The Invitation

by A. M. Castle

  Maybe not the best bedtime story he could have picked. I would have preferred Jane’s cutesy mice, if they’d been available then. But Mummy made it plain it was a privilege to have him sitting there, even for five minutes, at the cost of my night’s sleep. ‘Daddy’s so busy, dear.’

  I knew what he did, at least. He spun money from straw, like Rumpelstiltskin. There was plenty of it when he started, thanks to forebears who snapped up unconsidered trifles of art all over Europe. There’s oodles more now. Tucked away here and there. And displayed on walls, via my clever foundation. My job is to keep it all safe.

  I know the cloaks are an additional expense, something I could have parked on the goodwill of my friends. I do know the value of money, though so many people assume I don’t. But when you’re going all out in other ways, you want the small details to be perfect too. It can always be written off against something, as a business expense. My accountants are clever. And I am cleverer still.

  I know my friends. Even if Vicky has brought something, it’ll be tat she’s found on the Internet. She’s bound to be sneery about the whole idea of dressing up, say it’s posh or elitist or something. As for Jane, the jury’s still out on her ability to source evening wear.

  No, I’m sure they’ll love the robes when they see them. I can’t resist slipping mine on now. I pirouette in front of the mirror. As the black silk velvet catches the weak midday sun, it shines like the pelt of a panther. Something with claws, for sure. The satin lining is slippery and cool, in contrast to its scorching red colour. As I swing round I see a tiny figure outside on the path down below, arrested for a moment. They must have caught sight of my kaleidoscope of red and black. I step back from the window. Damn, I don’t want my secrets to get out too soon.

  I drop to my knees and crawl close to the window again. Peeping up over the sill, I look down towards the walled garden, seemingly as timid as one of Jane’s silly mice. But I am not.

  As I thought, it’s Tom. Something glints. Are those binoculars, in his hand? I didn’t bargain for that. Oh well, a cat can look at a king, as they say. Or a queen, in this case. It’s not going to help any of them in the long run.

  This is one cat and mouse game that I have no intention of losing.

  Chapter 19

  Tom

  Mount Tregowan, 31st October

  Of course I haven’t been on Ruby’s case, as Gita demanded. The girl will be fine. Do her good, in fact, to knock about this place on her own for a bit. Not that she will be on her own; she’ll be shadowing one of her sisters, begging to be included. ‘Me too!’ has been her signature tune since she could first waddle after Tasha and Ness.

  I was an only child. Odds are I would have been solitary by nature anyway. I grew up satisfied with my own company, and the full beam of my mother’s love and pride. Least said about my father the better. Still, there was no shortage of role models. Spider-Man. Batman. The Hulk, even. Loved those comics. OK, they were all loners with, shall we say, some problems in conforming … but I’ve never had trouble convincing people I fit in. ‘Team player’, my appraisals always said.

  I’ve been out an hour or so, I suppose, having a look at the terrain. Now I’m taking a squint round the outside of the castle. The bolts on the back door are pathetic. Rachel really needs to up her security. I take in a great lungful of the salty air, saunter a bit further off. Standing here you get a great view of the island, sides falling away, like being on top of a volcano. Good to get a proper lay of the land. I turn back and look back up at the castle.

  For a second, I’m distracted by a flash of something red, high up in one of the top windows. Which room is that? I wonder if there’s a plan of the place online? The visitors’ website? Then I remember the stupid lack of internet access, and sympathise with my techno-junkie daughters.

  I pause, but only for a moment. I need to keep my eyes on the goal. And I found out plenty, just skirting the walled garden earlier. My own daughter, who’d have thought she had such a talent for subterfuge? Nose to nose with Rachel, of all people? Not going to lie, if it had been Tasha with a secret, I’d have been less surprised. She’s at that age, and there’s only so much adolescents ever tell a parent – and only so much a parent really wants to know.

  But Nessie? I can’t help laughing. It must be some sort of gothic surprise they’ve got planned for the party tonight. Rachel’s always had a thing about Halloween, and God knows, Nessie dresses for it every day. Gita’ll get a jolt when she finds out about this little pairing, that’s for sure.

