by Rosie Green
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘They were in bed and Janice was . . . well, she was on top of him with her back to me.’
We both wince. I, for one, feel more than a little uncomfortable thinking of Dad like that.
‘They’d put the globe against the door, presumably to alert them to someone coming. I wondered what was stopping the door. I had to push hard because that thing weighs a ton.’
‘No wonder you weren’t bothered about the globe going to the skip,’ I murmur.
She laughs bitterly. ‘Yes, it did rather lose its charm a bit after . . .’ She trails off.
‘Did Dad talk to you about what happened?’
‘Oh, yes. He came through straight away and tried to explain but I wasn’t even listening, I was too upset. I just wanted not to have to even look at him. I was embarrassed, I think, as much as anything.’
‘Oh, God. Poor you.’
‘I stewed about it for days. And in the end, I decided Mum had to know about it. They were always going on about honesty being the best policy. So I told her when she came back. I think I was trying to punish Dad by telling her.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ I say in a tight little voice that doesn’t sound like mine at all. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done. Probably the same.’
Isla nods miserably. ‘I’ve hated myself ever since, though. I should never have told Mum. If I’d kept quiet about it, they wouldn’t have split up.’
‘I wish you’d told me.’
She shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t. Mum was scared it would ruin your close bond with Dad. She desperately didn’t want you to think badly of him, so she made me promise not to breathe a word about what had happened.’
‘She kept it a secret to protect me?’ I stare at my sister, feeling a tumble of conflicting emotions. Anger at Dad for what he did. Sorrow for Isla for having to keep such a terrible secret from me all these years. And guilt for blaming Mum for walking out on us. If only I’d known how desperately unhappy Mum was, I would have been kinder. I could cry at the thought of her risking losing my love so that my bond with Dad wouldn’t be broken . . .
Dad was probably in a really bad place when it happened, mourning the baby they’d lost and unable to reach Mum in her grief. Did Janice see this and take advantage of his vulnerability?
But no, Janice couldn’t have been that scheming. She was in fear of her life when she arrived at the door of Moondance Cottage that night. No shoes, torn dress. Running from an abusive man. Maybe Dad was kind to her and she was grateful. And things just . . . happened.
Isla’s eyes are shiny with tears. ‘It’s my fault our family broke apart, Jess. All my fault.’
‘Hey, no, of course it’s not.’ I scrape back my chair and go to sit beside her.
‘But don’t you see?’ She turns to look at me, devastation in her eyes. ‘The whole nightmare is down to me. It’s my fault Mum and Dad split up. It’s my fault that Dad lost Mum and started seeing Janice. If Janice had never taught him how to sail, he’d never have embarked on that bloody voyage with her. So it’s my fault we lost Dad.’
I put my arm round her, feeling her shaking. ‘Isla, you were a child. You thought you were doing the right thing, telling Mum what you saw.’ I swallow. ‘And you probably were. You can’t blame yourself for everything that happened after that.’
‘Well, I do,’ she croaks. ‘Why do you think I left the village and went to live hundreds of miles away? I couldn’t bear to stay and witness every day all the unhappiness I’d caused. I mean, poor Mum. She was devastated when we lost Dad. Looking back, I think we assumed Mum would cope because she’d lived with Martin all those years, therefore she must be over Dad. But coming back this time, I’ve seen how totally wrong that was. Losing Dad has hit her so hard, it’s actually sent her off the rails. All those paintings of him and talking about him as if he’s just nipped to the shops and will return at any minute.’ She shakes her head. ‘That’s my fault, too.’
‘It was no-one’s fault but Dad’s that Mum left him,’ I point out, even though my heart hurts to say it.
She looks at me and sighs a shuddery breath. ‘I suppose so.’
‘It’s true. You’re not to blame for any of it, Isla. Do you understand?’
I take her hand and we stare at each other, the pain in my eyes echoed in hers.
‘You know,’ I say suddenly, ‘This is going off at a tangent, but I keep thinking about Janice coming to Moondance Cottage that night, running away from her abusive boyfriend. That was Eddie, right?’
