‘It’s not for you,’ Erika’s mother replied as she guided Niamh over to a desk positioned by the window. She opened a drawer and took out a long silver letter opener and placed it on the desk next to the parcel.
Niamh turned the parcel over. There was a London postmark and the address was written in a familiar hand. She could feel the warmth of him seeping through her, not realising until that moment quite how much she had been missing him.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since she’d last seen him.
‘How did he know where to send it?’ she asked to no one in particular. She had told him she was spending the holidays with Erika’s family, but nothing more. No details, no specifics of where exactly she was going to be.
‘I told him,’ Duncan said.
Erika glared at him. ‘Why?’
‘Why not?’ Erika’s mother asked and her daughter fell silent, because there was no real justification for her being so against Niamh’s relationship with Leo.
‘What is it that you so dislike about Leo?’ Duncan said, no doubt fuelled by glögg, as he’d never normally push Erika so openly for an answer, one they both knew she wouldn’t want to give.
‘I don’t dislike him.’ Erika ran her fingertip along the length of the fireplace, inspecting it for dust that she knew wouldn’t be there.
‘Which means you are jealous,’ her mother said with a small laugh. ‘God forbid one of your friends should dare to fall in love with someone other than you.’
‘För guds skull,’ Erika said, kicking at the fireplace like a petulant child. ‘I get it. Thank you for reminding me all over again what a terrible person I am.’
‘Oh, älskling.’ Erika’s mother came across and laid her hand on her shoulder, only for Erika to shrug her off. ‘At some point you have to forgive yourself for what happened and move on with your life. It’s what Astrid would have wanted.’ She tilted her head to try and catch her daughter’s gaze, then sighed and turned to leave the room, calling over her shoulder to the others, ‘There’s more food and champagne in the kitchen. Do please help yourselves.’
‘You see what I have to put up with?’ Erika said once her mother was barely out of earshot. ‘The woman’s a monster.’
‘She adores you,’ Duncan said. ‘And yet all you do is push her away.’
‘A psychology degree doesn’t make you Freud. Pass the kanelbullar, would you?’
‘How can you possibly eat another thing?’
‘Years of practice. Come on,’ she said as she pulled at Duncan’s jumper and poked him in the ribs. ‘We need to fatten you up a bit. Put some meat on those bones.’
‘Get off.’ Duncan squirmed and laughed as she continued to prod at him, trying unsuccessfully to push her off the sofa and on to the floor.
‘Leave him alone,’ Niamh said, not taking her eyes off the gift she had received. It was a hardback book, bound in white leather with silver stars embossed into the cover and along the spine.
‘Show me.’ Erika pushed herself away from Duncan and climbed over the back of the sofa. ‘Little Women.’ She read the title of the book Niamh was staring at, watching as she opened the accompanying card, which had a simple picture of an angel on the front.
Merry Christmas to the one who has well and truly gorgonised me. Leo x
‘Gorgonise?’ Erika said, snatching the card from Niamh and reading it for herself.
‘It means to have a paralysing effect on someone.’ It was a word she had learnt years ago, when reading the legend of Medusa. The fact Leo thought he was using it in an affectionate way made her giggle.
‘Seems someone’s finally lost her cherry.’
‘So?’ Niamh asked, although the insinuation was clear. Why else would Leo buy her such a thoughtful, personal gift unless she’d given him the only thing he could possibly want from her? After all, Erika had warned her from the very beginning that boys in general are only after one thing.
‘I can’t believe we haven’t even met him properly yet,’ Duncan said. ‘It’s like you’re ashamed of us or something.’
‘It’s not that,’ Niamh said, darting a look at her friends.
‘Then what?’ Erika asked.
‘I just . . .’ Niamh hesitated, knowing that she couldn’t tell Erika the real reason. That the idea of Leo meeting Erika was terrifying because she had this annoying habit of making boys fall in love with her. ‘It’s all so new to me. I promise you’ll meet him when we head back to Oxford.’
Erika gave a non-committal sort of huff then announced she was going to get more drinks.
