Love Always

by Harriet Evans

  ‘Oh, Louisa, come off it.’

  She shook her head, smiling, and stood up. ‘You don’t understand, I knew you wouldn’t.’ She put her hand out to reassure him. ‘Don’t worry, it’s me. I have to decide. Go to Cambridge, study hard, get a good job afterwards.’ She brushed her shorts down methodically.

  ‘Can’t you do both?’ Jeremy stood up too, looking mystified.

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ Louisa smiled. ‘I rather feel that if I marry him, my identity, me, it will be gone.’

  Jeremy looked upset. ‘I don’t—’

  Louisa put her hand on his. ‘Don’t worry, big brother,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’

  As they turned towards the front door, Frances appeared at the bottom of the side staircase.

  ‘Gosh, it’s hot. Where’s Cecily, do you know?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been waiting for her for ages.’

  ‘She’s with you,’ Louisa said stupidly. ‘Isn’t she?’

  ‘No,’ said Frances. ‘She was supposed to be, but she went to brush her teeth and write her diary up. That was half an hour ago. She’s not in her room.’ She stared impatiently across the terrace. ‘Where on earth’s she got to? I know she hates it, but it’s so very nearly done.’

  And then there was a scream, and hollered shouting, from the path towards the sea. ‘Help! Help!’

  ‘What on earth . . . ?’ Jeremy darted forward. ‘What’s that?’ They ran to the bottom of the terrace. Miranda was running towards them, followed by Archie and another figure behind them.

  ‘Help! Get help! Ambulance!’ she screamed. ‘Get the . . . get the ambulance!’

  ‘What?’ Louisa said, running towards her cousin. ‘Miranda – what’s wrong?’

  Frances stood stock-still, as if frozen to the spot. ‘It’s Cecily, Cecily.’ Miranda was racing like a madman, her hair whipping round her face. Two circles burnt red on her cheeks. ‘She fell – she stepped back and she slipped . . . Oh, God.’ She stopped and looked up at them imploringly. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘You didn’t do anything,’ Archie said.

  Guy appeared behind them. ‘What’s happened?’ he was shouting as he approached them. ‘I heard screams – who is it? Where’s – where’s Cecily?’

  ‘I’ll get the ambulance,’ Miranda sobbed. ‘Oh . . . Cecily . . . oh, my God.’

  ‘What?’ Guy stood still. Sweat ran down his forehead. ‘Cecily?’

  Frances was running towards the sea. ‘Where is she?’ She was opening the gate, but Archie stopped her. He put his hand on her arm, blocking her path. ‘No, Mum,’ he said, his face unreadable. ‘I don’t think you should go down there.’

  ‘Why?’ Frances’s voice broke. ‘Get off me. Why?’

  Archie said very quietly, ‘I don’t want you to see her like that.’

  They knew, then. As Miranda’s voice came out to them: ‘Yes, Summercove. Parry Lane. It’s the Kapoors. No, dammit, Kahpoor. Come quickly!’ Her voice was breaking. ‘Please, hurry up!’

  ‘I’m going down there,’ Guy said, breaking away and running towards the gate. ‘I’m going . . . she might still be all right, we have to do something.’

  Miranda, emerging from the house, her pale face stained with tears, just looked at him, and then at Archie, and shook her head.

  ‘What happened?’ Frances said, watching her daughter. ‘What did you do, Miranda?’

  Her son tightened his grip around her. ‘Mum. Don’t say that. She didn’t do anything.’

  Miranda, who had opened her arms to her mother, let them drop to her side. She looked back at her, and sank onto the stone doorstep like a broken doll.

  They brought Cecily’s body back up from the beach late that evening, as the sun was setting and the grey moths were fluttering around the candles they had set outside to light the way, just as the storm broke and it began to rain.

  The police came, too, of course: they had to know what happened, had to see where she’d fallen, take measurements and photographs. And what happened, it would seem, is that Archie and Miranda were out walking when they bumped into Cecily, at the end of the path on her way down to the beach. Guy was walking in the opposite direction, towards the cliffs, and he heard raised voices, shouting, and then screaming. Apparently Cecily had turned and slipped, a little of the rock breaking away with her.

