Glittering Fortunes

‘All right, all right!’ Olivia bristled. ‘Anyway you should have seen him with Cato. They were at each other’s throats, standing there yelling at each other. No,’ she frowned, ‘not yelling, it was more restrained than that—and kind of more intense for it. At one point I thought they were going to strangle each other!’

‘Sexy!’

‘Hmm.’

‘Is it any wonder, though?’ Beth resumed grooming her horse, taking the brush in long slow strokes across the animal’s flank. ‘Of course they can’t stand to be in the same room, what with Cato shooting off the second their parents disappeared. Poor Charlie,’ she grinned, ‘got left behind to look after everything.’

‘I suppose.’

‘What age was he back then, thirteen?’

Olivia shrugged, trying to work it out in her head. Charlie would have left Towerfield at twelve, when the boys had gone into senior school. He would have been at Harrow a year before his parents vanished, and she guessed that the housekeeper had taken care of him after that. He definitely hadn’t been at Towerfield when it happened because if he had then Addy would have talked about it; and she would remember Addy talking about it, if nothing else.

‘It would have been bad for Cato, too,’ Olivia argued. ‘I expect running away was easier, maybe he just couldn’t face things here.’ Cato had been far nicer to her in their brief acquaintance, and she felt the need to defend him.

‘Maybe.’

Olivia narrowed her eyes.

‘Between you and me,’ she confided, ‘I can’t help feeling the animosity’s about more than the parents dying. Something else, something deeper …’

Beth leaned against the stable door. ‘Here’s an idea, Oli,’ she suggested. ‘How about you take this job for what it’s worth—just like I and every other girl at Lustell Cove would—and not get in way over your head like you always do?’

‘I have my head perfectly above water, thank you very much.’

Beth giggled. ‘Only you could get run over by Cato Lomax in your first week back.’

‘It was an accident! Besides he was lovely to me, very apologetic.’

‘For fear you’d sue his arse—sorry, ass—all the way back to America?’

Olivia nudged her. ‘Cynic.’

‘Oh, great.’ Beth groaned. ‘Look who it is.’

With sinking hearts they spotted the Feeny twins making their way across the courtyard. Thomasina and Lavender had been in their form at Taverick Manor, and had stayed at the cove ever since, living off Daddy’s pocket money. They were snotty, spoiled little madams, with upturned noses like piglets. One was riding a black stallion; the other a white mare, like a pair of evil chess queens.

‘Hell-air!’ called Thomasina, easing her beast to a stop. Olivia could tell it was Thomasina because her nose was slightly more piggy than Lavender’s.

‘Hey.’ Olivia gave them the benefit of the doubt: perhaps they’d changed.

‘Good to see you settling back into your old life,’ commented Thomasina, peering snootily down at Olivia as if she were something growing mould in a petri dish. ‘There must be terrible competition in London to look thin.’

They hadn’t changed.

‘Though I’d imagine Cato Lomax being back in town would be diet incentive enough for anyone,’ she finished. Next to her, Lavender tittered.

‘What do you want, Thomasina?’

‘Ooh, well excuse us!’ Lavender had the annoying habit of emphasising the final word in every single sentence she said. ‘Is this conversation private?’

‘Not any more.’

‘What’s it about,’ she whined, ‘boys?’

‘You must be finished, then,’ put in Thomasina, thinking herself extremely clever. ‘There can’t be a great deal to talk about!’

The Feenys were insufferable—grade-? picture-perfect sorority bitches who nipped miserably at sticks of celery and slagged off anyone over a size 6. Ever since Olivia’s very first day at Taverick they had treated her no better than the offerings their rat-like pooches occasionally left in the bottoms of their Aspinal tote bags. According to the Feenys, Olivia was the scruffball who didn’t live in a proper house, who probably didn’t wash and who came with un-brushed hair into a school her mother couldn’t afford to send her to (she had got in on a scholarship).

Like most of the girls at Taverick Manor, Thomasina and Lavender took everything for granted: the Pacific island they jetted to on holiday, the yacht Daddy bought to moor off the Napoli coast, the wardrobe of designer labels they’d get bored with after a week. Olivia and Beth were always going to be outcasts. Beth’s family were working class and had only afforded her education because a distant Merrill cousin had died and left them a wad of cash—something Beth felt permanently guilty about: last year her father’s business had gone down the pan, and nowadays her parents had barely two pennies to rub together—while Olivia’s scholarship was, according to the Feeny brigade, a heinously unfair pass into a life of privilege which she had neither the faculties nor the finesse to appreciate.

