The Chateau

by Catherine Cooper

  But all is quiet when I open the door. ‘Aura?’ I call quietly, not wanting to wake the boys if by some miracle they’re already asleep. But as I go along the short hallway I hear CBeebies on low in the living room. I stick my head round the door and see that Sol is staring at the screen and sucking his finger, transfixed, and Bay has dozed off in his bouncy chair. ‘Hey, Sol,’ I say, ‘how’re you feeling?’

  ‘’Beebies!’ he says brightly, giving me a quick glance before turning back to the screen. He’s obviously on the mend. ‘Where’s Mummy?’ I ask.

  ‘Stairs,’ he says, not looking at me. Upstairs. OK.

  I go up to our room where I find Aura flinging things into a suitcase.

  Oh God. ‘Aura? What’s going on?’ I ask, though it’s fairly obvious.

  She stops throwing clothes and stands up, staring at me angrily. ‘As if you don’t know,’ she says scornfully.

  ‘Is this the thing at school?’ I ask, though all the while I’m thinking, How the fuck does she know?

  She goes back to rifling through drawers, seemingly picking things out at random and throwing them towards the case. I catch her wrists and gently pull her towards me, but she turns her head away.

  ‘Aura, look at me, please.’ She doesn’t move. ‘It’s nothing, honestly,’ I continue. ‘I’ve already spoken to the head about it; he’s also spoken to the girl in question and he’s happy that there’s nothing in it. And there isn’t. I promise.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she hisses, finally turning towards me and wrenching her wrists away from my hands. She is dry-eyed and shoots me a look of pure hatred. ‘It doesn’t look like “nothing” in that picture. Someone at work sent it to me. Their daughter goes to your school. My colleague said she thought I’d want to know, but obviously they’ll all be having a good laugh at my expense now. So thanks for that too.’

  She stamps over to the wardrobe, pulls out a handful of clothes and flings them in the case.

  ‘Aura, please, listen.’ I wheedle. ‘It’s all a misunderstanding – someone messing about. I’d just gone outside to see if Ella – the girl – was OK. A lot of the kids were drunk that night, I saw she’d gone out by herself and wanted to check she wasn’t going to choke on her own vomit or lie down in the snow and go to sleep or anything. Honestly, kids of that age are a liability. They’re worse than toddlers in some ways. What sort of person would I be if I hadn’t checked she was OK? Imagine if it was Bay or Sorrel when they’re bigger. You’d want someone to check on them in the same situation, wouldn’t you?’

  She picks up her phone and the screen comes to life. I can see she has the photo open and is examining it closely.

  She looks up from the phone at me. ‘Why you, though? Why did it need to be you to check on her?’

  ‘It didn’t need to be me.’ I look her directly in the eye. ‘I just happened to see her go. Really, it was nothing – we were out there about a minute, if that. She assured me she was OK, stumbled a little, which is when God knows who must have taken that picture, and then we both went back inside. It was totally unremarkable.’

  She looks at the phone and then back at me. Tears fill her eyes. ‘I want to believe you, Nick, I do, but … I’m just not sure.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth,’ I say softly.

  She swipes at her face, brushing away a tear. ‘I need to think. I’m going to go away for a couple of nights. Against my better judgement, I’ve called your mum because I couldn’t think of anyone else, and she says she’ll come and babysit. She’s already had measles so she says she’s happy to do it.’

  ‘Did you … tell her?’ I ask, a wave of nausea washing through me.

  She gives me a look of contempt. ‘No. I’ll leave that up to you.’ She continues flinging things into her case.

  ‘Please don’t go, Aura,’ I plead. ‘Stay here. We need to talk. I want you to stay. I want us to be together here, as a family.’

  She shoots me a look of pure hostility. ‘What you want doesn’t come into this right now, Nick.’

  61

  February, London

  Ella

  Over the next couple of days, Molly seems to forgive me. I wonder if Ethan did have a word with her like he promised. Even though they act like they don’t like each other much, I guess as twins they must have a bond. Same as I do with my brother and sister, only more so. Or maybe Molly eventually took me at my word that nothing happened with Mr Dorian and my promises that I would have told her if it had. I’ve said it dozens of times now, and each time I feel less guilty. Nothing much did happen, after all. It was a crush. A drunken kiss. I’m over it now. Everyone needs to move on.

