by Hannah Emery
He was not there.
Victoria stood still for a moment in the middle of the room. Books lined the narrow walls: Aristotle, Shakespeare, Woolf, Dickens, Shelley and Stoker. She should read the classics; she would ask Harry which ones to start with. She’d always quite liked the sound of Dickens. She took Great Expectations down from the shelf and sat in Harry’s chair, which was hard and green.
Victoria flicked open the first page to see an inscription.
To remind you of what I almost was.
S
Victoria frowned. What did that mean? Perhaps this was a student’s copy of the book. As she placed the book back on the shelf, Harry was suddenly beside her, the door shut again, his arms around her.
‘I didn’t expect you,’ he said. ‘What a brilliant surprise for me.’
He kissed Victoria and she closed her eyes, unable to quite believe that this was happening to her. Harry’s hands were firm around her waist, his lips pressed tightly against hers. He pulled away and they gazed at one another, giddy, energy crackling in the air between them.
‘I’ve brought my writing with me,’ Victoria said when her senses had returned to her, sitting down on Harry’s chair and taking her crumpled papers from her satchel.
‘Really? I’m impressed. You’re serious about all this writing and studying business, aren’t you? And I thought you just liked me for my good looks.’
Victoria laughed. ‘I’d really like your opinion, too. Nobody has ever read my work before.’
Harry sat down opposite Victoria and touched the pages she had given him gently, as though they were fragile. ‘Then I’m honoured, Victoria Lace. I’ll read them tonight.’
‘I want to know if you think I could manage A levels. Perhaps if you do, you could speak to my father and encourage him to let me leave the shop and study instead.’
Harry laughed, ‘I doubt I could manage that. You told me that he doesn’t believe in university, remember?’
‘Maybe I should have kept that to myself,’ Victoria said, grinning.
Harry looked down at the papers she had passed to him. ‘I can’t wait to read these. Are they short stories?’
‘Yes. I did start a novel, too. But I want to finish it before you read it.’
‘Good idea. You’ll learn a lot from writing these. I’ll give you my thoughts next week, perhaps.’
‘Now I do feel like your student.’
Harry leaned forward across the desk and kissed Victoria. He tasted different today from the way he had last night: of morning and coffee, and secrets.
‘And now?’ he said as he leaned back and put his feet on the desk.
‘I feel less like your student,’ she said with a smile. She stood up and went over to Harry, and then he was kissing her again, more desperately than last time. His hands were everywhere, somehow under her clothes and on her bare skin and everything seemed to blur into nothing but feelings: she could feel so much and yet her mind was blank.
And then, a knock at the door.
Victoria sprung back from Harry so quickly that she stumbled, almost falling to the floor. Harry held his hand out to steady her and she took it, dizzy and breathless, feeling like she used to after she had ridden on the waltzer on the pier that had been torn down last year.
‘Your blouse!’ Harry whispered.
Victoria looked down, and saw that her blouse buttons were open, revealing her pale flesh underneath. She fumbled to do them up, trembling, as Harry brushed himself down and moved towards the door.
By the time he had opened it, Victoria had placed herself on the chair opposite the desk again. A bearded man with a ruddy complexion was visible through the crack in the door.
‘Harry, do you have a copy of Titus I could borrow? Mine’s gone bloody walkabout. I tell you, you can’t leave a damn thing around in this… hello, who’s this?’ the man interrupted himself as he pushed into the office and saw Victoria.
‘This is Victoria Lace. Victoria, this is Professor Michael Stone,’ Harry said, his cheeks flushed.
Michael Stone frowned at Victoria. ‘Don’t you work in that little antique shop on Castle Street?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Victoria said, panicking a little. ‘Do you know it?’
‘Yes. I’ve done a bit of business with your father.’
‘I was just going,’ Victoria said, before Michael could say any more. ‘I only came to borrow a book.’ She sprung up and plastered a polite smile on her face; one that she hoped showed her as a stranger to Harry and his office and his chairs. ‘So you were saying, you think Great Expectations is a good one to start with?’