  She had fallen down the steps, her neck broken in the fall. It had rained the day after the James’s arrival, and even in the height of summer, the steps, cut into the rock and without any sunlight, were often dank and slippery. Arvind and Frances had been advised to get them resurfaced. It was one of those things they’d been meaning to do, but the pair of them – when did they ever do what they were supposed to do?

  She should have taken greater care, even Cecily who knew the path, the steps and the beach so well. She should have been more careful. She should not have died. And though no one said it out loud, and though at the inquest a verdict of accidental death was recorded, it wasn’t enough to silence the rumours that all was not what it seemed, that it wasn’t, in fact, an accident.

  There was something in the air that summer, like a poisonous cloud, growing in strength. And when it broke, like the storm that raged all that night after her death, nothing was the same again.The day after Cecily’s funeral, when they had scattered her ashes out to sea (Arvind’s idea), and everyone had gone – the mourners, the rest of the family, a stunned Guy, a teary Louisa – Frances locked her studio door behind her, and went into her bedroom. Arvind was in his study, of course.

  It was a dull, wet evening, mid-August. The nights were noticeably earlier. There was a chill in the air, a suggestion for the first time that summer was drawing to a close. She held the key in her hand, staring out of the bedroom window. She gazed at the gazebo where her son and remaining daughter sat, huddled together, looking out to sea. Her eyes narrowed as she watched them; hatred, she told herself it was hatred, squeezed her heart.

  ‘It’s over,’ Frances said to herself.

  She clutched the key tightly and shivered. Then she opened her bedside drawer and dropped the key in, next to the ring she’d taken off Cecily’s damp, cold finger a week ago. She shut the drawer and went downstairs, and sat in the big, empty sitting room until the light faded and she was alone in the dark. Miranda and Archie came in separately, and went to bed. Arvind too. None of them knew what to say to each other, so they didn’t say anything at all.

  PART THREE

  February 2009

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘So. Miss Kapoor. Thank you for coming today.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘I’m as anxious as you are to sort this out?’

  Unfortunately, I raise my voice at the end of this sentence so that it sounds as if it’s a question, not an answer.

  There is silence from across the grey plastic desk. I wipe my sticky hands on my skirt and I blink wearily; I’ve had not quite four hours’ sleep. This is good for the sleeper train, where things fall onto the floor as the carriage judders suddenly or drawers fly out as you round a corner, rousing you from your too-light slumbers. But it’s still not much in the grand scheme of things and I am very tired. I can’t escape the feeling that I’m still there, lying in a rocking berth. The office in Wimbledon – where my business account manager is located and thus where I have to go if I want to stop the bank calling in debt collectors – is warm and my eyes are heavy. The bump on my head from my Victorian heroine-style fainting fit is still swollen, and has turned an impressive purple colour during the night. I haven’t been home yet; I’m still wearing my funeral outfit, ironically appropriate for today as well as yesterday.

  Yesterday seems like a world away. The pages of Cecily’s diary are still in my skirt pocket. They make a crumpling sound as I shift in my seat. Ten pages, that’s all, and then – what? Nothing.

  When I climbed wearily off the train this morning, I wondered if I’d dreamed the previous twenty-four hours. It would make more sense, somehow. The
se scant pages in Cecily’s scrawling, cramped handwriting, all too little an insight. I keep thinking of them all after the funeral, in the living room at Summercove. My family, standing around in knots, not talking to each other. The taxi ride with Octavia, the near-pleasure with which she thought she was telling me the truth about my mother. Was she?

  I can’t think about it now. I shut my eyes again. Opposite, Clare Lomax, Local Business Manager, stares impassively at me, her hands clasped neatly on the desk. Her suit jacket is slightly too big. It looks like a man’s.

  ‘So. We’ve been trying to contact you for a while about your overdraft, Miss Kapoor.’

  ‘Yes.’ I shift my focus back to the present moment. I nod, as though we’re in this together.

  ‘We’ve become extremely concerned about your ability to sustain a viable business. As you know. That is why we have decided to withdraw your overdraft facility and request immediate repayment of the amount in question.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say again.

