Estelle looked out of the window, shielding her eyes from the morning sun as she peered out at a Lillysands that had barely changed. She resisted the impulse to put her arm out of the window, just as she used to when Max would drive her up this very road in his bright red convertible.
The town was dominated by a huge white cliff face, the pastel-coloured houses lining it painted pretty blues and pinks, yellows and greens, perfect postcard fodder. Along the bottom of the cliff was the town’s famous white beach and pretty marina, a plethora of shops and buildings sitting on cobbled stones across from it. And overlooking it all, Lady Lillysands as the locals called it, a huge hourglass shape that curved in from the cliff face, created from years of wind and rain. It looked like the side profile of a woman’s body, hence its name, and folklore had built up around it over the centuries, one of the reasons tourists flocked to Lillysands so regularly.
As they drove further into town, Estelle noticed colourful posters stuck to walls and lamp posts, advertising the upcoming festival. It was an annual event held in May to celebrate the legend of Lady Lillysands. Lots of stalls, games, entertainment and fun.
‘They still hold the festival here?’ Estelle asked the taxi driver.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘You’re not new to the place then?’
‘No, I used to live here a long time ago.’
‘In Seaview Terrace?’
‘Yes.’
The taxi driver’s face darkened. He went quiet and focused on driving further up the cliffs, passing streets of small pastel-coloured houses. The farther up she got, the more people watched the car suspiciously. Tourists rarely ventured up here so it was unusual to see strangers in taxis this far up. The people of Lillysands didn’t take to strangers, unless they were tourists ploughing money into the town. And even they weren’t supposed to venture beyond the centre. That was why it felt so wonderful to have been accepted as Estelle was back then. As cold as Lillysands could be with strangers, it was irresistibly warm to those it knew and trusted.
As the taxi reached the street where the Garlands lived, two terraced cottages came into view: one pretty blue cottage with a well-kept front garden, the other pink and long abandoned with boarded-up windows. The cottages weren’t officially part of Seaview Terrace, that started with the grander houses farther up the street.
Estelle leaned forward as the car approached the cottages, gripping the taxi driver’s headrest. ‘Can you stop here? I can walk from here.’
The driver came to a stop in front of the cottages and helped Estelle with her large bag as she handed him his money. He peered further up the road towards the Garlands’ mansion, a frown puckering his brow. ‘You take care, alright?’ he said.
Estelle looked into his eyes. He seemed wary of Autumn and Max. But then Estelle remembered there had been jealousy in the town, the rich residents sometimes sneered at by the less well off.
As the taxi drove off, Estelle didn’t go straight to the Garlands’ house, instead walking towards the pink cottage, memories accosting her of her foster sister Alice sitting cross-legged on the dusty floorboards, red hair dangling to her knees as she read a book; Aiden sitting on the windowsill, strumming his guitar as he looked out over the sea. And Estelle – or Stel as she was known then – her long brown hair a tangle around her shoulders, lying on the floor next to Alice, drumming her fingers to the music as she watched Aiden. She quickly peered into a window to double check it still wasn’t occupied, finding the same empty rooms and peeling wallpaper. Still empty, just as it had been when she’d been a teenager.
Estelle’s fingertips glanced over the cottage’s bumpy walls as she walked around its side, heading towards the small garden at the back with its large tree, branches trembling in the early summer breeze. She paused. Was it her imagination or did there seem to be barely any garden left now? The tree she was sure used to sit in the middle of the garden was now so close to the cliff edge. Perhaps she’d just remembered it wrong.
She paused as she peered past the tree. At the edge of the cliff was a withering bunch of flowers. Pink roses, edges browning, green stems wilting. A memorial to a life long lost.
‘Oh Alice,’ she whispered to herself.
‘I thought it was you.’
She turned to see a man in his fifties with glasses and greying hair standing behind her. She frowned. ‘Do I know you?’
He smiled sadly. ‘I’ve aged that much, have I?’
She looked at him in shock. ‘Mr Tate?’
