by Tara Bond
There was a tap on the window, as Petra tried to get his attention. “Would you mind helping me, darling?” I could see from the quizzical look on her face that she was wondering why his assistance wasn’t as forthcoming as usual.
“Sure. Of course.” He got out of the car, and helped her arrange the bouquet in the back, on the seat next to me.
“Lovely flowers, aren’t they?” Petra said, once they were settled back in.
“Hmm.” Richard was noncommittal as he started the engine up.
Petra frowned. This obviously wasn’t the response she’d been expecting. She put a hand on his wrist.
“Is anything wrong, darling?”
“Why would it be?” His voice was polite but cool. “I’m just concentrating on driving.”
“Oh.” She forced a bright smile. “Of course.”
She removed her hand, and turned to look out the window. They lapsed into silence.
I snuggled down in the back seat, trying to get as comfortable as possible in the cramped space, and closed my eyes, allowing a little satisfied smile to play across my lips. Now that I’d ruined Richard’s afternoon, I could happily go to sleep.
* * *
The jerk of the car as it went over a speed bump woke me. My eyes flew open, and I saw that we were on the country road that led to Claylands, my parents’ house. I’d slept through for the whole journey.
“Gosh, it’s even more beautiful than you told me,” Petra cooed at Richard from the passenger seat, as we pulled up to my childhood home.
Even I couldn’t disagree with that. My mother liked to refer to Claylands as “the cottage,” but in reality it was a grand Georgian house, with ten acres of land attached, as well as stables and a barn conversion for guests. The long driveway was already lined with cars—my lie-in had obviously made us one of the last to arrive—so Richard dropped Petra and me at the house, and then went to park.
I could see Petra was impressed as we entered the wood-panelled hallway.
A young man, dressed in a white suit that designated him as one of the catering staff, stepped forwards to take our names. “Ah, yes.” He frowned a little when he heard who I was. “If you’ll just wait here for a moment, I’ll get your mother. She asked to be alerted to your arrival.”
“Of course she did,” I muttered as he hurried off.
My parents weren’t exactly filthy rich, but they were certainly well-off by most people’s standards. They were both leaders in their respective fields of law and medicine, and that inevitably had brought financial rewards. That didn’t mean I had money, though. My mum and dad were great believers in the idea that everyone should make his or her own way in life. Ever since I could remember, they’d told us children that we would never inherit a penny from them—they intended to donate everything to charity. They would happily pay for our education, but after that we were on our own.
Friends often thought I’d be bitter about them withholding their money, but frankly I thought their reasoning made sense. From the moment I’d been kicked out of university at nineteen, I’d been supporting myself, and I was quite happy to do so. I suppose it would be easy to argue that I would always have a safety net if anything went horribly wrong—but anyone who thought I’d go running back to Mummy and Daddy if I messed up didn’t know me very well. I’d rather gnaw my right arm off than lose my independence.
“What a lovely picture.” Petra’s voice broke into my thoughts. I followed her eyes up to the family portrait on the wall. It had been painted nine years ago, around the time of my sixteenth birthday. It showed my mum and dad, along with Kit, who was twenty-one at the time, Kate, who was nineteen, and a sixteen-year-old me. I had on a tartan skirt and red blouse, buttoned up to the neck; my mousey brown curls had been blow-dried straight into a sensible centre parting, and I was smiling into the camera, looking fresh-faced, sweet and happy—almost unrecognisable compared with the unashamedly slutty and cynical twenty-five-year-old standing here today.
“You must have had an idyllic childhood here.”
I didn’t say anything. It just went to show how deceptive appearances could be.
Speaking of which . . .
“Charlotte, darling!” My mother appeared then, looking as elegant and stylish as ever. She was fifty-nine now, but could easily pass for a decade younger. Her smooth English rose complexion appeared almost unlined, and her dark-brown hair showed no grey hairs, simply falling into a perfect bob. Still as trim as ever, she was sporting a well-cut duck-egg-blue suit, which made her look somewhere between a businesswoman and a very youthful mother of the bride.
She came over and kissed me on both cheeks. My mother was nothing if not scrupulously polite. “I’m so glad you could make it.” Once she’d finished the perfunctory embrace, she stepped back to survey me. She took in my low-cut tank top and tiny skirt, and frowned, wrinkling her perfect button nose a little. “Though I thought I told you it was something of a formal occasion . . .”
And there it was. The inevitable criticism.
My mother switched her attention to Petra. “And you must be Richard’s new girlfriend.” I could see straight away that my mum approved. She beamed as Petra handed her the huge bouquet of roses and lilies. “Oh, how lovely! That’s so thoughtful of you. And there was no need, after that wonderful case of wine you and Richard sent. Amazing that you found something dating back to the year of our wedding!”
“It was Richard who arranged that,” Petra said.
“Of course it was,” I muttered. “Thoughtful as always.” It was hard to admire these gestures when they showed me up so completely.
As if on cue, the man himself appeared. My mother beamed as she spotted him.