  Clare Lomax glances at her sheet. She reads, in a sing-song voice, ‘You are five thousand pounds overdrawn at this time, and you have defaulted twice on repayments for the loan you took out with us last year, also for five thousand pounds. I see you also have considerable debt on your credit card, also held with this bank. And despite several letters requesting repayment we have not been contacted by you with regard to these matters, which is why you’ve left us no other option, I’m afraid, Miss Kapoor.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say again, still nodding, so hard now that my neck is starting to hurt. It is such a huge amount, it doesn’t seem real. How has it come to this? What have I been doing? And the answer comes back to me, clear, booming, Octavia’s persistent voice in my ear. Living in a dreamworld.

  ‘If we look at the company’s bank statements –’ a flick through the sheaf on her desk, before one almond-shaped pearlescent nail smoothly drags the offending sheet of paper into the light – ‘well, we can see what the problem is. Too many outgoings, not enough incomings. In fact the last payment into the company account was October 2008, for one hundred and thirty-five pounds.’

  Bless Cathy. Those were Christmas presents for her mother and her sisters. But I flush with shame that these were the last payments into the account: I am being propped up by friends, by my husband. There have been no website sales since then.

  ‘Miss Kapoor.’ Clare Lomax shuts the folder with a flourish and puts her fingers under her chin. She stares at me. ‘It’s not good, is it?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘And in the meantime –’ the same nail scratches down a long list – ‘we’ve got payments coming out of the account regularly, driving you further into debt.’ I gaze down. ‘Website hosting . . . three hundred pounds . . . Two hundred pounds to Walsh and Sons, Hatton Garden?’

  ‘They make tools. Er – pliers and things.’ It’s the truth, yet I sound wholly unconvincing.

  ‘Right. This payment here, for six hundred and forty-three pounds, in September, to Aurum Accessories.’

  ‘That was for materials.’

  ‘What kind of materials?’

  My voice sounds high, like a little girl’s. ‘Um . . . gold wire, earring studs and clutches, that kind of thing?’ I try to remember. ‘I’ve got the receipts in my folder here, I’ll check.’ I’ve got every single piece of paper I could possibly need, neatly filed away, carried with me to Cornwall and back in preparation for today. I’ve documented the failure of my business meticulously.

  ‘It’s fine.’ Clare Lomax scribbles something on her pad. ‘Have you thought of using cheaper materials?’

  ‘What, like string?’ I smile, but there’s a silence and I realise she’s serious.

  ‘I’m just saying there are some very nice necklaces and bracelets made out of waxy thread and beads. You know, you see them in Accessorize, Oasis. And so forth,’ she adds, pulling out the ‘th’ of ‘forth’ on her tongue, as if to give weight to it. ‘I’m just saying,’ she repeats. ‘You need to look at some other options, Miss Kapoor.’

  ‘I don’t make jewellery like that,’ I explain. ‘I work with metals, enamel, laser cuts mainly, it’s different—’

  ‘Miss Kapoor.’ Clare Lomax raises her voice slightly and shifts her arms forward and then back into their clasp. I see the flash of a tattoo on her wrist, quickly hidden again by her polyester jacket. I wonder how old she is. ‘We are here today to discuss your business and to work out a way to keep you from going bankrupt, which at the moment is looking likely.’ Her voice is clipped, brisk, precise. ‘You have defaulted on your loan repayments twice. You have refused to respond to us about your overdraft. If you want to avoid a consolidation repayment plan, where we charge you twenty per cent interest and demand repayment of the overdraft beginning now, we need to work out how you can change your working practice so that you don’t accumulate debt.’ She gives a thin smile. ‘Otherwise, you will have no business. Is that clear?’

  I nod. ‘Yes. It’s very clear.’

  ‘Do you want to change the way things have been?’ She’s staring at me. I sit up straight and meet her gaze. This woman, girl really, whom I’ve never met before, is calling me out, pointing out my flaws in a way no one else has, in a way I could never do. If she can see them, they must be pretty obvious.

