“Water lilies,” said Phil. “Do you like water lilies?”
She hesitated, not willing to lie, but unable to tell him the truth. Was Phil the only person in Calahurst who had never heard of Sarah Grove?
“I bought them to remind me of someone,” she admitted, before the silence was a reply in itself.
‘Remind’ was not a strong enough word. There was one print for every year since Sarah’s death. They were there not to remind (as though she could ever forget), but to provoke, to incite, to goad her into bringing Sarah’s killer to justice.
All this she left unspoken but his easy smile had faded. He might not have heard of Sarah Grove but he understood grief.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, briefly touching her shoulder before turning away, leaving her to blink away her tears in private. “I’ll let myself out.”
She nodded, turning her attention to the parcel. She no longer had the time to shower and change before Simon turned up, so she might as well open it.
The box had been sealed with tape. Too impatient to fetch scissors, she used her car keys to slice through it. Inside was a short note from her editor’s assistant, which she put aside to read later. Beneath a layer of bubble wrap were twenty copies of her new novel. Beautiful glossy hardbacks. They even had that new book smell.
The covers of all eight of her published novels were practically identical - black, with her name written in huge silver letters. Her first novel had a picture of a silver skull on it. The second had a hangman’s noose with the rope picked out in threads of silver, and the cover of her third book was illustrated with an open grave, complete with a silver shovel.
The cover design of this book was in much the same style as her previous novels - matt black, with one single bluebell picked out in silver. Natalie felt so pleased she could have raised the book to her lips and kissed it, and perhaps would have done, if she had not heard raised voices.
It sounded as though they came from the lobby outside her apartment. Phil must have stopped to speak to someone on his way out. Was it Simon? Here already?
The key rattled in the lock in the same instant she realised the significance of the book she held in her hand. The book which Simon was completely unaware she’d written.
She shoved it back into the box and folded over the lid to seal it. Then ripped away all the tape with the publisher’s name emblazoned upon it, scrunched it up and chucked it into the bin. There was no time to hide the box, and no place to hide it anyway, so she dropped a couple of lever arch files on top and hoped for the best. She stepped into the hall, pulling the study door closed behind her, as Simon entered the apartment.
He had changed from the stuffier clothes he wore for work, into a dark-grey t-shirt, shabby-chic jeans and Converse trainers. Even doing his best to appear the hip thirty-something he imagined himself to be, he still looked like the forty-something drama teacher he actually was.
Aware she must appear a little odd, standing forlornly in the centre of the hall, she leaned forward and kissed him, hoping it would be a distraction.
“You look guilty,” he smiled, as she pulled away. “What have you been up to?” Before she had chance to answer, he added, “I suppose you’ve been at Rose Court, baiting your poor father?”
She stiffened. “It’s nothing more than he deserves.”
Now it was Simon’s turn to reach out for her. “Give the guy a break. He’s been stuck in that care home for years, isn’t that punishment enough?”
“No, actually.” She twisted away, pretending to check her reflection in the hall mirror. He would have to be completely insensitive not to recognise the subject was closed.
“You’re never going to win.” Simon checked his own reflection over the top of her head, pushing his spectacles back slightly and smoothing his ruffled, conker-coloured hair until it lay flat. “You can’t compete with a dead girl. We know the truth about your sister but as far as John’s concerned, Sarah was always the perfect daughter and now she’s going to stay that way.”
The truth?
“What truth would that be?” she enquired sharply.
He turned his attention from the mirror and gazed down at her, apparently surprised by the question. “All those boyfriends?”
“She was a young girl; she liked to go out and have fun.”
“With men.”
“With boys her own age!”
“A boy her own age didn’t slash her throat and leave her body in a lily pond.”
She knew he was right but did not feel inclined to agree with him. Instead she scooped up her bag and would have headed for the door but, as he was stood beside her, he was blocking her way.
His hazel eyes regarded her dispassionately. “Are you going out like that?”
She felt her confidence take a dip and glanced back in the mirror to reassure herself. She saw a black sweater, a cute short skirt, thick black tights and boots. Her hair was not as sleek as she would have liked, and her skin seemed a bit pale, but apart from that she thought she looked pretty hot.
“What’s wrong?” This time she didn’t bother to hide the edge to her voice.
He raised an eyebrow. “Your skirt? Don’t you think it’s a bit short?”
He didn’t add ‘for a woman your age’ but he might as well have done. Natalie almost laughed out loud. What century was he living in?
“Tough,” she told him. “I’m wearing it.”
He opened the door for her. “Your mother used to dress like that.”
“What?” He was comparing her to her mother?
“Wear clothes that were too young for her.”
“You think now I’ve hit thirty I should give up?” she demanded. “Wear crimplene slacks and blue-rinse my hair?”
“God, no! I just thought something a little more … I don’t know - demure?”
“Thick tights and boots not ‘demure’ enough for you?”
“They’re hardly practical. It’s quite warm outside. In thick tights and those boots you’ll be sweating in minutes.”