He nodded. He had aged. Mr Tate had been the school’s most beloved teacher, one of those hip teachers who let you sit on your table and discuss the interesting anthropological learnings from last night’s Eastenders when you should have been learning about the Treaty of Versailles. And yet he still managed to get top marks for his students.
Estelle had been particularly impressed by him. She’d come to Lillysands being suspicious of teachers, her first experience of them in her old primary school chequered. But soon she grew to adore Mr Tate just as much as everyone else did.
‘I’m surprised you recognise me,’ she said to him with a smile.
‘The famous chef? Of course I do. So, what brings you back to Lillysands? Autumn’s sixtieth?’
Estelle closed her eyes. Oh god, she’d forgotten it was Autumn’s birthday that weekend. This was the woman who’d been like a mother to her for several years. But, then, Estelle hadn’t been in touch with her for even more years.
Thinking that made her feel even worse.
‘It’s going to be quite the party,’ Mr Tate continued. ‘I hear they’re even getting in caterers.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But then the Garlands have always known how to throw a party.’ He’d never been a fan of Autumn and Max. Maybe as a self-proclaimed leftie, he found their excesses a bit much.
‘No, it’s just a fleeting visit,’ Estelle explained.
He flinched. ‘Look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to get in touch about.’
‘The journalist?’ Estelle asked, thinking of what the journalist who’d visited her had told her about speaking to Mr Tate.
He nodded. ‘It was Mary. She answered the phone to him, he got her talking. By the time I realised who it was …’ He sighed. ‘Sorry. I tried to remedy it by talking to him but I probably just made it worse.’
‘It’s fine, really. How is she?’
He peered towards the blue cottage where he lived with his wife, another teacher who’d been at the school when Estelle was there. His brown eyes filled with sadness. ‘She’s ill, I’m afraid. Cancer.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’
‘We’ll fight it, don’t you worry,’ he said, clearly forcing himself to be bright. ‘I retired early to make sure I’m there for her.’
Her heart went out to him. She’d always liked them both.
He looked towards the dried flowers at the side of the cliff. ‘It still pains us to think of what happened to Alice. She was such a bright girl, had so much promise.’
Estelle followed his gaze. ‘Yes, she did,’ she whispered.
Fifteen years ago, Alice had jumped from this very cliff. They’d discovered Alice’s body the day after Estelle gave birth, swept up on the beach at the foot of the Lady Lillysands cliff, a suicide note eventually found in her room.
‘She’d have been proud of how far you’ve come,’ Mr Tate said. ‘I’m proud. You did it. You really did. And with a recipe book too.’ He put his hand on her shoulder, looking into her eyes. ‘You’ve come a long way, Estelle.’
‘Thank you.’
He sighed, peering back over his shoulder. ‘I better get back to Mary. I just saw you here and thought I’d come over to say hello. Hopefully see you around?’
Estelle smiled. ‘Hopefully.’
‘Take care, Estelle.’ Then he walked off towards his cottage.
She watched him go, noticing how he limped slightly. Would Autumn and Max appear aged as well? Somehow, she couldn’t imagine it. They’d
always seemed invincible and timeless to her. Only one way to find out.
She shrugged her bag over her shoulder, walking up the road towards Seaview Terrace, home to the huge house where the Garlands lived.
When she’d first arrived there as a child, a large sign had welcomed her: ‘Seaview Terrace. Luxury 5- and 6-bed clifftop houses for sale, the ideal seaside home or holiday let.’ Her foster father Max had developed these houses with an investment from his rich friend Peter. They were so grand and modern, a dozen pastel-coloured houses, the jewel in Lillysands’ property crown.
Estelle approached the Garlands’ house now, the first of the houses, heart thumping. Its pale lilac walls felt so familiar to her, the pebble-lined lane that ran up to the glass front door like a walkway through her memories. She remembered how it had felt to look at the house all those years before. She’d been used to the houses she was carted off to getting progressively worse (cause enough problems with foster carers and word gets out). But this house had blown her mind.