Harry nodded emphatically. ‘Oh yes. Yes. It’s up there, on the shelf.’
Victoria reached up to grab the book, strangely aware of every part of her body, and of Harry and Michael Stone watching her. She pressed her hands around the rough spine of Great Expectations and pulled it down from the shelf.
‘Thank you. I’ll return this when I’ve finished it. I’d better get home. My parents are going out of town this afternoon,’ she said, trying to be meaningful to Harry, though not to Michael Stone.
She turned around towards the door, squeezed past the rather unpleasant bulk of Michael Stone, and burst out into the hot air of the morning. Full of energy, she ran across the courtyard. Michael Stone’s recognition of Victoria and her connection to Lace Antiques hovered in her mind as she rushed from the castle, the sharpness of apprehension about what he might say to her father blunted slightly by images of Harry in her mind and the taste of coffee and secrets on her lips. As angry as her father would be if he found out that Victoria had been spending time at Silenshore University, it was worth the risk for the thrill of the warm, adult touch of Harry’s fingers still on her skin. She hugged Great Expectations to her chest tightly as she walked, and thought of nothing but Harry, Harry, Harry.
She was in her parents’ bedroom when he arrived, sifting through her mother’s cracked pots of orange powder and thick kohl pencils. All the pencils needed sharpening and there was no knife up here. She swept them up to take downstairs to the kitchen, but was distracted by an old compact of peach PanCake, which she dusted over her hand. Perhaps she would try this. Her skin was quite clear, but the powder might make her look older, somehow.
She had opened the window and the curtains were floating into the room softly, bringing with them hot, sour air that promised to turn stormy before evening fell. Although the screaming of gulls and buzz of conversations from outside were amplified, when Victoria heard the knock rise above all the other sounds, she knew it was his.
‘I wasn’t sure if your parents would have left yet. I waited outside until I saw them leave,’ Harry said when she let him in.
The exquisite image of Harry lingering outside the shop, waiting for a chance to see her again, appeared in Victoria’s mind as he followed her through the back of Lace Antiques, and then upstairs. She couldn’t let Harry see her bedroom, with its piled-up issues of Bunty from years ago and childish stuffed rabbits and bears watching their every move. They’d have to stay in here. She leaned forward, into Harry. He kissed her as the first rumble of thunder rolled across the yellowed sky. Vibrations shuddered underneath them and rain began to hammer on the window. Harry’s mouth moved down to Victoria’s neck and his grip on her tightened slightly, their breaths mingling and sending Victoria to that hazy, blissful place where she had been before in Harry’s office. The heat between them was thick and dizzying, and as the thunder roared closer and the brilliant light of electricity flashed into the room, their bodies melted into one another, and Victoria’s life changed forever.
Afterwards, Victoria lay on the floor next to Harry, her pale arm lying across his chest. She kissed his bare skin, which was the colour of milky tea, and then laughed in delight.
‘What are you laughing at?’ he asked, turning to look at her, his green eyes bright and cat-like in the dark room. The storm was in the distance now, but the rain persisted, slamming down on the windows
and staining the air yellow-grey.
‘I’m happy. I’m incredibly, stupidly happy.’
‘I am, too.’ He took her hand and placed it next to his lips. She felt him take a breath, felt the air around her fingers tighten. His lips were slightly chapped and rough against her skin.
Victoria stood up shakily and smiled down at Harry. She was suddenly ravenous, and tried to remember when she had last eaten a proper meal. She wandered into the kitchen, where she clanged about, taking out pans and rifling through the scant food items in the cupboards. She inspected a piece of bread in a white bag from Blythe’s Bakery and saw a fine layer of green mould flowering across the golden surface.