‘It’s hard for her, being back here.’ Duncan went over to the back wall of shelves, picking up a photo frame and handing it to Niamh.
‘Doesn’t mean she’s allowed to be such a bitch.’ She looked at the photograph of Erika and Astrid. At a guess, she would have said they were about sixteen, which meant it couldn’t have been taken long before Astrid died. In the photo, Erika was kissing Astrid on the cheek and she in turn was smiling, showing off her dimples.
‘Why did her mum say she had to forgive herself for what happened? It’s not Erika’s fault Astrid had an aneurism.’
‘Is that what she told you?’ Duncan said with half a smile before peering over his shoulder and out into the hall. ‘She drowned.’
‘Drowned?’
‘In the lake, up by their summer house.’
‘But that still doesn’t make it Erika’s fault.’
Duncan hesitated, looking from Niamh to the photograph, out to the hall and back to Niamh. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this.’
‘You can’t not tell me now.’
‘Fine.’ Duncan let out an overly dramatic sigh as he flopped on to the nearest chair. ‘So there was a boy.’
‘Of course there was a boy.’
‘Do you want me to tell you or not?’ Duncan took a packet of tobacco out of his pocket and started rolling a cigarette. Niamh glanced out of the window, thinking it was somewhere between brave and stupid to even consider going out in the cold for a smoke, but she wasn’t going to risk interrupting him again. Not when he was about to tell her something that Erika clearly didn’t think Niamh should know. Which was a little hurtful, if Niamh was honest, as it suggested she wasn’t as close to Erika as she thought.
‘Erika’s family used to spend every summer up at the lakes, and Astrid always went too.’ He licked the edge of the cigarette paper before rolling it into a tight, slim cylinder. ‘That year Erika fell hard for a boy called Patrik. Problem was, so did Astrid.’
‘Let me guess,’ Niamh said. ‘He chose Astrid.’
‘Bingo,’ Duncan said, pointing the roll-up at her. ‘But they decided not to tell Erika.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah, indeed.’
‘So how did Erika find out?’
Duncan ran the roll-up under his nose, then tucked it behind one ear. ‘She invited Astrid to go for a swim, out to one of the islets that are dotted around the lakes. Astrid was nervous, but Erika persuaded her it would be fun. And once they were on the islet, Astrid told Erika about Patrik.’
‘How do you know all this?’
Duncan shrugged, which meant that there were some parts of the story Niamh knew he’d never tell. ‘It came out one night when neither of us could sleep. Anyway,’ he went on, crossing one long limb over the other and stifling a yawn, ‘they argued then Erika ran off and swam back to shore. Erika knew Astrid wasn’t a strong swimmer. She should have waited to make sure she was OK.’
Niamh put the photo back on the shelf, next to dozens of others capturing so many moments of a friendship that spanned a whole lifetime. No wonder it was so difficult for Erika to come home. Everywhere she looked there were reminders of the person whose death she felt responsible for.
‘She never told me.’
Duncan raised one eyebrow. ‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she? You know how intensely proud she can be.’
‘Huh.’
‘What?’
‘
That’s exactly what Leo said about her.’
‘Stop worrying,’ Duncan said. ‘Even if she did fancy him, Erika would never do that to you.’
‘It’s not her I’m worried about.’
‘You really like him, don’t you?’ Duncan said as he watched Niamh flicking through the pages of Little Women with a distracted look on her face.
Niamh looked over at him as she perched on the edge of the desk, then peered through the glass and out to the never-ending darkness beyond.
‘Part of me wishes I didn’t.’
‘Why would you say that?’
‘Because what if he doesn’t feel the same way?’
Duncan pointed over at the desk. ‘If someone sends you a limited edition of your favourite book, all the way to Sweden, it means they like you.’
‘I guess. But what if it all goes wrong?’
‘Then it all goes wrong. Erika and I will be here for you, no matter what.’
Niamh rubbed her hands over her face, trying to get rid of the doubts that were bubbling away inside her mind.