  The school hall is totally unrecognizable. The party committee has spent the whole day turning the usual drab room into a winter wonderland. The huge windows are frosted and giant snowflakes have been stuck all over the walls. Silvery-blue shiny draping everywhere looks like frozen streams and there is silver glitter all over the floor.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?!’ Molly shrieks as we walk in.

  ‘It’s fabulous!’ I’m really looking forward to this evening. It’s the first time since we’ve got back from skiing that everything has felt almost OK. Molly and I are friends again. Mr Dorian can just about look me in the eye now on a good day, and it seems like we got away with what happened without any real fallout. Jack isn’t exactly seeking out my company but when we’re all together as a foursome, things are OK. Even Mum was calmer about the Insta thing than I expected her to be, and, amazingly, believed me when I told her nothing had happened. Skisneak hasn’t posted anything more, though I keep checking and the account is still live, but everyone seems to have pretty much forgotten about it. The whole thing feels like it happened ages ago. It’s amazing how quickly things can move on.

  Molly is on the party committee. As she’s had so much involvement in setting up the evening she wanted to wear an outfit that would create a stir, and persuaded me that I should too. ‘You must!’ she cried. ‘Show everyone that you don’t care what they say! That you’re not paying attention to the stupid rumours! That you’re too fabulous for the likes of Mr Dorian anyway!’ I think it’s partly to show me that I’m forgiven too, that we are friends again, and what happened (or didn’t, as far as she knows) is all behind us.

  We’ve got matching snow-queen outfits from a weird little costume hire shop on the high street and I have to admit, they’re pretty amazing. We’re wearing fitted strapless silver bodices which give even me a bit of a cleavage, with big netted fairy skirts covered with silver glitter. We also have silver boleros and tiaras. Earlier we spent ages putting on body glitter, silver eye-shadow and nail varnish and sparkly lipstick while messing about in my bedroom and having a few V & Ts. It was lovely – the way things used to be.

  ‘Wow – you two look amazing!’ Jack says, heading over as he sees us come in. I’m surprised when he hugs me for the first time since the ski trip, but it feels nice. A friendly hug. Maybe Ethan managed to talk him around too.

  Jack’s eyes look glazed as he pulls back. Maybe that was the reason for the hug – he’s pissed.

  ‘Looks like you already started on the drinks?’ Molly asks.

  ‘Yeah, me and Ethan had a few before we came.’ He turns to me. ‘Dance with me?’

  I nod. Hopefully we can be friends after all. We go over to the already-packed dance floor.

  ‘It’s great that you and Molly are mates again,’ he shouts over the music. ‘Ethan said she was really upset about it all.’

  ‘Yeah – I was too. I’m glad we made up.’

  He moves in closer and puts his hands on my waist.

  ‘I’m glad we did too,’ he murmurs, leaning in so close that his breath feels hot on my ear. ‘Sorry I gave you a hard time the other day. I was being a dickhead.’ He pulls me closer. ‘Maybe now that all that Insta stuff has blown over we could … y’know … think about getting back together. Properly.’

  Oh God. I thought he understood that that wasn’t goin
g to happen. But I don’t want to get into this now. I don’t want to spoil the evening. ‘Maybe,’ I say vaguely.

  He nods and lets go of my waist. ‘Fine,’ he says curtly, his demeanour totally changing. ‘I’ll leave you to do things in your own time. I’ve had enough of this song – let’s go and get a drink.’ He turns and walks away and I follow him towards the drinks table, where Mr Woods is serving some bizarre-looking silver non-alcoholic punch.

  We each take a plastic cup and take a sip.

  I pull a face. ‘Ewwww. It takes like melted sherbet.’

  Jack takes another sip. ‘I quite like it.’

  We look out at the dance floor. I see Molly’s skirt swishing about – it’s hard to miss it as it’s so enormous – and notice with a lurch that she’s dancing with Mr Dorian.