“Oh, Richard, it’s so good to see you,” she said, as they embraced. “And thank you for bringing Charlotte.” I grimaced at the way she talked about me as though I was a child, incapable of making my own way here.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked. I needed him to control my mother’s inevitable jibes, and his absence was leaving me vulnerable to attack.
“He’s out in the garden, along with the rest of our guests. In fact, I hate to hurry you all, but I think we really ought to go through. We’re just about to serve lunch, which I know probably seems like something of a rush, but unfortunately you are the last to arrive so you’ve missed most of the drinks reception.”
My mother shot a pointed glance at me, leaving everyone in no doubt that she knew exactly who was responsible for our tardiness. Without further ado, she linked arms with Richard and Petra, and led them out into the garden.
I didn’t make any move to follow them. Instead my gaze shifted to the front door, as I wondered if I had the guts to cut my losses and leave right now. But then I heard my mother calling my name, and with a heavy sigh I abandoned my thoughts of escape and headed out to the party.
Chapter 3
I could hear the sounds of chatter and laughter growing closer as we walked through the house. There were several ways to reach the garden, but by far the most impressive was through the beautiful drawing room, and so that’s where my mother guided us. It set the scene for the day well. The French windows that lined the exterior wall had been thrown open for the occasion, and the delicate cream voile curtains fluttered in the soft breeze.
As we stepped outside onto the patio, I blinked against the harsh white light of the sun. It took me a moment to focus, and then I was finally able to take in the scene before me. It felt like a garden party from the Edwardian era, with guests scattered across the manicured lawn, a sea of floral dresses and suits, while waitstaff circulated with trays of Pimm’s and Bucks Fizz. At the end of the garden, there was a huge white marquee, where lunch would be served.
When my parents were initially planning the party, my mother had stated in no uncertain terms that she wanted to eat outside—after all, the garden was her pride and joy, and she took every opportunity to show it off. But the late September date had meant the weather was a risk, so she’d been for
ced to agree to a marquee. Although looking around at the clear blue skies today, it seemed we could have done without the tent—even the English weather hadn’t dared to disappoint my mother.
“Sweetheart!” I turned to see my father, walking towards us. My face lit up with a smile—the first genuine one of the day—and I forgot how much I didn’t want to be here, as I ran and threw myself into his arms.
As we embraced, I couldn’t help thinking how frail he felt. He’d had a heart attack three months earlier, and the subsequent bypass surgery had taken a lot out of him.
I drew away a little, my eyes scanning him. “How’re you feeling?”
He smiled down at me, his soft brown eyes crinkling at the corners. He’d aged noticeably these past few months, and now looked every one of his sixty years. He still looked good for his age, but there was a weariness about him that worried me. It probably didn’t help that he was dressed more like a professor than a successful neurologist, in navy trousers and a tweed jacket, which made him seem more vulnerable, like a bumbling intellectual.
“Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “Apart from this blasted diet your mother’s got me on.”
“Still?”
“Yep. No red meat, cheese or alcohol. And far too much fish, vegetables and salad.” He pulled a face. “Sometimes I wonder whether it’s worth it to stay alive!”
“Yeah, I can see that.” But as much as I sympathised, at least it explained some of the weight loss. He’d always been a big man, who liked the good life a little too much. Less of the port he loved would be a good thing if it kept him healthy.
“Of course you’d know all this if you came to visit more often,” my mother joined in, pulling herself away from her conversation with Richard and Petra.
“Oh, Eleanor, leave her alone.” As usual, my father came to my defence. “She’s young. She should be out enjoying herself.”
“Well, she certainly knows how to do that,” my mother retorted.
Even though her criticism annoyed me, I did feel a little ashamed. I’d always got on well with my father, and I hated how sporadically I saw him now. Before his heart attack, he’d spent two days a week working in London, and we’d regularly met for lunch or dinner. But for the past three months he’d been confined to Claylands while he recuperated. That meant the only way I got to see him was if I came here, which meant I’d be stuck with my mother, too. Needless to say, my visits had been minimal.
Before I could respond, my sister came over to greet us. Kate looked as stunning as ever, her bright eyes and radiant skin a testament to her healthy lifestyle. She’d chosen to specialize in medical oncology, and her career appeared to be going brilliantly. At twenty-eight, she seemed to have it all.
“Charlotte! What have you done to your hair?” Kate looked slightly appalled as she eyed my bleached locks. Her gaze ran over my tight top and tiny skirt, and she frowned her disapproval.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise that she felt that way. Kate’s sense of style had always been more conservative than mine, and that was putting it mildly. In a strapless pale pink sundress, with a cream pashmina covering her shoulders, she looked fresh and youthful, if a little conventional for my taste.
“So you finally made it, Charlotte.” Kate’s boyfriend, Toby, appeared at her side. “We were about to send out a search party.”
To soften the jibe, he flashed his movie star smile, and I tried hard not to think about punching out his set of perfect white teeth. Like my sister, Toby was a doctor—a promising plastic surgeon. He was the original blond, blue-eyed boy—tall, athletic and handsome—the perfect match for my perfect sister, as everyone was constantly telling me. Seeing them together was yet another reminder of what a fuck-up I was.
