The Invitation

by A. M. Castle

  I’m awed by the sheer grandeur. Even Jane looks dazed, and art and design is her thing. We once saw tapestries like these at Hampton Court Palace, on a family outing. I remember thinking how boring and dusty all that old embroidery looked. I was astonished at the little plaque saying it was priceless. These look like the rest of that job lot, to my very untrained eye. I hope Rachel didn’t spend too much on them. On the plus side, they probably warm the place up a bit. I can’t see any radiators, but there’s a massive fireplace at each end of the room. I hope the girls are sitting near one. Ruby’s had an awful cold.

  ‘I’m so glad you like it,’ Rachel whispers in my ear, and then beckons her husband over. Suddenly her arm is snaked round him instead and I feel the chill. But it’s quite right that they should be entwined, like a formal welcoming committee. They’ve only just got married, after all.

  To be honest, I don’t think Vicky or Jane expected an invitation to the wedding – but I was a little sad. Fair enough, we had that lunch when she told us about the engagement. But then she shut me – us – out of the do itself. It was splashed all over my own paper. She could have given me a heads-up, if not asked me outright. The editor gave me a sideways glance, as if to say he now thinks my occasional references to Rachel – and obviously I’m no name-dropper – have been a bit exaggerated. The pictures showed thousands of guests. But that’s by the by. And, being Rachel, she’s atoning in style. Not that she really needs to. It was just a miscommunication. I’m sure of it.

  Now, after smiling round at us vaguely and saying ‘splendid, splendid’ a few times, Ross stalks over to the plates set out at the side of the room. Everything’s been organised as a buffet. With those long thin legs, he keeps reminding me of a praying mantis. But don’t they get murdered by their mates? I must stop it. Rachel may be a diva sometimes but she’s never yet ripped someone’s head off and eaten it. I suppress a smile. That would be quite a Halloween spectacular, even for her.

  Ross couldn’t have been nicer when we reached the castle, though he does seem a little vague. It’s probably the only way to get through things like this, meeting Rachel’s many friends. His children are like a praetorian guard. Even now, Penny slides automatically into place by his side, and looks as though she intends to be glued there all evening. Shouldn’t that be Rachel’s spot now?

  I glance at Rachel but she’s fine, heading for the opposite end of the long room, having a word with one of the unobtrusive serving staff. The newlyweds are now so far away from each other they’d have to shout to be heard, or send a carrier pigeon across the cavernous hall. But then I see Rachel blow a kiss to her husband, and he taps a hand to his heart. It’s quite sweet. I turn away. Roderick, Ross’s son, is right behind me, looking like he’s eaten a wasp. ‘Stubbed my toe,’ he explains. I look down at his shiny brogues and up again. There’s nothing but carpet around us.

  ‘We haven’t met properly yet, I believe,’ he says in a careful high voice. ‘I understand you work for that newspaper.’ My smile becomes fixed, and I look around instinctively for Tom. Defending my tabloid’s reputation definitely gets old. Everyone has a view on red-top papers; I’m not sure why they think I want to hear it, though. Some assume I can single-handedly bend our editorial stance around to reflect whatever their personal bugbears may be. Newsflash – I can’t. There’s a limit to the problems even I can solve.

  ‘And what do you do?’ I deflect. I’ve now located Tom; he’s with the girls, getting plates and persuading Ruby that yes, she will need a napkin. He’s not close enough to help me. But I’ve seen off similar onslaughts often enough.

  ‘Do?’ Roderick looks dumbfounded and I realise my mistake. He’s another lotus eater, of course, not so very different from Rachel’s other friends. But then he confounds me. ‘Oh, I manage the estate here,’ he says.

  Even with zero knowledge of tourist attractions, and this island in particular, I can see this would be quite a job. The place is usually open to the public. Rachel’s closed it, especially for us. The girls thought that was super-cool when I told them. I was hoping there’d be those scarlet ropes hanging across doorways saying ‘private’, so we could breeze through. I knew they’d love it and to be honest I would myself. I haven’t spotted any yet but I live in hope.

  So normally we’d be dodging the crowds, eager to see the self-same tapestries that I’d put in the next parish jumble sale, given half a chance. With my management hat on, I ask Roderick what the entrance fee is, and the normal number of visitors at this time of year.