Isla nods. ‘Eddie Watson. He lives in the village.’
‘And that was Eddie we saw at Janice’s funeral?’
She nods.
‘See, that’s what I don’t understand. He seemed such a gentleman. I mean, literally, a gentle man. I would have bashed my head on a gravestone if he hadn’t caught me when I fainted. And then afterwards, he was so lovely, making sure I was all right. Are you sure he was Janice’s abuser?’
‘Pretty sure, yes. I grant you, he doesn’t seem like your typical mad bastard.’ She shrugs. ‘But what exactly does an abuser look like? Every other man in the street, I’d imagine. They’re cunning, so they’d probably be perfectly charming in public. It’s only behind closed doors . . .’ She shudders.
I nod. ‘I suppose so.’
We lapse into our own thoughts, the coffee growing cold in our cups.
‘What are we going to do about Mum?’ Isla asks at last. ‘I’m scared for her mental health.’
‘I know. But she keeps on insisting she’s perfectly all right. So what can we do?’ I shrug helplessly. ‘Frogmarch her along to the doctors?’
‘Well, maybe we do need to force her.’ She sighs and scrapes back her hair with both hands. ‘Oh God, Jess, what a mess our lives have become. Mum’s talking to the fairies and I’ve lost the love of my life.’
‘And I’ve become a sad hermit, who’ll probably start taking in stray kittens any day now.’
This raises a smile from her.
‘The thing is, I haven’t told you the rest of it,’ she says dolefully.
‘There’s more?’
‘Oh, yes. You know all that stuff on Facebook? The fabulous cars, the dinners in top restaurants, the news of our company’s expansion?’
‘Yes.’ I frown at her.
‘Well, I made it all up. Those cars were at a showroom we visited for a laugh and we could hardly afford a McDonald’s once a week, never mind eating at expensive restaurants. And as for the company doing so well we could afford to buy another shop . . .’ She laughs, contemptuous at herself. ‘It was all a lie because I couldn’t bear you all to think my wonderful patisserie was a big fat flop!’
‘But . . . I thought it was going great guns? The patisserie.’
She shakes her head. ‘Jamie invested pretty much all his savings in that shop but it was losing money from day one. I tried desperately to keep it going, to get more customers through the doors, but in the end, we had to give up. I’m broke, Jess. More than broke because I still have to pay back half of Jamie’s investment.’
I seriously can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You’re selling the shop and your lovely flat?’
She sighs. ‘Yes, and good riddance, to be honest. I’m so tired of trying to pretend everything’s just hunky dory.’
‘But you didn’t have to pretend to us.’
‘Yes, I did. I was so determined I was going to turn things around. I even started doing that visualisation stuff – you know, “imagine your future and it will happen” sort of thing? Putting all that stuff on Facebook and talking as if I was already a huge success was all part of my plan to succeed.’ She sighs. ‘Honestly, Jess, my pride has taken such a battering since we threw in the towel and put the business up for sale back in the summer. And Jamie and I splitting up was absolutely the final straw. I sobbed all the way home on that flight from Paris.’
‘And drank the plane dry. I don’t blame you, by the way.’
‘Always did,’ I joke. ‘But that’s quite normal for sisters, isn’t it?’
We laugh.
‘I’m just glad you’ve finally talked to me.’ I place my hand over hers, my head still reeling from learning that all her boasts of success were a sham. ‘I sort of knew you were keeping things from me, but I’d no idea it was on quite such a scale.’
She grunts. ‘I feel so much better having spilled my guts. You can’t imagine how stressed I was, holding it all in. Like a boil that’s about to – ’
‘Stop it! No guts or nasty boils, please.’ I grin. ‘You’ll put me off my cake.’
‘What cake?’
I point over at the food display. ‘That slice of lemon drizzle with my name on it.’
She grins. ‘I was thinking chocolate cake, myself.’
I stand up. ‘Come on. Comfort eaters anonymous strike again.’
With a weary grin, she hauls herself up and we walk over to the servery together.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Over cake and more coffee, we talk about Isla’s plans for Christmas. I’m adamant she should come home for good but Isla is equally certain she won’t.
