Alice and Mitch follow, and once around the bend it becomes clear what Leon saw.
‘Oh my God,’ Alice cries, covering her mouth with her hand.
Leon moves forward, crouches down.
‘What the hell is it doing out here?’ Alice’s voice trembles as she comes up behind him.
‘I’ve no idea.’ Leon shakes his head, stares up at her with bewildered eyes. He tries to take her hand, but she pulls free, distraught.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Mitch says, coming up behind them.
‘It’s my dress,’ Alice cries, crouching and dragging it from the sea, soaking herself as she tries to wring water from it. ‘It’s my yellow dress. What the hell is it doing out here?’
Chapter 19
1988
Verity
‘Get a room, Hugh, for Christ’s sake,’ Verity said, hearing the slur in her voice. Drinking too much had become a way of life. She needed to slow up. She knew that. She was twenty-one, no longer a rebellious teenager. No longer the kid who lived on the Bristol streets fighting for survival with her brother.
She flopped her head back on the grass, and stared at the star-dotted night sky. The tang of cannabis, and the sound of Bobby McFerrin’s ‘Don’t Worry Be Happy’ floated across the lawns, where students from the university sprawled in clusters.
Verity and Hugh weren’t students, though they liked hanging out as though they were. Hugh worked in a factory, and Verity was a shop assistant working on the pick ’n’ mix counter in Woolworths, which didn’t help her weight problem.
She closed her eyes, wondering how she could prise her brother away from his latest fling, without sounding like the overprotective older sister she knew she was. Couldn’t Pippa see he was using her, like he’d used all the others since he’d morphed into a man?
Maybe Verity should go to her lodgings. Leave them to it. He would tire of her soon enough. He always did.
She sat up, dragged on her cardigan. ‘I’m going back. You two are making me want to puke.’
Pippa looked up from kissing Hugh, and laughed. She couldn’t see how much Verity loathed her. That Verity could happily throw up at the sight of her body entwined with her brother’s.
Pippa rolled off of him, falling back onto the grass, her blonde hair splaying around her like it was blowing in the wind. She was more attractive than some of the other young women that Verity had put up with, with her blue eyes, and cascading curls – but still; Hugh was pretty numb to emotion, wasn’t he? Much like Verity. Between their father and the awful nannies they’d suffered, any real emotion had been bashed out of them over the years. All they had was their love for each other.
Verity rose to her feet.
A warm evening had followed a glorious sunny Sunday, and they’d been lounging around for most of the day, but now Verity felt as if three was a crowd. But she wasn’t the gooseberry, was she? Pippa would soon learn that the bond she and Hugh had was unbreakable.
She grabbed her bright orange rucksack from the blanket she’d been sitting on, and flung it over her shoulder.
Hugh pushed back his dark hair, so like her own, from his face. No longer the skinny sap who peed his pants. He was tall and muscular, his eyes – once a thing of ridicule for the local children – the attraction. Despite the sharpness of his nose, he was beautiful – perfect. ‘You OK, V?’
‘Yep! Fine!’ She stepped away. ‘See you tomorrow.’ They always met Monday lunchtimes. It was their thing.
‘He can’t make tomorrow, Verity,’ Pippa called after her, her tone assertive. Verity swung round. Pippa was stretched full length on the grass next to Hugh now, propped up on her elbows. Slim and tall, she was so different from Verity, who carried too much weight. ‘Hugh and I thought we might go into Bristol for lunch,’ Pippa went on, turning to Hugh. ‘Didn’t we, Hugh?’
Hugh was looking down, fiddling with a blade of grass.
‘Hugh?’ Verity said. ‘Is this true?’
He shrugged, wouldn’t meet her eye.
‘You two can meet up on Tuesday, maybe. I’m seeing a friend that day.’ Pippa paused for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Verity. But the thing is, Hugh and I need some “us” time, and you’re always hanging about, and …’
Verity turned and shot across the lawn at speed, not wanting to hear any more. She hadn’t cried for years, her heart too hard for that, but tears burned now, raw and painful behind her eyes. This had never happened before.
