Nineteen

On Christmas morning Isabel hung the black dress her mother was planning to wear on the outside of the wardrobe.

'You'd better get a move on, Mum. The service starts at ten.'

Eva sat on the edge of the bed. She was twisting a hanky between her fingers. She coiled the thin white material into a knot before smoothing it out and then starting all over again. 'My first Christmas with your father was fifty years ago, although I hardly knew him then. I'd only been in England a month and I remember Aunt Rosa asking him to take care of me.'

Isabel crouched down in front of her mother. She drew the handkerchief gently from Eva's fingers and clasped them in her own. 'Look at me, Mum,' she pleaded. Eventually Eva raised her eyes. Isabel squeezed her fingers. 'I might not know what it's like to be with someone for a life-time, but I understand the pain of losing someone you love,' she said. 'I miss Dad too. He always knew the right thing to say to make you feel better. He saw the best in everyone. But he's gone.'

'No!' The word exploded from Eva's lips. 'He's not far away. Sometimes—when I'm on my own and it's quiet—I can feel him in the room. He's watching over us.'

'Exactly. And we don't want him to think we made a mess of things the minute his back was turned.'

'He used to tell me he was proud of me.'

'Come on, then. Dry those tears. Rick and Deanna will be waiting. We'll miss the service if we don't get a move on.'

'I wish we could have gone to Midnight Mass.'

'So do I. But you know what Rick's like. It has to be done his way.'

Isabel knew that criticism of one of her beloved sons would rouse her mother, and she was right. Eva immediately straightened her shoulders.

'Rick's an important man, Isabel. He's used to making decisions for other people.'

'I know. And if we don't want Christmas Day to get off to a bad start, we need to go downstairs.'

Eva looked tired and sad, but she managed a smile. 'Thank you for being patient with a silly old woman, cara. You're a darling child.'

 

In the end the service at All Saints passed successfully. Rick read his piece in a loud clear voice; the scent of flowers filled the church, and the organ's notes were thrilling and uplifting. Rick and Deanna stood on either side of Eva in the pew in front, and Isabel stared at the back of her mother's head. Her hair had been done in a rush and it was spilling from the bun as she joined in the hymns with her usual gusto. When she was young, she'd been embarrassed at Eva's fine soprano voice. Now she was relieved to hear the sound. She glanced at her two nieces each side of her in the pew. She smiled across at Camilla, but it was Rose's face that filled her mind. What were she and Josh doing this morning? She'd already told them she wouldn't phone. It would hurt too much to hear their voices.

When they got back to the house, they had smoked salmon and scrambled egg for breakfast, washed down with a glass of bucks fizz. Grace had rung but Rick had wanted to show Isabel the garden, and she missed the call. They scrabbled down the last few feet to the river. Rick bent to select a stone. He lined up his wrist and flicked. The stone skimmed the water, landing with scarcely a splash, before rising again in a graceful arc. Each time the water eddied around the stone's landing place, Rick urged it on: 'Four… five… go on… go on…' The stone plopped into the water, and although he was poised to continue counting, it didn't appear again.

'Dad taught me how to do that.' He picked up several more stones, examining each one. '"It's all in the selection process" he used to say.'

'It's funny, isn't it?' Isabel said. 'It's the little things that get you.'

'I remember him taking me to see Arsenal play. It was the only time. I think Mum was still away in Italy and Grandma looked after you. I'd been picked for the under-10s team and I was sure I was going to be a professional footballer.'

'Did Arsenal win?'

'You bet!' Rick smiled, and for a moment Isabel saw the little tow-headed boy he must have been. 'We went to a café in Highbury afterwards to celebrate. We had fried egg and chips. "Don't tell your gran," he said. "This is our secret."' Rick looked sheepish.

He had three separate piles of stones by then. Judging by the different shapes, they were definite skimmers, possibilities and rejects.

'What do you think about me learning to play the piano?' he asked.

'If there's something you want to do, go for it,' Isabel said. 'Dad dying has made me realise how short life is.' As she heard the cliché emerge, Isabel wondered what her dream was. All she'd thought about for months was getting Brian back. There must be something she'd like to do with her life.

'George thinks it's a joke. I expect you do as well, only you're too polite to say so.'

'I don't think it's a joke, Rick.' Isabel hoped she sounded convincing.

'In a year's time I'll be able to play like Dad.'

'He had been playing all his life.'

'See!' Rick kicked his pile of discarded stones into the water. 'You don't think I can do it.'

'It's not that.' Isabel was getting cold. There was a lovely fire in the drawing room and she wanted to go in. 'But it's much harder when you're older. Like any new skill.'

'I'm going to do it, Isabel,' Rick repeated. 'And because I've bought this piano, it doesn't mean that I'm not going to have Dad's.'

'Mum wants to keep it. You know it reminds her of Dad.'

'I'm prepared to leave it for a while. That's why I've got this one in the meantime. But when she moves house, there won't be room for a piano.'

Isabel stared at him. 'You're not serious about her moving?'

'I'll wait until she's stronger. But I want her to sell up and move here. She'd be better off out of London, and Deanna and I will take care of her.'

'But I'm only ten minutes away. I'm always popping in and out.' Angry words leapt to Isabel's lips, but she clenched her teeth. It was Christmas Day, she was a guest in his home and for her mother and Deanna's sakes, she wouldn't cause a scene.

'I've already put in an offer on a house in Hexham for her,' Rick said. 'It's only thirty minutes from here.'

From the terrace came the sound of Deanna's voice calling them.

'Thank goodness. That means Alicia's home.' Rick turned towards the house. 'I knew she'd see sense when the time came.' He started to clamber up the bank from the river. He turned back and reached out to Isabel. 'Give me your hand.'

She was about to refuse, but the bank was muddy and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of watching her undignified scramble.

Rick strode up the lawn while Isabel trailed behind him. By the time she reached the house, he was already several yards ahead, but she still heard his explosion of anger. She arrived at the door of the drawing room to find the others looking as if they'd been interrupted in a game of musical statues. Her mother sat huddled in a corner of the sofa. Deanna was standing at the drinks tray. She was deathly pale. Flavia and Camilla were at the other end of the room by the Christmas tree. They were on their knees, a present in each hand.

Rick held his eldest daughter by the arm. A young man stood behind Alicia. He was very tall and gangly. He wore a short-sleeved T-shirt with the words Piss Head printed across the front and jeans, which were torn at the knee. Tattoos covered his spindly forearms. His hair was stringy and greasy looking.

'If you'd let me speak…' Alicia was saying. 'This is Gary.' She turned to her right, but Rick's eyes didn't even flick in the boy's direction. His gaze bored into Alicia.

'I told you never to bring that lout here!'

'And I told you I wouldn't come today if he wasn't welcome.'

'Then why are you here?' Rick's bellow was terrifying. Isabel looked towards her mother. She'd shrunk into the cushions that enveloped her and her eyes were squeezed shut.

'You needn't think it was to see you.' Alicia spoke quietly. Every word was carefully enunciated. 'I came to see Mum and my sisters.'

Rick lifted his right arm in the air. Oh God, he was going to hit her.

Alicia laughed. 'Go on. Do it. Isn't that what bullies do when they can't get their own way? You bully the people at work and you think you can do the same to your family.'

'How dare you!' Rick clenched his fist above his head. Isabel could see his arm was shaking.

'Dad!' From the far end of the room, Flavia came to life. She pushed Camilla out of the way, knocking a present from her hand. The sound of glass splintering on the polished wooden floor filled the few seconds' silence. Deanna, too, seemed to wake from a dream. She and Flavia reached Rick at the same moment. Deanna put her arms round him. 'Honey, calm down. Alicia's your princess. Remember?'

Rick was still glaring at Gary, but he lowered his fist.

'I wanted Alicia here. I told her to bring Gary rather than stay away.' Deanna's voice was silky as she stroked his hair back from his forehead. 'I needed us to be together, Rick. This year, especially.' Deanna reached up and wound her arms round Rick's neck. She began to kiss his mouth. It felt wrong to watch, but Isabel couldn't tear her eyes away.

She wasn't sure what happened next. Whether Deanna tipped her head back too far, or Rick accidentally knocked her turban as he cupped her face in his palms, she didn't know. But Deanna's yellow turban slipped. It hung from the back of her head and then as she clutched at it, it fell to the floor. Unsightly tufts of grey hair sprouted from the largely bald dome of her head. Isabel saw the horror on Rick's face.

It lasted only a matter of seconds. Deanna bent down, swept up the turban and repositioned it on her head. 'Darling, don't look so scared.' She stroked his cheek. Rick pulled away from her embrace, and Camilla had to catch her arm to steady her. He didn't seem to notice. He went over to the sideboard and poured himself a large measure of whisky. He turned back to where the others remained mesmerised. 'I'll be in my study when dinner's ready,' he said. 'And he…' he jerked his head to where Gary stood '…had better be gone.'

Twenty

Grace poured herself a glass of water from the bottle in the fridge and stepped on to the balcony. Franco was still asleep, and she relished these moments alone. Below her, the sea was calm. It was a cold morning, but the sky was a bright blue with only the occasional cloud rolling across. Grace pulled her wrap closer round her shoulders. She was so tired; her whole body ached. Christmas was spent with Franco's family, while the restaurant had been fully booked since New Year's Eve. It would be the same now until the Epiphany.

Her eyes were drawn, as always, to the castello and she was just in time to see a halo of sunlight illuminate the fortress. She wondered if it had been a morning like this on 27th December 1509 when Vittoria Colonna married Count Ferrante d'Avalos in the castle cathedral. The Castello d'Aragonese had been a great Renaissance court, a magnet for artists and poets with Vittoria at the centre. Despite Grace's fascination with Vittoria, a sense of what it would have been like to be her remained elusive. A great beauty— Michelangelo was said to be in love with her—she was a romantic figure from a remote world. Yet she stared out from her portraits like a woman from the twenty-first century.

The light made Grace's eyes water and she raised her hand to shield them. Thoughts of Vittoria's life sent her back to when she was nineteen. She'd had a terrible row with her father. It was the summer holiday and her first year at university was over. She wasn't enjoying her degree—studying Italian was a step back instead of a new adventure. There was a boy on her course who was going to drop out and travel America. Grace had slept with him a few times and he asked her to go with him. Her father wouldn't hear of it, and when October came, Grace went back and continued her studies.

She stared across the narrow stretch of sea to the castle. Suppose she had abandoned her course and travelled to America? She would never have been in Naples teaching English. She would never have met Franco and fallen for his brown eyes and long lean body. She would never have been on a small island which—for all its beauty—imprisoned her. She would never have married Franco and felt as caged by his demands and expectations as the thick walls of the castello might have held her captive in earlier times.

 

A few nights before, the castle had been the backdrop to a spectacular show of fireworks to welcome il nuovo anno. Franco had gone up on the roof about eleven o'clock when the evening in the restaurant was in full swing and let off their own display. Everyone had swarmed outside on to the pavement to watch. Grace remained in the kitchen. The fireworks reminded her too much of the previous summer. Her parents had come to Ischia for the first time and together they'd watched the island's annual celebration for the feast of St Ann. The balcony provided a perfect view.

Lights had shone out from hundreds of lanterns placed around the castle and on the rocks that stood in the sea below. They cast a glow that trembled across the stretch of black water between the castle and the reefs. The sea was filled with boats of all shapes and sizes, rocking in the waves. People crammed on to the bridge that linked the castle to the island to watch the parade of decorated carnival rafts. Just after midnight, the firework display began from a boat moored out in the bay. Arcs and swirls and spirals of greens and golds and colour after shimmering colour filled the sky. Then the castle began to glow. One patch of red appeared in the darkness and then another sprang up, and another, until the whole castello was fired with crimson and flames leapt into the black sky. Grace remembered her mother's gasp.