  Mr Dorian looks faintly embarrassed and is clearly being careful to keep his distance from Molly. He catches my eye and I smile, but he looks away. I’m surprised he came along tonight, but I guess he felt he should make a show of normality. Just like me.

  I watch them for a while. I know Molly would never try it on with Mr Dorian, but even so, I feel a pang of jealousy. I thought I was over this. Guess I’m not.

  Then she starts heading towards me and – oh God – she is dragging Mr Dorian behind her. He looks mortified. ‘I’m exhausted!’ she breathes as she comes close. ‘Ella – you dance with Mr Dorian.’

  I’ve no idea if she is doing this out of naughtiness, because she wants to show me that she totally believes now that nothing went on, or because she hasn’t thought it through. Whatever the reason, it would be far too awkward to protest so neither of us has any choice but to head out to the dance floor together. We jig about chastely opposite each other, both being careful not to touch each other at all. I glance around but no one is paying us any attention. Thank God. Since that rumour started that Mr Robbins is leaving school to go on Love Island, we’re now yesterday’s news.

  ‘I’m sorry about Molly doing that,’ I shout over the music.

  He nods. ‘You haven’t said anything?’ He looks incredibly tense.

  I shake my head. ‘No. And I’m not going to. I promise.’

  ‘You understand that you could finish me off if you do?’

  ‘I do.’ I do a little twirl. ‘But it’ll be OK. I’m pretty sure most people have already forgotten about it.’

  He smiles tightly. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Did it go all right with Mr Atwood?’

  ‘Guess so. I’m still here, after all. My wife might take more persuading. Things are still a bit tricky at home.’ He takes my hand gingerly to spin me round, carefully keeping his distance from any other part of my body. ‘As long as you never tell anyone, and skisneak stays in the shadows, we should be OK, school-wise at least.’

  We carry on dancing for a little while longer, and suddenly I feel like everything is going to turn out just fine.

  Thirty minutes later

  Sirens, so many sirens.

  It’s so cold. The gravel of the courtyard is scratching my face. I can’t move.

  ‘Is she breathing?’

  ‘Stand back from her, let me through! Don’t move her.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She must have fallen from the window. What was she doing all the way up there? Ella? Can you hear me?’

  I try to reply but no sound comes out. Everything hurts. It hurts so much.

  ‘Did anyone see what happened? Was anyone with her?’

  ‘Oh God her pulse is really weak. Ella! Stay with us, help is on the way. Don’t try to speak.’

  I try to say something, tell him what happened. Who did this to me. But there is too much shouting and they can’t hear. Or maybe my words aren’t coming out – I’m not sure.

  ‘Thank Christ, the paramedics are here. Ella, they’re going to help you. Do you understand?’

  I have a blurry impression of people in green and I try to nod. But I am too tired, and I fall asleep.

  They say that time heals all wounds. That over time, you learn to live with grief. That it becomes easier to bear. But it’s not true. It doesn’t. You just get angrier.

  PART THREE

  62

  November, Mozène

  Aura

  I wasn’t sure what to expect from a funeral in France, but it certainly wasn’t this. The blocky, anonymous-looking crematorium is on an industrial estate at the edge of our nearest town. We all mill about nervously in the bland atrium with screwed-down metal chairs and a simple coffee-vending machine, before shuffling through into the main room where the service, such as it is, will be held. And instead of the coffin arriving in a traditional hearse, the funeral vehicle looks more like a delivery van, only black and clean.

  I’ve left Sorrel and Bay at home with Helen. They’re too young to be exposed to death in this way. Also, it would be very hard to keep them quiet. There is no good reason for them to be here. Seb and Chloe have come along though – they were told they could film as long as they were discreet.

  Frank’s son Andrew is the first to speak. He looks like a younger, thinner version of his father. He’s probably about the same age as me but he’s already going bald, poor guy.

  ‘I hadn’t seen my dad for five years before he died,’ he starts. ‘And obviously, this is now a great regret for me. We fell out over something that, in retrospect, was none of my business. And because he lived here in France while I live in the UK, we somehow never got round to getting together for a pint, talking things over and making up. He tried, I didn’t.’ He looks towards the large mahogany coffin, standing on its plinth. ‘Dad, I apologize.’