  I wonder if it’s the thought of the revenue being lost this weekend that’s making him and Penny so sour. Or is it the way their dad has landed Rachel on them?

  I catch Roderick darting his father another vicious glance as the old chap blows another kiss at Rachel. He carries on giving me succinct answers about the running of the estate, though. Not revealing too much, but showing me that he’s definitely not a figurehead; he knows what he’s doing.

  ‘And is Penny part of the family firm?’ I ask. Roderick looks alarmed at the very idea.

  ‘No, no … er, it’s not her sort of thing,’ he says quickly. ‘She did some nursing, of course, after all the … but then, well. She, I suppose you’d say, she’s retired.’

  Retired? She’s older than us, but not by much … I smell a story, but I’m too canny to pursue it. I’m off duty. We all are.

  Though, having said that, no one looks relaxed. Even Vicky’s Raf, who’s usually so laid-back he’s moments from unconsciousness, is standing bolt upright over by that pillar. He’s been dragged into a conversation with Penny and Geoff. I can’t imagine him loving their company.

  What on earth is Tasha up to? She’s taken a plate, and put a few of the fancy canapés on it, but she’s holding it at such a rakish angle that everything’s going to hit the floor in a second. I can’t stop myself; I shout over, drowning out Roderick’s painstaking explanation of the tides and rather underlining the fact that, though I’ve been nodding along like a good girl, I basically don’t care how often the waters come and go. Tasha flushes bright red at my intervention, but thank goodness the snacks haven’t hit the floor. Vicky looks over and we exchange a wry smile.

  Once Tasha’s colour is back to normal, I turn back to Roderick and set him off again, this time talking about the landscaping of the island. When we clambered up to the castle, there seemed to be solid rock as far as the eye could see, so I’m not quite clear what his efforts contribute. But I look interested, even while I’m scanning the room for Tom. It’s become a reflex.

  It’s OK, Tom doesn’t see. He’s down the other end, still with our girls clustered around him. I’m glad they’re getting proper time with him, but he ought to circulate. Normally he needs no bidding. I wonder if he’s feeling all right. And the girls should chat to other guests, not clump together.

  Nice that Raf and Tom get on so well. Raf’s spent a bit of time at our place since moving out of Vicky’s. He must have really missed having a male role model at her place. She isn’t exaggerating when she calls Bob a tosser. I smile mechanically as Roderick comes to the end of a spiel about the special conifers that grow in the region, and make some ‘gosh, really?’ noises.

  As Penny is already munching one of those long grissini breadsticks, I figure it’s all right to start eating too. It’s usually up to the hostess to give some sort of signal, but Rachel is fully occupied. She’s finally made it back to her husband’s side and I sort of wish she hadn’t. They’re smooching. Ugh, I hope that’s not ‘tongues’, as the girls would say.

  Vicky’s over near Jane now, talking animatedly to Geoff. Wonders will never cease. She’s already waving her glass at a server for a refill. I hope she’s going to pace herself. Rachel has disentangled herself from Ross and drifted over to Tom. ‘What’s up with your, um, stepdaughter?’ I hear Tom ask Rachel, cocking his head towards Penny. ‘Looks like she’s seen a ghost. And not a friendly one.’ I stare at Tom. Sometimes he forgets he can’t just interrogate p
eople when he’s off duty. Rachel isn’t bothered, though.

  ‘Oh, you’ll hear about it. Everyone still talks about it. There was a car accident here years ago, killed her mother. Penny’s never been the same since,’ Rachel says casually – and a little loudly. Penny is talking to her father but I see her head swivel immediately. Oops. It’s the cocktail party syndrome. I wrote an article about it years ago. People can hear their own name even through a babble of conversation. I do hope Rachel knows what she’s doing; she doesn’t always take other people’s feelings into account. But the next moment Penny has turned away.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ross has stalked over to Geoff and Vicky. Now Penny walks abruptly over to Jane, bumping into a side table as she goes. Part of me is amused at the Tregowans’ innate politeness, doggedly tolerating their guests, circulating as best they can. They’re probably trained at birth to allot ten minutes to everyone at dos like this.

