who have gone home with their sportsmen, or the low-level politicians who have other events to attend, other people to schmooze. Our dinner-party guest list is winnowed down to close friends and those with the most money, at least until the food is over and a second wave of attendees arrives for the dancing afterwards.
Finally, Ethan has crawled out of the woodwork. He moves up and down the dining table, serving wine and avoiding eye contact with me. Alicia is playing the flute in the orchestra. Sasha’s violin melody soars. All the while I continue to speculate: did one of you hurt my daughter? The answer is
still: I don’t know.
‘Kat, you okay?’ Jenny tugs at my sleeve. Her eyebrows are lifted to form an almost triangular shape.
‘Hmm? Yeah, fine.’ I subtly begin to move away from her, somewhat sickened by the pity on her face.
‘I noticed you talking to Malc earlier,’ she says. ‘Did you have a nice chat?’
I glance across at Malc, positioned between my husband and one of the lords Charles invited. I’ve forgotten his name already.
‘Sure,’ I say, paying more attention to the pheasant breast on my plate than Jenny.
‘I know you’re grieving, Kat, but you can’t steal other people’s husbands away.’
I almost spit out a piece of gamey meat in shock. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I won’t be Debbie Reynolds,’ she rasps in a loud whisper, making me realise how drunk she is.
Her sudden accusation is so ridiculous that I can’t stop the manic giggle escaping from my throat. I quickly take a sip of red wine to try and drown out the sound. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I try to keep my voice even as I put my glass back down.
‘You know what I mean. I won’t be dumped for a pretty face. Look at you, all wounded and vulnerable and beautiful.’ She slurs her words. ‘You know exactly what you’re doing. I’ve seen the way he stares at you, like something he wants to fix, and I know you can’t help that, but you can help leading him on. Just because your marriage is broken, it doesn’t mean you can find comfort in the arms of a married man. I won’t sit here and watch you become Elizabeth Taylor and him Eddie Fisher.’
Aware of the people around me, I speak in a low voice to try and avoid making a scene. ‘Jenny, do you have any iota of how absurd you sound? I lost my child. The last thing I want is another man in my life.’
‘Yeah, because women never find comfort in men other than their husbands, do they?’ She sloshes her wine around while she talks. I reach for the glass but she pulls it away from me. ‘Whatever. Stay away from him.’
Only Daughter: An gripping and emotional psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 16