‘I like living in Paris.’ She shrugs. ‘Why should I let that pig, Jamie, send me scuttling home?’
‘Is that the only reason you want to stay in France? To prove something to Jamie?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘But where will you live?’
‘I need to be out of the flat by the end of January. After that, I’ll find somewhere to rent.’
‘What about money?’
She shrugs. ‘I’ll get a job. And I’ll have half of the profits from the sale of the shop and flat.’
Her mind seems made up, and I’m surprised at how dismayed I feel about it. ‘Well, if you do decide to stay in Paris, you have to promise to let us come and visit you.’
She grins. ‘Of course. And I’ll fly back here more often, I promise.’
We wander through the garden centre, stopping to look at the dazzling array of Christmas trees that sparkle with lights in every colour imaginable.
‘I’d love a real tree but I don’t think I can afford it,’ I murmur, gazing up at a beautiful blue spruce, its branches winking with lights that look like star-shaped diamonds.
Isla snorts. ‘Nothing wrong with a fake. It’s value for money and you don’t have to hoover up needles every other day.’
I give her an arch look. ‘I guess that’s always been the difference between us.’
‘What?’ She grins. ‘Eminently practical Isla and soppily romantic Jess?’
‘Something like that.’
We start to laugh, and standing there in that ‘soppily romantic’ winter wonderland, I feel a peace wash over me that I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I even feel as if I could forgive Dad . . .
‘Right, enough of this sentimental clap-trap,’ jokes Isla, hooking her arm through mine.
‘Street entertainment?’
‘Bring it on!’
Smiling, we head for the exit.
Then I stop dead in my tracks, letting go of my sister’s arm.
Oh, God, no!
Isla turns with a frown. ‘What’s wrong?’ She follows my gaze over to a display of reindeer antlers. The sort you wear round the Christmas table.
Seb is trying some on and Bella is laughing. And as I stand there, glued to the little festive tableau, Aleksandra appears. She’s carrying a box of something that looks like it might be crackers, and she shows it to Seb and Bella. Seb nods and Bella starts skipping around excitedly. Aleksandra grabs her hand and they start walking over towards the Christmas trees.
My heart is beating so fast, it might burst out of my chest.
‘Are you okay?’ murmurs Isla, nudging me gently.
‘No,’ I whisper. Then I force a smile. ‘Happy Christmas to me.’
I swallow hard. It’s not the big brunch we’ve eaten that’s making me feel suddenly nauseous. Seb must have got the job as chief executive. And now he and Aleksandra are planning a lovely Christmas. Together.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ I mutter, charging for the exit. The last thing I need is for Seb to spot me. I couldn’t face having to make polite conversation with a gleeful Aleksandra!
My mobile starts ringing as we’re crunching across the car park. Fumbling in my pocket, I look at the name that’s flashed up.
‘It’s Martin.’ We exchange a puzzled look. ‘I hope Mum’s all right.’
‘Hi, Martin. How are you?’
I listen to what he tells me, panic rising inside. ‘Okay. Don’t worry. We’re coming straight over.’
‘What?’ Isla demands.
I shake my head. ‘It was a bit garbled but apparently Martin turned up at Mum’s and she took one look at his outfit and just broke down.’
‘His outfit?’
I shrug. ‘She’s inconsolable apparently and Martin’s at a loss to know how to calm her down.’
‘Oh, God. Come on. There’s usually taxis here, but I bet there aren’t any today with this snow.’
When we head back round to the shop’s exit, there’s a solitary taxi waiting there, thankfully with its light off.
‘Shit! That man’s going to grab it. Come on!’
‘It’s Seb. Oh, Isla, no!’ I watch in embarrassed dismay as she starts running to grab it, slithering over the car park. It’s a miracle she’s managing to stay upright. But she arrives there well ahead of Seb, who’s having to wait for Aleksandra and Bella to catch up.
‘Come on,’ she yells at me, beckoning furiously, the door of the taxi open.
