Finally, Rachel draws breath, looks fondly from me to Vicky, and claps her hands together like a child.
‘Brilliant to catch up! And I can’t wait for you to come to the island. Because, as soon as we’re all there together, I’ve got the most amazing secret to share. I’m dying to tell you.’
Chapter 3
Tom
London suburbs, 27th October
Something funny happens today. I am trekking to the gym, as usual, when I catch sight of my reflection in a shop window. For a second, I don’t even recognise myself. No word of a lie, I look decades younger. I’ve been slumped over a desk forever, but now, striding out, kit bag over my shoulder, I’m different. Taller, broader, fitter. My hand reaches out of its own volition and claps this stranger on his flat stomach. It’s the round of applause I deserve, sharp and hollow. Couple of months ago, it would have been muffled by flapjacks. Ironically, I’m now the type of plod a lot of my colleagues really respect – someone who wouldn’t break a sweat, chasing a villain across an estate.
A lot of coppers still think a degree is, well, lipstick on a pig. And the public agrees. They want bobbies on the beat, not my uni dissertation on electrical circuits. They don’t understand how much can go on behind the scenes, without even getting near street level. You have to be tech savvy, though. Rules out a lot of my colleagues.
I’ve got it covered both ways now. Chiselled down into myself, built myself back up from the bottom. Sometimes Gita looks at me, full of sweet concern, all ‘Would you like a cup of tea, darling?’ even when she’s been the one out at work. I’m hard pressed not to laugh in her face.
This weekend, she wouldn’t hear of me being left behind. ‘I don’t want you to brood, all on your own.’ I wouldn’t have done – my conscience is clear. But I agree. It’s definitely for the best, me coming along.
Don’t get me wrong, hanging out with Gita and her mates holds no appeal. And seeing how the other half lives, meeting Rachel’s sucker of a new husband, gawping at what she’s done with his ancestral home, all the other stuff Gita is gagging for? Way too much celebrity flim-flam for me. But she’s shown me a few pictures of the island, and I’ve had a google. Looks just the spot. Mount Tregowan piques my interest, so to speak. Distinct possibilities, once we’re all there. And I’ll bet my own little secret is nothing, compared to what’s weighing down some of the others. Vicky, for instance. But Jane, too. I’ll have my eye on Geoff, that husband of hers.
Gita’s dying to see Vicky and Rachel. Always pretends they’re some kind of sisterhood. She’s told me she wants this weekend to be ‘unique, truly memorable’.
She really needs to be careful what she wishes for.
Chapter 4
Vicky
Cornwall, 30th October
As soon as Rachel buggered off that day – late for something much more exciting than lunch with us girls – the second thoughts kicked in. I turned to Gita but her palm was already up, the lollipop lady of the group, keeping us all in order. Or trying.
‘Before you even start; yes, I know Rachel has talked us into stuff that … doesn’t always play out brilliantly. But we’ve got to accept this invitation; we really do. You need a break, Vicky. When’s the last time you took any kind of holiday?’
While I was sifting back through the months, she struck again – right in my weak spot. ‘And what about Raf? You could ask him, spend some time together. You know you’d love that. It’s outdoorsy, the sort of thing he’s into. He could actually surf in Cornwall – it’s really big down there.’
‘In October?’ I pretended to be sceptical, but Gita had chalked up a hit. I’ve spent hardly any time with my lad in the last year. It’s got to the point where I’ve found myself sitting in his too-clean room, on his too-smooth bed, clutching one of his sweaters. Even though they don’t smell like Raf anymore. The bloody cleaner is much too thorough.
Gita fiddled with her phone. ‘Look at this site, “top ten surfing beaches in Cornwall”,’ she said, holding up a photo showing a lad like Raf, charging through the waves, board under one toned arm, blue skies overhead. ‘And this was Christmas.’ Gita smiled widely, Santa Claus offering the best present ever.
Still, I hesitated. He might refuse. That last phone call … Bob saying smugly, ‘Just give him time, Vicks.’ Christ, there are moments when I hate my ex-husband even more now than I did when we were married.
‘And what about Jane? When did you last see her?’ Gita asked me earnestly. Ding, another hit.