  I pick up my backpack, sling it onto my shoulders again, look both ways – this place is crawling with eyes – and head off on the meandering path. I don’t want to bump into anyone else, not while I’m so intent. The waves are already getting up. Last night’s gales were nothing. According to the forecast, we’re in for it big-time tonight.

  I haven’t felt this tingle of anticipation for a long time. It’s a bit like the feeling I get, spotting a fit woman across a room. There’s a twitch, a tug on a wire that starts in me, but connects to her. Or maybe it starts in her, and just draws me in. It’s exhilarating, primeval.

  I shift uncomfortably, setting my sights more firmly ahead. Don’t want to get distracted now. Which way will I go? The decision clears my head.

  Stretching my hamstrings briefly, I pick up the path again, pushing myself this time. The sandy surface between boulders causes me to slip as I take the corners.

  I like to think I’ve always been methodical, but now, like my fitness, I’ve stepped everything up a level. I’ve never shied away from a hard path. In fact, I relish it. Not going to lie, I love thinking on my feet. Makes me feel more alive. Helps me face my demons.

  There’ve been a fair few of those, recently. But I have a feeling I’m going to be laying them to rest at last.

  It’s a good job I’ve just had that thought. Round the next bend I almost knock Ruby off her feet. A stone or two is dislodged, and skitters down onto the next level. I grab her shoulders.

  ‘You gave me quite a turn, young lady.’

  Ruby’s bottom lip quivers. ‘Daddy, what’s the matter? Why are you so cross? Why is everyone so horrible here?’

  She gets me every time. I enfold her in a hug. ‘What do you mean, honey? I thought we were all having a lovely weekend away?’

  Shit, she’s sobbing in earnest now. ‘Nessie told me to burger off, and I haven’t seen Tasha for hours – she told me I couldn’t play with her and her friend.’

  ‘Her friend? Who’s her friend?’ I try and keep my voice light.

  ‘She wouldn’t say,’ Ruby mutters damply into my jacket. Then comes that cry so universal to younger siblings – the point where I usually let Gita take over. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘Life isn’t fair,’ I tell her, with the ring of authority. Don’t even get me started on it. I feel her slight recoil. This isn’t the everything’s-lovely tack her mother takes. She looks up, enormous eyes fringed with sparkling teardrops. Shit. It would take a better man than me not to promise my daughters the world.

  ‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll find them. We’ll sort this out, you see if we don’t.’ I take her sticky hand in mine, and start doing just what I didn’t want: traipsing around the island with a kid in tow, sorting out a pointless battle when one that’s worthier of me is creeping up faster and faster.

  Wasting precious, precious time.

  Chapter 20

  Gita

  Mount Tregowan, 31st October

  After Rachel wafted away to tweak her plans, I took my coffee outside for five minutes. There was a bit of a breeze, but no more than that. So much for an epic storm. I couldn’t see Tasha or Ruby, but in the end I did glimpse Ruby, hand in hand with her daddy. Now I’ve crept back inside to savour the last of my cappuccino in peace. And have a think.

  Rachel’s definitely got something up her sleeve, and I’m trying not to mind that she’s keeping it quiet. It’s frustrating. I pick up the newspaper and concentrate on that in
stead. Then Penny pokes her head around the door again. I try not to think of Rachel’s Shrek quip. Poor woman, it’s her own home, yet she’s tiptoeing while we galumph around, taking over the place.

  ‘Rachel not with you?’ she says in that high voice. Some Tregowan long ago must have been a soprano. Or a castrato, though that would have stunted the family tree somewhat.

  ‘She had to check on the arrangements,’ I say with a smile, putting down the paper. ‘I’m having coffee. Why don’t you join me?’ Immediately I feel silly; I’ve invited her to sit at her own table. But she just looks grateful and sidles into the seat.

  ‘I won’t have another, it makes me so jumpy,’ she says. Her leg immediately starts to shake. Her fingers get to work pleating a napkin and her forehead is no less concertinaed. Either she’s been on an intravenous drip of caffeine already this morning – or something is really bothering her.

  ‘It must be difficult having all of us milling about the place,’ I venture.

