The Woman In The Lake: Can she escape the shadows of the past?

I.A.C.B.… If this really were me then by the time the portrait was published I would have a different surname. I would be remarried. Eustace would be dead.

The thought gave me enormous pleasure. It warmed me, nurturing the flame of revenge that burned deep inside. I felt new life and energy course through my veins again, just as I had when I had held the golden gown. I decided that whilst I planned Eustace’s demise I would start to draw again.

‘I shall set up my easel in that room tomorrow,’ I said to Constance. ‘The light is perfect for my art. Please talk to Mrs Lunt to make sure it is clean and ready for me in the morning. There is much I need to do.’

Chapter 6

Fenella

Present Day

There was a parcel waiting for Fen on the walnut table in the hall when she arrived home from work on Monday. It was unexpected and she felt her heart contract with a little lurch of fear just as it always did when something unforeseen happened. It felt as though these days she had no protective layer. Everything had been stripped away when she had walked out on her past life and as yet she had not been able to reconstruct herself.

Since Friday night she had felt on edge anyway, jumping at shadows. She knew she must have imagined seeing Jake. He lived in Berlin these days, or so she had been told. Yet just the thought that she could summon up his ghost so easily, chilled her. She had spent the day trying to forget, immersed in work, the seminars and tutorials with her students, discussions on design ideas with colleagues, her research. The routine and familiarity had restored some of her equilibrium but term was ending and soon the college corridors would be echoing and empty through the long weeks of summer. She already felt lonely and vulnerable.

‘There’s a special delivery for you,’ her landlord said. He had come out of his own flat when he heard the main door open. He had a mop in his hand but Fen knew he had no intention of cleaning the tiled hall. For a start it was spotless, and secondly, he employed a whole team of cleaners to service the flats. It was part of the rental agreement.

‘It was lucky I was here to sign for it,’ he said. ‘Otherwise they would have taken it away again.’

‘Thanks,’ Fen said. She hadn’t talked to him much in the six months she had been back in Swindon. She knew he was called Dave and that he shared his flat with a male partner and that he ran a small property empire from within the elegant Georgian building. That was about all, other than that he used the mop as an excuse to engage the tenants in conversation whenever he heard the door open.

‘It’s postmarked Norfolk,’ Dave said. He waited, clearly hoping for some information in return.

Fen glanced at the scrawled address which looked as though it had been written in a hurry by someone who couldn’t give a toss whether the parcel arrived at its destination or not. She thought it odd to send it special delivery if they couldn’t even be bothered with a proper postcode. Then she realised that it was Pepper’s writing, which explained everything. Pepper’s life was one long impatient scrawl.

‘It’s from my sister,’ she said.

‘Lives there, does she?’ Dave’s eyebrows waggled with excitement.

‘No,’ Fen said. ‘She’s clearing out my grandmother’s cottage in Hunstanton. Gran died a couple of months ago.’

‘Condolences.’ Dave rubbed vigorously at an imaginary spot on the coloured tiles. ‘I hope she had a good innings?’

‘She did, thanks,’ Fen said. It was hard to speak about Sarah without feeling a multitude of emotions, of which grief and regret were very close to the top of the list. Everything had gone wrong with their relationship. When Fen had reached sixteen she had headed out into the world like a bird freed from a cage. She had only wanted a bit of breathing space after the claustrophobic years of caring for Sarah but no one had understood. Her family had thought she was an ingrate. Sarah wrote her vitriolic letters accusing her of wilful cruelty. Even Pepper had called her selfish.

‘Really, darling,’ her mother had said plaintively, from an archaeological dig in Greece, ‘you’re throwing away all your future chances without a decent education. No one who leaves school at sixteen has a hope in hell of making anything of themselves. And what about your grandmother? Who’s supposed to care for her now you’ve gone? I’ve had to call in an army of carers and that is so expensive!’

