by Jane Casey
‘Of course.’ Freya, my cousin, born not long after me, dead since last summer. I had never met her. The news of her death had been strangely shocking – strange, because I had never thought about her, beyond knowing her name. Strange because I had felt a sharp sense of loss for something I had never known I was missing. ‘I hadn’t realized it was a year ago already.’
‘In a couple of weeks.’ Mum’s hands tightened on the wheel and she didn’t look at me as she said, ‘When it happened I was already in touch with Tilly.’
‘You didn’t tell me that.’ Tilly, Mum’s twin sister. Freya’s mother.
She wriggled. ‘I didn’t want to tell you about it because I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. We were just getting to know one another again. It takes time to build up a relationship after being out of touch for so long.’
‘Eighteen years.’
A nod. ‘From right after I got engaged to your father until the day the divorce papers came through.’
‘Because she didn’t like Dad.’
‘Not much. But I didn’t listen.’
‘Which is why you didn’t bother to warn me about Conrad,’ I guessed.
‘One of the reasons. It didn’t seem worth it. When you’re in love, reason goes out the window. And I loved your father very much.’
‘We all make mistakes,’ I said kindly.
‘It wasn’t a mistake. If I hadn’t married him, I wouldn’t have you.’
‘Thanks. For the gift of life, I mean.’
‘You’re welcome. Tilly was nice enough not to say I told you so, and she and Jack invited us to come and stay last year. But then Freya died.’
‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘Not suicide or something.’
The car lurched as Mum yanked the wheel, irritated. ‘Jess, I’m serious. Do not even suggest something like that to Tilly. Promise me.’
‘I was just asking,’ I said, wounded.
‘You can’t ask. It would be too hurtful.’
‘Because they don’t want to think Freya killed herself.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Don’t they want to know the truth, though?’
‘Not necessarily.’
I thought about that for a couple of miles. I could understand that if Freya had chosen to end her life, it would be hard to bear. I’d still have wanted to know for sure, though. And it was weird to think that she’d been the same age as me, and now she was gone.
‘So why are we going to see them now?’
‘I want to go home,’ Mum said simply. ‘I want to see the old places. I want to see my sister and get to know my niece and nephews, and I want you to have a family.’
‘I have a family.’
‘You have your father, his current girlfriend and me. That’s not enough.’
I was frowning. ‘If you were in touch with Tilly when Freya died, why didn’t you go to see her then?’
‘It wasn’t the right time.’
‘Why not?’
Mum looked at me before she answered, as if she was considering what to say and how to say it. ‘Because you would have come with me.’
‘So? I know Tilly didn’t like Dad, but I’m not that much like him.’
‘Mm.’
‘What else?’
‘Is my handbag on your side of the car?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘I’m not.’ Mum glanced at me again. ‘Seriously, Jess – look inside my bag, in the zipped pocket.’
I found the bag wedged behind my left foot and dragged it onto my lap with some difficulty, since the front of the car was crammed, as was the back seat and the boot. We did not travel light. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘Tilly sent me a photo of the family. I think you should see what Freya looked like.’
As she said it, I unzipped the pocket. My fingertips brushed against a stiff bit of paper and I slid it out, careful not to bend the edges. It was a family photograph of six people sitting on a grassy slope. Two adults, one the image of Mum, the other tall and fair, superficially like Dad. The sisters had a type, it seemed. Two girls, two boys. Two older, two younger.
‘Hugo was the eldest. Then Freya. Then Petra. Then Tom.’
Tom with a football under his arm and a scowl on his face, as if he wanted to go and play instead of posing for a picture. He was maybe ten, a couple of years younger than Petra. She sat with one sandal off, bare brown legs crossed in front of her, still childish but not for much longer. Hugo, as dark as I am fair, a year older than me and broodingly attractive. And Freya, I guessed. Freya, who was blonde, like me. Who had the same shape of face as me, the same pointed chin. The same slanting blue eyes. The same mouth.