  ‘Difficult?’ She raises her head, as though she’s been miles away. ‘Oh, that’s not difficult. Not at all.’

  I wonder how I can ask, so what is difficult, then? But I wait instead. As any journalist knows, silence can be the deadliest interviewing weapon. People can’t help themselves; they rush to fill it.

  ‘Do you get on with your family?’ she asks me in a flurry.

  ‘My kids?’ I say in surprise.

  ‘No, no … the wider family,’ she says. There is white showing all around her pupils. It’s disconcerting.

  ‘You don’t mean my husband? Of course I get on with him.’ I clear that one up straight away. ‘My relatives, though. I would say, not always. My grandparents had very high expectations …’ I don’t need to go into how far my parents let them down. Even now, the divorce is only spoken of in a hiss. ‘And my girls don’t always get on as well as they’re doing now.’ She wrinkles her brow. ‘Bringing up children … has its challenges. Do you have any yourself?’ I know the answer but still feel I have to ask the question.

  ‘No. No. That was never on the cards,’ she says, waving her hand as though pushing the idea away. She knocks over the sugar shaker and I pick it up. ‘It’s good to have young people around, though.’ Her smile is an afterthought, not even reaching her nose, never mind those gooseberry eyes. I decide to mention the elephant in the room – though Rachel would kill me if she heard that description.

  ‘It must be an adjustment, having a new member of the family in your midst,’ I say gently.

  Penny shies like a thoroughbred refusing a fence. ‘Oh … Rachel. Well, of course, we’re grateful for all that’s she’s done for this place. And for Daddy.’

  We’re both remembering all that kissing last night. I don’t want to think about everything Rachel’s doing for Daddy, and I’m certain Penny doesn’t either.

  ‘I had a stepmother,’ I lean forward to confide. Where did that come from? I wasn’t going to go there at all. I hardly ever talk about it. Remarriage is a badge of shame in my world.

  ‘Did you?’ Now Penny’s eyes light up. ‘And was she … wicked?’

  ‘Aren’t they all?’ We both laugh. The atmosphere eases. Poor Penny, she’s been yearning to bitch about Rachel. I would have burst, if I hadn’t had friends to offload to about my stepmum. She didn’t last long – my father is now an elderly reconfirmed bachelor – but it was no fun. I was in my twenties, but I took it as hard as a child half my age. Ironically, Rachel heard a lot about her. I wonder if she remembers, whether it’s made her any better in the role? But then, Penny must be pushing fifty. Surely she should be over it.

  ‘It’s years since my mother died. But I think about it – and her – every day. You see, I was with her. When it happened.’ Penny looks down, and that straight line of a mouth quivers, like a blip on a heart monitor. I reach out to try and pat her hand, but she knocks her napkin to the floor and stoops to pick it up instead.

  I googled the family, when Rachel told me her happy news. You’d expect no less of a journalist. So I already know what she’s talking about. Car accident. Coastal road. It reminded me of Princess Grace of Monaco. With the former Grace Kelly, you could picture the sugar-pink convertible, the warm breeze ruffling blonde hair, a fluttering Hermès scarf – then the horrible screech of brakes and grind of metal. Here in Cornwall, things would have been less glamorous – a wet road, a muddy estate car, a couple of posh ladies in Barbour jackets – but a tragedy nonetheless. One that has left its mark on Penny. Her eyes are now as sad as a medieval painting.

  ‘It must have been terrible. But at least you were there in her last moments.’ I always try to comfort, communicate. But it seems to have been exactly the wrong thing to say. Penny gives me a horrified look, scrapes her chair back, and more or less runs out of the room, colliding with Roderick as she does so. Great. Well done, Gita.

  I pantomime distress and apology to Roderick, but he shakes his head, squeezing into the chair she’s just vacated, pushing it back from the table. ‘I take it Penny’s been reminiscing again? She’s like the Ancient Mariner with that story. You know, she stoppeth one of three.’ He says it with heavy jocularity. If he were one of my girls, I’d tell him off for his lack of sympathy. As it is, I shrug and apologise some more.

