The Invitation

by A. M. Castle

  Both of us raise our eyebrows when Rachel goes for the lobster starter and then a complicated squid ink risotto. Allow twenty minutes cooking time, it says on the menu, which means half an hour at the very least. But I smile reassuringly. Vicky probably (hopefully) won’t remember the way Rachel always toys with her food, shifting it from three o’clock to nine o’clock and back again, as though that’s the point of mealtimes. One of six brought up on benefits, Vicky still clears her plate as though food is going out of fashion. Worse still, Rachel confided to me before Vicky arrived that she’s just had a gastric bypass. ‘Only a precaution,’ she explained.

  ‘But you’re skin and bone! And isn’t it really dangerous?’ I was agog. ‘I thought it was an absolute last resort. For people with, you know,’ I sketched a ghostly paunch.

  Rachel just laughed. ‘You’re so funny, Gita.’ Apparently, money not only talks, it also gives you the second opinion you require.

  Thank God, the bread comes quickly. Then the wine. Vicky ignores the fresh sourdough and the dainty dipping saucers of truffle oil, chopped rosemary and salt, and goes straight for the red, wrapping her hands around the glass as though it’s her long-lost child.

  I turn and ask Rachel about her new man. ‘So his name’s Ross and he’s wonderful. But what does he do?’ For a second, I could kick myself. Silly question, Gita. Rachel’s other friends, the rich ones, don’t ‘do’ anything, they just … are. Drifting across the oceans, in search of pleasure. Or, as Vicky might well say, a purpose in life. But Rachel dives in happily.

  ‘Oh, you have to come and see. He’s got the most amazing place. Or it very soon will be, when I’ve finished with it. He avoided it for years.’ She breaks off, looks around and lowers her voice. ‘Family tragedy,’ she explains in a stage whisper. ‘His first wife died in a horrible road accident. So awful – his daughter was in the car. So he left his son to run everything – or run it down, more like. But now we’re taking it on together. I’m going to turn the place around.’

  I feel a fleeting sympathy for this unknown son. He won’t know what’s hit him. But Vicky waves her glass at Rachel. ‘Cheers to that, love. Where is it?’ She drains her glass and waves to the waiter for a fresh bottle.

  ‘Cornwall. You may have heard of it? Mount Tregowan.’

  There’s a brief moment when you can almost hear pennies dropping. I’m first. ‘Not that Mount Tregowan? The castle on the island?’

  Then Vicky chimes in. ‘Where they shot the smuggling miniseries? With that guy with the six-pack? Isn’t it owned by some lord or other?’

  Rachel’s laugh is delighted. ‘Yes, yes and yes! That’s Ross’s place. Ours now. So you’ll come? I’m thinking of the end of October – you know how I love Halloween.’

  Vicky and I look at each other. ‘Who could forget?’ she says. But I’m so excited, I just leap straight in. ‘Of course we’re coming!’ I say.

  ‘Well – if that actor’s still there,’ says Vicky. But now she’s beginning to grin. What an invitation! We both need this break. Tom and I, well, some time together would be good. And it’ll give me a chance to keep an eye on Vicky, too, see how she’s doing with her little … problem. It will be great, having our trio together again. Like old times. I love my lunches with Vicky, and I always try and grab Rachel when she’s in town, but getting the two of them in a room is like herding kittens. And we always had the most fun when we were together.

  Things weren’t the same, when Rachel left uni in the middle of our last year. Vicky’s other friend, Jane, started coming round much more. Nice enough but always looking as though she’d seen a ghost. No one could hold a candle to Rachel, of course. But Vicky needed the support. And now Jane has buried herself out in the country with her lawyer husband, Geoff. Bit pompous, but harmless enough. I suddenly wonder. ‘Will you be inviting Jane?’

  ‘Oh, why the hell not?’ says Rachel expansively. Then she holds forth for the rest of our lunch about how amazing and fabulous her life suddenly is, thanks to this new man – like her life wasn’t amazing and fabulous yesterday, and won’t be tomorrow.

  I can sense Vicky shifting next to me from time to time. It’s always been more difficult for her to accept the usual Rachel tsunami of wonderfulness. And, as the years have rolled by, Rachel’s life has not diminished one jot in sheer glamour, while ours have inevitably been constrained. Work, men, children – however wonderful, they do take a toll. Vicky must be finding it hard to keep it zipped.