‘Shall I make an omelette?’ Victoria had never cooked anything before, but an omelette surely couldn’t be that difficult. She cracked a couple of eggs into the frying pan that always sat on the cooker. Fragments of shell floated in the gluey yolk, and Victoria prodded at the pieces with her finger, trying to extract them. They wouldn’t come out. She’d have to hope that Harry wouldn’t notice. Did you stir an omelette or just leave it alone? Victoria watched as the eggs bubbled up in the centre and spread their white wings around the edges of the pan. Perhaps Harry would ask her to marry him quite soon, and then somebody would teach her to cook. Who, though? Her mother didn’t ever cook, really. They lived off bread and tinned peaches and chips from Wheel’s across the road. Victoria couldn’t feed Harry those things. Perhaps Sally’s mother would teach her. Sally’s mother was a normal type of woman, who had her hair set every week and hosted civilised dinner parties, where Sally was allowed a small glass of wine and a prawn cocktail starter. Sally’s mother was the kind of woman who would surely be happy to teach a newly married girl how to cook.
Victoria closed her eyes briefly and tried to picture her wedding day, but the sickly smell of the eggs and oil wafting beneath her nose distracted her and pulled her back to the present. She was only wearing her blouse because Harry had pulled her skirt off earlier, and she shivered in the newly fresh air that the storm had brought with it.
Harry stood up and wandered over to where Victoria stood. He peered into the pan, his arm around her waist, but said nothing. She sliced the wobbling mixture into two halves and slid each onto a plate.
‘I’m not very good at cooking,’ said Victoria as they sat in the lounge with the plates on their knees, hoping that Harry would admire her modest honesty. ‘But I can learn. Once I’m a wife, I will learn very quickly.’
Harry paused with a fork lifted to his mouth. The brightness from his eyes disappeared for a moment, a fleeting shadow flickering across them. ‘I don’t want to think about that,’ he said, putting his fork down.
‘Why not? Is it my father? He won’t like the idea at first, but surely, once he’s got to know you, he will-’
‘Victoria…’ Harry’s face was white. ‘I’m already married.’
Chapter 9
Isobel: 2010
My Queen,
I’ve had a letter from somebody anonymous warning me to get away from Silenshore.
I want to know where you’ve gone, and who it is that I might need to protect myself from. Has somebody hurt you, too? If they have, then I need to know. You must tell me.
Victoria, I am barely living without you. I dream of you, and the day that we can be together, always.
H
On Friday evening, the rain comes down in slicing sheets. Isobel pauses for a moment to reposition the bright blue hood of her coat, which has blown down from her head in a hostile gust of wind. Her face is frozen with water. She slams the boot of her Corsa shut and then hurries around to the driver’s side.
As she arrives at Broadsands and swings her car onto the wide gravel driveway, Daphne’s words from when Isobel first met her ring in the air, mingling with the engine and the rain on the windscreen. She stops the car on the drive and sits for a moment.
This is a gift for you both.
But as she listens to the words in her mind over and over again, she remembers Daphne’s face, cool and still. Even the next day, when Isobel and Tom visited Daphne again to tell her that they would like to accept her offer of moving in, she remained unreadable. Isobel thought then, without warning, of her own mother, her feelings painted on her face as brightly as her lipstick. Daphne is another breed altogether.
Isobel sighs and shakes her head, then opens the car door to the pummeling rain and wind. Tom is the only one she really needs to be behind her. And Daphne is just quiet and a bit guarded: one of those people it takes time to get to know. Plus, Isobel reasons as she lugs out some heavy bags from the boot and staggers to the front door, she’ll have all the time in the world to get to know Daphne now that they’ll be living together.
Isobel hammers on the black front door and then tries to push it open. It’s locked. She stands in the pouring rain and surveys the street where she is going to be living, the roads that she will push a pram along. Isobel noticed in the daylight last time they came that Daphne’s house is painted a pastel pink. The one to the left of Daphne’s is powder blue; the one to the right a pale yellow. In the fading sun, the houses looked like a trail of sugared almonds.
The houses opposite look as though they belong in another street, another time altogether: crammed-together terraces that are browned, tired and poor. The road between the two rows of houses is wide, and now Isobel squints across it through the rain. At one of the terraced houses directly opposite Daphne’s, an old woman hunches at her bowing front door. Although the rain is stinging and unrelenting, the woman does not move. With growing unease, Isobel realises that the old woman is staring at her, watching her. Her bright eyes penetrate across the wide, flooded road.