'It's all right,' she'd whispered. 'It's not real. They pretend to set fire to the castle to recall the pirate invasions.'

They'd been standing close, her father in the middle with his arms round Grace and Eva.

'They don't do fireworks as well as us,' he said, 'but they're pretty nonetheless.'

'Pretty!' Eva exclaimed. 'How can you be down-key about something so magnificent?'

'You mean low-key.'

'What?'

'You said down-key. It's low-key.'  Henry was the only one who dared correct Eva's mistakes. She often got annoyed, but that night she laughed.

'Down… low… who cares?' she'd said. 'I adore fireworks,' and she'd kissed Henry on the cheek.

 

Grace turned back to the darkened bedroom. She pulled on some trousers and a jumper. Franco was snoring. Usually he was up ages before her. He worked hard, determined to make a success of the restaurant. He wanted to extend it. In the early hours of the morning, he'd made Grace sit down with a glass of prosecco while he outlined his plans. The building next door was up for sale and Franco intended to put in a bid. He paced between the tables, as he explained how they could create three or four en-suite rooms and offer accommodation. The extra space would also be useful for the bambini.

Grace smiled awkwardly. When she came back from England the second time, she'd expected a cold reception. They'd parted on such bad terms she'd almost reconciled herself to the fact that her marriage was over. Instead Franco had been warm and loving. Asking her lots of questions about her mother, holding her tight when she woke in the night crying. In the morning, when she opened her eyes, he would be leaning on one elbow watching her, a smile on his lips. 'Mia cara,' he would murmur, 'bella, bella.'

One morning she had whispered the word 'Yes.'

'Yes?'

'Yes, I will.'

His dark eyes looked puzzled. 'You will what?'

'I'll have your baby.'

Perhaps it would work out. Her father had gone and nothing could replace him, but a new life growing inside her might make the pain less raw. At Christmas, when Franco had revealed the news to his family, Grace had been showered with attention. His mother could not have made more fuss of her if she'd been Our Lady herself. And for a few days she too had been consumed with joy. It was as if she was already pregnant. But in spite of that, every morning she'd continued to remove the packet of pills from the back of her underwear drawer where she'd hidden them, press one from its foil wrapping into her palm and swallow it. One day soon she would stop taking them, she told herself. One day soon.

 

Franco had told the staff to come in later this morning after all their hard work, and the office and restaurant were deserted. Grace opened the shutters in the office. Light streamed into the room, bouncing off piles of papers on the desk. It would be good to have more space if they expanded into next door. She turned on the computer to check her emails, hoping for something from home. She hardly ever heard from Rick, but George was an avid email and texter—sometimes sending several a day—and Isabel had been in touch a lot since their father died.

But not since Christmas. Grace watched the little icons ripple on to the screen. Since her mother and Isabel had come back from Newcastle, she'd hardly heard from her sister. She had never got used to the Italian custom of the big event being on Christmas Eve. It left her feeling flat and longing for home on Christmas Day. She used to picture the scene in her parents' dining room while she waited for them to answer the phone: him at one end of the table nearest the piano, her at the other with the light from the window gleaming through her hair. When the phone was picked up, it was always her father's voice: 'Happy Christmas, love.' 'I miss you,' she used to say. 'Aye lass,' he would answer. 'I expect you do.'

Grace hadn't been to Rick's new house, so this year she hadn't been able to visualise them all. Her mother sounded subdued when she rang and even Deanna wasn't her usual bright self. There was a lot of noise in the background—Deanna said she'd have to go as Alicia had arrived with her boyfriend—and Grace had hung on waiting for someone else to pick up the receiver. But no one had and eventually she'd been forced to hang up, disappointed  that she hadn't been able to speak to Isabel.

 

'Buongiorno, Signora!'

Grace's head whipped round at the unexpected voice. Benito, the postman, was standing in the doorway. He was grinning. 'Un bel mucchio di posta oggi!' He dropped a huge pile of mail on the desk with a wave and then Grace heard the whine of his scooter as he accelerated up the road.

She flicked through the envelopes, mostly routine stuff. But half way through the pile, she stopped. It was a blue envelope with an English stamp. The writing was small and neat and sloped backwards. She raised the envelope to her face. There was a faint smell of cigarettes. Could it be the reply she was waiting for?

 

On that last visit to England, Grace hadn't known what to think when she found the photo in the bureau. Seeing Henry with two people called Archie and Dottie seemed to confirm Archie Stansfield's assertion that he and her father had once been friends. For Henry… All my love, Dottie. What did that mean? Her father and Dottie were lovers? Dottie fell pregnant. Whose baby? She must have been having an affair with someone else—that's why the relationship had ended. But Archie had hit him. It didn't make sense.

She'd studied her mother's face when she arrived home from the Advent lunch, trying to view her with a stranger's eyes. Eva had admitted to Isabel that Henry and Archie had a row many years ago, just as Archie himself had said, and Grace was sure she knew more.

The day before she returned to Ischia, when her mother went upstairs for a rest, Grace searched the bureau again. There might be something she'd missed. She'd been about to give up, afraid her mother would come downstairs and catch her, when she'd found it. Right at the back of the bottom drawer, hidden under a pile of Granny's knitting patterns, was a scrap of paper. It looked as if it had been torn from a child's exercise book, and on it was Archie Stansfield's name and address.

She'd written to him as soon as she arrived home. His reply arrived almost by return of post. It contained only a few lines in which he politely, but firmly, refused her request for more information. It was best that things remained as they were, he'd written. He should never have come to the funeral. Shouldn't have spoken out as he did. I trust you'll understand and respect that the past doesn't belong to us and we shouldn't meddle with it.

It had been too tantalising. Something had happened all those years ago that her father had concealed. Grace had to know. Before Christmas she'd written a second letter to Archie Stansfield, offering to come to England to meet him again. I need to clear up these doubts, she had written, so that I can grieve for my father in peace. I shouldn't have run away when we met before.

It was Archie's reply to this letter that had just arrived. For a moment she was tempted to burn it, but she'd gone too far. Whatever Archie Stansfield had to reveal, she needed to know.

She drew the two sheets of closely written script from the envelope.

 

My dear Grace,

I have thought long and hard since your second letter arrived. I might not be doing the right thing, but I don't like secrets and I think you should know what happened.

Henry was my friend from the day we started school. I left when I was 14. My family didn't have any money and I went to work in the mill. But your dad was clever and his mam was determined he would stay on until matriculation. I thought he would forget about me, but he didn't. He used to call for me every Saturday afternoon and we'd go fishing down at the river. To tell you the truth, he didn't really enjoy fishing. He'd spend all his time gathering a pile of stones that he'd skim across the water. I remember the day he managed to make his pebble leap seven times. He made so much noise, whooping and cheering; I shouldn't think I got another bite for the rest of the day. We were forever quarrelling about that—I'd want it dead calm so as not to disturb the fish, and his stones would be plopping into the water all over the place. I smile now when I think of it. We were an unlikely pair to be friends. My mam said his family was posh, and some people in the town thought your grandfather was racy, what with him playing the piano at the pictures, but I didn't care. Henry was the best friend ever.

 

The page dropped on to Grace's lap. The computer screen told her that she had four new emails, but she didn't click on them. She was lost in thoughts of her father as a boy. The best friend Archie Stansfield ever had. She could picture the look on his face the day his skimming stone had leapt seven times. His mouth would have been drawn tight in concentration, but his eyes would have sparkled. She'd seen that look when he'd mastered a difficult piece of music.

Part of her wanted to hang on to that image of her father, as she'd always known him. It wasn't too late to destroy the letter. But deep down, she knew it was. Her eyes returned to the blue pages.

Twenty-one

After Isabel returned from Rick's, thoughts of Simon preoccupied her. Last thing at night, she'd take his card from the top drawer of her bedside table and stare at his name. She would phone him the next day, she told herself, but come the morning her resolve always weakened. It was weeks since they'd met at Kenwood and he'd probably forgotten her by now. She could imagine the call: 'Hello, it's Isabel here.' Isabel? Who on earth is Isabel? he'd be thinking. She tucked the card back inside the drawer underneath her underwear.

It was well into January when she gained the courage to ring.

'Hi, it's Isabel.'

'Hi! Great to hear from you.'

'Sorry it's been so long.'

He laughed. 'I thought the famous Franklin charm had failed to work its magic!'

'I was wondering…' This was the difficult bit. She'd never asked a man out. Well, she wasn't inviting him out exactly, but… seconds passed as all the phrases she'd rehearsed evaporated.

Simon's voice sounded again in her ear. 'If you were going to ask me if I'd like to meet…'

'Yes, yes, I was,' she said, and before her nerve went again: 'Do you? I mean would you like to?'

'Isabel, I'd love to.'

 

They met for lunch in a pub in Highgate. She arrived first and ordered a diet coke, trying to look as if she always propped up bars on her own. Simon rushed in with apologies. When he kissed her cheek, her heart beat faster. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his hand on her back and forgot he was late.

'How about a nice chablis?' he said.

'Wine goes to my head at lunchtime.'

'Just one glass for you then. Shall we sit at that table by the fire?' Isabel bagged the table, while Simon went to the bar.

He poured out the wine and raised his glass: 'Here's to a blue-sky, yellow-sun, green-grass day.'

'What's one of those?' The wine tasted cool on her tongue.

'You know… hunky dory, tikkety boo…'

'Oh, I've got it—a white-snow, brown-chocolate, red-bus sort of day.'

Simon laughed—a barrelling sound that made her want to join in. 'I love it, Isabel. You're on my wave length!'

This was new territory. She'd never been on anybody's wavelength before. She took a few more sips and looked at him properly. He was wearing a thick blue cotton shirt and jeans. His hair was even shorter than she remembered and it seemed to make his ears stick out. He rubbed a hand across his head when he saw her glance. 'It is drastic, isn't it?' He grinned. 'I wouldn't have had it cut if I'd known the call was going to come.'

'Sorry I didn't phone before. But I went to Cornwall to see my brother, and then there was Christmas…'

'It's fine, but I'm glad you rang in the end.' He smiled. 'Shall we eat? I'm starving.' He handed her a menu, and the tips of his fingers touched hers.

Isabel stared at the drops of condensation slipping down the neck of the wine bottle. She was sure he'd touched her on purpose. But they were meeting as friends, right? Two lost souls, rejected by their partners and sharing the hurt. She lowered her eyes to the menu. 'I'd like pasta with mushrooms.'

'I'll have the cod and chips.' Simon patted his waist. 'One day I'll take myself in hand.' He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, which he'd hung over a chair, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. 'I know. I know,' he said, catching her eye. 'I've given up, but I like to have them near me.'

 

'How was Christmas?' Simon asked as he chased the last few peas around the plate. 'Hope yours was better than mine.'

'Were you on your own?'

'Yep. I had a steak, half a bottle of whisky and watched the box all evening.'

'What about your son?'

'Helen won't let me see Edward at the moment. Says it will unsettle him.'

'It's hard, isn't it? Rose and Josh went to Brian's and I hated it.'

'And your first without your dad.'

'Thanks for remembering. People don't generally.'

'I try not to forget what people tell me—especially nice people.' Simon looked down at his food and Isabel thought she saw his cheeks flush.

'Mum and I went to Northumberland to stay with Rick and Deanna,' she said.

'Is he the brother with a big house?'

'I'll say! It's a mansion.'

'Sounds nice.'

