by Jane Casey
‘Are you expecting a visitor?’
Mum shook her head, looking wary. I rolled off the sofa and went to answer it, discovering a girl about my age standing on the doorstep, a small, curvy girl with bone-straight dark hair and very long eyelashes. She was wearing a fashion-student outfit: a white crocheted shift dress over leggings and a stripy top, lace-up boy shoes, a denim jacket, a straw hat. I would have looked as if I had sleepwalked into an Oxfam shop and dressed myself before I woke up. On her, it sort of worked. She stared at me with eyes as round as marbles.
‘Wow. I mean, seriously. Wow. You have to be Jess.’
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Darcy.’ Her hand shot out and I shook it, admiring the five different shades of varnish on her nails. Grey, coral, teal, yellow, mint-green. ‘I was Freya’s best, best friend.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Petra told me you were here.’ She laughed, a completely joyous gurgle that made me smile too, more or less in spite of myself. ‘No one is going to believe this until they see you. I mean, I didn’t believe it.’
A creak behind me was Mum coming to look over my shoulder. She had to have heard what Darcy was saying, which made me meanly pleased. This is what I’m going to have to put up with all summer. Happy now?
‘I’m Jess’s mother.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Tennant.’ She had the surname right and everything. She’d done her homework, I thought. Another handshake and no hint of shyness about it. She had a parent-charming smile that made Mum melt.
‘Jess, aren’t you going to invite Darcy in?’
‘No, because the cottage isn’t big enough for three.’
‘I came round to see if Jess wanted to come for a walk, Mrs Tennant. Is that OK?’
‘Fine by me.’ I could hear the relief in Mum’s voice. Jess is making friends. This holiday isn’t going to be a disaster.
‘Give me two minutes to get ready.’ I squinted at the sky. ‘Has it stopped raining?’
‘Half an hour ago. The forecast is good for this evening too, so you won’t need your jacket, if that’s it.’ She was staring at the anorak on its hook with complete, unfeigned horror. It was more practical than stylish, as I would have been the first to admit. I almost wanted to wear it anyway, just to tease her, but the temperature had climbed as the weather improved and I really didn’t need it.
I ran upstairs and changed into a long-sleeved top that was lighter than my sweatshirt. A quick look in the mirror confirmed that my plait had come loose, ends of hair poking out at all angles. I pulled the elastic off the end, ran my fingers down the length of it and shook it out over my shoulders. It had enough of a natural wave not to need any more attention apart from a quick brush. Also, I really couldn’t be bothered to do more. What I was looking forward to was a conversation with someone who wasn’t over burdened with dark secrets. Darcy seemed to be about as deep as a puddle, and more or less as transparent.
Her jaw dropped as I rattled back down the stairs. ‘How did you have time to do your hair?’
‘I didn’t really do anything to it.’
‘You have magic hair.’ She nodded wisely. ‘Many long for it. Few are gifted with it.’
‘Oh, come off it.’ I looked in the hall mirror. ‘It’s just hanging there.’
‘Like a shampoo ad.’ She sighed. ‘Do you know how long it would take me to make my hair look remotely like that? I mean, just getting it straight like this is a battle. Forget volume and waves.’
‘I’m willing to bet you take a while getting ready to go out.’
‘What gives you that idea?’
‘Not sure. Maybe the manicure.’
She looked down at it briefly, then waggled her fingers at me. ‘Don’t you love it, though? Seriously?’
‘I seriously do,’ I said truthfully, stepping out onto the pavement and pulling the door closed behind me. ‘Where are we going?’
‘The seafront.’ She said it as if it was the obvious choice.
‘I didn’t make it that far this morning. I just went down Fore Street.’
‘OK, well, then you don’t know anything about Port Sentinel. Basically, there’s the seafront where the beach is, and then there’s a hill, and then, on the other side of that, there’s the harbour. The seafront is where you go. The harbour is where you go to look at boats.’ She pulled a face at the very idea. ‘Have you even seen the beach?’
‘Nope. But it was raining this morning. I doubt it would have been looking its best.’