‘Actually, Olivia’s working with the Lomaxes this summer,’ Beth chipped in, giving her a jab with her elbow. ‘Isn’t that right, Oli?’

The twins were stricken.

‘What do you mean?’ panicked Thomasina.

Olivia put her hands in her pockets. ‘Charlie Lomax hired me.’

Thomasina burst out laughing, a high-pitched, taunting sound she’d used to inflict on a blubbing Clarabel Maynard whenever she forgot her gym knickers, pushing her to the floor and triggering one of Clarabel’s nose bleeds. Once Olivia had hauled Thomasina off and slammed her into the changing-room lockers. She’d earned detention for a week and Clarabel still hadn’t spoken to her in the lunch queue.

‘You expect us to believe that?’ Thomasina carped. ‘With Cato back at the house? Come on. At least think up something semi-realistic, Chopped Liver.’

Chopped Liver had been her school nickname. Olivia had the sudden sensation of never having left Lustell Cove at all, the past year of city life, new friends and new horizons, evaporated in a single toxic gust of Feeny breath.

‘She’s gardening for them,’ elaborated Beth. ‘Charlie offered it on the spot. She’s already met Cato and Susanna.’

‘He hired you?’ quailed Lavender. Her horse performed a prissy circle, swishing its tail as if it too could scarcely grasp the outrageousness of this suggestion.

Thomasina was quiet. She was thinking more carefully about things.

‘By the way,’ she said mildly, ‘I saw Addy yesterday.’

Beth rolled her eyes. ‘Shut up, Thomasina.’

‘He was talking about you.’

‘Just go away, would you?’

‘He said how happy he was that you were back.’ Thomasina was all at once sweetness and light. ‘Addy finds it hard to express his emotions—but then he is a guy, what can we expect? I think he’s plucking up the courage to ask you out.’

‘Good for him,’ stepped in Beth, folding her arms. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lesson to run and you’re in the way.’

‘I could put in a word,’ offered Thomasina innocently. ‘The trouble is, Olivia, I’m just not sure he’s confident you like him. You’ve been friends for so long, he probably reckons that’s all it is …’

Olivia had a recollection of her final term at Taverick, during which Addy had been discovered by Head Matron having frantic moonlight sex with one of the sixth formers in a broom cupboard. She remembered wanting nothing more than to wallow in a tepid bath of her own teardrops, and then possibly drown to death in them. To this day she was tortured by the idea that it could have been one of the Feenys.

‘Well?’ pressed Thomasina. ‘Do you like him?’

‘Bye, you two!’ called Beth.

‘Seeing as you ran off to London.’ Lavender caught up and joined the assault. ‘Men are so sensitive, aren’t they, Tommy?’

Thomasina nodded gravely. ‘Leave it with us,’ she said amiably. ‘Who knows, maybe we could organise a double date? You and Addy, me and Cato …’

Lavender was wounded.

‘You’ll have to have the other one,’ Thomasina explained snippily. ‘Cato already has a girlfriend. You’re not equipped to deal with that.’

‘With what?’ Beth spluttered. ‘Stealing other people’s boyfriends?’

Thomasina ignored her. ‘Just think about it,’ she finished, with a little quirk of the head. ‘Promise?’ She pulled the reins; Lavender followed suit. The girls turned on their steeds and sashayed off across the cobbles.

‘Can you believe them?’ Beth asked in wonder. ‘As if you’re dumb enough to fall for that.’ She peered sideways at Olivia. ‘And you’re definitely not dumb, right?’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘You won’t like me saying this but Addy’s just as bad as they are.’

‘He is not!’ she protested. ‘You just don’t get him like I do.’

‘I get that all he’s ever done is make you feel like shit. He’s aware how you feel about him and he loves stringing you along.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘You’re right, I don’t. But I do trust my instincts and I’ve known you both long enough. I don’t trust him, Oli, and neither should you.’

The first of Beth’s students arrived at the gate.

‘I’ve got to scram.’ She crossed the yard, calling back, ‘Catch up tonight? Come to mine. We’ll have pizza and you can talk to me more about Cato’s pants.’

Olivia smiled. ‘Sure.’