  Finally, Rachel draws breath, looks fondly from me to Vicky, and claps her hands together like a child.

  ‘Brilliant to catch up! And I can’t wait for you to come to the island. Because, as soon as we’re all there together, I’ve got the most amazing secret to share. I’m dying to tell you.’

  Chapter 3

  Tom

  London suburbs, 27th October

  Something funny happens today. I am trekking to the gym, as usual, when I catch sight of my reflection in a shop window. For a second, I don’t even recognise myself. No word of a lie, I look decades younger. I’ve been slumped over a desk forever, but now, striding out, kit bag over my shoulder, I’m different. Taller, broader, fitter. My hand reaches out of its own volition and claps this stranger on his flat stomach. It’s the round of applause I deserve, sharp and hollow. Couple of months ago, it would have been muffled by flapjacks. Ironically, I’m now the type of plod a lot of my colleagues really respect – someone who wouldn’t break a sweat, chasing a villain across an estate.

  A lot of coppers still think a degree is, well, lipstick on a pig. And the public agrees. They want bobbies on the beat, not my uni dissertation on electrical circuits. They don’t understand how much can go on behind the scenes, without even getting near street level. You have to be tech savvy, though. Rules out a lot of my colleagues.

  I’ve got it covered both ways now. Chiselled down into myself, built myself back up from the bottom. Sometimes Gita looks at me, full of sweet concern, all ‘Would you like a cup of tea, darling?’ even when she’s been the one out at work. I’m hard pressed not to laugh in her face.

  This weekend, she wouldn’t hear of me being left behind. ‘I don’t want you to brood, all on your own.’ I wouldn’t have done – my conscience is clear. But I agree. It’s definitely for the best, me coming along.

  Don’t get me wrong, hanging out with Gita and her mates holds no appeal. And seeing how the other half lives, meeting Rachel’s sucker of a new husband, gawping at what she’s done with his ancestral home, all the other stuff Gita is gagging for? Way too much celebrity flim-flam for me. But she’s shown me a few pictures of the island, and I’ve had a google. Looks just the spot. Mount Tregowan piques my interest, so to speak. Distinct possibilities, once we’re all there. And I’ll bet my own little secret is nothing, compared to what’s weighing down some of the others. Vicky, for instance. But Jane, too. I’ll have my eye on Geoff, that husband of hers.

  Gita’s dying to see Vicky and Rachel. Always pretends they’re some kind of sisterhood. She’s told me she wants this weekend to be ‘unique, truly memorable’.

  She really needs to be careful what she wishes for.

  Chapter 4

  Vicky

  Cornwall, 30th October

  As soon as Rachel buggered off that day – late for something much more exciting than lunch with us girls – the second thoughts kicked in. I turned to Gita but her palm was already up, the lollipop lady of the group, keeping us all in order. Or trying.

  ‘Before you even start; yes, I know Rachel has talked us into stuff that … doesn’t always play out brilliantly. But we’ve got to accept this invitation; we really do. You need a break, Vicky. When’s the last time you took any kind of holiday?’

  While I was sifting back through the months, she struck again – right in my weak spot. ‘And what about Raf? You could ask him, spend some time together. You know you’d love that. It’s outdoorsy, the sort of thing he’s into. He could actually surf in Cornwall – it’s real
ly big down there.’

  ‘In October?’ I pretended to be sceptical, but Gita had chalked up a hit. I’ve spent hardly any time with my lad in the last year. It’s got to the point where I’ve found myself sitting in his too-clean room, on his too-smooth bed, clutching one of his sweaters. Even though they don’t smell like Raf anymore. The bloody cleaner is much too thorough.

  Gita fiddled with her phone. ‘Look at this site, “top ten surfing beaches in Cornwall”,’ she said, holding up a photo showing a lad like Raf, charging through the waves, board under one toned arm, blue skies overhead. ‘And this was Christmas.’ Gita smiled widely, Santa Claus offering the best present ever.

  Still, I hesitated. He might refuse. That last phone call … Bob saying smugly, ‘Just give him time, Vicks.’ Christ, there are moments when I hate my ex-husband even more now than I did when we were married.