An image of Deanna standing at the front door waving goodbye to Alicia invaded Isabel's mind. Alicia had refused to stay without Gary even though Deanna pleaded with her. Deanna had looked so lonely and frail in her yellow turban.

'It wasn't nice,' Isabel said. 'Pretty awful actually.' She drank some more wine and looked over her glass to find Simon's eyes on her.

'You know I'm a good listener,' he said.

'It's boring. I went on about family stuff too much last time.'

Simon refilled their glasses. 'I'm into living Christmas vicariously at the moment.'

'You wouldn't want to live this one. Rick had a fight with his daughter because she brought home some boyfriend he didn't like; she walked out, leaving Deanna distraught; a present my niece had bought for her mum—a little horse made from Venetian glass—got broken in the scrum; I told Deanna that Rick is a complete boor…'

'Wow! Sounds some party.'

'That's why I don't want to talk about it.'

'Okay—let's talk about how long you're going to leave it till you ask me out again.'

Isabel realised she'd nearly finished her second glass of wine. She hoped her cheeks weren't too pink. 'I did have an idea…' God, had she really said that? A vague thought that she had rejected in the night had sprouted from her lips.

'Ah! I like ideas.'

'It would just be as friends.'

'Friends—definitely.'

 

The doorbell rang. Isabel glanced in the mirror in the small hallway. She reached up to smooth her hair. She regretted choosing the new green trousers. George and Chloe were sure to be casually dressed. Jeans would have been better. The bell rang again. She jumped as the letterbox snapped open.

'Come on, Sis!' George called through the gap. 'It's freezing out here!'

With a final nervous glance in the mirror, she opened the door. The hall filled with cold air and jostling bodies.

'At last.' George kissed her once on each cheek and then a third time, as their mother always did. 'We were about to go to the pub up the road.'

'Hello Isabel.' Chloe smiled as she and Isabel aimed for the same cheek to kiss and there was an uncomfortable moment as their noses collided and their lips puckered fruitlessly.

Chloe laughed. 'Shall we try that again?'

Isabel was relieved. George and Chloe were her first real visitors and she'd been fussing for hours before they arrived. She'd almost cried off, but she wasn't sure where they were staying, and George wasn't answering his mobile. But the mistimed kiss broke the ice.

Isabel took the bottle of wine George was holding out.

'Come in and get warm.' She led them into the small sitting room. She'd pushed the nursing chair into an alcove and moved the chaise longue into the bay window to make the room look less cramped. She borrowed a small coffee table from Sally and set out crisps and nuts in little glass bowls, like she used to when she and Brian entertained. Then she had second thoughts. She could hear George's mocking voice, 'Ooh! Nibbles! How twee!' She cleared the lot away, only to have to rush round refilling the bowls before they arrived.

She opened one of the bottles of wine she'd already put on a tray. She managed to break the cork and one bit got stuck in the neck of the bottle. Damn! Just when she wanted to look in control. She pushed that bottle to one side and inserted the corkscrew in another. Great. Success this time.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Chloe helping herself to peanuts. George was sitting at the piano. He ran his fingers over the keys. 'Mm. Nice tone.'

'It needs tuning.'

George played a few more notes. 'C's a bit out, but it's not too bad. That piano of Dad's is forever going off.'

'Do you want to choose some music, George?' Isabel indicated a pile of CDs on the floor in the corner.

'Can I?' Chloe asked. 'George hasn't got any taste, if it's not classical!'

Isabel watched her brother and Chloe on their knees, squabbling about which CD to play. For the moment at least, discussion of Henry's piano was shelved.

 

The doorbell rang again. This had to be Simon. He was late—she'd hoped he'd be here before George and Chloe. When George had emailed that he and Chloe were coming up to London for his birthday, and it would be nice to see her, Isabel had panicked. She couldn't do it on her own, and they'd feel sorry for her in her poky flat. She'd asked Rose, but she was going to a school disco. She even considered getting Brian round, but that wasn't a good idea considering George's scathing comments, and she'd feel pathetic. Then she had a brainwave: invite Simon.

When she opened the door and saw his crinkly face and sparkly eyes, she felt a soppy smile spread across her face. She didn't feel shy introducing him to George and Chloe. 'This is Simon. He's a friend of mine.' It was okay: she'd done it, and nothing terrible had happened. Nobody laughed. Nobody seemed surprised that she should have Simon as a friend.

Somehow his easy manner, his casual request that George play the piano, the interest he showed in Chloe's work, made her relax. It was easier than when she was with Brian. 'I'm a man's man,' he used to say. 'A few pints with the lads on a Saturday and discuss the match. Can't be doing with all this namby pamby music and painting and bollocks to your computer whizz kids. With me, what you see is what you get.'  She'd always been on edge at family get-togethers in case Brian said the wrong thing.

'Isabel tells me you've set up an art school, George,' Simon said as she was opening another bottle of wine. 'How's that working out? I imagine there's a lot of competition in Cornwall.'

'We've broken even this first year.'

Isabel was astonished. She wouldn't have imagined George understood the concept of breaking even, let alone was able to achieve it.

'And what about your own work?' Simon went on. 'It's supposed to suffer if you teach others.' He held up his damaged hand. 'That's why I didn't bother after this put paid to my musical career.'

'You're a musician?' George asked.

'I played violin with the BBC Phil.'

'What happened?'

Isabel tensed, but Simon didn't show the edginess about his injury that he had when she first met him.

'I was skiing—stupid thing for a violinist—when I hit a tree stump. I fell and the bloke behind me—silly bugger was too close—crashed into me. His ski sliced straight through my fingers, cut through the glove and everything.'

'That's tough,' George said. 'I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't play the piano any more, or paint for that matter.'

Simon shrugged. 'You adjust.' He turned to Isabel who was leaning over him refilling his glass. 'And compensations come along.'

Twenty-two

'I don't like these any more, Mum.'

Isabel looked at the plate in front of Josh. Spaghetti hoops had been all he would eat on his weekly visits. The kitchen cupboard was crammed with tins of them. 'Don't you? What do you like?'

'Jackets with grated cheese. They're ace.'

Isabel turned back to the sink. 'Okay. Eat the spaghetti for today. I'll do a jacket next time.'

Not so long ago she would have gone on at Josh. Why didn't he like spaghetti hoops any more? When had he gone off them? She would have blamed Anita. Now it wasn't important. She finished washing-up the saucepan and sat down at the table. Despite what he'd said, he was shovelling spaghetti into his mouth. A streak of orange sauce ran down his chin. His hair had grown longer and looked as if it needed a brush, but she knew it took a good ten minutes to achieve that effect. He scraped the plate with his spoon, chasing the last spaghetti hoop. The spoon clattered on to the plate. He looked up at her and smiled.

Isabel couldn't believe it. The scowl that had been etched on his face for months had disappeared. His eyes shone and she noticed the long fringe of eyelashes that had always been a source of admiration. 'He'll break a few hearts with those lashes,' she remembered people saying when he was younger. He'd had a gap between his milk teeth at the front, which she'd loved, but now she saw his second teeth looked white and strong.

'Guess what?' he said.

'What?'

'I've been picked for the football team.'

'That's fantastic. I'm so proud of you.'

'Will you come and watch me, Mum?'

At last. A sign that she still meant something to Josh.

'I'd love to. When is it?'

'Saturday afternoon. Oh, I forgot.' His eyes had that hooded look again. 'Anita will probably be there.' It was the first time Josh had voluntarily referred to her.

'That's okay, love,' Isabel heard herself saying. 'I won't bite her head off.'

'Kick off's 2.30. Shall I let Samson in? He's soaking.'

Isabel followed Josh's glance. Samson was sitting on the windowsill, his mouth wide in a silent miaow. His fur was thick with raindrops and his pleading eyes met hers.

'Just wipe his paws on that old cloth. He's bound to make a beeline for my bed.'

 

Isabel was watching television in the lounge when the bell rang. Rose had gone to a friend's after school, as she seemed to so often now, and Isabel presumed she'd forgotten her key. But as she went to the front door, she could see through the glass that the silhouette was much bigger than Rose's. It was Brian.

She pulled open the door. 'What is it? Is Josh okay?' Brian had only picked him up a couple of hours ago; surely nothing could have happened.

'He's fine. Tucked up in bed.' Brian held up his hands. 'And before you say anything, Anita helped him with his homework.'

'He told me he didn't have any.'

Isabel saw the smirk on Brian's face. Damn! She'd fallen into the trap again. 'What are you doing here then? Rose is out.'

'It's you I've come to see, Bel.' Brian leant against the doorframe. The outside light shone down on his face, highlighting his unshaven cheeks. 'It feels as if you've been avoiding me.'

'I'm busy.'

'Don't mess about. It's brass-monkey weather out here.'

Isabel opened the door wider, and Brian pushed past into the lounge. He pulled off his anorak and sat down.

Isabel hesitated in the doorway. 'Don't get too comfortable.'

Brian patted the space on the sofa next to him. 'Come and sit beside me.'

'What for?' After the humiliation of the lingerie present, Isabel had been much cooler towards Brian. It was obvious she wasn't going to get him back if she gave in to his sexual demands too easily. In any case, she didn't only want him back, she'd decided, she wanted him less cocky, more loving, more appreciative.

'Come on, Bel.' Brian stretched out his hand. 'Give a man a break.'

Isabel sat down on the edge of the sofa.

'I'm glad to have a few minutes on our own.' Brian leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His hands were clasped, his fingers interlaced. They were thick and powerful looking. Grease from the cars he worked on was ingrained in his fingers and the skin was split across the tips. Isabel used to rub cream into them. Once she'd bought him a hand massage as a birthday present, but he'd laughed at her and refused to go.

She fixed her eyes on the television set. 'I'm not going to bed with you, if that's what you're angling for.'

'Okay.'

She glanced across at him and caught a look of irritation on his face, but it was gone in a second.

'We need to talk about things,' he said.

'I thought talking was for wimps.' Images of Brian sprawled on the sofa, television control in his hand, sprung into her mind. How many evenings had they spent like that? She'd be perched in an armchair to Brian's right, waiting for his next request—a can of lager, cheese on toast smothered in tomato ketchup. 'Talk to me, Brian,' she'd say when she couldn't bear the gulf between them any longer. And he'd look round, his eyes bleary with alcohol. 'Bloody hell, give a man a break, will you?'

'I've changed.' He was leaning so close to her she could feel his breath on her arm. 'Aren't you pleased I want to talk?'

'What's there to talk about?' It was some sort of quiz show on the television, but the figures jumped about in a blur before Isabel's eyes.

'We've got loads of things to sort out.'

'It all seems clear to me. You've got a nice house, Anita, the baby, Josh. And I've got this flat, and Rose who doesn't really want to be here.' Isabel's eyes travelled around the small room crowded with furniture. 'And who can blame her?'

The front door of the neighbouring flat slammed. The monotonous beat of rock music thudded against the party wall. The room vibrated with the sound. Brian was across the floor in two strides. He hammered his fist against the wall. 'Shut that bloody row up!' He raised his fist again, but as suddenly as it had started, the music stopped. He looked back at Isabel. 'How do you stand that racket?'

She laughed. 'You ask me that?'

He sat down again. 'I'm sorry, Bel. This is why we've got to talk. Will you meet me on Sunday? I can get away for a couple of hours around lunchtime.'

Isabel felt herself soften. He looked just like Josh struggling with his homework, all creased forehead and earnest expression. He wanted her, she could see that. It would be so easy now to let him kiss her. To feel needed again. She moved towards him on the sofa.

'You've got lovely eyes,' Brian said.