“This is England. In half an hour it’ll pour with rain, or maybe blow half a gale. Then you can feel free to moan at me for not taking a coat.”
His brows drew together. “I do not moan - ”
“You’re doing it now!” Her palm, flat to his chest, ensured he had to step back to let her pass before he could complete his sentence. “Shall we go, or would you like to criticise me some more?”
“Natalie, you’re taking this completely the wrong way - ”
“I’ll drive if you like,” she offered.
“What? No, of course not. I’m driving. My car is already parked outside.”
It was hard not to grin. Poor Simon. He fell for that one every time.
“Then let’s go,” she said. “Unless … ” She let one finger trail down his chest before hooking it between two of the little buttons on his shirt. “Wouldn’t you rather stay in? I could order a takeaway, or even cook something. Would you like that?”
It seemed to take him a moment to register what she was saying. “But the restaurant is already booked and it’s right next to the theatre … ”
He sounded so disappointed, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She couldn’t even remember the name of the play they were supposed to be going to see. She let a second finger join the first, sliding beneath the fabric and making contact with the warmth of his skin.
“Are you seriously turning down a night with me in favour of a boring old play?”
“I’m supposed to be preparing a talk about it for the 6th form. I can’t cancel.”
“You would go without me?” And when he didn’t reply immediately, she withdrew her fingers from inside his shirt. “Simon?”
“It is my job, Natalie. Of course I’d rather spend an evening with you. But if we go to the theatre together we’ll be able to do both.”
“You’re quite right,” she said, careful to keep her voice light. “Let’s go.”
He regarded her uncertainly but was wise enough to say nothing more. But as he opened the door there was an unexpected creak behind them, and the door to her study swung slowly ajar in an almost supernatural style.
Natalie could hardly believe her bad luck. Simon now had an uninterrupted view of her desk.
He frowned and released the door, letting it close with a soft click.
“What’s in that box?” he asked.
“What box?”
He raised one brow. “The one on your desk?”
“Is it important?”
He stared back at her. Evidently it was.
“It contains china,” she said. “I ordered it online. It’s a new dinner service, in white, with a blue border - ”
He held up his hand to stop her talking, exactly as though she was one of his students. “Why isn’t it in the kitchen?”
“Phil brought it up a couple of minutes ago. Maybe you passed him outside? I didn’t want to make him hang about so I asked him to put it on the first available surface. Which was - ” she gestured in the direction of her study, “ - my desk.”
“You let Phil into your study? Into your apartment? What were you thinking?”
“I’m thinking he’s a very kind man,” she said evenly. “He carried that heavy box all the way up from the lobby. He didn’t have to do that.”
“I expect he wanted to ingratiate himself with a famous author,” Simon said. “You can’t invite strangers into your home like that, Natalie. Anything could have happened.”
And they both knew to which ‘anything’ he was referring.
She took a deep breath. “Simon, I know you only want to protect me, but perhaps we need to get a few things straight? If I want to wear short skirts, I shall. If I want to invite the staff into my apartment, I shall. If I want to order new china without your approval, I shall. If you want to check it over, go ahead. Unpack it all if it’s bothering you that much. It has to be washed before I can put it away and right now I’m too busy. So if you want to go to the theatre, let’s stop talking about it and go.”
She took a sideways step around him and through the front door; which slammed, leaving her on the other side of it. A calculated risk or certain disaster? She jabbed the call button on the lift. Any other man could have fallen over the damned box and not realised its significance. Simon, damn him, saw everything.
Far below she heard machinery whirr as the lift began its ascent. The illuminated numbers above her head counted up from G. She was tapping her foot on the tiled floor, faster and faster, without even realising she was doing it.
Where was Simon? Unpacking the box? It was what she would have done. What would he say when he saw her book? Despite her protestations to Charles, anyone who knew her well would be able to work out that she’d based the story on her sister’s murder. The similarities were there if one looked hard enough, and switching water lilies with bluebells was no disguise at all. Her publishers had even asked her to sign a disclaimer, ensuring she took all responsibility should anyone instigate legal action.
Obviously Simon would have to read the book sometime, as he’d read all her other books up to date. Preferably he’d read it when she was not around to face his lecture about how stupid he thought she was.
Oh God, why had she left him alone with that box?
She glanced back at the door to her apartment. It remained resolutely shut. Damn, she’d better go back inside and face him.
Natalie had just opened her bag, with the intention of retrieving her keys, when she heard her apartment door softly open and close; followed by the light, bouncy tread of someone wearing trainers. She let her bag drop to her side and pressed the lift call button once again, trying to keep her breathing even. From the corner of her eye, she could see Simon - a smudge of grey against the white painted walls - but she didn’t take her eyes from those illuminated numbers.
The silence stretched out.
“I can’t believe you let Phil into your study,” he muttered.
She felt some of the tension leave her. “Why not? If you took the trouble to talk to him, you’d realise he’s a nice guy.”
“You never let people into your study.”