The same. Top to toe. The dead girl and I could have been twins.
I looked up. ‘Mum . . .’
‘Don’t worry. I sent Tilly pictures of you. She knows what to expect.’
But everyone else wouldn’t, I thought, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
So it wasn’t really surprising, all things considered, that people on Fore Street were acting as if they’d seen a ghost. As far as they were concerned, Freya was back from the dead.
Awkward wasn’t the word.
I lasted another ten steps before yet another person did a double take, this time an elderly man carrying a battered golf umbrella. He stopped in his tracks, the better to stare at me. I dived without thinking into the nearest shop, without even checking to see what it sold, looking for a place to hide. The dovecot smell of dusty old books met me and I smiled to myself as I pushed my hood back. A proper second-hand bookshop. Exactly what I had been looking for.
It wasn’t a large shop but every inch of available space was shelved and a pair of bookcases ran down the middle of the room so that it was divided into three narrow aisles. Stacks of hardbacks teetered on the floor, waiting for a gap to appear in the row upon row of books, faded and worn and thoroughly enticing. The expensive ones were in glass cases nearest the door, the collector’s items in tooled leather or wrapped in the original dust jackets. Not for me. I wandered down the middle aisle, passing gardening and theology, politics and fishing – nothing that would tempt me to stop. There was a desk near the back with a cash register on it, but no sign of the person who was reading – I leaned over to look at the hardback that was lying on the desk – Classic Cars of the 1970s. Interesting stuff.
Or perhaps not.
Behind the desk, a sign on a frankly dangerous-looking spiral staircase promised that the fun stuff like contemporary fiction was upstairs. I put my hand on the banister, prepared to risk the narrow treads for the sake of something decent to read, then stopped. Quick footsteps overhead: someone moving towards the stairs. I stood back to let them come down. I wasn’t superstitious about passing people on the stairs – there just wasn’t room for two on the death spiral.
The owner of the feet rattled down the steps at top speed, a mug of coffee in one hand, a stack of books balanced precariously in the other, and it was my turn to stare. He was very much not the fuddy-duddy bookshop owner I had expected, lean in jeans and a T-shirt. He was seventeen or eighteen, tall, with dark hair. Straight nose. Broad shoulders. Oh, hello . . .
He half glanced at me, his eyes startlingly grey against his tan, then did a classic double take and almost slipped. He swore as the books slid to the floor, but managed not to spill his coffee, which impressed me. I might have wondered what his problem was if he hadn’t been giving me the look I was starting to expect: shock mixed with suspicion. And what looked like – but surely couldn’t have been – fear . . .
‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine.’ He didn’t look at me again as he set his mug down on the desk and turned to rescue the books he’d dropped.
‘Sorry.’ I picked up the paperback that had fallen at my feet – To Kill a Mockingbird – and handed it to him.
‘Why are you sorry?’ He concentrated on flattening the pages t
hat had creased when the book fell.
‘Because I startled you.’
He didn’t bother to deny it. ‘No harm done.’
‘Harper Lee is looking a bit battered,’ I observed.
A glance at the back of the book, then the grey eyes met mine again. He looked amused and I wondered if I had imagined him going pale under his tan when he saw me first. ‘She wasn’t exactly pristine before.’
There was absolutely no reason for me to blush, but I did it anyway. To cover it, I said, at random, ‘I was just going upstairs.’
‘Be my guest.’
I started up the staircase, acutely conscious that he was watching me. I risked a look down from near the top, and felt a jolt of surprise that was halfway to disappointment. He was sitting down with his back to me, already absorbed in his book. And why not? I was just another customer.