Fen had felt bad about that, abandoning Sarah to flea markets and the bottle, but it had felt as though something might snap in her head if she didn’t get out. Jessie, knowing something was wrong even though Fen hadn’t spilled the details, had tried to persuade her to go to stay with them so that she could carry on at school, but Fen had needed to get right away, put some distance between her and Swindon for a while. Kesia had a cousin in London and Fen had gone to stay with her, got a job as a waitress and moved from job to job, rented flat to rented flat, until she had met Jake, an importer of luxury goods, and he had helped her get work as a secretary. It wasn’t what she wanted to do for ever but she had only been twenty and she had thought there would be plenty of time to decide on a proper future, and whatever her mother thought, there were plenty of opportunities…

She picked up the parcel, which was much lighter than she had expected from its size, and carried it up the stairs at the rear of the hall. Muted summer sunshine fell on her from the fanlight high above her head, mingling with drifting shadow. She had never lived in an old house before but found it pleasantly cool in the heat of these July days. She had been surprised to find how much she liked the Georgian style of Villet House, with its panelled hall and carved oak stairs. Her flat was on the first floor; two bedrooms, a spacious living area with a big bow window to the street at the front, a tiny kitchen and bathroom and a view out across the car parks and rooftops behind. It wasn’t the most attractive view in the world but if she craned her neck she could see the green haze of the trees in the park, the spire of Christ Church and the rows of houses leading down the hill into Swindon New Town.

She put the parcel down on her dining table and went into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. She felt hot and sticky from the walk home even though the college was only five minutes away. Her hair smelt of diesel fumes from the buses and it felt as though there was a layer of summer dust overlaying her skin. She needed a shower.

Halfway down the hall she realised that she had forgotten to put the chain on the door. It shocked her to be so careless. Vigilance was a habit with her. She fumbled for the links with fingers that shook and slid it into place.

The cold shower restored some of her calm. She knew she had changed since leaving Jake; she was much more wary, less open with people and, no matter how she tried, the lurking sense of unease was never far away. People spoke of starting a new life as though it were fresh and exciting. What they didn’t realise was that you could not shake off the past. It was in your head, sometimes, even in the marks on your body.

It was too hot to eat. She was meeting some colleagues from work in the wine bar on Wood Street at eight and knew she should at least have a salad or something small before she had anything to drink. Not that she was likely to say something she shouldn’t but there was always a chance she might forget which story she was telling today, who she was… She never talked about her real past, not with those people who had not known her before. She did not know any of them well enough to trust them and she didn’t want to talk about it anyway; why rake it all up, dissect it again, see the shock and pity in people’s eyes? It had been hard enough with family and friends at the time:

‘But we all thought Jake was so charming,’ they had wailed as a chorus and the look in their eyes had so often suggested that she must have been at fault and that it was her judgement that in some way was suspect…

As she tossed some basil, mozzarella, sliced tomatoes and avocado into a bowl and sloshed in some olive oil, Fen caught sight of the parcel, still sitting on the table, waiting. She realised she didn’t want to open it. She had no idea what her sister could have sent her since Sarah had cut Fen out of her will and left most of her money to charity. Pepper had been furious at having the burden of sorting through all of Sarah’s accumulated stuff – trash, she had called it – when she wasn’t even getting much of a legacy for her trouble.

‘It’s all right for you,’ Pepper had said crossly. ‘If Gran hadn’t moved nearer to us, I wouldn’t have got lumbered with all of this.’

‘Hunstanton isn’t near Lincoln,’ Fen said.

‘Mother thinks it is,’ Pepper said bitterly. ‘She told me I was the one who was closest and I should do the house clearance. And I can’t just throw it all away, Fen. You know what Gran was like. There might actually be something valuable in amongst all the rubbish.’

‘Well, God forbid you should miss that and give it to charity by accident,’ Fen had said and Pepper had put the phone down on her. Happy families, Fen thought. With a sigh, she put the salad bowl down carefully on the counter, wiped her hands down her jeans, and went through the arch into the living room.

She needed scissors to open the parcel. Pepper had sealed it up so thoroughly that there seemed no way in. She inserted the blade beneath the brown sticky tape and cut into the cardboard. She felt a whisper of something soft and light against the blade and stopped immediately, feeling a flash of some emotion that felt oddly like panic.