Autumn was the first one to come to the door when Estelle arrived there as a girl. Estelle had been as awestruck at her as she had been the house. Autumn was so glamorous, with blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders, wearing a long-sleeved blue dress, neckline plunging. She’d met Estelle’s eyes, compassion in her own green ones, as Estelle had trudged up to the door.
‘Come here, darling,’ Autumn had said, opening her arms to her.
Estelle had recoiled.
‘Come on,’ Autumn had coaxed.
The social worker had shoved Estelle towards Autumn and Estelle had taken a reluctant step, peering suspiciously at a man who’d appeared in the hallway behind the woman. He was tall with short spiky white hair and sparkling blue eyes.
‘It’s only a hug,’ Autumn had said. ‘It won’t kill you.’
So she’d stepped into Autumn’s arms, flinching, and Autumn had held her close.
‘You’re home,’ she’d whispered into Estelle’s ear. ‘You don’t ever have to be scared or alone or hungry again.’
Estelle had seriously thought about bolting then. But she knew if she did, that would be it, her social worker had told her that. No more chances. She’d be thrown into the melting pot, a lost cause. A small part of her feared that. So she’d let Autumn hug her despite hating every minute.
That was the thing back then, she was so unused to affection. Her father had come from a family who’d rather die than show anyone anything close to warmth. Estelle still remembered the occasional visits to her grandparents’ house in those very early days before they passed away when she was six: her parents showering and pulling on their best clothes (the ill-fitting navy suit her father always wore to court; a tight black dress and ugly red jacket for her mother). They’d put bows in Estelle’s curly brown hair, force her into a pretty but oversized dress and shoes so tight they made her cry. She’d grizzle throughout the entire thing and it would make her parents argue, make her grandparents tut and roll their eyes. ‘Can’t control her,’ they’d mutter under their breaths. ‘Look at her filthy face.’ No love, no hugs. Nothing.
It seemed to pass down to Estelle’s birth parents. Instead, hands reaching out for her would often scare her, signalling a telling off, a gripped wrist, slapped cheeks. Looking back now, Estelle could see why her parents were the way they were. Her mother’s parents were alcoholics, neglectful and violent. Estelle’s father’s parents were lacking in a different way. On the surface, they seemed like upstanding members of the community. But beneath it all, they were harsh with their son, judgmental and critical. It made Estelle’s father so angry at the world, always trying to prove himself. He liked to tell her and anyone else who’d listen he’d have been a famous football player if it weren’t for a knee injury he’d sustained as a teenager (caused by a fight with another kid – the same fight that had got him slung behind bars for eighteen months, Estelle eventually found out). ‘We could be living in a mansion right now, Estelle. A proper mansion with a butler and everything.’ To give him his due, Estelle had once found a grotty much-used article of him holding up a medal for being ‘player of the match’, black hair sweaty, brown eyes sparkling. She remembered staring at that athletic fourteen-year-old, trying to find the skinny, angry, spotty father she knew.
When she’d first walked into the Garlands’ house, she’d remembered her father’s boasts. Now, this is a mansion, she’d thought to herself.
Estelle peered up at the house now, battling a riot of emotions as she smoothed her white cotton dress down, tucking her sweeping fringe across her tanned forehead.
Then the front door suddenly opened – Autumn appearing there as she had all those years before. She was wearing a long white dress and gold sandals, her lips painted red, her eyeliner a bird’s wing above each green eye. Autumn’s hair was a little shorter, but she looked the same as she had fifteen years before, bar the odd wrinkle or two.
Autumn shielded her eyes from the morning sun with her hands as she looked at Estelle. Then her eyes widened. ‘Stel?’ she called out.
‘Yes, sorry,’ Estelle said, walking up the path, memories chasing her with every step: Alice and her skipping down this path, arms interlinked. Aiden and Estelle whispering their goodbyes in the darkness, lips briefly touching before sneaking back into the house. ‘I should have called. It was quite impulsive.’