Even so, I wandered around the upstairs room as the floor creaked, dithering about which book to choose from the thousands that lined the walls. It wasn’t that I wanted to impress him, I promised myself. But romance was out. Crime didn’t seem to strike the right note either. Distracted, I found myself wishing I knew more about Freya. Had she been an intellectual? Did she read novels? Did she read anything at all? The room was large, with a pair of sagging leather armchairs in the middle and dormer windows that looked out on the wet street below. A door in the corner was marked PRIVATE; that would be where he had made his coffee, I thought, and then wondered why I cared. I went as far as one of the windows, stepping up on a low shelf to peer out at the street. As I turned away, I half saw myself reflected in the glass and looked again – a ghost version of me, shadows for eyes, washed-out skin, and hair that hung in straggling tails. A drowned me. They had found Freya in the sea, I recalled with a shiver that surprised me, then made me laugh. I was getting to be as bad as everyone else in Port Sentinel, as edgy about nothing, about a coincidental resemblance. I turned the shiver into a shrug and jumped down off the shelf, careless of the noise I made. I was there to buy a book, after all, not wallow in creepiness. And I still didn’t have a clue what to choose.
In the end, a cheap paperback edition of Cold Comfort Farm came to the rescue. I knew the title but not what it was about, and levered it off a crowded shelf to have a look. Sitting in one of the armchairs, I lost track of time as I read the first few pages, and then a few more. I hadn’t expected it to be funny, but it was. I made myself stop reading eventually, checked I could afford it, and went back down the stairs with the grace and dexterity of a three-toed sloth. The boy could run down if he liked. I didn’t mind sacrificing speed if it meant I wouldn’t make a fool of myself by falling. I was so busy concentrating on looking nonchalant that I didn’t notice the boy was gone until I put my book down on the desk. In his place sat a balding middle-aged man in a tweed jacket, the bookshop owner of my imagination. He didn’t crack a smile as I handed him two pound coins, tossing them into the till with something approaching disdain.
Taking my book, I hesitated for a second, then plunged. ‘Where did your assistant go?’
‘Who? Oh – Will. He was just looking after the shop for me for half an hour. We’re not busy today. As usual.’
My book was not going to make the difference between profit and loss, it seemed. I slunk out, hiding it under my jacket to protect it from the rain that was still falling. At least I had found out the boy’s name, if nothing else. It suited him, I thought. Will.
And as if I had summoned him, he fell into step beside me.
‘I think we need to talk.’
2
TOO STARTLED TO protest, I allowed myself to be steered towards a small coffee shop on the other side of the street from the bookshop. It was dark, with sticky oilcloth coverings on the tables and a seriously no-frills approach to décor, but it smelled of freshly baked cakes and good coffee, and almost all the tables were full. Will pulled back a chair to let an old lady out, then nicked the table she had just left, to one side of the window.
An elderly waitress bustled up before I had finished unzipping my jacket, her eyes locked on her notepad. ‘What are you having?’
I didn’t dare ask for time to look at a menu. ‘Just a black coffee.’
‘Same for me,’ Will said.
Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice and she beamed at him. ‘I didn’t see it was you, my darling. We’ve got a lovely chocolate cake today.’
‘Not right now, Dot. I’m still full from breakfast.’
‘I don’t believe it. A growing boy like you needs to eat. I’ll bring you a small piece. On the house. With two forks.’ As she said the last bit, she turned to me and winked. I felt rather than saw the shock hit her, amusement fading instantly to doubtful confusion. I busied myself with rummaging in my bag, looking for absolutely nothing, until she had moved away.
‘You’d better get used to that.’ He hadn’t missed it, then. I didn’t think the grey eyes would miss much. ‘It’s a small town. And everyone knew Freya.’
It helped that he had said her name first. ‘Freya was my cousin.’
‘That almost explains the resemblance.’
‘I didn’t know.’ I was fiddling with the end of my ponytail, I realized, and made myself stop. ‘My mum and her mum are identical twins. And my dad looks quite like Jack. They have the same colouring, anyway.’
He was looking at me intently, studying my face. ‘It’s uncanny.’
‘It’s genetic.’