Jane is the fourth in our gang, promoted to third once Rachel left uni, sweeping off in her cloud of glitter. I really needed her, in those last months before we graduated. Quiet and shy in her twenties, Jane isn’t much louder now. The only downside is her husband. Jane hasn’t got kids, so bloody Geoff has expanded to fill the space. She never seems to leave home without him. Geoff is fine, if you like obscure bits of law, or being informed of his views on them. If you’d rather manage without, you’re in trouble.
‘She really needs a holiday, I know that much,’ I said slowly. Last time we’d met, there had been something wrong somewhere, but I couldn’t tell whether Geoff’s golf handicap had slipped, or whether the whole house had burnt down; she’s always so restrained. I love that, of course. As Bob would say, it gives me the space to dominate.
I looked away and shrugged. ‘Oh well, I suppose it might be fun …’
Gita whooped, ‘Yes!’ and I let her. ‘It’ll be a fresh start for all of us.’ She smiled. ‘Everyone’s been out of sorts. This will be a reset. You’ll see. We’ll come out of this better friends.’
I smiled and drank but I had my doubts – and they’ve grown every day. There could be advantages, sure. Time with Raf, time to find out whatever ails Jane, time with Gita, yes, those are good things. And Rachel is certainly never dull. But what about everything that happened before? After her Halloween party, at uni. Can we really pretend none of it mattered? That there weren’t consequences, for any of us? Surely even Rachel’s money can’t paper over cracks that big?
But Gita was triumphant. ‘Let’s stay and have a pudding!’ I couldn’t say no. I relaxed back into my velvety seat. The weekend was still ages away, then. And, after Rachel appearing and disappearing like the genie from the bottle, I deserved a massive drink. I chucked the last of the wine into our glasses – happy to finish Gita’s if she couldn’t – and obediently clinked.
‘Face it, you can’t resist, can you? You want to know what on earth Rachel’s got herself mixed up in now, don’t you?’
I met Gita’s eyes over the wreckage of the lunch: Rachel’s untouched, fifty-quid risotto, and my own scoured plate. The waiters cleared the table and brought our chocolate mousse. One pot of temptation, two spoons. My resistance was very low that day. I dug in.
She was right, of course. Even now, after years making – as Bob pointed out in the divorce – a ‘fucking fortune’ of my own, there is still something fascinating about a silver spoon the size of Rachel’s. I own my Canary Wharf apartment, and it’s pretty jammy too – but Rachel could buy my block, the street, and half of New York, Paris and Rome on top, if she felt like it, from petty cash. Yes, I admit it, I wanted to see her latest acquisition, this island she’d just got her hands on. And the man who came with it.
So, there was curiosity. But my few friendships are important, too. Gita was right, everyone had been a bit off recently. Evading phone calls, dodging invitations. Secrets. Big, heavy secrets, which took up our time and made us hard work to be around. It wasn’t just me. All of us needed to put things right.
When I braced myself to ask for the bill, the waitress smiled. ‘Your friend has taken care of it.’
Gita and I exchanged glances. I’d really begrudged Rachel that bloody lobster. Then I whispered, ‘Is it awful that I wish we’d ordered another bottle? Or two?’ Gita giggled. But it was typical Rachel. If she’d said she was paying, I wouldn’t have had to spend so much time resenting the mouthfuls she didn’t take.
The five-hour train journey to Cornwall wasn’t as bad as I’d feared – thanks to Gita. ‘Sandwich, anyone? Now then, who’s for cheese and onion crisps?’ she kept on saying at just the right moment, delving into a massive cool bag. She really has that suburban uber-mum act down. That, and playing I-spy with her girls, got me and Raf over any soul-searching we might otherwise have had to do.
‘Something beginning with … D,’ said Ruby, the little one. We were all stumped as ditches, diggers, dells and doors flashed by and she turned the lot down. I swear, it was at least an hour before we gave up. ‘Jumper!’ she cried triumphantly.
‘I’m getting a refund from that effing school,’ Tom grumbled darkly. For once I sympathised with him.
Now I’m here on this godforsaken Cornish beach, and I still can’t quite believe it. Mount Tregowan is opposite us, surrounded by sea. The wind is whipping through my hair. My posh new winter jacket, bought for going from desk to bar in Canary Wharf, is about as much use here as a tutu in a tornado. I should have known better – but I’ve never been this cold before down south. The sky is iron-grey and the sea’s a match, while my face is being sandblasted to the colour of smoked salmon.