Isabel gazed at him. She wanted to believe him. Every bit of her wanted to trust him. She could have her life back. Give Rose and Josh their family again. She stared at the broken veins on his cheeks. 'You've never said that to me before.'

He took her hand. 'There's a lot of things I didn't say. I'm not proud of myself. You were a good wife.' He reached out and stroked her cheek.

This was it. This was the tenderness she'd craved.

He brushed his hand over her hair, easing it back from her face.

She ran her fingers along his thigh, and he smiled. 'That's nice.' He pushed her blouse back from her shoulder and she felt his mouth on her skin, in that little hollow above the collarbone. She shivered. He freed her arm from the blouse and lowered her bra strap. Her nipple was in his mouth, and he was sucking on it. She gasped.

He lifted his head.

'Don't stop.'

His fingers were stroking her breast. His face was close. She could see her reflection in his eyes.

'It's you and me, isn't it, Bel?'

She nodded.

'Always has been. Always will be.'

'Yes.'

'You don't want anybody else?'

'No.

His fingers moved to her other breast. 'That's the end of this man you've met then?'

'What man?'

'This bastard Simon.'

It was as if he'd spat at her. She lifted her hand to cheek, almost expecting to find a globule of spittle.

'What do you know about Simon?'

'Aha! I was right.' His fingers circled her nipple. 'Simon? What sort of poncy name is that?'

She pulled away from him. It was horrible. Her breast was exposed. She felt as if a spider was trailing over her skin.

'What? What have I said?' Brian's voice had that hurt tone that reminded her of a child's whining.

She got up from the sofa, dragging at her blouse. The bra strap was in the way and she couldn't cover herself. She could still feel the sensation of hairy feet on her breast. 'Get out, Brian.'

He stood up, fiddling with his groin. 'Christ, what am I supposed to do with an erection like this?'

'You should have thought of that before.'

He tucked his shirt into his trousers. 'I don't get it.'

'No, you don't, do you?'

'All I said was that I didn't want you to see this other man. You can't blame me for wanting you to myself.'

She pulled the edges of the blouse tighter. 'I'd like you to go now.'

He put his hands on her shoulders. 'I can see you're upset. Why don't we have another chat when you've calmed down.'

'I don't want another chat.'

He squeezed her shoulders tighter. 'Meet me on Sunday.  We could go to Hampstead Heath. You always liked it there.'

Isabel backed away from him. 'I'm going to Italy on Sunday to see Grace.'

'You didn't say.'

'I don't have to inform you of my movements.'

'What about Rose?'

'It's all taken care of. And I've explained to Josh what's happening.' She crossed to the television and turned it off. The scent of some cheap after-shave he was wearing was making her feel sick.

'What about Saturday?' he said. 'Are you coming to Josh's match?'

Her head jerked up. 'How do you know he's asked me?'

Brian smiled. 'Because I persuaded him to.'

Isabel swung her arm wide and clapped her palm against Brian's cheek. Her ears rang with the crack. She clutched her arms against her chest. Her palm tingled.

Brian cradled his cheek in his hand. The blue of his eyes was intense. She thought she could see tears.

'You bitch,' he snapped. 'You complete bitch.'

'You deserved it. You can't treat me like that.'

He straightened his shoulders and moved to the door. He was going. Thank God, he was going. Her legs were trembling. She couldn't collapse yet.

He looked back at her. 'Pleased with yourself, are you?'

'I told you—you deserved it.' Please go now. Just go.

'This… Simon.'

What now? How on earth had he found out about Simon?

'Tolerant sort of bloke, is he?'

'Leave it, will you? I've got nothing to say.'

'I hope he's tolerant.' The shock had gone from Brian's face, but a red weal marked his cheek. There was a cut on the cheekbone where her ring must have caught it. 'He'll need to be when he hears about your dirty little secret.'

'I haven't got any secrets.'

'No?' Brian laughed; a sound that grated. 'So he knows you've been fucking me behind his back, does he?'

Twenty-three

Isabel's eyes flicked to the departures board: Amsterdam. Berlin. Ottawa. Still no sign of her flight. They'd arrived far too early.

Simon must have sensed her impatience. 'Shouldn't be long now.'

'I hate waiting around like this.' She bunched her fists together in her lap.

He put his hand over hers. His skin felt cool, and her anxiety ebbed with his touch.

'I wanted to make sure I got you here in plenty of time,' he said. 'You know what I'm like.'

It was true he'd been late every time they'd met, and last time she'd teased him: 'Is your alarm permanently set on snooze?'

He laughed. 'It is a bad habit of mine. I promise I'll do better.'

So today he'd arrived at the flat to drive her to the airport an hour early, and they'd been waiting for an eternity for the flight to appear on the board.

'I think I'll go through passport control now.'

She felt his hand tighten round hers. 'Stay a bit longer. Till your flight's up at least.'

'I get jittery hanging about,' she said. 'At least if I go through—'

'I wish you weren't going.'

'Do you?'

'I'm going to miss you.'

She knew from the tension in his hand that he was waiting. There was an implicit script for this conversation. The gap for her reply strained between them. 'Simon, we're just—'

'I know. I know. We're just friends.'

Isabel couldn't think of anything to say. She opened her handbag and checked her passport and ticket again. Dirty little secret… dirty little secret… the words circled in her head. Her fingers gripped the passport.

'I know it's a difficult time for you, Isabel. But when you come back… I wondered… oh, hell… I'm not very good at this.' Simon put his head in his hands.

She gazed at his damaged fingers, at the puckered skin over the stumps. She longed to put her lips to them.

'You know what I'm trying to say, don't you?' With his head buried against his chest, Simon's voice was almost inaudible. She inclined her head towards his. He looked up and she found herself staring into his eyes. She felt the current race between them.

Dirty little secret … dirty little secret.

There it was: Naples. Her destination on the board at last. She jumped up. 'I've got to go—the flight's showing.'

 

The plane approached Naples just before two. They circled over the city and Isabel had her first glimpse of Vesuvius. It rose from the plains like a monster from the depths. A haze hung over Naples, obscuring much of it from view. But beyond, she could see the sea glittering in the spring sunshine. Despite her heritage, it was only her second trip to Italy. There had been a disastrous honeymoon in Venice: mosquitoes had mercilessly bitten Brian, and he'd driven her mad with his complaints about the crowds and the smell of decay he insisted hovered over the canals.

Isabel glanced from side to side as she walked through the arrivals gate: crowds were crammed against the barrier. Some were holding up name cards; others waved at passengers behind her. Everyone seemed to be in intense discussion—the volume was deafening. There was no sign of her sister.

Then, from behind, her case was yanked from her hand and an arm thrust through hers. 'Bel! So sorry I'm late!' It was Grace.

Isabel turned and hugged her. 'Am I pleased to see you!'

'Crisis at the restaurant. I had to catch a later ferry.'

'I've had any numbers of offers while I've been waiting.' Isabel jerked her head to indicate the men clustered round them.

'Bel!'

'Joke, Grace.'

'Sorry.' Grace screwed up her nose. 'Sense of humour by-pass.'

She headed for the exit and Isabel had to run to keep up. Her sister's normally shiny hair was lank and her black jumper had a yellowish stain across the front. She studied Grace, as she hailed a taxi and dumped the case in the boot. Under her olive-skinned complexion, she was pale and tired looking and her brown eyes were ringed with even darker circles.

'I thought we'd have lunch in Naples.' Grace leant forward to give instructions to the taxi driver. 'They say you've never tasted pizza until you've had one in Napoli.' She pointed out places of interest as they sped down the dual carriageway.

'What's up?' Isabel interrupted Grace's description of the statue they were passing.

'What do you mean? What makes you think something's up?'

Isabel pointed to Grace's right thumb. Around the base of the nail, the skin was red and inflamed. One part had a brown scab where it was starting to heal, but congealed blood had settled on the remainder like a fly. 'You haven't done that to yourself for years.'

'Don't.' Grace clutched her thumb with her left hand. Her father used to tell her off constantly for chewing her fingers. But once she left home to go to university, it stopped. For years the skin had been smooth, her nails beautifully manicured.

'There's got to be a reason for that,' Isabel said.

'I'll tell you when we get to the restaurant. It's not far now.'

 

They settled at a table in a small pizzeria. The waiter, a short man enveloped in an oversized apron, arrived with the menus and a crisp white cloth, which he spread on the table with flourish. Grace waved the menus away. She ordered two pizza neapolitana and a jug of vino locale. The waiter reappeared with the wine almost immediately. He poured two glasses and backed away, bowing at each of them.

'Salute, Bel.' Grace held up her glass. 'It's good to have you here.'

Isabel sipped the wine. 'It's not bad news, is it?'

'What are you on about?'

'I can see there's something,' Isabel said. 'I'm imagining all sorts of things.'

Grace reached into her bag and drew out an envelope. 'Read this.'  She pushed it into Isabel's hand.

The letter had an English stamp. That made sense. Grace had come to England just before Christmas. She was ill and she'd had tests done. If Isabel opened the letter, was she going to be reading her sister's death sentence? She studied the front of the envelope. It was creased as if it had been handled many times. She didn't recognise the handwriting, but surely it would have been typed if it was from a hospital.

'Go on,' Grace urged. 'Read it.'

Isabel drew the blue pages from the envelope and sought out a signature. She raised her eyebrows. 'Archie Stansfield?'

'Read it.'

Isabel's eyes raced across the lines of elaborate heavily looped writing. Archie Stansfield's letter made her father seem so vivid. When she got to, Henry was the best friend I ever had, she thrust the pages back at Grace: 'I don't want to read any more.'

'Go on. You've got to read the rest.'

 

As you know, that friendship ended. Well, in a way it ended. I hated him for what he'd done, but in a way I still loved him. Hope that doesn't sound too soppy. I don't mean nothing by it. I loved my wife dearly. It's lonely since she passed on last year. But any road, it's your dad as you want to hear about.

Even though we didn't speak, I always knew what was happening. How he was getting on. There was the odd letter from him, and his mam and dad still lived nearby. Not that I spoke to them. I blamed them for what happened, especially her—she was a hard woman, his mam—but it's a small town and people talk.

Course he won his music scholarship—our Dottie always said he would—and he went off to London. He wrote to me, inviting me down to his graduation concert. But I didn't go. Then I heard he'd got married. Richard was born and then Isabel. It's all right for him, I used to think. Then you came along—'his little Grace' he called you in his letter. And I saw you that once when he came to the house. Pretty little mite, you were.

Next I knew Eva had left him. I know as you said she went to Italy to nurse her mother, but his mam told my auntie Joan that she'd left. She took you with her, and his mam went down to London to look after Richard and young Isabel. I had a letter from Henry while Eva was gone: 'She's not coming back, Archie. I've lost her,' he said. In spite of everything, I felt sorry for him. I wanted to write and tell him 'You've got to fight for her, like you should have done for our Dottie. Go over there and bring her back.' I didn't write, but he must have gone, cause next thing I got a letter and he said 'she's back, but she's pregnant and it's not mine.' Happen he's got his comeuppance, I remember thinking. I didn't hear from him again, but his mam came home, so I presumed Eva had stayed.

I only saw him once more at his mam's funeral. I sat at the back, but I'm positive he knew I was there. I was surprised how different he seemed. He looked like his dad.

It was a shock when your mam phoned to say he'd gone. I'd never met her, but she said Henry had told her about me and she thought I should know. I don't know how she got my number—it was hard to understand everything she said. I wish now I'd made my peace with him before he went.

 

Yours truly,

Archie Stansfield

 

Isabel dropped the letter on the table and looked up.

Grace was staring at her. 'Well? What do you think?'