  ‘And what about Jane? When did you last see her?’ Gita asked me earnestly. Ding, another hit.

  Jane is the fourth in our gang, promoted to third once Rachel left uni, sweeping off in her cloud of glitter. I really needed her, in those last months before we graduated. Quiet and shy in her twenties, Jane isn’t much louder now. The only downside is her husband. Jane hasn’t got kids, so bloody Geoff has expanded to fill the space. She never seems to leave home without him. Geoff is fine, if you like obscure bits of law, or being informed of his views on them. If you’d rather manage without, you’re in trouble.

  ‘She really needs a holiday, I know that much,’ I said slowly. Last time we’d met, there had been something wrong somewhere, but I couldn’t tell whether Geoff’s golf handicap had slipped, or whether the whole house had burnt down; she’s always so restrained. I love that, of course. As Bob would say, it gives me the space to dominate.

  I looked away and shrugged. ‘Oh well, I suppose it might be fun …’

  Gita whooped, ‘Yes!’ and I let her. ‘It’ll be a fresh start for all of us.’ She smiled. ‘Everyone’s been out of sorts. This will be a reset. You’ll see. We’ll come out of this better friends.’

  I smiled and drank but I had my doubts – and they’ve grown every day. There could be advantages, sure. Time with Raf, time to find out whatever ails Jane, time with Gita, yes, those are good things. And Rachel is certainly never dull. But what about everything that happened before? After her Halloween party, at uni. Can we really pretend none of it mattered? That there weren’t consequences, for any of us? Surely even Rachel’s money can’t paper over cracks that big?

  But Gita was triumphant. ‘Let’s stay and have a pudding!’ I couldn’t say no. I relaxed back into my velvety seat. The weekend was still ages away, then. And, after Rachel appearing and disappearing like the genie from the bottle, I deserved a massive drink. I chucked the last of the wine into our glasses – happy to finish Gita’s if she couldn’t – and obediently clinked.

  ‘Face it, you can’t resist, can you? You want to know what on earth Rachel’s got herself mixed up in now, don’t you?’

  I met Gita’s eyes over the wreckage of the lunch: Rachel’s untouched, fifty-quid risotto, and my own scoured plate. The waiters cleared the table and brought our chocolate mousse. One pot of temptation, two spoons. My resistance was very low that day. I dug in.

  She was right, of course. Even now, after years making – as Bob pointed out in the divorce – a ‘fucking fortune’ of my own, there is still something fascinating about a silver spoon the size of Rachel’s. I own my Canary Wharf apartment, and it’s pretty jammy too – but Rachel could buy my block, the street, and half of New York, Paris and Rome on top, if she felt like it, from petty cash. Yes, I admit it, I wanted to see her latest acquisition, this island she’d just got her hands on. And the man who came with it.

  So, there was curiosity. But my few friendships are important, too. Gita was right, everyone had been a bit off recently. Evading phone calls, dodging invitations. Secrets. Big, heavy secrets, which took up our time and made us hard work to be around. It wasn’t just me. All of us needed to put things right.

  When I braced myself to ask for the bill, the waitress smiled. ‘Your friend has taken care of it.’

  Gita and I exchanged glances. I’d really begrudged Rachel that bloody lobster. Then I whispered, ‘Is it awful that I wish we’d ordered another bottle? Or two?’ Gita giggled. But it was typical Rachel. If she’d said she was paying, I wouldn’t have had to spend so much time resenting the mouthfuls she didn’t take.

  The five-hour train journey to Cornwall wasn’t as bad as I’d feared – thanks to Gita. ‘Sandwich, anyone? Now then, who’s for cheese and onion crisps?’ she kept on saying at just the right moment, delving into a massive cool bag. She really has that suburban uber-mum act down. That, and playing I-spy with her girls, got me and Raf over any soul-searching we might otherwise have had to do.

  ‘Something beginning with … D,’ said Ruby, the little one. We were all stumped as ditches, diggers, dells and doors flashed by and she turned the lot down. I swear, it was at least an hour before we gave up. ‘Jumper!’ she cried triumphantly.

  ‘I’m getting a refund from that effing school,’ Tom grumbled darkly. For once I sympathised with him.