‘Oh, OK. I forgot. Well, it’s not massive, but it’s such a nice beach. It’s good for swimming because it’s sheltered and the water’s pretty shallow. And we don’t have day-trippers much because there isn’t a lot of parking nearby, so it doesn’t get too busy.’
‘Is everyone in this town on the tourist board’s payroll? Petra was telling me what a great place it was to stay too.’
Darcy stopped walking and stared up at me soulfully, one hand on my arm. ‘We just want to make sure you have a good time. It’s so sad that you’ve never been down before.’
‘It just didn’t work out that way.’ I wasn’t sure how much of the family history Darcy knew, but she didn’t strike me as being particularly discreet. If she didn’t know the details, I wasn’t going to tell her.
‘But you missed out on getting to know Freya.’
‘What was she like?’ I was hoping for a straight answer for once.
‘Where to start? Well, she was funny. She was seriously clever. She was really into art and design, which totally isn’t a surprise because of her mum being an artist – oh, but you know that.’
I did, but only vaguely. ‘What sort of artist?’
‘Animal portraits.’ Darcy looked surprised when I laughed. ‘No, she’s really good. She captures their souls.’
‘If they have souls.’
‘Oh my God, don’t say that to Tilly. I don’t know that she’d forgive you for thinking they don’t.’
‘Right. No theological discussions. I’ll try to remember that.’
‘Anyway, the animal portraits just pay the bills. You should ask her if you can have a look at her studio when you’re at the house. It’s fascinating. She does amazing things with watercolours.’
‘Are you into art too?’
A vigorous nod. ‘And fashion. But don’t ask me where that comes from. I mean, my mum dresses in high-waisted jeans and loafers. My dad thinks Jack Vettriano is the greatest living artist, a genius.’ She mimed throwing up. ‘Tilly is the real thing. And so was Freya. She had an amazing eye.’
‘Did she paint?’
‘Oh yeah. All the time. She was so good. She did everything – landscapes, portraits, pencil drawings. She was just working out what she could do, you know? Working out her own style. We were going to go to art college together.’ Darcy’s face suddenly looked pinched, and I realized she was trying not to cry. When she spoke again, though, she was back to being perky. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m more of a reader. I do like art, but I’m not creative in that way.’
‘Oh.’ Darcy shook her head. ‘I don’t know why I expected you to be arty.’
‘Don’t you?’ I laughed, not minding. There was something so straightforward about Darcy, so open and direct, that I couldn’t take offence. ‘Tell me more about Freya. What else did she like?’
We went down through the town, taking short cuts across cobbled yards and alleys so narrow we walked single file, while Darcy told me about Freya. She liked poetry – the Romantics, particularly – and long walks, and swimming. She liked films and would watch anything, in any language, including horror films and slapstick comedies. She liked surprisingly hard-edge rock music and mountain biking and eating things she’d baked herself, although she had a tendency to experiment unwisely with the ingredients. She liked vintage clothes and wearing her hair loose (I tucked mine behind my ears, suddenly self-conscious) and pretty shoes. She didn’t like branded clothes. She didn’t like
surfing. She didn’t like reality TV. She read novels, but only occasionally. Darcy brought her to life for me and I listened, enthralled, unable to resist measuring myself up against Freya, as everyone else surely would. I would have loved to meet her, I found myself thinking. She was real, when Darcy talked about her. She was interesting, and complicated, and talented. Her absence was a loss – to me and everyone else who’d never met her as well as to those who had loved her.
I was thinking about working the conversation around to how Freya died when Darcy turned right and gestured expansively. ‘The seafront.’
In spite of what I’d been told, I was expecting the traditional English seaside – amusement arcades, ice-cream shops and depressing little hotels that had seen better days. In Port Sentinel, however, the beach had a wide green park behind the promenade, overlooked by rows of Victorian houses. Some of them were hotels, it was true, but they were freshly painted and had flourishing palm trees in front of them. Two pink-and-white refreshment stands stood at either end of the park, looking very 1930s. The beach was flawless yellow sand that stretched across a small bay cradled by the hills, the sides high enough to shelter it from the wind that often blew along that stretch of coast.