Isabel couldn't believe it: 'pregnant, and the baby is not mine.' She was off the hook. She wasn't going to have to betray her mother's confidence. Someone else had done it for her. 'I don't know what to say.'

'Aren't you shocked? Do you think…' Grace began to prompt her.

'I'm shocked at the letter. Not what it says.'

Grace didn't seem to take in what Isabel was saying. 'But Bel…' Two spots of colour had appeared on her cheeks as if she'd applied dollops of rouge. 'Don't you realise what this means: Mum had an affair; Dad colluded in covering it up and…'

'George is our half brother.'

'It can't be true!'

'Grace…'

'Not Mum and Dad. They were madly in love till the day he died. We all knew that.'

'Grace…'

'I reckon Archie Stansfield's got this grudge against Dad and he wants to make it look bad for him.'

Isabel put her hand on Grace's arm. 'It's true,' she said. 'I think the letter is true.'

Grace started to cough. Some of her wine must have gone down the wrong way. She waved her hands about, as she tried to get her breath. Eventually the spasm subsided. She took a sip of water. 'What makes you say that?'

'Mum told me.'

'Mum? When?'

'The day Dad died.'

'What, months ago?'

'That morning after we got back from the hospital. I was helping her get into bed, and she told me then.'

'What exactly did she say?'

Isabel took a deep breath. She should have anticipated all these questions. 'I can't remember. She just said it.'

'What? By the way, Isabel, I know you think I loved your father but actually I had a baby by some other creep.'

'Grace, it's not my fault!'

'I'm sorry, Bel.' Grace's eyes were huge. 'But I can't believe you've known all this time and you didn't say anything.'

'Mum made me promise not to. I went along with it, but it's been torment.'

'That's awful.'

'I had a row with Mum in the end. I told her she had until George's birthday to come clean—'

'But that was in January.'

'I couldn't bring myself to say anything in the end. I was scared what would happen. But I decided before I came over that I was going to tell you.'

'I don't know whether I'd have believed you without Archie Stansfield's letter. It's really weird to think George has got a different father.' Grace filled her glass again. 'Everyone always says he and I are like twins.'

'I know what you mean. When I was in Cornwall, I kept looking at him as if somehow I expected him to be different.'

'It's finding out now, isn't it? If we'd known from the beginning…'

Isabel dipped a bread stick into the bowl of olive oil the waiter had put on the table and chewed on it. 'Mum said Dad had made her promise to keep it a secret.'

'I don't believe it. "Own up and shame the devil" he always said.'

'She said Dad couldn't cope with people knowing she'd been unfaithful.'

'So why did he tell Archie Stansfield?'

The waiter arrived with their pizzas and they were silent while they ate. Afterwards they went over the story again.

'I suppose technically they didn't lie,' Isabel said.

'They didn't tell the truth though, did they?'

'Perhaps they thought it was for the best… you know… difficult for George to come to terms with.'

Isabel watched Grace's changing expressions as she considered the idea. She hadn't changed all that much from the little girl struggling to learn English, her face screwed up in concentration.

'I suppose we all tell lies sometimes,' Grace said. 'But it's not really their secret to keep, is it? Surely George has a right to know who his father is.' She put her hand to her mouth. 'I've just thought… did she tell you who?'

Isabel shook her head. 'She wouldn't budge on that.'

Grace beckoned to the waiter. 'Let's have coffee and we'd better head home. Franco will be wondering where we are.'

When the coffee arrived, Isabel stirred it slowly. If it was anything like the coffee Mum made, it would be too strong for her. 'I've been thinking,' she said. 'We got so caught up in the George mystery, but there's loads of other stuff I don't understand in that letter.'

'I know. He told me he and Dad had a terrible row and I thought his letter was going to explain why. Instead of that, he seems to skirt round the subject.'

'Yeah. What does he mean Dad got his comeuppance, and "fight for her, like you should have done for Dottie"?'

Grace shrugged. 'Search me. He told me Dad and his sister, Dottie, were sweethearts when they were young, and Dottie got pregnant.'

 

The weather was cold and grey for the first couple of days of Isabel's stay in Ischia. Grace and Franco were busy—meetings with the architect about the building next door and a big family party who took over the restaurant each evening. Isabel didn't mind being left to her own devices. She was staying at a pensione not far from the ristorante. It was quiet and each morning she slept late. She hadn't realised how tired she was.

After breakfast, she walked into Ischia Ponte. She crossed the small causeway leading to the castle and stopped at a bar tucked away next to a pebbled beach. She ordered a cappuccino and gazed at the waves, tiny ripples like crimped hair. She wondered what Simon was doing. Was he thinking about her? He'd looked bewildered when she rushed away from him at the airport. He'd probably been steeling himself to make that speech. Strange to think she hadn't found him attractive when they first met. Now his steady grey eyes and full lips spread tingling warmth through her. He would watch her when she was talking and his interest made her feel special.

She sipped her cappuccino and took her mobile from her bag. She sent texts to Rose and Josh. She'd recently bought Josh a mobile, so that it was easier to keep in touch. R u in the team this week? she wrote. She'd loved watching him play last Saturday, and when he scored a goal, she screamed his name as loud as she could. There was no sign of Brian, or the baby, but she met Anita, a thin woman with mousy hair, who darted timid glances at Isabel as they stood on the touchline. After the game Josh had rushed up to Isabel and ignored Anita.

*

Three days into Isabel's stay the clouds lifted and the sun appeared. Grace was free and she took Isabel on a tour of the island. From the square at the foot of the castle, they caught the bus into Ischia Porto. 'I won't drive you,' Grace said. 'The roads terrify me.' So they boarded the circulare, a bus that would take them all round the perimeter of the island. 'We can go in either direction,' Grace explained, 'but anti-clockwise gives better views.' They passed through places with exotic names, Casamicciola and Lacco Ameno, towns sandwiched between the sea and the mountain that towered over them. Sandy beaches, deserted in the thin February sun, stretched away to the right, while to the left the road was fringed with trees behind which stood hotels and small pensione. The bus lumbered on into Forio. The haunt of poets and artists in the fifties, Grace explained. 'Let's stop for lunch. There's a good trattoria near the church.'

It was warm enough to sit outside now and Isabel lifted her face to the sun. 'Mm, this feels good.'

Grace ordered them each a glass of wine and a plate of spaghetti pomodoro. 'Sorry, Franco and I have been so busy.'

'The relaxation is exactly what I need.' Even with her eyes closed, Isabel could feel Grace appraising her. She opened them. 'Well, what's the verdict?'

'Was I staring?' Grace fiddled with cutlery the waiter had put on their table. 'You've lost some weight, haven't you, Bel? And that strained look's gone from your face.'

'I've had a minor breakthrough with Josh. That's helped.'

'I thought he'd come round. And what about Simon?'

Isabel looked up towards the sky rather than meet Grace's stare. Answer in a normal way, she told herself. You're not a teenager—you don't need to blush and stumble around for words. 'He's nice,' she said. That should do it. Nice: a safe bland word. Pleased with her note of offhandedness, she added 'How do you know about Simon?'

Grace laughed. 'He's nice—I knew you wouldn't be able to leave it at that.'

'I wondered how you knew, that's all.'

'You mentioned him in an email, and George told me you'd found yourself a new man.'

'George should keep his big mouth shut! Simon is a friend.'

Grace raised her glass to Isabel. 'Here's to friends, I say.'

Their lunch was simple, but delicious. The tomato sauce was rich and creamy and the pasta had the right amount of bite. The wine made Isabel sleepy. She pushed her plate to one side and leaned back. She felt as if she might have dozed off when she heard Grace's voice: 'I said—what are we going to do about George?'

Isabel was instantly awake. 'Can't we put that on the back burner?'

'I've been thinking about it. George and Rick should be told.'

'Let's wait and see what happens.'

'They've got a right to know,' Grace insisted. 'How would you feel if you found out we were all keeping some secret from you?'

'I'd hate it but—'

'There's no but. We've got to tell them. Apart from anything else there's the piano.'

'What's that got to do with it?'

'They both want Dad's piano, right?'

'Right.'

'If Rick finds out George is not Dad's son—'

'Only biologically, Grace. In every other way, Dad was his father.'

'That's not how Rick will see it. Better he finds out now than later.'

'He'd make George's life a misery. You know what he's like.'

'He's got too much on his plate to bother with George,' Grace said. 'The news is not good about Deanna.'

Isabel felt her scalp prickle at the thought of her brothers. 'I can't do it, Grace. I can't bear the thought of George's face when he hears about this.'

 

On the southern side of the island, most of the other passengers got off at Ponte Grado. The buses waited there for a few minutes before completing the trip back to Ischia Porto. Isabel and Grace stayed on while the driver leant out of his window to chat to one of his colleagues. Grace gestured down the hill. 'Sant'Angelo.' Isabel glimpsed the sea and a huddle of houses, washed in delicate pinks and blues and yellows.

'We'll go there one day. It's beautiful, especially in spring and autumn when it's cooler and not besieged by tourists,' Grace said. 'God's own hideaway on earth.'

Isabel heard a strange note in her sister's voice and turned to look at her. A smile lifted her mouth, emphasising the tiny lines at the corners. She was distracted.

'You love it here, don't you?' Isabel said.

'Very much.'

'Would you and Franco ever leave?'

Grace shrugged. 'Who knows what the future holds?'

Isabel pulled her jacket round her. She suddenly felt cold. The driver restarted the engine and the bus pulled away up the hill to Panza.

 

It was late morning and Isabel and Grace sat at one of the tables in the restaurant with Franco, enjoying coffee and pastiere.

'I think we'll go over to the castello today,' Grace said. 'I want to show you the cathedral where Vittoria Colonna got married.'

Franco picked up one of Grace's hands and kissed the back. 'My wife…' he said turning to Isabel. 'I think she's a little… innamorata di Vittoria.' Grace pulled her hand free of his. 'Don't be silly, Franco.'

 

Isabel stood in the ruined cathedral, examining the columns and archways where the remains of statues and intricate carvings were visible in the blighted stonework. The high vaulted roof was largely open to the sky, clumps of moss and other vegetation its main decoration. Grace was standing close to where the altar would have been. She gazed up as if praying. Isabel wondered if Franco had a point. Grace was obsessed with this Vittoria.

A cold wind was blowing across the cavernous space. The scirocco, Franco had told her that morning. She watched her sister's slim back. Even from a distance, she could see her shoulders were hunched under her coat

Twenty-four

Rick picked up the phone to ring Deanna. She hadn't been so well over the last month, and he'd been trying to get home earlier. She answered on the first ring.

'I'm afraid I'll be late,' he told her. 'I've got these wretched figures.'

'Don't worry,' she said. 'I'm watching TV, and Camilla's here.'

'Where's Flavia?'

'She's working on a project with a friend. You remember Sophie. She'll probably stay the night.'

'Are you sure you're okay?'

'I'm fine, honey. Don't fuss.'

Rick let the receiver drop into its cradle. He stared at the spreadsheet on the computer screen. He had the chance to take over a technology company in the Midlands, but when he looked at the increased staffing costs alone, he realised his gross turnover would have to double. His accountant said there was no way he could make it work. But if he made the Midlands, it wasn't such a leap to the south.There was also the bungalow in Hexham he'd bought for his mother. They hadn't accepted his first offer and he'd had to go higher than he could afford. Still, once she sold the house in Highgate, he could recoup most of that and she'd still have a tidy amount left over to boost her pension.

Deanna wasn't sure. 'Honey, don't you think you ought to talk to your mom before you spend money on a house she might not even want?' she'd asked the day he went to sign the contract.

'Dad always looked after her and I'm going to take over now he's gone.'