The lid of the box lifted away to reveal layers of tissue paper with a neat cut sliced through them. On top was a piece of thick, cream-colour writing paper, folded in half, covered with Sarah’s imperious handwriting. It felt very odd to see it now, her grandmother speaking to her from beyond the grave when she had barely spoken to her at all in the last twelve years of her life.

Fenella,

This is yours. Do with it what you think best but be aware of the danger.

The note was unsigned.

Fen’s heart started to race. She knew at once what ‘this’ was.

Carefully, and with hands that shook, she unfolded the rustling layers of tissue paper. A faint smell came from the box – lavender, conjuring up the memory of her grandmother’s garden in the summer, the sun on hot stone, and mothballs, a pungent smell she had always hated. Her fingers brushed something soft and smooth, silk, aged and pale yet still retaining the shimmer of gold.

A sensation shot through her, recognition and dread and a strange sort of excitement.

The golden gown came free of its wrappings with a whisper of sound that was like the past stirring. It felt as though it sighed, shivering in Fen’s hands. Unconsciously, she held it close to her heart in exactly the same way she had done in her bedroom fourteen years before.

She had had no idea that her grandmother had known about the golden gown. When she had left Swindon she had abandoned it in the bottom of her wardrobe underneath her sports kit and her hockey stick. It felt like something she had outgrown along with her childhood. She needed to leave it behind and move on.

She wondered if Sarah had found the gown when she had packed up to move back to her native Norfolk. It was odd that she had said nothing at the time, but then they had not really been on speaking terms.

Fen picked up her grandmother’s note again, frowning a little.

This is yours. Do with it what you think best but be aware of the danger.

What on earth had Sarah meant by that?

Fen knew all about danger. She had an intimate, atavistic relationship with it that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. The memory of terror stalked her. She only needed to close her eyes to see each episode unfurl like a film reel. She would be running, tripping in her haste to escape, her heart pounding. Then Jake would catch her. She could feel his grip on her arm, the wrench of her bones as he hauled her back against him and held her close.

‘I love you,’ he had kept repeating, as though that were a charm that warded off all evil. ‘I love you so much. I will always love you.’

She never wanted to hear those words again.

She gave a violent shudder and came back to the room and the bright sunshine and the golden gown. How could it be dangerous? It was just a piece of old silk and lace.

Pepper had not bothered to enclose a covering note so there was no explanation. Nor was there anything else from Sarah, no words of endearment, no mention of any regrets her grandmother might have had about their estrangement. The initial breach between them had never healed and when Fen had divorced Jake the year before, it had worsened.

‘You always were selfish,’ her grandmother had snapped. ‘That poor boy. After all he’s been through! He stood by you. He didn’t press charges when he could have done. How could you do this to him, Fenella?’

‘You don’t understand,’ Fen had said. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ She had repeated the words so often but no one was listening. No one wanted to hear. Sarah had always liked Jake. Everyone did.

‘Darling,’ Fen’s mother had said vaguely from a research conference in Tanzania, ‘you know what Sarah’s like. She’ll fall out with someone else in the family soon and you’ll be reinstated.’ But it had never happened. The estrangement had frozen into a permanent separation and now Sarah was dead and the only word from her was the gown and a warning. Fen felt the familiar mixture of misery and frustration possess her. She had loved Sarah. She had wanted them to be reconciled. This gesture only made her feel worse, and she wondered whether Sarah had done it deliberately to upset and challenge her.

Her phone rang and Fen reached automatically to answer it.

‘Hey.’ It was Jessie’s voice, warm, happy and all loved up. Fen felt a stirring of envy. Jessie and Dev were the proof that not all relationships were waking nightmares.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How was Paris? Did you have a good time?’

‘Lovely,’ Jessie said. ‘Crêpes and croissants in Montmartre, silhouettes down by the Seine, theatres, museums…’ She sounded dreamy. ‘What about you? How did it go in London?’

‘We missed you,’ Fen said truthfully, ‘but it was a nice evening.’ And I met your brother on the train home. She felt a pang of regret mingled with awkwardness. She had already decided not to tell Jessie about her encounter with Hamish. ‘Least said, soonest mended’ had been one of Sarah’s maxims, although in this particular instance, it was more a case of say nothing and hope for the best.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.