Why couldn’t he let it go? “Sure I do.”
“You don’t. You’re quite eccentric about it. And as for all those Monet paintings, it’s like a veritable shrine to your sister. Phil must have thought you were nuts.”
Apparently he was not the only one.
The lift arrived. Natalie stepped inside; hardly bothering to check he was with her before pressing the ‘G’. “You make me out to be some kind of obsessive,” she said lightly.
She hadn’t expected him to laugh but she hoped he might smile. She wasn’t prepared for his hand shooting between the closing doors and holding them apart long enough for him to step back into the lobby.
She stared at him in astonishment. “Where are you going?”
“I’m taking the stairs,” he threw back at her. “I can’t deal with you when you’re in this kind of mood. I’ll go to this play on my own.”
“But - ”
“There’s no point arguing, you’ve made it clear you’re not interested in seeing it. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“But I’m going to London tomorrow!”
“Then we shall talk the day after that,” he said firmly, and strode off in the direction of the stairs.
The lift doors began to close. Infuriated at not having the last word, Natalie stuck her hand in front of one and pushed it back. “Maybe I don’t want to talk!” she called after him.
Slowly he turned. “What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded. “Everything I say is wrong.”
“You’re talking to me in the exact same way you talk to your students.”
“Sometimes you act like one!”
“We’re always going out. Parties, pubs, the cinema - occasionally I’d like to stay in.”
He flung out his arms, exasperated. “And do what?”
“I don’t know … Talk, watch TV … have sex … ” When was the last time they’d had sex?
Simon, damn him, was looking at his watch. “I’m going to be late,” he said. “Are you coming, or not?”
“Not,” she said. “If you don’t want to stay with me, maybe I’ll call Alicia and see if she wants to come over.”
“Fine,” he said. “You do that.”
While she was well aware Simon did not like Alicia, there was a distinctly malicious gleam in his eyes.
“What are you not telling me?” she asked him.
“I think it’s more what Alicia is not telling you.”
“Simon!”
“Her mother is reopening Hurst Castle to the public.”
“What?”
“And the garden is being completely restored - including the lily ponds.”
It was as though her ribcage tightened, making it hard to breathe. “She can’t do that!”
He shrugged. “She already has. The new head gardener has moved into the Lodge, and the garden will be open from Easter next year - to any ghoul wanting to see where your sister was murdered.”
8
Fifteen Years Previously
When Natalie had finally walked out of the Lodge, carrying a bulging suitcase in one hand and Sarah’s old typewriter in the other, she’d hoped to never see it again. She was headed for student life and destined for greater things. This would be her one opportunity to do something with her life and get away from everything that held her back. The past.
Strange how things turn out.
Her father’s accident happened a week after Sarah’s death. His car had gone over a cliff and fallen fifty feet onto a sandy beach. If he’d hit rock he’d never have survived; the car would have blown up and taken him with it. Instead the soft sand acted as a cushion, leaving him paralysed and with serious head injuries, but alive. This, as everyone had said at the time, was the important thing.
With her father incapacitated, Natalie thoug
ht she and her mother would have to find somewhere else to live. Instead, she came home from school one day and found Sir Henry Vyne sitting in the kitchen, talking closely with her mother and drinking coffee from her father’s favourite mug.
For a man in his fifties he was still striking in appearance, having the red hair and pale-blue eyes typical of all the Vyne family. He was also very tall, a fact Natalie appreciated when, ever the gentleman, he got to his feet as she entered the kitchen.
“Little Natalie,” he smiled.
If he added ‘My how you’ve grown’ to that sentence, she’d walk right out of the kitchen and probably the house too. She doubted her mother would object. The way Magda was currently looking daggers at her, it appeared she’d interrupted something important. But what?
Uncertainly she flicked her gaze between the two, recalling how close Magda had been sitting to him, how he had been sprawled in the chair as though he owned the place (which he did) and how her mother was back in her immaculate mask of make-up for the first time in days, if not weeks.
Oh God, surely it couldn’t be?
Sir Henry and her mother?
“How are you coping, sweetheart?” Sir Henry patted Natalie on the shoulder, leaving his hand resting there quite casually while he smiled benevolently at her.
“OK,” she muttered.
He was so close she could smell the faint mustiness of the castle upon his clothes and the tobacco on his breath. She could see a pulled thread in the tweed coat he wore and the hint of ginger stubble on his chin. She wanted to pull away from him, to tell him to keep his old man hands to himself, but one glance at her mother’s grim expression and she thought better of it.
Was Sir Henry going to be her new step-father? Would that mean she’d live at the castle? No one in Calahurst would be able to look down their noses at her again.
“I do hope you’re being a good girl for your mother?” he said.
She eyed him askance. What did he expect her to reply? That she’d been getting drunk every night and shagging her way around Calahurst? Biting hard on her tongue, she kept her eyes to the floor and her smart-arse comments to herself - and doubtless appeared to be the dozy teen he thought she was.
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