'You can't fill your dad's shoes, my precious.'

'You don't always know what's best for me!' he'd shouted.

He cursed himself now remembering the tears in her eyes. Why was he on such a short fuse all the time? And he had to admit, she was often right. Perhaps she was this time. Perhaps Eva would take convincing that the move was a sensible step. He'd written to her to explain what was happening, but perhaps he'd need to see her too. That might not be a bad idea. It would give him a chance to talk to her about the piano. He'd held off long enough and she'd need time to get used to the idea of him having it.

He turned back to the computer. There had to be some way he could make this new company work. If he moved some of the Newcastle staff to Birmingham… no, they were down to the bone as it was. He picked up the photo of Deanna and the girls he kept on his desk. He ran his fingers lightly over Deanna's face. He wouldn't let anything happen to her. He loved her so much.

Apart from all this stuff with Alicia, that is. Ever since the fiasco at Christmas, Deanna had been on at him to let Alicia come home.

'When she sees sense and finishes with that layabout, she'll be welcome,' Rick said. 'Until then…'

'But she's our daughter and I miss her,' Deanna had pleaded. He longed to see Alicia himself, but he wasn't going to admit it. If she chose to disregard his wishes, then he had no choice. She was throwing herself away on that yob, and he was right to reject her till she saw sense.

After Christmas he'd gathered up all the photos of Alicia and pushed them into a drawer. But Deanna must have retrieved the one taken for Alicia's eighteenth birthday and replaced it on the bureau. Deanna was looking so tired that he hadn't got the heart to complain. In fact he often used to slip into the drawing room himself so that he could catch a glimpse of his daughter's beautiful face.

He forced his eyes back to the computer screen. He was spending too much time on this emotional claptrap. Work: that was the thing that mattered.

*

He thought he'd found a way to raise some funds, when the phone rang. He reached for the receiver, ready to tell Deanna he'd be on his way any minute now. He'd be in Rothbury before ten. He would open a bottle of wine and they could watch some television together.

'Hello Dad.'

'Flavia, I thought you were staying with Sophie.'

'It's not Flavia.'

'What?'

'It's Alicia.'

Rick's heart jumped. 'Alicia, thank God! I told Mum you'd see sense in the end. I'll pick you up. We can drive back together.'

'That's not why I'm ringing.' Alicia had always had a slight speech impediment, which he loved. When she was a little girl she would put on concerts, marching up and down in front of her parents on podgy little legs, while she lisped her way through Baa, Baa, Black Sheep and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Nowadays you could hardly detect the lisp, but this evening it was obvious. She was still his baby.

'Not tonight then,' he said. 'It would be better to warn your mother first. She'll be thrilled. When do you want to come? I can help you move your stuff.'

'Dad, listen a minute. I'm not coming back.'

'You're still seeing that slime-ball?'

'If you mean Gary, yes, I am.'

Rick felt the familiar throb in his brow. 'Then, what the hell are you ringing for?' His fist was clenched around the phone. 'I thought I told you—'

'Mum's been rushed to hospital.'

'What's happened?' He barked out the words.

'She couldn't get her breath and then blood started coming out of her mouth. I phoned for an ambulance.'

'Where was this?'

'At home.' Alicia's voice was barely a whisper.

'You were at home?'

From the other end of the line came the sound of Alicia crying. 'Dad, you've got to get here.' Her voice broke. 'I'm scared she's going to die.'

 

The room they'd put Deanna in was tiny. The walls sloped inwards, the feeling of claustrophobia emphasised by their khaki colour. The small window was too high for anyone but the tallest person to see out. Disinfectant hung in the air. Rick was back to that night his father died and they sat trapped together in a room much like this one, as they watched his life tick away. He shook his head. It wasn't that night. And it wasn't his father lying in the high narrow bed. It was Deanna, the woman who meant more to him than the whole world.

An oxygen mask covered most of her face and a drip was being fed into her left arm. Above the mask, her eyes were closed and the lids looked thick and puffy. Rick stared at her hands. They were clasped across her chest, one on top of the other in an attitude of prayer. It was as if she was already dead.

He felt stinging at the back of his eyes and he blinked. He wouldn't cry, especially in front of Alicia and Camilla. They both turned from the bedside as he appeared in the open doorway.

'Dad.' Alicia got up and came towards him. 'Thank goodness you're here.'

Rick sidestepped her arms and approached the bed. He looked down at Deanna, one hand on Camilla's shoulder. 'How is she?'

There was silence apart from the hiss of the oxygen mask.

'Camilla, how is she?'

Camilla looked up at him, her blue eyes that were so much like Deanna's, wide and scared. 'I don't know,' she whispered.

Alicia moved back to her place by the bed. She took one of Deanna's hands in hers. 'They haven't told us anything,' she said, her voice low and flat.

Rick turned away. 'I'm going to find a doctor.'

There was no one at the nurses' station. He leaned forward, his elbows on the counter and closed his eyes. He thought of Deanna this morning when he went in to say goodbye. She'd been sitting up in bed reading. Her face looked lined and thin. It was the first time he'd noticed how much weight she'd lost.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. 'I hate you being ill.'

'Honey, I could use your support right now.' She reached for his hand. Hers was cold and clammy. 'Cuddle me, please.'

He wrapped his arms round her. It was like holding a bird. She rested her head against his shoulder and the fur of grey hair tickled his cheek. It was starting to grow back after the chemotherapy and was cropped short. Rick couldn't escape the thought of her long blonde hair. He saw its golden strands, smelled its freshly washed scent, felt its caress as it lay across his chest when they woke in the mornings. It had been so thick and glossy. When they first met he would brush it for her. Long sweeping strokes, feeling her head beneath his hands move backwards and forwards in time with each stroke. She would sit at the big mirror in their bedroom and watch his reflection as he stood over her, with her eyes following his movements. When he couldn't bear to wait another moment, he would lift her into his arms and carry her to the bed.

 

He felt someone touch his arm and opened his eyes. A woman in a white coat, stethoscope hanging from her neck, was standing next to him. She looked too young to be taking care of someone so precious.

'What's happening?' he asked. 'What's wrong with my wife?'

'The lung has filled with fluid,' the doctor explained, gazing at a point above Rick's head. 'It's the organ's reaction to the tumour, I'm afraid.'

'What tumour? She hasn't got a tumour in the lung. She's had breast cancer.' He turned to the nurse who'd appeared at the doctor's side. 'Can you get someone with some medical knowledge to speak to me?'

The nurse tightened her lips. 'Doctor Hansard is one of our senior registrars. She knows as much about your wife's case as anyone.'

'Perhaps I can explain.' The doctor spoke again. 'Unfortunately your wife has developed metastases…'

'Metastases?'

'Secondary tumours have formed in the lungs. We've been trying her on a different sort of chemotherapy—one where you don't lose your hair—but the fluid is not a good sign.'

'How long has she known?'

'She saw Mr James, the oncologist, just before Christmas. He explained it all to her then.'

Rick tried to take in the doctor's explanation of the treatment. The fluid would be drained off. She would have a full body scan. She should be able to come home in a couple of days if they were happy with her blood count and they'd start her on another course of chemotherapy. He couldn't stop thinking how Deanna had known even at Christmas and kept it to herself. That was typical. She wouldn't have wanted to spoil it for anyone else. She had done that for them, and then Alicia had ruined the day with her pigheaded selfishness. He turned away from the doctor.

Alicia was standing in the door of Deanna's room. 'What did she say?' Her face was the colour of chalk.

Rick looked at her as if she hadn't spoken. 'That stunt you pulled at Christmas. That's what's made your mother so ill.'

'Please don't say that, Dad.'

'I'm going to tell you once more, Alicia. You're to give that prat his marching orders.'

'I can't do that.' Alicia's eyes pleaded with him. 'How would you have liked it if Grandad had told you to give up Mum?'

Rick bunched his fists. His nails dug into his palms. She had gone too far this time. 'Don't you dare compare you and that rat to your mother and me!' He could see the bed over Alicia's shoulder. Deanna's body caused only a slight swell in the covers. Camilla was resting her head on the pillow next to her mother's.

Rick felt his heart contract. Supposing Deanna didn't get better? He had to get his princesses back together. He tried to grasp Alicia's hand. 'I'm asking you… if you won't do it for me or your sisters… do it for your mother.'

She snatched her hand away. 'Don't do this emotional blackmail kick, Dad. This is for you. Mum doesn't want me to give Gary up.'

'Of course she fucking does!' he shouted and he saw Camilla lift her head from the pillow and stare at him.

'It's a good job Mum can't hear you,' Alicia said. 'No wonder she's got cancer. It's the stress of living with you.'

Twenty-five

Rick clutched his head. 'I didn't realise I was such a monster.' He reached out for his whisky glass and drained the last bit.

'You're not, Dad.' Flavia put her hand on his shoulder.

'But suppose it's true what Alicia said. What if Mum's illness is all my fault?' It was one o'clock in the morning and they were sitting at the kitchen table. Flavia had made Camilla a mug of drinking chocolate and she'd gone up to bed.

'Of course it's not. You fly off the handle sometimes, but Mum adores you—you know she does.'

'What made Alicia say that?'

'Dad, I thought you were an intelligent man. Alicia's angry with you about Gary. And she's worried about Mum—you know how close they are.'

Of all his daughters, Rick knew Flavia least well. She was the quietest of the three and often pushed into the background, sandwiched between the volatile Alicia and Camilla who, as the baby, was fussed over. He'd been so besotted with Alicia that he hadn't taken much notice of Flavia. Now he realised how calm and reassuring her presence was, like Deanna's.

 

After Alicia stormed out, Rick had phoned Flavia. She came to the hospital by taxi and took control. They sat by Deanna's bed until the doctor arrived to set up the drain.

'There's nothing you can do,' the nurse said after a while. 'I should go home and get some rest.'

In the car Rick struggled to fit the key into the ignition. He jabbed at the hole, but the key refused to slide in. His head dropped on to the steering wheel. Flavia had got out of the passenger seat and come round to his door. She had prised his fingers from the keys. 'I'll drive, Dad. You look done in.'

 

'Did you know Alicia has been coming home to see your mother?' Rick asked.

Flavia nodded.

'Why didn't Deanna tell me?'

'What would you have done if she had?'

'Forbidden it.'

She smiled. 'That's why she didn't tell you.'

'Alicia hates me.' Rick reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink. It was the only way he'd get any sleep tonight. 'I only want what's best for her. I can't let her throw herself away on that lout.'

'You can't choose for us, Dad, however much you care. What are you going to do if you don't approve of my boyfriend?'

He looked up from his glass. 'I didn't know you had one.'

She laughed. 'I haven't. Too many essays for that. But one day I will, and you might not like him. Nor Camilla's. Are you going to fall out with all of us?'

 

When Rick finally steeled himself to go to bed, he rolled over on to Deanna's side. He burrowed into her pillow, savouring the hint of her perfume. But the more he tried to capture her, the more she receded. He turned on his back and stared up at the ceiling. He'd opened the curtains before he got into bed, and moonlight streamed into the room. He placed his palms together, matching fingertip with fingertip. He'd been going to church since his father died, but it was years since he had prayed and the gesture felt strange. There couldn't be a God. His mind told him that, but his heart urged him to try. He turned his eyes towards the fierce silver disk in the sky and began to talk: 'Dear God—please let my darling get better.' He felt self-conscious at first. Suppose Flavia or Camilla heard? But he forced himself to keep going. 'I'm no good without her. I mess up all the time and she helps me out of it. I promise I'll be different if you let her get better. I'll make it up with Alicia. I'll let her see that wretched boy if he means so much to her. I'll keep my temper. Anything, God, as long as Deanna gets better. I'll even let George have Dad's piano. Just let her get better.'