‘Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime. The Feenys are full of it, and so is Addy. Forget them. You will forget them, won’t you?’

‘Already have. Thanks, Mum.’

Beth smiled sweetly. ‘Always a pleasure.’

Olivia put her hand to Archie’s muzzle. She sighed.

Beth was right: the Feenys were poison.

But not Addy—Addy was different. He wasn’t like that. He was her friend, her partner in crime, her hero; he was the blond-haired soldier crashing through leaves in autumn, the boy who had taught her to surf.

Her head refused to believe a word that came out of the Feenys’ mouths.

If only she were able to tell her heart the same.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHARLIE LAID THE PAPER in the tray, tipping it gently so the thick-smelling solution washed across the undeveloped image. He liked how the photograph revealed itself piece by piece, an outline here, a detail there, silver greys that became stark blacks, and whites that stayed as pure and bright as the gloss beneath. Ever since his father had given him his old Minolta Maxxum, he’d been hooked. Years ago it had been the magic of bottling everything he saw. Now, it was what he didn’t see that captivated: moments that slipped by too quickly the first time, things he’d missed—people he missed—contained on a sheet, for ever unchanged.

The darkroom was an extravagance he knew he ought to get rid of. Penny had encouraged him to build it after their first trip together; her hand in his as they had strolled the canals of Amsterdam, taken bicycles to the flower markets and marvelled at the brave, raucous colours. She’d been happy, her chin resting in the palm of her hand as they had lingered outside cafés and talked about the future.

You should do this properly, she’d told him when they returned, poring over stills he had captured of bridges, cathedral spires; a stray dog they had encountered on a street corner. He’d unveiled the room to her weeks later, holding his hands over her eyes as they had stumbled into the uncanny light; red glow bathing the benches and worktops in fire. They’d kissed, hard against the wall; papers swiped from surfaces, her knees hoisted up around his waist. Charlie had made urgent, passionate love to her against the cabinet, reels of negatives hanging between them like wilderness threads, the blackout curtain torn by a sweat-drenched hand so that his day’s work had been flooded with frozen daylight. It was how her love had made him feel: as if every slate could be wiped, every book rewritten, every bad memory erased …

Except for the memory of her.

It had taken a blind leap to open up to Penny in the way that he had. He should have known better. To trust her had been foolish.

To this day he could not forgive himself for allowing Cato into their lives. Everything his brother touched turned to dust.

Charlie pegged the images and emerged into the chill cellar, closing the door behind him. Along the walls were the powder-covered graves of vintage wines and ports, dusty hollows where the bottles had been removed and sold, leaving only cobwebs behind. Above him neat rows of Hungerford bells lined the passage, a remnant of life below stairs, the labels faded and tarnished: HER LADYSHIP’S ROOM. GRAND STAIRCASE. LIBRARY.

What must it have been like in the servants’ day, at the height of Usherwood’s glory? Hard to conjure it now: the energy, the bustle, the rush and spill of household secrets. His father had told him a story once about how as a boy he had crept underground for the servants’ Christmas party, had danced until he could no longer stand, and had to be carried to bed by a butler called Ashton. But by the time Charlie came along, servants were only good for gossip, my boy. No wonder the remaining few he could remember had been dismissed before Harrow.

Sigmund and Comet were panting at the top of the stairs, fur still damp from an afternoon on the moors. They wagged their tails when they saw him.

‘Hullo, pups.’

‘What’s that God-awful stink?’ The quiet of the afternoon was obliterated.

Cato stormed into the hall with a hand clamped over his nose and mouth. His brother had taken to just appearing, cropping up unexpectedly like a grim rabbit out of a hat. The house was so big that it was possible to forget he was there.

‘Oh.’ Cato landed on the dogs and said disgustedly, ‘There’s my answer.’

‘They’re animals.’

‘Precisely my problem.’

‘This is the countryside, not downtown Los Angeles.’

‘Just because we’re in the countryside doesn’t mean we have to be in the countryside,’ came the riposte. ‘We might as well be rolling about in the bloody paddocks.’ Cato was wearing several bulky jumpers to drive home the fact he was cold, and had irately suggested over lunch that he would organise a cash injection to land with the estate by morning. Then we can get this wretched heating sorted at last! This sort of sporadic, mood-dependent handout was typical. Charlie had endeavoured on several occasions to secure a long-term solution to the invading damp—Cato matching every pound Charlie put in, for example—but such temporary measures were part and parcel of his brother’s warped sense of obligation: the sun had to be shining wherever Cato was, and everywhere else could languish in the rain.

