The Invitation

by A. M. Castle

  Ah, I get it now. Castle Tregowan must be Rachel’s new hobby. She had a stack of them, when we all lived together. At one point it was Esperanto, she was going to become fluent and get the family businesses to use it too. That lasted about a week. Then she wanted to be a Tantric healer. But that was so she could have a fling with the instructor – fair enough.

  Poor Jane. She looks like a rabbit in the headlights. God, I bet she’s regretting setting foot on this island. I’m with her on that one. Raf hasn’t come within a mile of me yet and I can’t face being the one to eat humble pie, sucking up to my own lad. When Tom’s tongue isn’t hanging out at Rachel, he’s giving me weird glances. Geoff is Mogadon on legs, Ross Tregowan’s ‘kids’ are a right barrel of laughs and the groom himself looks as old and dry as a stack of firewood. If he stands too close to the mantelpiece, someone might throw him on it.

  Is there anyone sane on this island? Apart from me. Christ, what a party.

  If I don’t get another drink soon, I’ll die of thirst.

  Chapter 9

  Jane

  Mount Tregowan, 30th October

  My heart is hammering. I gaze at the mantelpiece, seeing nothing, but after a while its beauty does the trick, and calms my frantic mind. Gradually, my panic recedes, my pulse slows. Yes, Rachel knows, but she’s known for years. She won’t say anything. She’s promised me. She doesn’t even think it’s a big deal. I take a breath, steady myself.

  Thank God I hit on the right thing, asking about the fireplace. I’d never have thought Rachel would have been so expert, but I suppose she’s picked up some art history via that foundation of hers. If I wasn’t still feeling sick with horror, I might even be impressed.

  The fireplace is surmounted by a sort of huge cartouche of finely wrought plaster. There’ll be a special word for it, but I don’t dare ask. If Rachel’s knowledge doesn’t extend that far she’ll be riled, and then who knows what she’ll blurt out. I’m going to spend the rest of this weekend walking on eggshells – that much is plain.

  I tune in to what she’s saying, try to nod intelligently. ‘It’s a relief of the Tregowan coat of arms, of course.’ Her smile is just the tiniest bit smug, as I scan her face anxiously. But she’s only thinking of her new family’s past. Not mine. ‘I love all those lances, a bit like giant skewers. And what do you think of the castle in the background?’

  I mumble something back, and my answer must have passed muster as she carries on blithely. I peer more closely. It’s Castle Tregowan, but a curiously titchy version. Maybe this was the medieval equivalent of a humblebrag? Maybe the plasterers were really bad at perspective.

  Or perhaps it was just a question of getting the emphasis right. Because, plunged right into the centre of the little castle, is another thin but deadly-looking sword, standing upright and proud. Your eyes go straight to it. You can almost see it quivering. And, as I lean forward, I imagine that, if you ever removed it, blood would well up, run down the castle walls, and pour into the sea.

  Rachel’s looking at it like the cat that got the cream, but I try and control a shudder and look away. Everywhere my eyes rest, I now spot another instrument of war. Spears, knives, hatchets. They are in the paintings, in the mouldings, even displayed in patterns on the wall. And there are definitely daggers in the eyes of Rachel’s stepchildren.

  Geoff is always saying I’m an utter wuss, when I turn down the opportunity to watch yet another war film with him. But I don’t like it; I don’t. I hate violence, pain, blood, I’d do anything to avoid confrontation. Look at me, even now. I can’t slap Rachel round the face, for her horrifying, casual indiscretion, as I’d like to. I can’t run screaming from the room. I can’t go up to Vicky, who keeps staring at me, and tell her she’s heard wrong, it isn’t true. I’m not sure I can even trust Vicky to keep quiet. She’s always had a habit of putting her foot in it, after a certain point in the evening. She once told Geoff loudly how much she preferred Peppa Pig to my mice. And once told me how boring he was. I suppose I’m just going to have to hope she’s learned. Either that, or I’m going to have to shut her mouth for her. Oh, God, this is already getting horribly complicated.