 

Rick pushed open the door of Deanna's room the next day—thank God, his prayer had been answered. She was propped up against several pillows. Her face was unnaturally pale and her eyes were ringed with dark hollows, but the oxygen mask was gone, and she smiled as soon as she saw him. She held out her hand. 'Hi honey.'

Rick almost ran to her side. He slipped his arms under her shoulders so that he could pull her to him. He perched on the edge of the bed, cradling her against his chest. His chin rested on her head and the cropped hair scratched at his face. For once he didn't mind. He rocked to and fro, murmuring her name over and over again.

At last he eased her back on to the pillows. Her eyes, normally such a piercing blue, were faded, and her lips were dry and cracked. There were tears in her eyes, but she was still smiling. 'It's good to see you.'

'Good? It's fantastic!' He clasped both her hands in his. 'How are you feeling?'

'Better. Still got too many tubes.' She made a face at the array of equipment. 'But better.'

'You gave us a scare.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I've rung your parents.'

'How are they?'

'They're coming over. They're sorting out flights.'

'What about the girls?' she asked. The words were clearly an effort. A bubbling sound came from her chest as she spoke.

'I said I'd ring them with news as soon as I got here.' Rick glanced at his watch. 'They're at home. They weren't up to school.'  He reached into his pocket. Deanna caught his wrist and glanced at the notice on the wall. 'No mobiles, darling.'

Instantly he felt his chest tighten. 'What do you take me for?' He stood up. 'I'm going outside. I'll be five minutes.'

'Give them my love,' Deanna called.

 

When he got back, he was full of apologies: 'I feel so tense.'

'I know.' Deanna stroked the back of his hand where it was resting on the bed. 'It's hard for all of us. Are the girls all right?'

'Relieved to hear you're so much better.' He drew up a chair to the side of the bed. 'Why didn't you tell me the cancer had spread?'

She shrugged and her nightdress slipped exposing her bony shoulder. 'You've got enough on your plate.'

'If you mean work, let me worry about that. You're my priority.'

She squeezed his hand. 'I'm glad. After Christmas… I did wonder. You've been kinda distant.' The two little furrows between her brows deepened. They looked as if they'd been there for some time, but Rick had only just noticed them. Her eyebrows had disappeared along with her hair. Now they were growing back, and he could see grey hairs coming through at the edges. He stared at the untidy straggle. Since Deanna's days as a model, she had been meticulous about such things, forever plucking and creaming, 'personal housekeeping' she called it. He never thought she needed to, but he enjoyed the idea that she worked hard to keep her golden lustre just for him. It hadn't done him any harm either to have such a beautiful woman on his arm.

He forced his attention back to what Deanna had been saying. He seemed to drift off from conversations all the time at the moment. You've been kinda distant, she'd said. It was probably the closest she'd ever come to complaining. 'It's Alicia,' he explained. 'When I think of my princess throwing herself away on that… that… there aren't the words to describe him. I'd kill him if I could get my hands on him.'

'Honey, I wish you wouldn't say such things.'

Deanna reached up to the locker beside her bed. She fumbled for the beaker. It was a blue plastic one, the sort with a lid and little holes to let the liquid out in drops. Rick remembered the girls having them when they were young. In fact Camilla had walked round with one permanently clamped to her lips for what seemed years. He'd complained to Deanna in the end. 'She'll be going to university with that in her mouth, if you're not careful.' He'd forgotten all about such beakers until that moment, when Deanna was forced to use one.

He recalled the previous night when he thought she might die. He'd have promised anything if only she could be all right. He felt embarrassed now even to remember that stupid prayer. Had he really said he would let Alicia see Gary if it meant so much to her? It must have been the whisky talking. He stroked Deanna's arm and she looked back at him with a wan smile.

'It's not nice talking like that about Gary,' she said.

'I'm sorry. It's you being in here. You know I'm hopeless without you.'

'Will you ring Alicia and tell her she can come in this afternoon?'

'Whatever you say, darling.'

'And I need her to be able to visit me at home when I get out.'

Rick took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. 'Anything, as long as you're happy.'

Deanna closed her eyes. 'I must sleep now.'

 

Rick planned to get home early that evening to be with Flavia and Camilla, but the meeting with the accountant dragged on. The verdict on his plans for expansion was more pessimistic than he'd anticipated and he was in a bad mood. He hadn't got round to ringing Alicia. It wasn't that he'd deliberately avoided it. There just wasn't a spare second. He thought about visiting Deanna again to say goodnight, but when he phoned the hospital as he was leaving the office, the nurse said Deanna was sleeping. He was dead tired himself and decided to head home.

The house was quiet when he arrived. A note on the kitchen table told him the girls had gone to bed and Mrs Crosby had left him some supper in the oven. Rick crossed to the dresser and pulled the bottle of whisky he'd started the night before towards him. He poured a large measure and tipping back his head, swallowed it in one go. The liquid burned the back of his throat. Without hesitating, he poured another, running his hand over his face. His skin felt rough and bristly. He pulled off his tie and slumped down on a chair. Putting his toe against his heel, he pushed off the shoe, then did the same with the other. The motor of the fridge whirred noisily and the ticking clock was relentless. He'd never noticed it before. He wished now he had called in at the hospital. He hated Deanna not being here.

Rick glanced across at the phone. The red light flashed. Perhaps she'd rung while he was on his way home and left a message. He needed to hear her voice. He pressed the retrieve button. There were two messages, but neither was from Deanna. The first was her parents. He listened to Bob's southern drawl. They'd got flights for the day after tomorrow. They'd arrive at Heathrow about six in the evening and then fly up to Newcastle. Would Rick be able to meet them? They'd like to go straight to the hospital.

Rick was fond of his in-laws. Roz fussed over him, treating him like the son she'd longed for, and Bob liked to talk business. To them, he was a successful entrepreneur who had given their daughter a good life. Not like his family, he thought, as the machine clicked on to the second message and his mother's insistent voice filled the kitchen. They saw him as a failure, and all because he couldn't play the wretched piano.

Eva's accent always seemed stronger on the telephone. She was worried, the message said. Rick poured himself a third measure of whisky as he half listened to his mother's concerns about the bungalow in Hexham. 'I got your letter. Is good, caro, that you want to take care of me, but is too soon after my Henry's death. Maybe… in a year or two…' Her voice tailed away. 'Don't be angry with your silly Mamma, mio gioiello.' The recording machine went silent.

Rick drained the glass and dialled his mother's number. She took an age to answer, and he sloshed more whisky into the glass while he waited.

'Hello.' She sounded breathless. 'Who is this?'

'It's Rick, Mum.'

'Oh, Ricardo. You give me fright. Is everything all right?'

'It's good. Everything's good.' He wouldn't tell her about Deanna, he decided. She'd be ringing every five minutes to see how she was. 'Sorry if it's late, but I've got your message about the bungalow.'

'The what?'

'The bungalow. You know the place I've bought for you up here.'

'I left you a message about that.'

'Yes, Mum, that's why I'm ringing.' Christ, what was the matter with the woman?

'It's all going to be fine. I don't want you to worry, Mum.'

'I'm not sure.'

'I'll come down in a week or two and explain everything to you. Okay?'

'Okay, caro.'

 

Rick went upstairs to his study, hesitating on the landing outside Flavia's room. He put his ear to the door. He wanted to go in and sit in the wicker chair at the foot of her bed. They could talk. She'd sit up in bed, hugging her knees. She reminded him more and more of Deanna. But her door was shut and he couldn't hear any sound.

He went to the study and sat at the computer. Some of the tension eased from his neck and shoulders as he felt the mouse nestling into his palm. He pointed the cursor at the email symbol. There were three new ones, all from his family. He was popular today. He clicked on the one from Grace.

Rick, I'm so sorry to hear about Deanna. Flavia emailed to say she'd been rushed to hospital. How is she? And how are you? I would have sent flowers, but I don't think they're allowed any more. Do give her my love. Let me know how things are, if you get the chance. Lots of love, Grace.

Rick was touched as he read his sister's words. Seven years older than her, he'd felt protective when she was young and he was glad that she was married and settled in Italy. He liked Franco. He admired his determination to make a go of his restaurant. If Deanna was well enough, he might take her to Ischia for a holiday this summer.

The second email was from Isabel.

Hi Rick, We need to talk. I went to see Mum today and she showed me your letter. She's terrified at the thought of moving up to Northumberland. She's lived in London ever since she came over from Italy and it doesn't seem right to uproot her. Can you come down for a few days to discuss it? Hope all is well with Deanna and the girls. Give them my love.  Isabel.

Rick deleted the email. Isabel could be so annoying—even more than George, if that was possible. He'd seen the look she'd given him at Christmas when he mentioned buying a house up here for their mother. What gave her the right to know what was best for Eva? As if he didn't know his mother had lived in London ever since she arrived from Italy. That didn't mean she was better off there, did it?

He clicked on the next email. It was from his brother. What the hell did he want? They almost never communicated and they certainly hadn't exchanged any messages since the row about the piano.

Well then, you old bugger, how the devil are you? Still coining in the millions, I suppose? How's that darling wife of yours? I hope she's making good progress and I really mean that. I've always had a soft spot for Deanna—she's too good for you. Say 'Hi' from me.

 The real reason for writing is that I gather from Isabel that there are plans afoot to move Eva up your way. That obviously precipitates action on the piano. I've got to go up to London in a couple of weeks and I'll talk to Eva. If she's okay with it, I'd like it shipped down here as soon as possible. I'll keep you informed. George.

 

Rick went downstairs and into the kitchen to pour another drink. His head already felt muzzy but the alcohol was deadening the ache in his guts. He crossed the hall to the drawing room. He went round switching on lights. He wasn't satisfied until light blazed from every lamp. He perched his glass on top of the piano. He'd been having lessons for several months now and was practising for an hour each day. He'd even given up running as much so that he could play before he went to work. Mrs Dobson had talked about Grade 1. Rick didn't want to take an exam, but Deanna had been all for it. 'You'll feel you're making real progress,' she'd said.

He pulled out the stool and sat down. He stretched out his fingers. He couldn't understand why it was difficult to move them across the piano keys to any order, when they knew the computer keyboard so well. He opened up his music book and played the first few notes of a Mozart minuet Mrs Dobson had given him to learn. He felt stupid playing 'baby pieces' as he called them and tried to practise when no one could hear. He reached the second bar before he stumbled and played a wrong note. He went back to the beginning. This time he managed several bars before he lost his place. He crashed his fist down on the keys.

Mrs Dobson had smiled when he told her he wanted to play the Moonlight Sonata. 'You'll have to progress before you're ready for that,' she said. He thought of his father's stubby fingers. 'I shouldn't have been a piano player,' he used to say, 'not with these fingers.' And yet, here Rick was, a piano player's son, and he'd never master the instrument.

Twenty-six

Isabel stood by the sink, arranging tulips. She snipped the ends from the stems and pushed each bloom into the narrow neck of the vase. Positioning it in the centre of the table, she moved back to admire her handiwork.

She'd returned from Italy determined to take control of her life. For too long she'd been the flimsy dinghy in raging seas, while her mother's demands, Brian's manipulation, even the children's whims buffeted her from peak to trough. The first step was to make the flat more attractive.

The vivid purples and pinks of the tulips made a pool of colour against the heavy oak units like a spotlight on a darkened stage. Pleased with the effect, she went into the lounge to survey the newly painted primrose-yellow walls. Rose had complained about the smell of paint making her feel sick, and Isabel opened the windows wide. The breeze blew through the flat and her spirits lifted, like ballooning sheets on a washing line.