‘Susanna’s awfully distressed over the beasts.’ Cato took a cigar from a box he had positioned on the mantelpiece and lit it. He ejected a billow of smoke. ‘She’s allergic to your menagerie; I knew she would be.’

Charlie glanced out of the window. His brother’s girlfriend was under a parasol, fanning herself against the thunder flies.

‘I’m sure she’ll survive,’ he said.

‘She’s very sensitive. I may have to ask you to keep them outside.’

‘And I may have to remind you that this is my home.’

‘Your home?’ Only Cato could lace two words with such a potent mix of spite and incredulity. ‘I rather think you’re just looking after it for me, old bean.’

It was a good job Barbara came in when she did, or Charlie would have floored him. ‘How many for supper?’ she asked.

‘We’re heading out this evening,’ mused Cato, pouting out a smoke ring, ‘it’s arranged. I suppose I ought to show Susanna what this backwater’s got to offer.’

‘Very well,’ said Charlie. ‘It’ll just be me, then, Mrs B-T.’

‘Oh, no, it won’t. You’re coming with us and you’re bringing that girl with you. I’d say an evening out was the very least you could do.’

‘Olivia?’

‘Of course Olivia—whom else would I be talking about?’

Beyond Susanna’s elegant pose Charlie spotted his new planter’s distant shape in the Sundial Garden, crouched over the foxglove bulbs. He had recognised Olivia the moment she’d shown up—the girl who used to hang around the Towerfield gates on her bike, bare legs smeared with mud from where she’d charged through a puddle or fallen out of a tree. It had been years, but he remembered. Charlie had observed her some days, sitting in the shade while she waited for the school bell, scribbling in a book or making a chain out of daisies. He’d wanted to go and talk to her but he hadn’t known what to say. She’d had a thing for the pretty boy—all the girls had, though he couldn’t see why. Adrian Gold didn’t play rugby in case it messed his hair up. He couldn’t put up a tent. He didn’t read books, or play music, or know how to tie a reef knot. He didn’t get jokes the first time and once during a test he couldn’t arrange the vowels in ‘beautiful’, which had struck Charlie as unfortunate because there was enough prettiness in the world but beauty was rarer to come by, and if Adrian was friends with Olivia Lark then he ought at least to know how to spell it.

‘Do you really want her running to the papers,’ Cato rampaged on, ‘saying Charles Lomax all but finished her off with whatever health and safety transgression the pedants’ contingent are creaming their frillies over these days? She might act like butter wouldn’t melt, but believe me: they’ve all got an eye for the main chance. If you don’t keep her happy it’ll be your name on the line.’

‘I would’ve thought that might have been yours.’

‘Don’t flaunt your ignorance, Charles.’

‘I hired her. That’s a line I don’t wish to cross.’

‘You might have hired her, but you very nearly did away with her.’

‘Wasn’t it you behind the wheel?’ His temper swelled, bright and lethal. ‘Forgive me if I’m sensing a pattern developing here—’

‘If I could interrupt.’ Barbara stepped between them, compelled to make the peace as she had done for the last twenty years. ‘I spoke with Olivia this morning and she’s adamant that no one’s to blame. She’d like us to forget the episode, if possible.’

‘Go away, Baps,’ said Cato.

The housekeeper dutifully retreated.

‘Do you get a kick out of being so vile all the damn time?’ demanded Charlie.

‘Ah, look at her.’ Cato came to stand next to him at the glass.

At first Charlie thought he was talking about Susanna. He wasn’t.

‘Such a pretty little thing,’ said Cato, ‘and so nice to have a bit of flesh to bite into. Susanna’s a minx but it’s all bone and sinew.’

‘Keep away from her, Cato. I mean it.’

Cato smirked. He puffed a bit more on the cigar.

‘Come on, Charles.’ He winked. ‘You know me better than that.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

SAFFRON ON THE SEA was the only restaurant in the British Isles to boast three coveted Gastronomy Stars. Despite this accolade it was entirely unpretentious, a simply festooned yacht moored in a quiet creek between two cliffs. In the summer it caught the moonlight perfectly as patrons feasted on its bulb-strewn deck, and in winter its cosy wooden interior was intimate and seductive.

