15

Lauren, 1999

We were trapped. Scrunching the evening gowns against our half-dressed bodies, me and Gemma listened to the brush of feet moving through the grass. Angie’s shadow slipped across the hermit hut’s doorway first.

‘You dirty little so-and-sos.’ She shook her head and smiled. Our shocked faces blinked in the screens of her mirrored sunglasses. ‘Butter wouldn’t melt, eh?’

I knew some sort of misunderstanding had taken place, just not what. ‘Me and Gemma were swapping dresses,’ I explained. Even though this was true it didn’t sound it.

‘I may be a bit worse for wear today.’ Her lips looked swollen, redder than normal. ‘But I’m not a total moron, Lauren. Not on my watch, okay?’

I nodded, agreeing to something I didn’t understand just to make her go away. The hot sun sliced through the roof beams to my exposed shoulders, the softness of early morning gone. And the dresses no longer felt magical or glamorous but shiny and scratchy, like something from a dressing-up box.

‘Well, don’t just blink at me like bunnies in the headlights. Make yourselves decent.’

We were quick. Gemma grabbed her rucksack off the ground. ‘Thanks for lending me your dress,’ she whispered, with a small grateful smile, handing me the blue one, which I bundled in my arms, trying to hide the rip.

Outside the hut’s walls, everything was too harsh, too bright. The boy in the baseball cap I’d spotted from the window cavity had gone. Yet I could still see him on the exact spot where he’d stood on the path, like he’d left an echo of himself behind.

‘I’ll let someone else do the bollocking.’ Sweat popped above Angie’s upper lip. ‘But I’ll do you a favour and tell you, Lauren, that Mrs Finch mentioned she doesn’t want you and Gemma hanging out all the time. You’re here to spend time with your sisters, she said.’

Heat rolled over me. I told myself this was the sort of thing Granny might come out with after one of her gins, a throwaway line, not really meant. But Gemma wouldn’t meet my eye.

‘As for that ripped dress …’ Angie glanced at the bundle in my arms, then Gemma. ‘Best not lose your hard-working mum her job, eh?’

‘I can’t believe you said that!’ I hissed to Angie as Gemma, red-faced, hared away up the path.

‘Well, she should think first. And so should you. You’ve got a good gig here, Lauren.’ Something raw and hurt streaked across Angie’s face and, for a strange moment, I thought she might cry. ‘The big house. Sisters. Whatever you want. One day you’ll grow up and see how most people live, that’s all I’m saying.’

I opened my mouth to explain then shut it again, not knowing where to begin. Homesickness swelled against my ribs, a solid, physical thing. I wanted Mum’s laugh and chickpea curry, her bare foot tapping when she played the fiddle. Our rescue cat, Pumpkin. The fat bold robin I fed cornflakes every morning. Even the toilet that didn’t flush properly without pouring in a saucepan of water, carefully, so you didn’t get splashed. Noises. Smells. Home.

‘Speaking of which, where be Lady Kat and Princess Flora?’ Angie turned to face the horizon, her sunglasses flashing. I thought of the wreckers of old, how they’d trick boats to dash on the rocks with their lamps. ‘Any idea what they’re up to?’

I shook my head. First rule of Finch sisters, never snitch. A second later, I caught Kat’s laugh on the breeze, just a snippet of it, like you can hear one note of music and immediately recognize the song.

I expected Angie to hear too. But she didn’t. ‘Charlie asked me to herd you all back for an impromptu sitting. Something about feet – you know, getting them right.’

I didn’t like the way she used his name rather than ‘your dad’ or ‘Mr Finch’.

‘If I fluff my first session for him because of …’ The expression on my face must have stopped her short. ‘What?’

‘Session?’ My heart started to hammer, like it already knew.

‘Art assistant, Lauren. Between my household shifts.’

A dizzy, tipping sensation. ‘But you can’t. That’s … that’s my job,’ I managed.

My first day at Rock Point rushed up at me – the staring half-sisters, the new grandparents, the strange, too-big house until Dad said, ‘Come with me, kid,’ and took me by the hand up to the studio and asked if I’d help him melt down some rabbit-skin glue on his camping stove. I no longer felt like a grubby castaway pulled out of the hold. And afterwards he knelt down, and said solemnly, ‘Tell me, Laurie, how did I ever manage without you?’ and I thought I might die of happiness.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Lauren. It’s not personal. I’m a proper studio assistant, that’s all. Trained. Charlie needs me this summer. And this painting … well, you wouldn’t understand, but it’s not some little holiday project. Girls and Birdcage, it’s going to be mega, honestly.’ Angie flicked up her sunglasses, as if she wanted to let me in. Not somewhere I wanted to go: her pupils were enormous and tadpole-black, the whites lacy with red. ‘Charlie Finch is on fire. Take it from me.’

I wouldn’t. He was my dad. ‘The stuff he does here is never little holiday projects,’ I said fiercely, as Granny’s ballgown tried to blow inside out.

‘If you say so,’ she said, amused, disbelieving.

I took a breath, and mentally drew up the Tatler article on Dad’s London toilet wall, reading the march of little black letters: ‘Finch’s pencil and charcoal life studies, the bounty of his Cornish studio, are spare, almost painfully intimate and eminently collectable, if you can get hold of one. Or persuade him to sell. Forget the oils of the great and the good, these private drawings – and sitters – are a peek into Finch’s heart.’ I exhaled. My photographic memory trick didn’t always work, but I knew I’d pulled it off.

‘Blimey. Ever thought of being an art critic when you grow up?’ Angie cocked her head on one side, interested in me for the first time. ‘So, apart from you lot, who else does he draw here?’

‘Life models,’ I said, still distracted by my own small triumph. ‘Friends. Anyone who’s game, really.’

I could see an idea land in her eyes, just before she pushed her sunglasses back down. ‘Let’s hoof it. See if Kat and Flora are already back at Rock Point, shall we?’

Glad to leave, desperate to get changed out of the dress, I followed a few steps behind on the stony path. Angie’s blouse blew up in the breeze, revealing a gecko tattoo inked on her lower back. There was something lizard-like about Angie too, I thought, the way she emerged into the light and you could see who she was, just for a moment, before she’d vanish down a crack again.

‘Wait. Before we go in, Lauren.’ We stopped in the drive. ‘Sorry about what I said to Gemma, okay? I meant well. But it was out of order.’

I looked away, embarrassed by this unexpected apology, suspecting she was just worried about me saying something to Dad.

‘And the other thing … one assistant to another.’ She was smiling, her voice gentle, kind. She’d changed again. ‘You’ve done a brilliant job in the studio. I’m dead impressed. Your dad says you’re a natural.’

Trying to hide the burn of pride in my chest, I said nothing, stared at my feet, the torn bracken frond caught in my sandal strap.

‘Hey, you’re almost airborne.’ Angie leaned over and, like a big sister might, patted down my dress to stop it ballooning in the wind. ‘One other thing. Since you’re the studio mistress, where does he keep those private life drawings?’ She winked. ‘I’d like to check out the competition.’

I hesitated. The sun gunned down.

‘Ah, so the studio mistress doesn’t know everything …’ she teased playfully.

Unable to resist showing off my knowledge, I regretted telling Angie immediately. But, like so many things that summer, by then it was already too late.