Back at her lodgings, she flopped down on her bed, and buried her face in the pillow, memories of childhood sweeping in.
She’d always been the strong older sister. Hugh had been the pathetic fragile child. She’d protected him, hadn’t she? Saved him from bullies, punished any nanny who thought they could spank his skinny legs, and so much more. And now – after all she’d done for him – he was about to abandon her. She would never let that happen – never.
*
Hugh and Verity were staying on the outskirts of Bristol. The main house, an Edwardian detached, was owned by Clara McCloud, a pleasant widowed woman in her late seventies. The two annexes where they lived were separate from her house. Clara tended to leave her tenants in peace, which suited the siblings.
It was almost midnight, and Verity had been staring at the ceiling for the last hour, eyes so wide they ached, when there was a knock at the door. ‘Verity?’
She flew from her bed, and flung open the door. ‘Hugh.’ She wanted to take him in her arms, but held back, stepping out of the room, into the night air. ‘Where’s Pippa?’
‘In my bedsit asleep. Can I come in? I need to talk to you. It’s important.’
‘OK, if you must.’
He moved past her into the room, and perched on the edge of her bed, his head in his hands.
The room was small, simple: a single bed that seconded as a sofa, a laminated wardrobe, a chest of drawers. There was a kitchenette, the sink piled high with mugs and plates, a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hugh said without preamble.
‘For what?’ She turned her back on him, picked up a bottle of vodka, and splashed some into a shot glass. ‘Want one?’
‘No.’
She twisted round to face him, took a long gulp, wincing as it burned her throat. ‘What are you sorry for, Hugh?’
He looked down at his hands, entwining his slim fingers until they looked tangled. ‘That I love her. That I love Pippa.’
‘What?’ She slammed her glass down on the worktop. ‘You can’t do, Hugh. It’s lust, that’s all.’
‘I know you don’t like her.’
‘She’s not right for you, Hugh.’
‘All I want is for you be happy for me, Verity.’ His tone had become pleading, imploring her to understand. ‘You know I’ll never push you out. Nobody can ever come between us – you know that.’
Verity’s mind spun. She had to play it cool. She had to. ‘It’s fine, Hugh.’ She made her way over to the bed, and sat down beside him. ‘I only want you to be happy. God knows life has been hard enough. For both of us.’
He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers. ‘Really?’ Sometimes he was so childlike, it was unbearable. ‘Because the thing is, V, Pippa and I want to get married.’
She stifled her shock. Tensed. ‘Married?’
‘Soon.’
‘Christ.’ She covered her mouth for a moment. ‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’
He nodded. ‘I love her, Verity. She wants kids too.’
Her heart thudded. ‘And what about you?’
‘Yeah … I want to give a child everything we never had. Love, security – things we longed for.’
She put her arm around him, and scooped him close. She wanted to scream at him to get rid of Pippa, but bit down hard on her lip. ‘Are you sure you’re cut out to be a father?’ she said. ‘I mean we didn’t exactly have the best role model.’
‘I know, but I think the fact we didn’t will make me more determ
ined to get it right,’ he said. ‘Be happy for me. Please.’
‘I am, Hugh,’ she lied. ‘I am.’
*
Hugh had been gone ten minutes when Verity grabbed her coat and headed out into the night.
‘Hello, Verity.’ It was the landlady, Clara, dragging a bin from her back garden ready for collection the next day. ‘Where are you off to at this late hour, dear girl?’
‘Just out,’ she said, picking up speed, determined not to let the woman with fluffy white curls and a pastel-coloured dress change her mind, now it was made up.
*
‘What’s your name again?’ The bloke sitting opposite Verity was slumped in his seat, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers, the sleeves of his denim shirt rolled up to reveal a tattoo of a rose with bloodied thorns on his lower arm. He looked as pissed as she felt. Her ridiculous plan to get absolutely rat-arsed, and screw the first man who paid her any attention was wearing thin now. She’d changed her mind. In fact, she regretted leaving her lodgings. Clara had been right. It had been late, and it was even later now.