‘Isobel, come in. I didn’t realise the door was locked.’ Daphne’s voice takes a few moments to interrupt Isobel’s gaze across the road. She hurries into the house and is met by the same heavy scent of lavender and polish that she noticed the first time she came.
‘You shouldn’t be carrying those bags. Where’s Tom?’
‘He’s loading up his car at his place. He’ll be here in a minute.’
There’s a silence as the two women stand facing one another. ‘Thanks so much for offering to let us stay,’ Isobel says eventually. ‘We’re really determined to save as much as we can and get somewhere of our own as quickly as possible.’
Daphne shakes her head. ‘You don’t have to worry. I’m rattling around in this house. It’s too big for one person, and I spend a lot of my time in the garden and walking in the summer, so it’s empty a lot of the time.’
Isobel nods. ‘Still, I’m so grateful.’
She follows Daphne into the kitchen and takes a seat at the pine table. Daphne stands at the Aga and waits for the kettle to boil, glancing through to the hall every few seconds. Her pale jeans bear slight splatters of mud, the sign of an earlier walk with Hugh, the chocolate Lab, who wanders around the kitchen in search of something invisible.
‘Have you got much in your car to bring in?’ Daphne asks, running her hand through her short grey hair.
‘Yes, quite a bit. But I might wait until this rain dies down a bit before I unload any more.’
‘Good idea.’
Daphne busies herself with three sturdy blue mugs and some coffee. As she puts one of the mugs down in front of Isobel, the back door creaks open and Tom comes in, rainwater dripping down from his dark hair onto his face. He smiles when he sees Isobel sitting at the table, his eyebrows raised in subtle question.
Are you okay? his face asks, his eyes darting quickly from Daphne back to Isobel.
Isobel smiles back at him and nods subtly. They’ll have to get used to secret code now that they live with his mother.
‘Isobel’s car still needs unloading, Tom. She didn’t want to go out in the rain. Not in her condition,’ she says. Isobel looks down into the remnants of her coffee.
‘It’s okay. I’ll get the stuff out. Just let me unload mine first. Are we in the front bedroom?’
<
br /> ‘Yes. That’s the one I’ve made up. It’s a bit bigger than the other spare, and it’s got those wardrobes. They’re quite old, but they’ll do the trick.’
Tom nods and opens the door again, grimacing as the sharp, wet wind bites at him through the gap. As he leaves, Daphne grins at Isobel. Her smile is wolfish and sharp, disappearing as soon as it’s arrived.
‘Saves you getting wet. Shall I get us some dinner?’
Isobel steals one last glance at the back door, which remains closed. Tom is probably unloading methodically, slowly, in spite of the horrendous rain. And last time Isobel skipped a meal, she felt horribly nauseous and threw up on her carpet. She can’t throw up here, in front of Daphne.
‘Yes, that’d be nice.’
Daphne bends to open the fridge and takes out some chicken, a quiche and some salad. She puts the food out on the table with some hunks of brown, crusty loaf and a tub of hard butter.
‘Might as well tuck in. Tom can get something once he’s finished bringing the things in,’ Daphne says, snatching a piece of chicken and popping it into her mouth. ‘Help yourself. Can’t have you going hungry.’
Tom appears at the door, drenched and dragging two suitcases behind him, as Isobel is loading some chicken onto some bread. He crams a triangle of quiche into his mouth before heading back outside.
‘I don’t mind helping,’ Isobel calls as he ducks back into the wet night.
Tom sticks his head inside again, a faint line of pastry on his upper lip. ‘No need. It won’t take long. You have some more food and relax. It’s been a hectic day.’
When Tom has come back in with her boxes of toiletries and books, and carried all their things upstairs to the bedroom they will be sleeping in, Isobel stands up, her muscles aching from sitting in the hard-backed dining chair.
‘I think I might go to bed, if that’s okay? I can help clear up first, if you like.’
‘No, don’t be silly. There isn’t much to clear,’ Daphne says. ‘I hope you sleep well. I’ll get you a glass of water to take up. Tom, show Isobel the front bedroom, will you?’