  Well, I’ve had enough of standing, even if everyone else is on their feet. These kitten heels are murder. And I can’t eat and chat and stand all at the same time. I drag out a heavy chair and sink gratefully onto the rush seat. It’s not nearly as comfortable as it looks. That’s antiques for you. I turn to Roderick, who is now towering above me. I hope he’s not going to go through the island plant by plant.

  But just as I’m preparing myself to brush off more journo skills, get him onto a more interesting tack, Rachel sits next to me, alighting like a gorgeous hummingbird, and puts her hand on my arm. I notice her nails have been done to match her dress, some sort of aquamarine. It’s a reminder of all that water outside, which by now must be swirling not far below the castle’s windows. See, I was listening to Roderick’s tide explanation really. A bit. Rachel’s eyes look all the brighter against the shade.

  ‘I’m so glad we could do this, aren’t you?’ she says. Immediately, I feel as though we’re twenty-one again, in a conspiracy against the rest of the world, and I can borrow some of Rachel’s delicious certainty, the way I used to slip into her Chanel shoes. That assurance that success is coming, is just round the corner. Sometimes I think I’ve got it. Job, children, husband. Tick, tick, tick. As long as I don’t look at any of it too closely. I’ve made my way in the world, the way I wanted to when we were young. But not, of course, to the extent she has.

  ‘So, Lady Rachel at last?’ I whisper to her. It was always one of our little jokes, via our mutual passion for Love in a Cold Climate. For me, Nancy Mitford was as far removed from real life as any other fairy tale, but for Rachel it was like flipping through the family album. I always teased her that she was Debo Devonshire, holding out for ‘the Duke of Right’.

  ‘Lady Tregowan,’ she corrects absently. Just two words, but they sting. After a second, I say with a laugh, ‘Sorry, milady,’ and tug my non-existent forelock. I’m sure I now know more about Burke’s Peerage than she does. For years I had to make sure it was applied properly across all our papers, whenever anyone with a title popped up. I thought she realised. I turn to Roderick.

  Then her soft hand comes down again on my wrist and presses warmly. I turn back, leaving Roderick to chunter on about igneous rock. I’m not sure he’ll notice I’m not listening.

  ‘I’m a bit tense tonight, I don’t know why,’ Rachel says, eyes wide. ‘Tomorrow’s the big feast but everyone seems a bit … off, you know?’

  ‘It’s funny you should say that …’ I start, but Rachel’s away. Sometimes she’s even more of a communicator than I am.

  ‘I just want everyone to have a good time, and fall in love with this place – the way I have,’ she says. For a moment I think she’s smiling at me, then I realise she’s twinkling right over my shoulder to Ross at the far end. He tips his glass towards us.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ I say anyway, and we do a little clink.

  Before I have a chance to take a sip, she’s spotted Jane fidgeting on the fringes of Raf and Penny’s conversation. She calls over. ‘So Jane, come here, tell us all your secrets.’

  Am I imagining it, or does poor Jane tense up even more? ‘I’m worried about her, she’s really looking … unwell,’ says Rachel under her breath. Jane’s put her fleece back on and I detect Rachel’s faint wince. Jane walks slowly, almost reluctantly, towards us.

  ‘I have to squeeze in the gym and the odd haircut between everything else, but I manage,’ Rachel whispers. Briefly I remember the bypass, which must be helping – just a little. I suck my own stomach in. Despite the bulletproof lining of this dress, three children take a toll.

  ‘Come on, hon, over here,’ Rachel does reeling-in gestures to Jane and she speeds up, still as though she can’t believe she’s in Rachel’s spotlight. Finally she’s chugged over to us and Rachel has pushed out another chair, though I’m sure she’d prefer we were all standing and mingling effortlessly, like people do in films.

  ‘What about your latest book?’ Rachel says excitedly. ‘When’s it going to be out? I want to be first with the news for Rupert.’ The words are flattering enough, but Jane, in the middle of taking a sip of her champers, splutters. Nessie, who’s walking past, turns to pat her on the back but I catch her eye. Thumping a sister is fine; not an adult she doesn’t know. I hand Jane a napkin from the table. ‘Oh God,’ says Rachel, clapping her hand to her forehead. ‘I’m so sorry. Penny has a friend at your publishing house and she said there’d been a few authors axed recently … Not you, surely?’