‘Which is why this place is so great,’ Darcy explained. ‘On the other side of that headland, the wind is pretty constant so if you’re into sailing you can usually catch a breeze. There’s another beach for the surfers that faces west and gets serious waves. This one is just for posing. And swimming,’ she added, looking slightly dubious. I didn’t imagine she did much swimming. Too risky for her hair, for one thing.
She was leading me along the promenade, towards a knot of young people who were occupying a few benches set close together, or sitting on the grass between them. There were maybe twenty of them. Three or four were perched on the balustrade that ran beside the path, an ornate wrought-iron construction.
I hung back. ‘Darcy, what are you doing?’
‘I want to introduce you to everyone.’ She grabbed my hand and pulled me after her. ‘Come on. Don’t be shy.’
‘Who’s everyone?’ I pinned a smile on my face, trying to look confident and as if I was prepared for what was happening. A couple of people had started to look in our direction. More heads were turning every minute. I didn’t have to look closely to identify their expressions; I knew what I would see.
‘Everyone who is worth knowing in Port Sentinel.’ Darcy shot me a mischievous look. ‘You might as well get it over with in one go.’
I was slowing down a little, dragging my feet as the distance narrowed between us and the group on the seafront. ‘Oh, so this is for my own good.’
‘Of course. And because no one would believe it if they didn’t see it.’ She grinned. ‘Just have fun with it.’
As we neared them, I started to pick out the different groups that made up the crowd. Five or six in black, with tons of eyeliner – the usual emo gang. The ones on the balustrade and on the grass nearby were young, male and fit, wearing chinos or board shorts and bright T-shirts from achingly trendy surf brands. The rest were girls, clones of the one I’d encountered on Fore Street that morning, wearing tight clothes in ice-cream colours to show off their expensive-looking tans and impeccable figures. I tweaked a lock of hair over my shoulder so I could fiddle with it, just to have something to do with my hands, and said the first thing that came into my head.
‘Is Will Henderson here?’
‘Not a chance,’ Darcy said, sounding definite. ‘Why do you ask? How do you know Will?’
‘He’s practically the only person I’ve met so far. Apart from Petra and Hugo.’
‘They won’t be here either. This isn’t their sort of place.’
‘Is it your sort of place?’
It was a casual question but she stopped walking and looked tense. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. I just wondered.’
‘These are my friends. Of course it’s my sort of place.’
‘Oh. I just would have thought – since you were Freya’s best friend – if Will and Hugo and Petra wouldn’t fit in, did Freya?’ I was genuinely confused, and Darcy’s reaction really didn’t help.
She glared at me. ‘She was popular. Everyone liked her.’
‘So these were her friends too?’
‘Um . . .’ Darcy started walking again, her pace quickening so I had to hurry to catch up, and then we were close enough for one of the girls to detach herself from her little clique and call Darcy’s name.
‘Hi, Natasha.’ To me, she murmured, ‘Natasha Watkins.’
‘What have you got there?’ Natasha was staring. She didn’t look surprised, but she didn’t look the slightest bit friendly either.
‘This is Jess. She’s a cousin of the Leonards. From London.’
‘How long are you staying?’ Natasha demanded.
‘All summer,’ I said blandly, enjoying the panicky widening of her eyes as she took in the bad news. ‘I can’t wait to get to know everyone.’
She shot a look over her shoulder and I followed the direction of her gaze to see a fair-haired, tanned boy standing on top of the balustrade, balancing on the narrow rail without apparent effort as he watched us. When I made eye contact with him, he grinned widely, frank interest on his face.
‘Who’s that? He’s cute.’ It was true, but I said it to get a reaction from Natasha. And got one.
‘Back off, Mess,’ she hissed. ‘Stay away from him if you know what’s good for you.’
‘But he looks so nice.’ I grinned back at him, then turned to Natasha. ‘He’s not your boyfriend, is he?’
I could see her struggling with herself. Eventually, she said, ‘Not formally. Not yet. But we’re a couple.’
‘Oh, right. So you want to be his girlfriend but he doesn’t do commitment.’