The island is a lumpy-looking stack of boulders, the sort of thing Raf used to make with his Lego years ago. It was forever embedding itself in the soles of my feet. I was that happy when he outgrew it. Now I look at him, silky dark hair ruffling in the breeze, and wish both my lad and his Lego were back. ‘Let’s make the most of this weekend, love?’ I say to him, but the wind steals my words.
That must be Castle Tregowan, on top of the pile of rocks. Little Ruby next to me shivers in her cagoule. I tut and reach down to drag her zip up to her chin. For all Gita’s Mary Poppins ways, the kid, like me, needs a better coat. ‘No, no, I’m not cold.’ Ruby fights me off. ‘I just don’t like that place. It looks like where the bad fairy lives.’
She’s right, it’s Cinderella’s palace gone to the dark side, with that turret, jet-black against the dying light. ‘What’s Rachel doing in a place like this?’ I hiss to Gita. She could have afforded Versailles, all gilt and mirrors.
Gita shrugs. ‘You know she’s always had a soft spot for a bit of goth.’ How could I forget? Yes, she’s got the golden hair and wall-to-wall tan, but she actually prefers black magic. Like that dreadful party, when Gita and Tom had just got together. That was a Halloween thing, too.
Here we all are, twenty years later, turning up to another of Rachel’s dos. I look down the line of us strung out on the beach, the girls rushing this way and that in a game of tag. For a second, it’s idyllic. Then Ruby falls over and wails. The older girls ignore her. I throw a conspirator’s smile Raf’s way, but he’s turned to help Ruby up. Gita and Tom have their heads down, oblivious, striding silently into the wind. And I suddenly get a really bad feeling.
‘Is this all a terrible idea? It’s not too late, is it? To go home?’ I yell over to Gita. The gale does its best to gag me, making snakes of my sharp new haircut.
‘What?’ Gita struggles to hear, holding on to the ends of her scarf for dear life. Tom stomps off alone. ‘No, no. Come on, Vicks. It’s going to be fun.’
She grabs my arm and leads me forward, but I can’t shut out her tone of voice. I’d been half-joking, after a bit of reassurance. But gone is her pretence that this is just a jolly weekend do. There is something much grimmer behind her words.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she had some kind of plan. Is it to do with Tom? Has she seen through him, at last? I glance over and, of course, he’s staring at me, a leer behind his eyes. I curse myself for looking and turn back to Gita as quickly as I can. Her expression is flinty for a second, then she grins widely. Is she trying to convince herself, or me?
All of a sudden, I shiver in earnest – and not just because of my useless coat.
Chapter 5
Rachel
Mount Tregowan, 30th October
I’m overdoing it. I always do. But this time even darling Ross, who never questions me, gave me a look when the last crate had been unloaded at the dock. ‘Are you trying to drown them in champagne?’
Am I? Am I actually trying to atone, for that party long ago? But I dismiss the thought. No, I have something completely different in mind for this weekend. Something spectacular, and long overdue. A reckoning. And why shouldn’t I be lavish if I feel like it? I can afford it. It is a mantra I’ve repeated so often over the years it might as well be tattooed across my forehead. But I never once say it aloud. I’m like the Little Mermaid. So much can never pass my lips.
That’s the deal, with extreme wealth. I’ve got used to the burden, and not least to the fact that I can never identify it as such. Burden – no, that can never be said. No one outside the charmed circle can understand why it’s almost a handicap, being born into what I have.
People assume I should constantly thank my lucky stars. They think money breeds money, stacking up like the gold coins in Aladdin’s cave. Not so. I have to work to be this rich. I have to question the credentials of every adviser, check the share prices, select the paintings … I never leave anything to chance, to fate. And I must never speak about any of this, to anyone. Money has its own omertà. ‘Never complain, never explain’ – that was about the one coherent sentence my mother left me with.
Then dealing with staff is, to be frank, a pain. Yes, it’s nice not having to cook, for example. But first, catch your chef, as they say. Then things get formal; background checks, contracts, non-disclosure agreements … It might be easier if I knocked up my own coquilles St Jacques. Though obviously that’s not going to happen.
And that’s leaving aside the issue of trust. Plenty of trust funds, precious little of the actual commodity. It’s the one luxury denied me. Are my friends here because I’ve bought them, or because they actually like me? Welcome to living without ever really knowing.