This bloke’s aftershave was still as strong as when he first joined Verity at the pub table over an hour ago; it was catching in her throat. Her head was swimming. She rested her cheek on the scratched and battered wood of the bar table. It stank of stale alcohol.
‘I need to go home,’ she said, hating that she sounded so weak – pathetic. ‘I feel awful. Can you take me home?’
‘That’s not what I asked,’ he slurred, narrowing his brown eyes. ‘I asked what your name is.’
She didn’t answer. If he couldn’t recall her name, after they’d knocked back shots together, laughed a bit, flirted even – then he didn’t deserve to know it.
This bloke – Pete? Matt? Drake? Christ, she couldn’t recall his name either – was a big chap: tall, broad-shouldered, not bad-looking with dark layered hair to his shoulders. He’d bragged about him and his sister opening a tattoo shop in the town centre, and how his sister was the talent – dim, but arty – and he was the brains. He clearly didn’t have the same kind of bond with his sister that she had with Hugh. Despite him making her laugh a couple of times, she wasn’t keen. A bit of an arse – had a real downer on women. In fact, he could piss off. She’d had enough. She didn’t want sex with him or anyone else. She needed to call a taxi.
She rose, stumbled across the room towards the phone in the corner. But he was right behind her, looping his arm around her waist, guiding her towards the exit, and into the quietness of the late hour.
‘I need to get home,’ she cried, as he dragged her across the silent road, and into the woods opposite the pub. ‘No, please. I need to get a taxi.’
*
Water cascaded, cooler now, making her shiver after the deliberately scalding flow from the shower moments ago. Soapsuds snaked down her shaking legs, before spiralling down the plughole towards oblivion, along with the foul, yet fuzzy, memories of the early hours.
A mistake, not rape – Verity tried to convince herself – a hideous way to lose her virginity. She hadn’t wanted sex with a beer-soaked stranger. She’d told him no over and over. Why hadn’t he stopped?
The plan, before her stupid idea to venture out half-pissed, had always been to never lose her virginity. Her petal, as she liked to call it, would stay intact forever, because the only way she’d ever lose it was for love, and she could never imagine loving anyone in the intense way she loved Hugh.
But this, this thing that happened on the damp grass, with a bloke she’d just met – with a name she still couldn’t recall – was the furthest thing from love that she could get. What the hell had she been thinking? This, this had been sordid and cheap, and now she felt unclean – and however long she stood under this pathetic excuse for a shower, it would never wash away her pain, her humiliation, her sadness. This, this had been the worst moment of her life, and that was really something, because her whole life so far had been a cacophony of horrendous moments.
Tears rolled down her face. She’d said no. She’d said no so many times.
The phone rang, startling her from her thoughts. She turned off the shower, and the pipes groaned as she grabbed a greying towel from the rack, and wrapped it around herself. It felt harsh against her skin.
‘Hello,’ she said, once she’d made her way into the bedroom and placed the phone receiver against her ear.
‘Verity Flynn?’
‘That’s right.’ She rubbed droplets of water from her face and ear with the edge of the towel. ‘Who is this?’
‘My name is Marcus Bergman, from Bergman, Smithton and Cavendish Solicitors in Ipswich.’
‘It’s been seven years, hasn’t it?’ Her mouth tugged upwards at the corners. She hoped so. She needed something to smile about.
‘That’s right, I’m—’
‘He’s legally dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God. He was a cruel, arrogant bastard.’
‘Well that cruel, arrogant bastard has left you Flynn House, and two million pounds.’
‘Oh, well that’s all right then, Mr Bergman.’ Her voice was satirical. ‘Felix Flynn was clearly a fantastic father, and all is forgiven.’
‘Could you come to my office? It’s—’
‘I know where it is. Is the money and house to be divided between me and my brother, Hugh?’
‘There’s no mention of your brother in the will.’