  He pauses to wipe away a tear. I wonder, inappropriately, what the row was about.

  ‘And you people here,’ he continues, ‘both the local expat community and his French friends, have been much more his family than we have since his move and for that, I want to thank you all.’

  He glances around and there are gentle murmurs and nods. The small room is full and there are even a few people standing at the back. Frank had a lot of friends here. Or at least a lot of people interested enough in him to turn up for the gossip and some free sandwiches, I think to myself, less charitably.

  ‘Even though I haven’t been in touch with Dad much since he moved, I have had the great pleasure of meeting some of you over the last few days. I only wish it had been in happier circumstances. I’ve learnt how you welcomed him into your lives, invited him to dinner, to parties and more. He, in turn, as I understand, paid back your generosity by looking after newer arrivals, taking time to help them find their way around, navigate the famously tricky French bureaucracy,’ a murmur of agreement goes around the room, ‘and many more tasks besides.’

  I feel a pang of guilt – Frank helped me a lot and I didn’t appreciate it enough. After what Tiggy had said, I was actually trying to distance myself from him. And I haven’t paid my respects to the family yet. I make a mental note to do so properly at the wake.

  ‘In the various letters and emails he’s sent to me over the last few years, in an attempt to reconcile our differences, he would tell me a bit about his life here and the things he was doing,’ Andrew continues ‘To my shame, while I read his letters, I never replied. But it was clear from what he wrote that he was happy here. He felt he fitted in. That he was liked. Appreciated. Accepted. Certainly welcomed.’

  There is a pause while Andrew wipes his eyes and glances at the coffin again. ‘And given all that, it is almost incomprehensible that someone within this small and, as I understand, supportive and tight-knit community, decided, for reasons we don’t have the first idea about, that they wanted to kill my dad at a Halloween party. Quite possibly one of you here. As you all know, someone literally stabbed him in the back.’

  He pauses again. The room is totally silent.

  ‘My dad wasn’t perfect. None of us is. But since his move to France, his life centred around you people here. He made every effort to help you as much as he could. A
nd to think that it all ended like this makes me sadder than I can begin to express.’

  He picks up his notes and stamps away from the pulpit without so much as a glance at the congregation. The young, English-speaking vicar announces that there will be a hymn, ‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind’ followed by a few short prayers.

  I pick up the order of service sheet which includes the words to the hymn. On the front is a picture of Frank, clearly taken a good few years ago, along with his dates of birth and death. I quickly work out that he was fifty-five. No age at all really. He must have had his children young, like me and Nick. I barely knew him, and am surprised to feel tears come to my eyes. I wipe them away surreptitiously as Nick continues to stare straight ahead. He is annoyed I made him come along today – he said he wanted to get on with ripping out another one of the old bathrooms rather than ‘wasting half a day on someone I didn’t know or like’, as he put it. But I managed to persuade him it would look weird if he didn’t come. And when there is already so much gossip going around about who killed Frank and why, that’s the last thing I can be bothered with.

  After the prayers, a curtain goes around the coffin and there is a whirr as the conveyor belt starts up. There are a few stifled sobs and I take Nick’s hand. He glances at me and squeezes it, before letting go and looking straight ahead again. The vicar walks to the back of the room and opens the doors, so we all get up and follow him out, past the next group of mourners who are in the atrium waiting to come in. It is all over in less than thirty minutes.

  63

  November, Mozène

  Aura

  The wake, organized by Frank’s family, is held at his house. Though he’d been over to ours loads of times, I’ve never been to his and so am not sure what to expect. It turns out to be a small, terraced house without a garden in the middle of a medieval village, La Bastide de Mozène. There are two reception rooms and a galley kitchen downstairs and it’s not really big enough to fit everyone in – it’s too cramped. I wonder if the family were being tight in not renting a function room somewhere; if they felt they didn’t want to spend their money on him. Then again, maybe they didn’t expect this many people to turn up.