  I wrap my arms around myself, but it’s no longer the temperature in the room giving me chills, or even my jeans, which are nearly dry now. The fire is scorching. I don’t know how Rachel can stand so close to it, but then it looks as though she has nothing on under that Great Gatsby frock. Her body is amazing, for her age. Well, any age. I try and stand up a bit straighter, aware of my illustrator’s stoop, about to go full-on hunchback any day now.

  I glance over to Rachel’s husband, head of this spear-happy clan. He stands in the shadows with his middle-aged children. I wonder if he actually wanted us all to descend on him this weekend. Does he like parties as much as Rachel? They seem to be unavoidable in their sort of set, so he’s probably used to it. Even at uni, Rachel always loved to throw what Vicky would call a ‘drink spotty,’ mocking Rachel’s cut-glass accent – though Vicky’s disdain didn’t extend to turning down the free booze.

  Looking around gives me the chance to work on my composure. And the place is worth the scrutiny. The carpet I’m standing on is lush, the thickest Persian I’ve ever walked across. I’ve got a couple at home, but they’re more hole than rug. The oak settle at the side of the room is glossy as a mirror, a genuine Tudor rose carved in its centre. Even now, I’m longing to run my hands over it.

  ‘So, you like what I’ve done with the place? It’s nice to have an artist’s view.’ Rachel leans forward and despite everything – her indiscretion, her knowledge of my darkest deed, her casual contempt for other people’s privacy – I feel the seismic pull of her charm. What must it be like, to be so beautiful, to be in possession of so much power? Her silky hair tickles her almost-bare shoulder. The tiny satin strap slips down her arm yet again. Her green eyes are merry, as though we two are alone and in on a spectacular secret. I suppose we are.

  ‘Oh, I love it,’ I say, knowing I’ll probably come over as envious. But that’s exactly the response Rachel craves. Bowling people over with your wealth and taste ought to get tired. Yet Rachel is as childishly pleased as she ever was. I look over at the old man she’s married. That’s cruel, but he must be nudging seventy. And Rachel herself is so full of vitality, everyone around her seems a little greyer. As I scan the room, I see Tom staring at her with a strange look in his eye, almost avid. But what man wouldn’t feel something, looking at Rachel’s creamy bust rising and falling in scarcely adequate satin.

  I realise I’m staring myself and decide to leave her orbit. ‘I’ll just, um …’ I trail off, gesturing towards Geoff, who’s somehow cornered young Tasha, descended from her Juliet balcony. It’s vital that I double-check he was too far away to hear Rachel just now. Tasha is looking fixedly at the floor, the walls, the ceiling, her sisters or Raf, anywhere but at Geoff. Oh dear. Raf is chatting animatedly with Tom, both broad backs to the flames.

  Vicky used to tell me it drove her mad, the way Raf had converted his room to a semi-gym, but still paid full membership at some city fitness centre. Well, it seems to have paid off – he’s a personal trainer now, and apparently earning a fortune. Vicky is proud of that, even if her heart aches at his absence. Strange she’s not chatting to him now. You’d think she’d be all over him, the way she’s missed him. Maybe she doesn’t want to crowd him.

  I wonder what Tom and Raf are talking about at such length? Maybe Tom’s trying to get some fitness tips. I smirk at the idea, though he’s leaner than when I last saw him. He was sporty at uni, flexing that body all around our flat when he finally took up officially with Gita. But he was cerebral too, constantly looking for someone to have ‘deep’ philosophical debates with. He surprised us all, going into the Met’s fast-track scheme. But he was like a bullet from a gun, even doing a stint in the armed police. I would have been beside myself, if it had been Geoff, but Gita seemed to take it in her stride.

  Or maybe she did her usual, dangerou
s trick. Just ignoring things she doesn’t like.

  Chapter 10

  Geoff

  Mount Tregowan, 30th October

  I’m a little surprised that Jane didn’t give me the proverbial ‘heads-up’ about Tom and his career progress. I was under the impression he was still making his way through the lower echelons of the force. As a result, I felt quite wrong-footed when I attempted to enlighten him on one or two matters of criminal law I thought he’d find of value. I found him not only well-versed in such subjects, but apparently a presence on various task forces on the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. He wasn’t averse to filling me in on the extent of his influence. Once he had held forth, I regret he showed lamentably little reciprocal interest in my own legal practice and instead scouted out Vicky’s boy, the rather muscle-bound Raf.