‘So Felix has had the last laugh.’ She sat down on the edge of her bed. ‘If he couldn’t come between us when he was alive, he’ll do his best to do so now he’s dead.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ And it didn’t. Verity would make sure Hugh was well looked after, even if Pippa was part of the deal.
Chapter 20
Halloween Weekend 2019
Alice
Alice leads the way across the main entrance of Flynn Hotel trancelike, the soaked yellow dress draped over her arm, Leon and Mitch behind her. They are all exhausted and sodden, dripping their way into the bar.
Lori is by the fire reading, a glass of brandy in her hand. She lifts her eyes from the pages of her book, jumps to her feet, and dashes over, her dress clinging to her slim thighs, flapping her ankles. ‘Christine told me what happened to you, Leon,’ she says, touching his arm. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Thanks.’
‘You saw something—?’
‘Yeah, but it’s OK, panic over,’ Mitch says, shaking his head, droplets of water flying from his hair. ‘It was only Alice’s dress.’
‘Seriously?’ Alice says. Her plaits have come loose, hanging limp and wet about her face. Her head throbs. Her coat is soaked from the rain and crashing waves. Her dress had somehow ended up on the rocks, and is now sodden, dangling over her arm. There’s no quelling the rising fear inside her. She desperately wants to go home, and the thought that they could be stuck here for another fifteen hours is weighing heavy. ‘You don’t think my dress, which was locked in my room, being found by the sea, is a reason for concern, Mitch?’ She detests this idiotic man.
‘That is odd,’ Lori says. ‘You must speak to Christine about this. First our cell phones and now your dress. Who could have taken it?’
The same person who put a ventriloquist’s doll on my pillow, Alice wants to say, but bites down on her words. She needs to talk to Leon about it first.
Mitch looks about him, peeling off his wet jacket. ‘Where are Christine and Faith?’
‘Faith’s watching Halloween in the lounge, I believe,’ Lori says, taking a sip of her drink. ‘She said it might cure her angst. Said if you returned, Alice, could you let her know you’re back.’
‘Well, I’ve never heard of a horror film curing anxiety before,’ Mitch says. ‘I’d much rather have a brandy.’ He pushes up the sleeves of his top to reveal a tattoo of a rose dripping with blood on his lower arm, and heads away, towards the bar, squelching as he goes.
Alice takes o
ff her wet Parka, and drapes it over her arm with the dress. ‘You’re right, Lori, I’ll talk to Christine,’ she says, her voice calmer. ‘I need to find out who has a key to my room.’
‘Well, she said something about needing to ice some fairy cakes.’ Lori furrows her forehead. ‘So, I’m guessing she’s in the kitchen.’
‘OK, thanks.’
‘Has Cameron turned up yet?’ Leon asks. ‘He would have a key to every room, wouldn’t he?’
Lori shakes her head. ‘Christine said she’d try calling him again, but I don’t know if she got through.’
‘I think I’ll get changed before I do anything else.’ Alice shivers, the discomfort of being soaked through to her underwear getting to her. She looks at Leon, hoping he will come with her, the ventriloquist’s doll in their room pinching at her anxiety. On top of finding her dress on the rocks this is all too much. She doesn’t want to be alone in this place if she can avoid it. ‘Are you coming?’
He nods, and they are about to leave the bar when Christine appears in the doorway, looking exhausted.
‘Who would have a key to our room?’ Alice asks her.
‘Only me and Mr Patterson, I believe.’ She bites down on her lip. ‘Why?’
Alice can’t bring herself to explain about the dress. ‘Are you sure?’
Christine glances over her shoulder towards the reception desk. ‘Well, there’s always a spare. I guess … I’m not always there to keep an eye, you see. There’s so much to do. I’m sure my Terry would turn in his grave if he could see me now.’
Alice balls her fists, frustrated by this woman. Though in equal measure she feels for her. This isn’t Christine’s fault. She’s only been in the position for a few days, and, in the woman’s own words, she’s been thrown in the deep end. Where is Cameron Patterson, after all? Why isn’t he supporting Christine? So much money must have gone into renovating the house, and yet he’s hired a bumbling woman to run it.
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