Ex-model Serendipity Swain, a ravishing six-foot brunette, owned the restaurant with her husband Finn Avalon, a rock musician who had enjoyed modest fame in the nineties. The couple had started coming to Cornwall as a bolthole from their London lives, before the cove slipped under their skin and they decided to set up here permanently. A mixture of brilliantly selected chefs and star-sprinkled clientele ensured the business had grown from a pet project to a goliath in haute cuisine.

Serendipity greeted them at the bow, cinnamon hair teased by the breeze and her elegant trouser suit rippling against the ocean backdrop. The sea was as still as silk, bubbles of conversation streaming from the deck and the waves lapping gently.

‘Cato, this is an absolute pleasure.’

‘Serendipity, hi.’ He kissed her elaborately on both cheeks.

As Finn led the group to their table, a mercifully secluded spot roped off at the stern, heads turned to discreetly assess the newcomers, by nature of the restaurant too moneyed or too proud to surrender themselves fully to a blatant examination.

Susanna was beside herself, settling at the table and fingering the arrangement of wild flowers at its centre. In a moment, she would describe it as charming.

‘Isn’t this charming?’ she enthused. Charlie was learning she would happily apply the adjective to anything so long as she was surrounded by English accents.

‘Indeed it is, Mole.’

‘Cato, please—’ she objected, before he pulled her close and planted a very public kiss on her cheek, which made her start simpering all over again.

Charlie flipped open the menu. Saffron on the Sea was strictly fruits de mer. When Serendipity returned he ordered local Lustell oysters, enough for everyone, followed by hot shellfish with chilli and lemon, and a great deal of wine.

Next to him, Olivia looked as if she was moments away from tossing herself into the water and swimming for the shore. Cato had invited her, and despite her objections she’d been all but manhandled into the car. Saying no to Cato was like trying to reason with a shark.

‘It must be extra special for you, Olivia,’ commented Susanna, as she twirled the stem of a glass between two fingers. When their waiter arrived with a bottle she covered the flute with a dainty palm. ‘I can’t imagine you get out to places like this very much. You must be quite overwhelmed!’

Olivia spread her napkin on her lap, seemed to change her mind about it, and replaced it in a bundle on the table. ‘Yes,’ she replied, taking a swig of Chablis before Charlie had a chance to taste it. ‘It’s a far cry from KFC.’

Susanna frowned.

‘How are you finding work on the estate?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I love it.’ Olivia’s voice warmed to the theme. ‘I studied landscaping as part of my design course and I’ve missed being outside all day so it suits me well. It’s pretty cool to plant something and watch it grow—good for the soul, I think.’

Susanna wasn’t listening. ‘I haven’t seen much improvement to those shabby lawns,’ she commented, ‘but I suppose these things take time, don’t they?’

‘Right now it’s a salvage operation,’ said Charlie, indicating to the sommelier to pour. ‘Once the ground’s recovered we should start seeing results. At this rate, we’ll be able to open to the public quicker than I thought.’

‘The public?’ Susanna cringed, as if he had suggested unveiling a sewage tank in the rose garden. Cato placated her with an imperceptible shake of the head: no, that wouldn’t be happening, not on his watch.

‘Well,’ Susanna shredded a seeded plait with her fingertips and declined the offer of butter, ‘it wouldn’t be for me. I can only stand an hour in the heat before my skin comes out in the most outrageous rash. Isn’t that right, Cato, darling?’

‘You’re a delicate flower, my dear.’

‘I can’t imagine it,’ said Olivia, tucking into a bread roll. ‘Me, I couldn’t be cooped up for any length of time. When I was in London it did my head in being trapped indoors all day … I surf, so I’m used to the fresh air.’

‘You surf?’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Well, nothing, I suppose.’ Susanna considered it. ‘Only it’s not very ladylike.’

Cato’s eyes were flashing. ‘I think it’s rather sexy. I say, perhaps we should get you out on a surfboard, Mole.’

‘Over my dead body!’

‘You should try sometime,’ offered Olivia. ‘I’ll teach you, if you like.’

Susanna went to pour scorn on the suggestion before Cato supplied wolfishly:

‘You can teach me.’

‘I think she offered to teach me,’ Susanna huffed, snapping a grissini in two.

The oysters arrived, a majestic array of rocky shells, bolstered by wedges of sunshine lemon, their flesh pearlescent in the candlelight and doused in sweet shallot.