  They are now hugger-mugger in the corner, presumably comparing their biceps or some such nonsense. I must say I find the current obsession with fitness a little baffling, and Jane is of the same mind. I saw her looking askance at young Raf earlier. Though, when I cast an eye over our hostess, I suppose I do see the point of some exertions. I would not wish Jane to flaunt herself in such a way but it behoves me to acknowledge that Rachel can certainly carry off that frock she is, ahem, almost wearing.

  As I am wondering whether it is the right moment to approach Rachel – I have, let’s say, business matters I really should discuss with her this weekend – Gita’s daughter Tasha appears at my elbow. Of course, I am more than glad to give her a little steer on future careers, finding she is at that interesting stage between A levels and university.

  Running through the steps I took myself twenty years ago to achieve my degree and establish my practice seems the very least I can do to set the girl on the right path. I have barely reached the zenith of the story of how I qualified as a solicitor when Jane pops up at my elbow. She seems a little agitated, as she often does. When I met her, she was getting over some failed love affair at university and, even after all this time, she’s a martyr to her nerves. I wonder if it might also be, well, a question of hormones. I find with the ladies, it so often is.

  It’s a relief, at this point in our lives, that she seems to have abandoned the quest to reproduce. It has certainly taken its toll, physically, mentally and, dare I say it, financially. When I think of the money we have lavished on the most invasive techniques … IVF does not come cheap. It’s fruitless to think of the staff I could have taken on, the premises we could have moved to … It was my bounden duty to do my utmost in this matter, regardless.

  Of course, it was Jane who suffered the most from all those procedures. The worst I had to cope with was a humiliating tryst with a plastic pot, with medical professionals tapping their feet outside and only a well-thumbed magazine for inspiration. And, of course, writing those hefty and distressingly regular cheques. Even as I think back to that grim time, Rachel flits past me, laying a distracting hand on my arm, and I quite forget my difficulties.

  Where was I? Poor Jane. But when I turn to her I see she’s perked up considerably since coming over. She really looks as though a load has been taken off her mind. I am gratified; I thought she had perhaps heard the expatiation I am giving young Tasha one too many times. Nice to know that she still appreciates my skill as a raconteur.

  I take a sip of champagne to ease my dry throat and Jane leaps in. ‘I hear you’re keen on art. We should chat about it,’ she says to Tasha.

  Immediately the girl sidles away. ‘I must just get a refill for Mum, looks like she’s gasping,’ she says. I should talk to Jane at some point about hogging the conversation. But now is not the moment – a gong is sounded somewhere. The summons to our repast, I assume. I look around eagerly. My discourse has given me quite an appetite.

  Rachel raises her glass. ‘Drink up, everyone. Dinner’s ready.’ Then she pushes back a velvet curtain and leads the way through a Gothic arched door.

  I turn to Jane, but she’s looking a little distracted again. ‘Everything all right, my dear?’ I enquire.

  ‘Oh, I so wanted a chance to get changed. I feel ridiculous like this. I’m the only one who’s underdressed.’

  ‘Apart from me,’ I remind her gently, but she only rolls her eyes.

  As we follow the others through the doorway, Jane darts a glance at Ross Tregowan. ‘Shouldn’t he be inviting us all to dine? It is his castle, after all. That mouth of his looks just like a letterbox.’

  I am about to remonstrate with her – the man deserves some respect, after all – when Penny slaps her glass down on the mantelpiece and strides past us. ‘Well! That was a glance that could strip paint,’ says Jane, a little more quietly this time.

  Now Vicky is bustling ahead too. Maybe, like Jane, I am becoming oversensitive, but to me it looks as though she turns and gives us a very searching look. Meanwhile Tasha edges past me, following her siblings, who I regret to say are bickering again. Gita runs after them, with a rather cross look at Tom, if I’m not mistaken.

  ‘Come on, darling. We don’t want to be last again, do we?’ says Jane. Obligingly, I pick up my pace.

  But, if I had known that there would be so many peculiar undercurrents at play at this gathering, I doubt I would have let my dear Jane persuade me to make up the numbers this weekend. I need to have a word with Rachel – that is incontrovertibly true. Yet I am beginning to believe that having so many discordant elements around me while I do it, will not be conducive to the outcome I require.