That’s why I’ve always been fond of Vicky. Respected her, even. I bet she was genuinely surprised the other day, when I paid for lunch. Admittedly, I used to mock her behind her back, laughing with Gita. I’d make jokes about her family having a bath full of ferrets or her daddy labouring down the black pudding mines, in an absurd fake Northern accent. Nowadays that’s probably a hate crime. But all the time, I rated Vicky’s ingrained resistance to the idea of my being born into staggering wealth. And she has remained true to her roots. Her City flat, once a warehouse, may be gentrified to the eyeballs, but her voice is not. Despite all her years in London, for Vicky ‘baths’ will always rhyme with ‘maths’.
Now here they both are, Gita and Vicky, trudging up the path towards the castle. I’m watching them through the oriel window in my turret, the place where I’ve created my bedroom. Mine and Ross’s. As soon as I saw it, I thought of Rapunzel. And I had to have it. Ross’s daughter Penny didn’t mind, not really. All right, it’s a stretch, to picture Ross scaling the walls with my blonde hair wrapped round his wrists – I smile at the thought – but what he might lack in youthful athleticism, he more than makes up for. In other ways.
Gita and Vicky are chatting now as they follow the path. Behind them trails their baggage, real and metaphorical. Tom’s in charge, with Vicky’s Raf as his number two. They both have that musclebound build, perfect for shouldering luggage. Funny to think I once quite fancied Tom. Well, we all did. The three of us met him at one of the endless series of uni house parties we went to in those days, in scruffy bits of south London. For me, they are still some of the most exotic safaris I’ve ever undertaken. He was doing biomedical science then, before he swapped courses.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ I asked naively, when Tom grabbed my bottle of rather nice Châteauneuf-du-Pape the moment we crossed the threshold.
‘Come and see,’ he said with a wink over his shoulder. And I trailed behind him into the stinky kitchen.
‘Ever seen anyone make a cocktail?’ he asked. I suppressed the thought of the little beachside bar in St Kitt’s that I’d rather taken to over the Christmas holidays, and of the staff at home for that matter, and I shook my head the way he wanted me to. He pushed the cork down into my bottle. I suppressed a wince. ‘Couldn’t be simpler,’ he said, glugging the contents into an enormous pan, which looked like something Vicky’s granny might have boiled her smalls in.
Then he added two litres of own-brand lemonade, chucked in a sprig of mint, scooped some into a plastic cup, and passed it over. ‘Glass of Pimm’s, milady,’ he said, holding my eyes. Funny how sexy it seemed, for a minute. We were all so young, babies really. Tom already had that confidence, some indefinable air of command. No wonder he went for a job with a uniform.
I look at him now, manhandling the suitcases. He isn’t in bad shape for his age. No dad bod there.
Back then, I could have sworn Vicky was keenest on Tom. But it was Gita who got him, and who now has those three girls to show for it. Tasha, the eldest, is as tall as her mother, and has her grace. She keeps a little distance between herself and her younger sisters.
Meanwhile, Vicky and Gita march on, oblivious to Tom’s efforts to keep the youngest girl’s case clear of the water. Now he’s telling my favourite – sulky, gawky middle child Nessie – to keep up. I wonder if I’m going to regret extending the invitation to children. Ruby, the littlest, is really too young to join in with all the fun I have planned, but I couldn’t exclude her. I didn’t want to give Gita any excuse to duck out. Besides, Ruby does make up the numbers.
I laugh to myself, enjoying my private joke. I’m expecting Vicky to get it; she’s the one with the talent for figures. But it’ll go over the heads of the rest. And having drinks tonight will help disguise it. It won’t be until we sit down, tomorrow night, for the Halloween feast, that they’ll discover we are a very special group indeed. Thirteen of us, to be precise.
Lucky for some, they say. Not for others. I narrow my eyes at the group, focusing, assessing. Yes, this invitation was long overdue.
Gita and Vicky are laughing now. I hope they are excited; as excited as I am. I wonder what they make of my causeway. I adore the way it’s revealed by the ebbing waters. It’s so beautiful, now I’ve had it restored. And the way it leads straight to me, and Mount Tregowan, makes it a delicious cross between the parting of the Red Sea and the Yellow Brick Road. The thing I love most is its disappearing act. Twice a day, the relentless tides cover it, cutting off my castle completely.