  I clear my throat. ‘Yes,’ I say softly. ‘What?’ She leans forward. ‘Yes,’ I say again, more loudly. ‘Yes. I really do want to. I want to change the way it’s been. I don’t want it to go on like this.’

  As I hear my voice, soft and tentative, saying these words out loud, it gives me a jolt, and I realise again how true it is. I nod, as if confirming it. To her, and to myself.

  Clare Lomax folds down a small corner of one of the bank statements in front of her. ‘Right.’ She permits herself a small smile and I want to smile too. ‘Let’s carry on, then. So – five hundred and fifty pounds paid out in November. To Aird PR Limited. There’s a couple of payments to them last year. Who are they?’

  ‘It’s a PR firm. I hired them to publicise my jewellery.’ She looks at me blankly, as well she might. ‘They’ve worked with a few designers I know. People who have gone from having a stall or selling stuff through just a couple of shops to being featured in magazines, in blogs, so people write about you, look you out at the trade shows, and so on. It helps you to get a name for yourself.’

  ‘And have they done that for you?’

  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘Not really. They got me a mention in the Evening Standard, but they got my website wrong. So I didn’t really get any uptake from it.’

  Clare Lomax says, suddenly kind, ‘You have to ask yourself if your product is right for the general public. If there’s more you can do. We see this all the time with small businesses.’

  Now I’m feeling more confident, I take a deep breath, to try and stick up for myself. ‘Miss Lomax – we’re in a recession. Two years ago I was getting interns to help me, I had orders for shops here and in Japan, the Far East, for fifty necklaces, a hundred bracelets a time. But that’s all gone now.’ I try to sound as though it doesn’t bother me. ‘People are still buying jewellery, but not like they used to. And if they are they won’t take a punt on some random girl they’ve never heard of. It’s really hard.’ I sound as though I’m trying to talk her out of lending me more money.

  ‘I can see that,’ she says drily. She leans forward, so that a lock of her thin brown hair falls over her face. ‘But if you’ll allow me to say it, it seems to me you’ve been burying your head in the sand, Miss Kapoor. You’ve failed to keep up the repayments, you’ve not explained what’s happening and why you’re in difficulties, and most importantly you’ve failed to communicate with us despite many attempts on our part. And that makes you a bad risk in my book. You’ve got to face up to it. As it is, you’ll probably lose the business if you go on at this rate.’

  You’ve got to face up to it. I stare at her, my heart hammering in my chest. ‘Right. Right.’

  She says, not unkindly, ‘I just don�
��t understand why you’ve let it come to this.’ She sounds for a second like a concerned friend. I blink. I can’t stand it if I start to cry. Don’t cry.

  I clear my throat noisily and sit up. ‘I don’t understand either,’ I say softly. ‘I’ve had a lot of other shi— stuff going on. And it’s been a hard time. Loads of my friends are going out of business. But I’m hopeful. I’ve got a new collection I’ve just finished designing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. This is a lie, but it’s a hopeful lie. ‘I’ve just got to get the cash together to get it made up. And take it to the shows. And I have to start doing the market stalls again. That brings in the money.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you haven’t been doing that all along,’ Clare Lomax says. ‘According to my notes when you opened the account you were selling at a stall at least twice a week, and always Sundays.’

  ‘I don’t do that any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Why not? Vanity, greed, wanting to spend time with Oli, his jealousy at not having me on Sundays, believing the hype of Joanna, the PR person I hired, who told me I didn’t need to stand in the cold on a stall next to lots of other jewellers all vying for attention and space. After the up-and-coming pop star was photographed wearing my necklace the orders started flooding in, and the website was launched a few months later. I listened to them, to Oli and Joanna, when they said I didn’t need to do that any more. And it was expensive – eighty quid a day for the stall, and the Truman Brewery near where I live has too many stalls anyway, and not enough customers, I told myself. I – Oli and I – decided I could live without it, that it’d be a better use of my time to take myself out of that scene, try and move up a level.

  I was so wrong. I was wrong about that, about overpaying for the website, about the people I listened to, the way I changed my focus. Ben, in the studio next door, warned me but I didn’t listen.