  I can’t help giving my wife a tiny reproachful glance of my own. What on God’s good earth has Jane got me into?

  Chapter 11

  Gita

  Mount Tregowan, 30th October

  I was so enthusiastic, when Rachel first came up with the invitation. A free break in Cornwall. All right, high summer would have been better. But October still sounded fun, and as we’re a bit stretched financially at the moment, it seemed like the answer to all kinds of problems. Getting the girls through half-term, with Tasha needing to work on her art and Nessie approaching the dreaded GCSEs at warp speed. Keeping Tom busy. Not to mention taking my own mind off so much. And a break for Vicky might help her finally heal the rift with Raf. I’ve had less to do with Jane, over the years, but I’ve heard from Vicks how much she and Geoff could do with brightening up a bit.

  Most of these problems aren’t mine to solve; I realise that. It’s just what I do, day in, day out at the paper. Sorting, smoothing, squashing all the bumps in the road. I come home, cast an eye over my brood, and I go right on thinking of ways to fix stuff. I know I shouldn’t. But it’s a hard habit to break.

  It’s like the way people always fall in with Rachel. I’m as bad as anyone here; she suggests something, and immediately it sounds like the best idea in the world. Because, if she’s involved, it will be. ‘She’s dangerous; you want to do what she says, but she doesn’t hang around for the consequences.’ Vicky first said that to me twenty years ago, when we’d only just met her. Before any of it, really.

  But it was already too late. As soon as I met Rachel, I realised she was even better than me at getting stuff done. I communicate, try and broker compromises – she just leaps into action. It’s a gift. And what a relief, to relax and let her do her stuff. I find it intoxicating. Until I have to deal with the fallout. But there won’t be any this time. We’re all older, wiser. Nothing bad could possibly unfold here, on this extraordinary island, in Rachel’s lovely castle.

  I hope Vicky will behave. She’s quite the recluse, these days. Since Raf left. But she agreed to accept Rachel’s hospitality. Now all she has to do is have an amazing time. I rely on my girls to be polite at all times and I’m expecting no less from Vicks. I hope she won’t let herself down. Or me.

  Anyway, here we all are. I hate being caught in the middle, but as usual I feel opposing forces gathering on either side of me. Tom’s been in a weird mood since … well, a while now. For such a big tough guy, he’s very sensitive. I wonder if one of the girls has said somethin
g to him today. They might easily have done. They’re barely speaking to one another. That’s nothing new but I worry it’s more obvious here, out in the open as it were. Meanwhile Jane looks so sad in her fleece. I don’t know why Rachel didn’t send her up to change; it would have been kinder. But I suppose the drinks were in full swing.

  God, a moment’s inattention, that’s all it takes. There’s Nessie, swiping an abandoned champagne flute from the mantelpiece. I march over and she gives me the big eyes. ‘What, Mum? I really wasn’t going to …’ But I don’t wait for her to finish, I just snatch the glass – and drain it myself. She wasn’t expecting that. Then we walk through the archway, the velvet curtain now swept back by a brass curlicue that looks authentically medieval.

  I must say, Rachel has done a brilliant job with this place. It’s Hogwarts gone mad. Ruby is in heaven, probably expecting to see Dumbledore any moment. My mind flashes to Ross Tregowan for a second, and I suppress the thought. Not fair to Rachel.

  Even Tash, who these days does her best not to be impressed by anything, is staring as though memorising every detail. This passageway goes on and on. I’m not much into interiors – I got our news editor’s wife to do up our house, in return for plugging her decorating business in the Sunday magazine – but even I can see every detail is perfect. Just as I’m wondering if we’ll ever come out alive, we emerge into a room even more spectacular than the one we’ve just left.

  Everyone’s gazing round, saying ‘wow’ with their eyes, but terrified of looking like bumpkins in front of Rachel. But I don’t care, I go over to her and slide an arm round her tiny waist. That gastric bypass is definitely working. ‘What a fantastic place,’ I say, gazing up at the distant ceiling. Four huge chandeliers dangle over the long table but there’s more than enough light from all the sconces set into the walls. ‘You’ve done an incredible job.’