  Unfortunately, no one else is really talking much. The room is suddenly hanging on Jane’s response.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Jane says eventually, cheeks scarlet. ‘Just a tiny delay, my editor says. It’ll be out soon.’ She narrows her eyes at Penny.

  I plunge straight in. ‘Tell us about your honeymoon, Rach,’ I say. It’s not that subtle, but Rachel has just said she wants everyone to get on. After a beat, Rachel takes the bait, then bats her eyelashes at Ross, who promptly blows yet more kisses to her across the room. It’s been years since Tom and I were at the lovey-dovey stage. I take a big sip of my drink.

  Rachel’s on her feet now and gliding over to her man. I’m not mistaking the look Penny gives her when those silky bits of dress flick out and inadvertently catch her shins. As soon as Rachel’s level with her new husband, she dips one hip so that she can rest her head on his shoulder.

  I hadn’t noticed before, but the Lord of the Mount isn’t that tall. Like his son, I suppose. He just appears it because he’s so – forgive me – skinny. And, next to Rachel, so beautiful and vivacious, he looks like he could do with a bit of a check-up from one of his wife’s doctors.

  I turn back to Roderick, wondering what on earth I can find as a topic that will span both his interests and Jane’s. I don’t suppose he cares about publishing, and she’s too airy-fairy for the nuts and bolts of business. Yet, when I see his face, I realise it’s a wasted effort anyway. He’s staring over at towards his stepmother, and her new husband.

  His expression is intense. I’ve heard the phrase before, but I’ve never known, until now, exactly what it meant. If looks could kill.

  But which of them is he glaring at?

  Chapter 12

  Vicky

  Mount Tregowan, 31st October

  Jesus Christ. I lie in bed for a full five minutes or so, wondering why someone is hitting me repeatedly over the head with an axe. Then the usual realisation sets in. And the backwash of remorse, that doesn’t go away. No matter how often I have a crippling hangover.

  It’s not fun, piecing together the night before, wondering what I’ve said to who, and how to get out of it. Sometimes I have to send a grovelling text. Or decide not to see someone again. Maybe forever. I suppose Bob comes into this category. He saw me at my worst, for sure. Definitely better for Raf that we split.

  No matter how many times I tell myself that, it still hurts. But never mind that now. Getting up this morning is going to be bad enough, without rehashing the mess of guilt and regret that is my divorce. I put out a hand blindly
for my phone, but it’s not where it always is, on the bedside table. Because I’m not at home.

  Bloody hell, I’m at Rachel’s stupid castle. In the middle of the sea. Is it the Atlantic? I gave up geography at fourteen, part of my strategy to get up and out. All I needed was enough grasp of the compass to go south, and shake the money trees down there. Well, I’ve done that, and a lot of bottles have fallen out on me.

  I’m never going to drink again.

  I fumble more and find my bag. My fingers know their way to the paracetamol in the side pocket without being asked and I chew the pills down dry, the bitterness making my face scrunch. After a while I can open an eye and see the welcome sight of a huge glass of water. Too late to ease the path of the pills, but it will take the taste away. I glug it down, some running onto the pillow. Now I worry. Did I put the glass there – or did someone else put me to bed and pour it for me, knowing full well how badly I’d need it? God, I hope I haven’t made a total tit of myself in front of Raf. That’s all the excuse the lad needs never to speak to me again.

  I look down. I’m undressed. That’s a good sign. But I haven’t made it into my nightdress. Not so good. I’m just in last night’s granny knickers, necessary for that tight dress. I call these my iron ladies. Not a pretty sight. I pray even harder there were no witnesses. But no, there won’t have been; other people only take off shoes. Unless they’re perverts. So present company in this castle mostly excepted, though there are a couple of question marks – and one big leering tick.

  Now chunks of the night are coming back to me. They’re not too bad. Relatively speaking. I don’t think I was awful. No, no, I really wasn’t. In fact, I don’t think most of them would have noticed I’d had a drop too much. Everyone was drinking, not just me. I more or less remember leaving my clothes in that heap over by the door, now. Thank God.