‘I can’t imagine Erika would be too upset if it didn’t work out.’
‘If you were sad, she would be sad. Although if he ever hurt you, I would probably warn him to run as far away as possible.’
Niamh managed half a smile as she imagined Erika chasing Leo down the street, no doubt brandishing an axe and wearing a Viking helmet for added emphasis. The smile disappeared when she thought about how it might feel if Leo was no longer part of her life.
‘Sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe when I’m around him.’
‘That’s perfectly normal when you love someone. At least, so I’ve been told.’
Love. Such a simple yet complicated word. It could mean so many different things, like loving ice cream or your dog. But loving another person wasn’t something Niamh had ever really come across before. OK, so she probably did love Duncan, and even Erika, despite her infuriating ways. But the way she felt about Leo was so much more in every conceivable way. She had a physical reaction every time she thought about him or lay under the covers at night, wishing he was there beside her.
One minute you’re single, thinking only of yourself and whether you can track down a diary in order to finish the first essay of term. The next minute you’re staying with your best friend’s parents, being welcomed into their incredible life, but all you can think about is how much you wish he was there.
The vulnerability of her heart made her tremble, because just like he had opened it up, so too could he rip it apart so deeply that she might never recover from the pain.
‘They’re putting Musse Pigg on next door,’ Erika said as she came back into the room carrying her youngest cousin, who was half asleep and sucking her thumb.
‘Musty pig?’ Duncan asked.
‘It’s a weird Swedish tradition of watching Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck. I have no idea where it comes from, but we are all in the living room if you want to join?’ She looked over at Niamh with another question behind her eyes, one hand absently stroking her cousin’s head.
It made Niamh think about how naturally Erika took on the maternal role, how much it seemed to suit her. She did it with her and Duncan all the time – fussing over them when they had a cold, making sure they were eating properly and always worrying about the future. It was suffocating, but in a way Niamh also quite liked it, because her adoptive parents had always been rather distant.
But there was another side to Erika, one Niamh had always done her best to ignore. That desire to always win, to always get what she wanted, no matter the consequences. She may not have been directly responsible for Astrid’s death, but Erika still put her own feelings, her own pride, before her friend. If she’d done it before, Niamh knew she would probably do it again.
‘I propose a toast,’ Duncan said with a grin as he got, rather unsteadily, to his feet and raised his drink. ‘May we never forget how completely and utterly perfect the three of us are and,’ he went on with a deliberate wink at Niamh, ‘may we never be afraid to fall in love.’
‘He has to prove that he is good enough.’ Erika nodded at the book before leaving the room.
‘For me or you?’
‘All three of us,’ Erika called over her shoulder. ‘We come as a parcel deal.’
‘Package,’ Niamh said with a barely stifled yawn. ‘I think I’m going to call it a night.’
‘OK,’ Erika said, blowing Niamh a kiss goodnight. ‘But remember we are going to visit my uncle tomorrow. You’ll need an extra layer as it’s always bloody freezing at his house.’
ERIKA
MINIATURE SILVER KEY
France, 2003
The chateau is perched at the edge of the Loire Valley, complete with hand-painted walls copied from Versailles, manicured gardens, opulent furnishings and marble statues around every corner.
The wedding party is most definitely in full swing, with several guests having headed out to the countryside at the beginning of the week in anticipation of all the revelry to come. Both families have thrown their full weight and bank balances behind the celebration, like an unspoken competition as to who could be the most generous, the most lavish with their affections.
The bride has been at the centre of it all, giddy with love and nerves as everyone she holds dear has come together to witness her big day. I didn’t get here until Wednesday evening, jet-lagged and apologetic for being late, again. I found Layla and her brother playing tennis on the floodlit courts, batting insults back and forth with every shot. That in itself wasn’t unusual, more the fact Layla was doing so whilst wearing nothing but a bikini and smoking a cigar.