When Ross told me the way the sea severs us from the mainland, I nearly swooned at the romance of it all. If he’d asked for my hand right there, right then, I’d probably have said yes. And it wasn’t long after that he actually did. I had no doubts, none at all. When I look into his eyes, I’m home. He knows what it is to be surrounded by rumour and gossip, to need only a few loved ones to feel secure. That whole business with his first wife, for instance. The way he had it covered up. He’s never discussed it with me, and I like that steadfast loyalty, reaching even beyond the grave. But it’s still the talk of his little social circle here, and it didn’t take long for me to glean the necessary. Bless Ross, thinking no one outside the family knows, believing this island keeps his secrets safe. He’s such an innocent. I love that about him. And I’m so glad we’ve found each other, at last.
Of course, my splendid isolation is an illusion. You can always reach the island by boat, no matter how deep the sea lies over my causeway. Well, except in the most awful storms. It’s a short hop. You need to be an experienced sailor, to weave between the rocks, but thanks to me, we now have the best mariner on the mainland at our beck and call. There are ways round anything and everything, always. But I won’t be letting on about that. It breaks the spell of Tregowan; the legendary feel of a place that no one can leave – until I say so.
I step away from the window. I don’t want Gita and Vicky to see me too soon, though I suppose it might feed into the Rapunzel theme, my blonde hair cascading from the oriel. But no, I want to be in full-on chatelaine mode when they finally make it up to the castle. I’ll greet them at the heavy oak door, banded with iron bars. It opens with a groan from rusty hinges, swinging back on the splendour beyond. Yes, I could easily have it oiled, or plane the bottom of the door where it catches the stone, but there’s no drama in that. Creaks and clanks go with an old castle. I’m only sad there’s no portcullis to lower, no moat around us here.
What am I thinking? The sea is my moat. It will be rising up behind Gita, Vicky and the rest right now, a dark green wall, my careful restoration job a fathom deep by the time they’re halfway up the hill. I love the way I’ve got the hang of the tides so quickly; it makes me feel part of the place. A rightful queen.
My dress for tonight reflects this. I’ve been torn, I admit, between wanting to lay down my position immediately and trying to avoid any derision from Vicky. But in the end, I know Vicky will always find something to be sniffy about; that chip is even more a part of her shoulder than Tom’s epaulettes. So I’ve picked a simple, flowing Dior number that drapes with every move. Best of all, it billows behind me when I walk, like my own in-built train. I smile at the thought of pageboys to carry it for me. I would have loved that, but God, Vicky would have a field day.
The shame of it is that Vicky and I find the same things funny – but we can’t ever acknowledge that we both find my situation absurd. I have to revel in it, as far as Vicky is concerned, and Vicky has to hate it, as far I am allowed to see. Maybe this weekend will finally be our chance to put all that behind us. We could become the true friends we always should have been. Or, just maybe, we could turn into sworn enemies.
So much is going to shift in the next forty-eight hours, so many secrets will finally come to light, thanks to me. I’m looking forward to putting my world to rights at last.
I’m going to make it a healing, positive experience, whether the others like it or not.
After all, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Doesn’t it?
Chapter 6
Geoff
Mount Tregowan, 30th October
It is somewhat unfortunate, but yes, we did arrive late for Lady Tregowan’s drinks. My fault entirely. I’m afraid I chanced on a bookshop, not far from the island, and I persuaded Jane that it would be a good idea to pop our noses round the door. ‘I’ve clean forgotten to bring anything to read, and you can’t pretend your Rachel is a books person,’ I said. At that point, needless to say, we knew nothing of Lord Tregowan’s library.
‘She’s not my Rachel, but fine,’ said Jane. ‘I told you, you should have let me pack.’ I wasn’t too worried by her expression; she loves a bookshop as much as I do. We weren’t disappointed; it was an independent outlet with a good selection of ordnance survey maps. I’m researching our next walking holiday at present.
Jane made straight for the children’s section, of course. Oh, not for our own little ones; we’ve not been blessed in that department. But Jane is an author. The Melford Mice? Tiny dancing rodents, who live in a house and garden very similar to our own. They have long been a favourite with the nation’s offspring.