  ‘I feel awful. I strayed into something that’s obviously very … raw.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ says Roderick tersely. ‘It wouldn’t be raw, if she didn’t keep picking away at it. She wants us to speak to my father about it. “Put things right, at last,” she keeps saying. But what’s the good of that? Father did what he could, years ago. We can’t go back on any of that now. And he’s very clearly put it all behind him.’

  ‘I suppose Rachel … appearing, that’s bound to have stirred up some issues.’

  ‘Issues! Ha. Well, yes,’ he concedes. ‘More coffee?’

  I nod mutely. That’s about as close to emotions as we’re going to stray, I assume. And the next few minutes of conversation bear me out. Once a maid has appeared as if by magic to take away the empties (this must be my last cup, I’ll be as twitchy as Penny if I carry on), Roderick steers us onto safer and far more boring territory with the ease of a public schoolboy well versed in avoidance. As soon as I can, I gently extricate myself.

  ‘I should check on the girls! They’ve been gone so long,’ I say, throwing down my napkin. I’m hoping he didn’t spot me outside only twenty-odd minutes ago. I’ve certainly been eyeing the skies ever more yearningly while we’ve been discussing event footfall and ticketing. Unfortunately, after last night, Roderick thinks I have a burning curiosity about the inner workings of this place.

  ‘Oh! Yes, certainly. We can pick this up again later. You should get out there while you can. Make the most of it.’

  I decide to ignore the warning that yet more statistics will shortly be coming my way, and focus on the last part of his sentence. ‘Make the most of it? Why? That sounds a bit dire. What on earth is going to happen?’

  Roderick starts. ‘Happen? Nothing’s happening, apart from this blessed party. I just meant the thunderstorm.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Rachel mentioned one, but I assumed …’ I’m not sure how to tell him, if he doesn’t already know, that his stepmother loves hyperbole. She alarmed me to start with, but of course I rationalised. For Rachel, a drop of rain is a typhoon. A leaf moving on a tree is a force nine gale. But perhaps I was wrong.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he says, with an unmistakable gleam of satisfaction. ‘She isn’t exaggerating. Not at all. There’s a huge storm coming. A tempest.’

  ‘Oh, I hope it won’t ruin the fireworks.’

  ‘Fireworks? Did Rachel say we were having fireworks? Oh, I see. No, she meant it will be fireworks, when the storm hits. The lightning will be as spectacular as any show you’ve ever seen. We’re going to be battered within an inch of our lives.’

  ‘And that’s a good thing?’ I’m disappointed. And a bit annoyed with Rachel. I was looking forward to oohs and aahs a
nd Catherine wheels.

  ‘What?’ He seems to shake himself out of some private train of thought. ‘Oh, well. It’ll separate the men from the boys, all right.’

  I suddenly realise there are only five on the island – Roderick himself, Tom, Raf, Geoff and Ross. I’m puzzling over who’s in which category, when he speaks again.

  ‘I just meant, if you’ve never experienced a storm on Mount Tregowan before, then you’ve never seen what nature can truly do. It’s like nothing else, you see.’ There it is again – a gleam from those cat-like eyes.

  Then he leans forward, and half-whispers, half-hisses at me. ‘It’s like the wrath of God.’

  Chapter 21

  Vicky

  Mount Tregowan, 31st October

  Tasha is constantly twitching round, admiring the views (which are amazing) or fidgeting with her skirt. After another aimless turn, I just come out with it.

  ‘Look, shall I leave you to potter? You’re not in any hurry, but I’d like to get back inside before this wind pulls my hair out.’ I’m joking, but it’s getting up now, and in the distance I can see some greyish clouds gathering. Funny how, in London, I can go for months without looking out of a window, occasionally checking my phone for the temperature if I think I might need a scarf, but here we are literally surrounded by weather. It feels like being stalked by something wild, uncontrollable.

  Tasha is trying to adjust her face so she doesn’t show too much delight at the prospect of me sodding off, when we turn a corner and come slap bang into Tom and Ruby. I take a step back in shock and nearly fall. After the rock earlier, I’m on edge, that’s for sure. But Ruby, bless her, runs forward and hugs me. Over her head, I avoid Tom’s eyes as usual and he says, ‘There we are! Told you I’d find Tasha for you, Ruby love.’