Luckily the gown she has chosen for the day itself is less revealing, with a lace-panelled bustier and layer upon layer of froth under the skirt. It makes her look a little like the Sugarplum Fairy and reminds me of another dress discovered in a shop on the King’s Road, but it is perfect for the hopeless romantic that my best friend will always be.
It’s now the night before, and everyone has gathered for one last meal before supposedly getting a good night’s rest. Trestle tables have been set up on the sprawling terrace, with a veritable feast laid out from which people can help themselves. The band is playing tunes of old and everywhere you look there are waiters carrying silver trays of champagne.
A warm breeze climbs up the terrace, bringing with it the cloying scent of roses from the dozens of plants that surround the chateau on three sides. I would like nothing more than to escape to the stillness of my room, but I know it would be rude for the chief bridesmaid to disappear so early on.
‘Mademoiselle?’ A waiter appears at my side, proffering a tray of drinks and I take one with a smile and a merci, noticing both the line of sweat at his brow and a shaving cut on his throat. It’s the same waiter Layla was flirting with last night, during a rather raucous and drunken game of poker.
Something is going on between Layla and Christophe, but I haven’t been able to find a moment alone with the bride-to-be in order to ask exactly what the issue is. I think she’s avoiding me, and not just because I arrived two days late.
I sip my champagne, enjoying the cool crispness of the bubbles that always taste better in summer. Looking beyond the terrace, I see a couple disappearing behind one of the topiary bushes, one of whom looks suspiciously like Christophe, but I only caught the back of his head, so it could just be my subconscious showing me things that aren’t really there. The woman’s laughter hovers in the air even after she is out of sight. Everywhere I turn there are people, all of whom are far too busy enjoying themselves to notice that the groom is quite possibly playing away.
I need to find Layla. I need to talk to her, find out if she shares my suspicions. Last time I saw her she was heading upstairs to change, but that was ages ago and I can’t see her anywhere out here. Which means she’s either hiding, or passed out on the bed, as she has been known to do.
Inside the chateau all is calm and still, other than waiters
gliding along the corridor with empty glasses. Something else too, a sound I’m not accustomed to hearing but recognise in an instant. The soft wail of a child, the call rising and falling like the beam of a lighthouse that disappears at the end of each turn.
I follow the sound, peering into rooms filled with furniture but empty of people. Moving along the corridor, I hesitate before stepping inside the next room. A young mother is lying on a mustard-yellow sofa, her head resting on the arm and her eyes closed. She’s awake though, I can tell by the way her fingers are curling and uncurling into fists, along with the constant twitch of her feet, which are clad in silver stilettoes.
The noise culprit is lying between his mother’s legs, eyes screwed up tight and both legs pumping in annoyance. His face is a deep shade of pink and the material of the sofa either side of his head is damp with tears.
‘Excuse me?’ I knock gently on the door, then a little louder as I don’t think I can be heard above the baby’s wails. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Not really.’ The woman’s voice comes out cracked and broken, along with a fat tear that she hastily wipes away. ‘He won’t stop crying.’
This is something of an understatement, but I know better than to attempt sarcasm with a sleep-deprived mother.
‘How old is he?’ I ask, edging closer and seeing how mother and child share the same dark, almost black, hair. Hers is like a sleek wave of ebony, tumbling over the back of the sofa, whilst his is sticking up in tufts all over his head.
‘Six months,’ she says through a heavy sigh, shifting her weight as she sits up. The baby decides this gives him permission to complain all over again, but he startles at the sight of me squatting down by his side. He stares at me, unsure how he’s supposed to react to a stranger.
‘What’s his name?’ I smile at him as he turns his head to the side with his mouth half open as if he can’t decide whether he should still be crying.
‘Leonardo. We call him Leo, for short.’
He is the first Leo I have come across since. It shouldn’t really be so much of a surprise, but the shock is enough to make me draw breath.
Slowly, I reach out a finger, easing it towards Leo’s little face, then slip it inside his palm. I smile as he grips it tight. A moment more and he brings his fist and my finger to his mouth, two wet lips sucking at skin.
The Love We Left Behind Page 14