Seb spots me at that moment. Heart sinking into my boots, I start slithering over, praying I don’t land on my butt like I did the day before, and muttering furiously to myself that Isla couldn’t have drawn attention to me more perfectly if she’d grabbed a microphone and announced, ‘Here comes my sister, the sad loser in love.’
‘Sorry. Family emergency,’ I mumble to Seb, as he arrives at the same time as me.
Those brilliant blue eyes pierce right through to my heart. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asks.
I swallow. ‘No, no. It’s fine. Mum’s – erm - not well but we’re on our way over there.’
He nods and, clearly appreciating the urgency of the situation, holds the door of the taxi for me to scoot in the back seat alongside Isla. As we drive off, I catch sight of the thunderous look on Aleksandra’s face as she tippy-toes over in her sky-scraper heels. She does a little skid, looks horrified as if she’s going to actually die, and only just manages to save herself by grabbing onto a trolley. (My little snigger of satisfaction is not my greatest moment.)
‘God, what’s she like?’ mutters Isla. ‘You’d think she’d have ditched the Manolos on a snowy day like this.’
I smile at my sister, grateful for her loyalty. I’m desperate to take one last glance at Seb but I force myself to stare straight ahead.
‘Are you okay?’ Isla nudges me and I groan.
‘I’ll have to be. It looks as if the supermodel won.’
She sighs. ‘They generally do. But he’s crazy for choosing her instead of you.’
‘It’s not that simple. But thank you for your support.’
‘Any time. Did Martin say he’d wait for us?’
I nod. ‘They’re in Mum’s studio apparently. He sounded in a proper panic.’
We ride the rest of the way in silence and I’m truly dreading what we’ll find.
Once there, I pay the taxi driver and we scramble out and ring Mum’s doorbell. A moment later, the door opens and there stands Martin. My mouth falls open. Glancing quickly at Isla, I can tell she’s as dumbfounded as I am.
‘Christ, Martin, have you lost your sleigh or something?’ she quips, pulling on his snowy beard. It twangs back into place.
/>
He smiles ruefully, smoothing the rich red fabric of his robe. ‘I had this thought that it might cheer Patricia up. She keeps going on about how she loves men in Santa suits. But I seem to have enraged her instead.’
I exchange a look with Isla and I can tell she’s thinking the same. Mum was likely thinking of one man in particular wearing the Santa garb.
Dad.
Martin shakes his head wearily and ushers us in. ‘I’ve been feeling so bad about ending the relationship, but I’d got to the end of my tether. She spent all her time in her studio, painting Max. We were like ships passing in the night. In the end, we were really just flat-mates.’
I give him a hug, he looks so crestfallen. ‘I’m sorry, Martin. I really am. Shall we . . . go up and see her?’
He nods and we head up the stairs. A strangled sob reaches us through the closed studio door, and we both draw in a breath before we enter.
Mum is sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, her forehead resting on her bent knees. She looks up, her face twisted in pain, and my heart lurches to see her looking so small and vulnerable. And clearly hurting.
We rush over, crouching down beside her, and I take her hand.
‘What is it, Mum?’
She looks from me to Isla and back to me. Then she says slowly, ‘I’m actually going mad. When Martin came in to surprise me, I really thought it was your dad. My heart practically exploded with joy and then he took the beard off and tried to kiss my cheek, and I just yelled at him.’ Her face crumples. ‘Oh, God, I feel so bad. I just got a shock, that’s all.’ She glances expectantly at the door. ‘Is he still here?’
Isla and I exchange an uneasy look.
‘I don’t mean your dad,’ she snaps. ‘Because obviously he’s never coming back! I mean Martin.’
‘Martin’s downstairs,’ murmurs Isla.
‘Is he okay?’ she asks anxiously. ‘I think I’ve been horrible to him.’
I sit down beside her. ‘I’m sure he understands, Mum.’
‘He’s not coming back, though, is he?’ She’s frowning at the big portrait of Dad. The modern art one that makes him look like a can of beans. ‘Ever.’ Her voice breaks on this last word, and tears start running down her cheeks. Her shoulders shake and she turns and buries her face in my neck, and I put my arms around her and hug her tightly, feeling her pain in every heart-rending sob.