  Now I’m here on this godforsaken Cornish beach, and I still can’t quite believe it. Mount Tregowan is opposite us, surrounded by sea. The wind is whipping through my hair. My posh new winter jacket, bought for going from desk to bar in Canary Wharf, is about as much use here as a tutu in a tornado. I should have known better – but I’ve never been this cold before down south. The sky is iron-grey and the sea’s a match, while my face is being sandblasted to the colour of smoked salmon.

  The island is a lumpy-looking stack of boulders, the sort of thing Raf used to make with his Lego years ago. It was forever embedding itself in the soles of my feet. I was that happy when he outgrew it. Now I look at him, silky dark hair ruffling in the breeze, and wish both my lad and his Lego were back. ‘Let’s make the most of this weekend, love?’ I say to him, but the wind steals my words.

  That must be Castle Tregowan, on top of the pile of rocks. Little Ruby next to me shivers in her cagoule. I tut and reach down to drag her zip up to her chin. For all Gita’s Mary Poppins ways, the kid, like me, needs a better coat. ‘No, no, I’m not cold.’ Ruby fights me off. ‘I just don’t like that place. It looks like where the bad fairy lives.’

  She’s right, it’s Cinderella’s palace gone to the dark side, with that turret, jet-black against the dying light. ‘What’s Rachel doing in a place like this?’ I hiss to Gita. She could have afforded Versailles, all gilt and mirrors.

  Gita shrugs. ‘You know she’s always had a soft spot for a bit of goth.’ How could I forget? Yes, she’s got the golden hair and wall-to-wall tan, but she actually prefers black magic. Like that dreadful party, when Gita and Tom had just got together. That was a Halloween thing, too.

  Here we all are, twenty years later, turning up to another of Rachel’s dos. I look down the line of us strung out on the beach, the girls rushing this way and that in a game of tag. For a second, it’s idyllic. Then Ruby falls over and wails. The older girls ignore her. I throw a conspirator’s smile Raf’s way, but he’s turned to help Ruby up. Gita and Tom have their heads down, oblivious, striding silently into the wind. And I suddenly get a really bad feeling.

  ‘Is this all a terrible idea? It’s not too late, is it? To go home?’ I yell over to Gita. The gale does its best to gag me, making snakes of my sharp new haircut.

  ‘What?’ Gita struggles to hear, holding on to the ends of her scarf for dear life. Tom stomps off alone. ‘No, no. Come on, Vicks. It’s going to be fun.’

  She grabs my arm and leads me forward, but I can’t shut out her tone of voice. I’d been half-joking, after a bit of reassurance. But gone is her pretence that this is just a jolly weekend do. There is something much grimmer behind her words.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think she had some kind of plan. Is it to do with Tom? Has she seen through him, at la
st? I glance over and, of course, he’s staring at me, a leer behind his eyes. I curse myself for looking and turn back to Gita as quickly as I can. Her expression is flinty for a second, then she grins widely. Is she trying to convince herself, or me?

  All of a sudden, I shiver in earnest – and not just because of my useless coat.

  Chapter 5

  Rachel

  Mount Tregowan, 30th October

  I’m overdoing it. I always do. But this time even darling Ross, who never questions me, gave me a look when the last crate had been unloaded at the dock. ‘Are you trying to drown them in champagne?’

  Am I? Am I actually trying to atone, for that party long ago? But I dismiss the thought. No, I have something completely different in mind for this weekend. Something spectacular, and long overdue. A reckoning. And why shouldn’t I be lavish if I feel like it? I can afford it. It is a mantra I’ve repeated so often over the years it might as well be tattooed across my forehead. But I never once say it aloud. I’m like the Little Mermaid. So much can never pass my lips.

  That’s the deal, with extreme wealth. I’ve got used to the burden, and not least to the fact that I can never identify it as such. Burden – no, that can never be said. No one outside the charmed circle can understand why it’s almost a handicap, being born into what I have.

  People assume I should constantly thank my lucky stars. They think money breeds money, stacking up like the gold coins in Aladdin’s cave. Not so. I have to work to be this rich. I have to question the credentials of every adviser, check the share prices, select the paintings … I never leave anything to chance, to fate. And I must never speak about any of this, to anyone. Money has its own omertà. ‘Never complain, never explain’ – that was about the one coherent sentence my mother left me with.