Toby cast a pointed look around. “Still no boyfriend, then, Charlotte?” His tone had that irritating tinge of surprise mixed with pity that was clearly meant to make me feel deficient.
“I planned to bring a date, but he was too exhausted to get up this morning. Guess I wore him out last night.”
My comment was met with an embarrassed silence. Toby gave a brief shake of his head, as if to say, “typical,” while Kate sighed wearily.
I watched as Toby snaked a comforting arm around her waist, and she tilted her head to gaze up at him. My eyes narrowed at the sickening display of affection between them. It was hard to believe I’d once had a school-girl crush on my sister’s boyfriend. It was something I’d definitely rather forget.
I tore my eyes away, and looked round at my family. It was funny, seeing us all together. It made my brother’s absence even more pronounced. Although it was eight years since Kit died, the loss still weighed on us all. On occasions like this, it was hard not to feel like someone was missing. I saw my mother looking over at Richard, and wondered if she was thinking the same.
My parents had always adored Richard, but I think their bond had intensified since Kit’s death. My brother and Richard had been alike in so many ways—both of them smart, good-looking and sporty—and at the boarding school they’d attended, they’d been natural competitors. It had never caused friction between them, instead spurring them on to try harder. It had also led them to make the fatal decision to climb Mont Blanc together. Richard had somehow survived the avalanche that killed Kit, and I think it had connected him to our family forever. Just as he was without parents, my mum and dad were without a son. I think they all tried to fill the void in each other’s lives.
“Right.” My mother cleared her throat, and forced a bright smile. “Let’s go in for lunch.”
With a deft signal to the catering staff, she began to make the rounds, ushering everyone towards the marquee.
“Shall we?” My father offered me his arm, and we began to make our way down to the huge tent.
As we stepped inside the marquee, I allowed myself a small smile. My mother had outdone herself once again. The interior looked exquisite. There were about twenty round tables, covered in crisp, white tablecloths, with low centrepieces of cream avalanche roses. The walls were draped in ivory gauze, and white peonies festooned the arching ceiling. Every little detail had been attended to. It could easily have been the scene of a beautiful—and expensive—wedding.
I was seated with my family and a few close friends at the head table. All the other tables were set for ten guests, but on ours there were only nine of us: four couples—my parents, my sister and her boyfriend, Richard and Petra, my father’s colleague, Winston Hammond, and his wife, Grace—and then me on my own, the odd one out as usual.
I took my place between my father and Grace Hammond. I’d met Grace on occasions like this before. She was a sweet, motherly woman, who lived in the shadow of her somewhat overbearing husband.
As the waiters began to pour water and bring round baskets of bread, Grace turned to me. “And how are you, Charlotte? It’s been such a long time, I hardly recognised you.” Her eyes ran over me, and then she stopped, frowning at my back. “Oh.” She blinked. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
Damn. She’d spotted my tattoo. If I’d thought more, I would have covered it up today—it was easier than answering questions about it. But she was looking at me expectantly, so I had no choice but to turn a little to show it to her. It was just below my right shoulder, a drawing of a single rose . . . but it was more than that—the flower seemed to resemble a person wracked with sorrow, standing up on its thorny stem, its bloom drooped over like a bowed head, shedding its petals as if it were dripping blood or crying tears.
The whole table had stopped chatting and turned to witness our conversation unravel. I could sense poor Grace was searching for something to say.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Have you, Winston?” Her husband grunted. I could tell she was at a loss as to how to continue, but then her expression cleared a little. “Although of course, you’re an artist, aren’t you? I suppose this sort of thing is normal for you creative types. I must seem like an old fuddy-duddy.” She laughed self-depreciatingly, b
ut no one joined in.
“Actually, I wouldn’t really call myself an artist.” I tore off a piece of ciabatta and dipped it in some olive oil. “I didn’t even finish art school. I got kicked out at the end of my first year.” I popped the bread in my mouth and started to chew it slowly. I sensed this was going to take her a while to digest.
“Oh.” Shock registered on her face. Cranfords didn’t fail at anything. “So what are you doing now?”
“Working in a bar.”
There was silence. My mother took a long sip of water. Poor Grace looked around the table, obviously hoping someone would help her out. But mostly there was just an embarrassed silence.
“So what are your plans?” she tried again. It was obvious she couldn’t quite believe that was all I was doing. “Are you going to reapply to university?”
“Not if I can help it.”
There was a marked silence from everyone else at the table. They were all suddenly preoccupied with buttering their rolls or pouring more water, clearly embarrassed by the line of questioning.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Grace turned to the table and shrugged. “That’s what all the young people do these days, isn’t it? Take some time out to ‘find themselves.’ ” She laughed a little. “I’m so old-fashioned and out of touch.”
She launched into a long story about one of her children’s friends, who had spent several years in India, before coming back to London and settling down to work in investment banking. I think the message was that they shouldn’t give up hope on me, but I doubt it made my family feel any better.
The waiter came round, and offered wine. I’d been about to refuse—the tequila hangover wasn’t sitting well with me—but when I spotted the disapproving frown on my mother’s face, I couldn’t resist letting him pour a glass. I lifted it, and offered a toast to my mother.