The colour had risen in her cheeks and her fists were clenched by her sides. Which meant I’d been right on the money. ‘You don’t know us. You don’t know the first thing about us.’
‘If there is an us,’ I said quietly. ‘From where I’m standing it’s just you and him.’
Natasha’s eyes were narrow. ‘Don’t think you can do better than me at being a bitch.’
‘Who’s being bitchy?’ I caught Darcy’s eye. She was looking anguished. I hated to back away from a fight, but there was a time and a place for that kind of thing. ‘Look, I’m going to be here for the next few weeks. Let’s agree to stay out of each other’s way. I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me.’
‘And you’ll stay away from Ryan?’
‘Is that his name?’ I looked over at him again, in time to see him execute a perfect somersault to dismount from the balustrade, landing with his arms outstretched to receive a round of applause. He was so absolutely not my type, and so completely easy on the eye. ‘I can’t promise that.’
‘You’ll be nothing,’ Natasha spat. ‘If I say so, no one will talk to you. No one will even look at you.’
‘That’s a shame. Your friends look so interesting.’ They were gathered together like a flock of flamingos, wary expressions on their faces, their two or three brain cells working overtime to process the little scene that was taking place in front of them. I couldn’t help myself. I really hated bullies. ‘I’ll have to find some other way to kill time. I’ve always wanted to learn to surf. Hey, does Ryan surf? Do you think he could teach me?’
‘I’m warning you—’ Natasha began.
‘I’m only joking,’ I said, cutting her off. ‘I’ve never even spoken to Ryan and I sincerely doubt he’s interested in teaching me to surf. You really need to get a grip.’
‘You’re not like her,’ Natasha said softly. ‘You look like her, but you’re not like her.’
‘You mean Freya?’ I looked at Darcy, then back at Natasha. ‘What does she have to do with anything?’
Darcy pulled on my sleeve. ‘Let’s just go, Jess.’
Before I could respond, Ryan sauntered across to where we were standi
ng. ‘Hey. Introduce us, Nats.’
‘This is Jess,’ Natasha ground out between clenched teeth. ‘She’s Freya’s cousin.’
‘I should have known. You look just like her.’ His eyes were all over me, lingering on my body, my mouth. I felt my poise begin to crumble, a blush spreading over my face. Bitchy girls I could manage; I wasn’t so sure I could cope with Ryan. He grinned down at me. ‘Must be weird, being here.’
‘It can be.’
He dropped an arm around my shoulders and guided me away from Darcy and his not-quite girlfriend. I didn’t dare look back at her to see how she was taking it. Not well, I could imagine. ‘I’m Ryan. Ryan Denton. Come and meet the others.’
I went, of course. I couldn’t see a way to refuse without causing offence, and besides, Ryan didn’t seem like the type to take no for an answer. His confidence was rock-solid, bordering on arrogance. It reminded me of Will, except that Will’s self-possession was overlaid with reserve and Ryan’s was the opposite. I smiled and waved and tried to remember whether Dylan was the lanky one with bad skin or the short one wearing a rugby shirt. Alfie and Rory, who were brothers. Chris, who wore glasses. Serena, Daisy, Claudia, Bex, Victoria: the names were different but the girls were interchangeable. They mumbled hellos without meeting my eyes, conscious of Natasha’s furious glare, I guessed. Ryan ignored it, and so did I.
What did catch my attention was a snatch of whispered conversation I half heard when my back was turned to them.
‘I don’t like it. What if she finds out?’
‘Finds out what? We didn’t do anything.’
And then a third voice, hissing like a snake: ‘Shut up. Just shut up. Not here.’
I couldn’t pin down who was talking – I wasn’t even sure if I’d imagined it. But what I thought I’d heard was enough to make me properly uneasy. And fun though it was to twist Natasha’s tail by flirting with Ryan, I could see by Darcy’s expression that it was time to put a stop to it.
‘I’m going to have to go.’ I ducked out from under Ryan’s arm. ‘Thanks for showing me around.’
‘Don’t leave. Not yet,’ he protested.