‘No, no, not at all, you’re always welcome!’ That was the way it was with the Garlands; their door was always open to the people they cared about. But it had been fifteen years. Autumn grabbed Estelle into a hug anyway, as if those fifteen years hadn’t passed, her musky perfume overwhelming Estelle with memories. Estelle peered over her shoulder towards the house, looking in at its beautifully wallpapered cream walls. Autumn had it redecorated every couple of years by her interior designer friend Becca so it always looked clean and fresh. Estelle remembered feeling filthy in the house’s presence the first time she arrived; her dark hair a tangle down her back, her tartan trousers grubby and her black jumper too tight.
Now she felt clean by comparison, so clean she could almost smell the scorching bleach come off her.
Autumn pulled back, looking into Estelle’s eyes. ‘I just had a feeling when you called me yesterday, we’d see you before too long. Please, come in,’ Autumn said, beckoning her inside.
Estelle paused a moment before stepping over the threshold. The house seemed to reach out to her, pulling her towards it, and she felt a heady mixture of an intense need to get in there and a roaring desire to run away.
‘Max!’ Autumn shouted, her voice echoing around the large hallway and giving Estelle no choice but to step in as she gently led her inside.
Max appeared at the top of the stairs, looking the same too with his short white hair and sharp blue eyes.
‘Look who’s come for a visit,’ Autumn said.
Max peered closer at Estelle then shook his head in disbelief. ‘Is it really you, Stel?’ he asked, laughing his charming laugh. The sound of it took her right back in time. It was overwhelming. How had they barely aged? ‘Autumn’s been dreaming about this for years,’ he said, jogging down the luxuriously carpeted stairs. ‘You never call, you never visit,’ he joked, reaching out to Estelle. She walked towards him, letting him envelope her in his arms.
‘I’m sorry I left it so long,’ Estelle said, eventually extracting herself from his grip. ‘Life caught up with me.’
‘Stop with the apologies,’ Autumn said, stroking Estelle’s short hair. ‘You’re here now and that’s what counts. Look how different your hair is!’
‘It suits you,’ Max said. ‘Must’ve been a long journey. You’re in London now, right?’
Estelle nodded, taking in the vast hallway with dark wooden floors and walls adorned with various family photos – including one of Estelle, face calm as she looked out to sea, her long dark hair in a ponytail. Estelle looked at that girl, tried to find herself in her face. But all she could see was Poppy.
She’d looked jus
t like Poppy. How could she not have seen that before? But then she didn’t have many photos from her childhood like other kids did; she’d left it all behind.
‘Look at this place,’ Estelle said, dragging her eyes away from the picture and feeling like that awe-filled teenager all over again. ‘It looks just as amazing as it did the first time I was here.’
‘Bet it’s bringing back some memories,’ Max said, his arm back around her shoulder.
Estelle nodded, stepping away from him. She should be used to the over-affectionate ways of the Garlands, but it all felt like too much now. That was the thing with them. Nothing by halves. All the emotion and the love thrown at you until you just found yourself wrapped up in it and rolling down a cliff so fast you forgot the old you was standing at the top, watching.
She supposed that’s how she felt all those years ago, standing in the very spot she was standing in now, peering up at the large balcony above and trying to reconcile it with the house she’d lived in as a child with her parents: the tiny cramped hallway with used nappies on the floor, dirty toys flung all over, empty wine bottles and discarded filthy scraps of foil, her mum weaving towards her, ash falling from her cigarette.
‘You must be starving,’ Autumn said, taking Estelle’s hand and leading her through the house. Estelle stopped as she reached the threshold of the kitchen, mouth dropping open. It looked just like her kitchen at Seb’s house. White floor-to-ceiling cupboards across the wall to the left with a line of low units dominated by a pale blue Aga cooker. Then, in the middle, a sleek wood-topped island with four chrome stools overlooking the stunning views outside.
Had she unwittingly moulded her kitchen design from memories of this place, without even realising?
She felt her eyes drawn towards the view through the vast windows. An endless sea, the white of the cliffs. How familiar a sight, one that used to greet her each morning.
She walked to the windows, taking it all in. This garden seemed so much smaller now too. Her teenage eyes must have magnified things in her memories.
Her Last Breath Page 6