I saw him react to the sharp-edged comment but only because I happened to be staring at his mouth when the corner of it curved upwards. Instead of responding directly, he said, ‘You don’t sound like her.’
‘Because I grew up in London?’
‘Because of the things you say, more.’ He didn’t explain what he meant, and I didn’t want to ask until I had a better idea of him, and how well he had known my cousin. Quite well, I thought. Maybe very. But he was asking, ‘Didn’t you ever meet her?’
I shook my head. ‘Mum’s the black sheep of the family, so this is my first trip. We’re staying for the summer.’
‘I’ll sort out the welcome banners. But I’ll need to know your name.’
‘Oh! Sorry. I forgot. I’m Jess Tennant.’
‘Jess.’ He repeated it, as if it sounded strange to him, as if he needed to learn it. I wondered for a second if I had found another halfwit – a matching pair with Conrad – but that didn’t fit with the steady appraisal I was getting. I wondered what he was thinking, and then remembered with a rush of embarrassment that I wasn’t supposed to know what he was called.
‘And you are?’
‘I’m Will Henderson. I live near the Leonards,’ he added with a half-smile.
The Leonards. My cousins. ‘I haven’t met them yet.’
The half-smile widened to a proper grin. ‘It’s an experience.’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘You might not have to. Hugo and Petra are around today. I think they went down to the harbour.’
I leaned back in my seat, unable to keep the dismay off my face.
Will raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You mean apart from having a whole family I’ve never met? What about looking exactly like their dead sister?’
There was a clunk as Dot dumped my cup in front of me. She had to have heard the last bit, and I stared down at my coffee as she gave Will his and set the cake between us. I was afraid to see the expression on her face. Without missing a beat Will engaged her in conversation about business and the tourist season and what she’d done at the weekend while I wished the window opened wide enough to let me escape. After what seemed like for ever, she creaked off.
‘It’s OK. She’s gone.’ Will sounded amused.
I gave him a filthy look. ‘Is it any wonder I’m on edge?’
He relented. ‘Don’t be. You don’t need to be.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Really. Word will get around pretty quickly that you’re her cousin.’<
br />
‘But until then I’d better get used to the staring and whispering.’
‘It won’t be that bad.’
‘You think?’ I fiddled with my cup. ‘You had a pretty strong reaction when you saw me.’
‘I slipped.’
I really wanted to take him at his word, but I couldn’t. ‘I bet you could go up and down those stairs a million times a day carrying a hundred books, blindfolded, and you’d never put a foot wrong. I know what I saw. You were freaked out.’
‘Not me.’ He looked interested. ‘What do you mean by everyone else?’
‘Take your pick. Pretty much everyone in here has had a look at me since we came in. Some of them are still staring. The girl in the corner hasn’t noticed me yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’
‘There’s no need to be paranoid. You’re just not used to the small-town atmosphere.’
‘It’s not paranoia. And I’m not so sure it’s a small-town thing either.’ He looked sceptical and I added, ‘Before you suggest it, I’m not imagining it.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ He spun his cup on its saucer. ‘You can’t be surprised about the staring. Given what happened.’
I leaned across the table, lowering my voice. ‘That’s the thing. I don’t know what happened. Everyone hints but no one actually says it.’
‘People don’t like to talk about that sort of thing.’
‘I get that. But I also have the feeling I’ve come in halfway through the story and I’m never going to catch up. And I want to know more about Freya.’
‘What do you want to know?’
I hesitated, thinking of what Mum had said about not asking questions in case I hurt someone’s feelings. But Will wasn’t part of Freya’s family. And he was basically offering to tell me all about it. I couldn’t let that opportunity go.
‘Were you friends with her?’
‘Of course.’ He looked wary, as if he didn’t like where I was steering the conversation.
‘Were you more than friends?’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Direct, aren’t you?’
I held my nerve. ‘You haven’t answered the question.’