She made herself go into the bedroom to finish unpacking her case—leaving items in there for a week hardly reflected her new resolve. She stacked the Italian dictionary on top of the magazines on the bedside table. It had been a surprise how much of the language she'd absorbed listening to her mother. She'd always rejected it, siding with her father as the non-Italian speakers in their family. Now that seemed ridiculous—she was going to take a class in the summer term.

She took a pair of trousers and a skirt from the bottom of the case and hung them in the wardrobe. Her hand brushed against the silky material of the dress hanging further along the rail. Grace had persuaded her to try it on in Naples. The red shift had skimmed over her breasts and hips, the gold trim round the neck and front of the dress sparkling against her pale skin. 'That's great on you, Bel,' Grace said. Isabel leaned closer to the mirror. She looked… well… elegant. 'Affascinante!' the woman in the shop exclaimed. 'Does that mean what I think it does?' Isabel whispered to Grace. Grace had laughed. 'Glamorous. She thinks you look glamorous!'

But the confines of a shabby flat in north London provided an incongruous arena for glamour. When the dress was revealed, she was afraid its potency would evaporate.

She sat down on the bed and pulled the laptop on to her knees. She'd avoided looking at it for the last two days, ever since her email to Rick about their mother's reluctance to move. 'Don't worry, Mum,' she'd said when she read the letter from Rick. 'I'll sort it out for you.' And at the time she was pleased with the business-like tone, the 'this-is-something-that-needs-to-be-sorted-out-so-let's-get-on-and-do-it' approach she'd adopted in her email. But she knew from past skirmishes that, thwarted, Rick could be a tyrant, a bully, a despot, a persecutor—the more words she allowed into her mind, the more his lowering rage blackened her sky.

She clicked on her emails and checked the list—two. One had to be from Rick. She let the cursor hover over view emails. She clicked on the link. Two emails in the last two days. Both from Simon.

 

In the shower Isabel soaped her breasts. She ran her hands over her body as the hot water streamed down her back. She prodded her hipbones. All those years on diets, with Brian nagging her to do something about her weight, had little effect. Now, she was almost as thin as before she'd had Rose. She leaned backwards so that water splashed on her neck and shoulders and down on to her chest.

Her thoughts ranged over the flat, planning her next project. Perhaps she'd paint the hall, which was a dingy green. She was possessive about the little world she'd created. She could leave her music open on the piano; play her Beethoven CDs without having to look at Brian's long face; read in bed until the early hours with no one to complain about the light. She'd gone from seeing the flat as claustrophobic to relishing the freedom. Why should she let a couple of emails scuttle her confidence?

She wound a towel round her and went back to the bedroom. Opening up the laptop again, she pointed the cursor. Her hand hovered. Don't think about it. Do it. She clicked on Simon's first email.

 

Hi Isabel

Think you should be home from Italy by now. Hope you had a great time with your sister.

How about a drink and you can fill me in? Would be good to see you.

Simon

 

Was that it? She scrolled to see if there was more. But what was she expecting? She'd scurried away from him at the airport like Little Miss Muffet confronted by a tarantula. No wonder the poor man had kept his email brief.

Something caught her eye at the window, and she watched a little bird perch on the sill. She wasn't knowledgeable about birds, but this was surely a bluetit. She got up and sidled to the window, marvelling at the bird's vibrant mix of blue and green and yellow and white; at its survival in this urban environment. She stared at it and it blinked fearlessly at her.

She went back to the laptop and clicked on Simon's second email.

 

Hi again

In my attempt not to overwhelm you in my previous message, think I might have sounded too offhand. It would be really good to see you. You've probably guessed that I'd like to be more than friends, but if friends are what's on offer—I'll take it! Give me a call.

Simon

 

Isabel read the email a second time and then a third. She conjured up an image of Simon's face: intense expression as he listened; the longing in his eyes when he spoke of his son; his mouth, wide with laughter; his fingers, long and sensitive, their delicacy marred by those maimed stumps. She picked up the phone and dialled his number.      

 

That afternoon she took courage and told Rose she was going on a date. 'Cool, Mum. Nice move.' Isabel was surprised—enthusiastic approval from her daughter was the last thing she expected. But Rose put her hair up at the back in a comb and showed her a different way to apply her makeup, so that her eyes looked dark and smoky.

Rose gave the thumbs up when she saw Isabel in the red and gold dress. 'Wow, Mum! You look awesome.'

Isabel laughed. 'Will I do?'

'I'll say. Wait till I tell Dad.'

 

Isabel met Simon in a wine bar. He'd obviously made a big effort because he was there first and had a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket on the table. His hair was longer than before and she noticed the tendrils curling down his neck. Her fingers itched to stroke them. He hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. Desire flooded her belly.

She slipped off her jacket and he gave a low whistle. 'You look lovely.'

She smoothed down the dress. 'I bought it in Naples.' She kept her gaze lowered; her hand stroking the creases she knew weren't there. 'It's a bit daring for me.' She made herself look up and he was smiling.

'You should be daring more often.'

*

Simon had found a table in a small room off the main bar. When they sat, a waitress came and lit the candle. It glowed in its glass bowl, casting soft shadows across the table. Simon poured out the wine.

'So, how was Italy? Ischia—is that the name of the island?'

'Yes, it's in the Bay of Naples. It's beautiful.'

'You seem more relaxed.'

'It's strange how quickly the stresses of home fall away when you're in a different environment.'

'I hope everything at home isn't stressful.' He reached across and touched her cheek.

Little tingles ran over her skin. 'Simon, about the airport…'

'It's okay. You don't have to explain.'

'No, but I ran off. It was…' What was she doing? She wasn't going to tell him, was she?

'Isabel, you're scared. I do understand. I'm scared. It's not easy when you've been dumped by someone else.'

Oh God. If only that's all it was. It was frightening to think of starting another relationship, but that was nothing. How much understanding would Simon need if she told him the truth? The thought of her dirty little secret caged her like barbed wire.

Simon smiled. 'Anyway, I want to hear about Ischia. How was your sister? Did you talk to her about George?'

Isabel nodded. 'But the strange thing was, she already knew.'

'Don't tell me your mother's revealed the secret to all of you, but sworn everyone to silence.'

'It's even stranger than that.'

Simon went to pour out more wine, but Isabel shook her head. 'I haven't had much to eat today.'

'We can soon remedy that. They do a wonderful selection of tapas here. How about we share some?'

'Sounds good.'

 

The waitress brought several plates to their table. Isabel realised how hungry she was. She'd been so excited about tonight, she'd hardly eaten.

'Hey, try some of that chorizo sausage.' Simon wiped his fingers on a napkin. 'It's really good.'

'I've got one of the little battered squid,' Isabel said. 'I didn't think I liked squid, but this is delicious.'

'They whet your appetite, don't they?'

'I'm going to have one of these bruschetta. I had them dipped in oil with tomatoes in Ischia—heaven.'

'I'm glad you're back,' Simon said. 'I missed you.'

'What have you been doing? Still busy with clients?'

'I gave myself some time off. And I think I've found a new hobby.'

Isabel smiled. He looked so pleased and proud.

'What are you laughing at?' Simon put on an aggrieved face. 'I try to tell you about my secret ambition, and you laugh.'

'I'm sorry. I haven't heard anyone say "hobby" for a long time. It seems to go with train spotting and stamp collecting.'

'Oh, right. I'm a geek, am I?'

'A nice geek,' Isabel said. 'Tell me your hobby.'

Simon speared another piece of chorizo with his fork. 'I've started writing a story.'

'What's it about?'

He frowned. 'I knew you'd ask me that. It's about two lights in a room. One's a reading light, and one's a table lamp with a tall elegant shade. They've got different personalities, and the reading light thinks it's not as pretty, but it's more important than the lamp that sits on the table providing a background glow. When the people who live in the room go to bed, the lights have an argument.' Simon stopped and looked at her. 'You think it's a stupid idea.'

'No, I don't. I think—'

'I can see it in your face. You think it's stupid.'

'Simon, I think it's great. I could never think up anything as imaginative as that.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

He leant across the table and kissed her. 'You are the most perceptive person I've ever met.'

'And you're the maddest.'

'So mad you wouldn't consider coming home with me?'

Isabel felt the blush spread across her chest and up her neck. She made herself think of cold things: an iceberg; freezing fingers in the snow; the wastes of Antarctica; winter wind whipping across her cheeks. It didn't work. Waves of heat rolled over her.

She met Simon's gaze. She'd keep her tone light like his. 'No, but mad enough to ask you to come home with me.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'That's either very mad, or one of the most sensible things I've ever heard.'

'So, do you want to come?'

'I'm all yours.'

 

Waking early, before the morning light pierced the bedroom curtains, she enjoyed the weight of his body next to hers. She turned on her side away from him, easing her hips into his lap. His thighs curled around hers and she snuggled back further until she felt his groin against the curve of her bottom. His breathing was light and rapid and feathers of air caressed her shoulders. In sleep, his hand slipped across her waist and reached up until it found her breast. He cupped his fingers round it, and she felt its heaviness settle into his palm. She allowed herself to savour the contentment of the embrace—still plenty of time before they had to get up.

*

Rose appeared at the door as Isabel was saying goodbye to Simon. She'd been staying overnight at Brian's and wasn't expected home for another hour. Isabel tightened her dressing gown round her. She was conscious of her nipples pushing against the thin cotton. She saw Rose's eyes flick to Simon's hand on her arm. 'Simon—Rose. Rose—Simon.' She managed to carry out introductions without too much stumbling over names. Rose shifted her bag on to her shoulder as she pushed past her mother into the hall. She was smiling. She didn't look too upset.

Simon's lips brushed Isabel's cheek. 'Well done,' he whispered into her ear. 'I'll ring you tonight for the verdict.'

 

Rose was bending down to look in the fridge when Isabel went into the kitchen. She took out a carton of milk, lifted it up high and the white stream cascaded on to the cereal. Drops splattered over the worktop. Isabel didn't say anything. She waited in the doorway, shuffling from foot to foot, her hands clutched in front of her.

'Well?' she asked when she couldn't stand the silence any longer. Rose turned and her long blonde hair swung across her shoulder. Isabel stifled a moment of envy. When had her daughter got so beautiful?

Rose spooned a mound of cereal into her mouth. She was holding the bowl close to her lips and she stared at Isabel over its rim. Their eyes locked and then Rose laughed. 'Your bit on the side? I wondered when I'd get to meet him.'

'You mean you knew about Simon?'

Rose dropped the bowl into the sink. 'You get loads of text messages and emails now. You never used to.'

'How do you know about my emails?'

'We share a computer, Mum. Remember?'

'Have you been reading them?'

Rose frowned. 'What do you take me for? Course I haven't read them, but you never log off from your emails, and I don't need to be a genius when the name Simon keeps coming up as the sender.'

'What do you think then? Do you mind?' Isabel sat down at the table. She hoped Rose might join her and they could have a proper chat.

But Rose picked up her bag and crossed to the door. 'It's cool, Mum, especially as I know you're only doing it to make Dad jealous.'

'What do you mean?'

'Dad asked me if you were seeing anyone and I told him there was some bloke sniffing round, but that you wanted him really.'

'You had no right to do that.'

'But that's what you've always said. As soon as Dad comes to his senses, we'll be back together as a family'

'Of course that's what I want, but your father—'

'He's come to his senses, Mum.'

'He has?'

'Yeah. He was talking about it last night after Anita went to bed. He's going to take you out next weekend.' She paused in the doorway and as she turned, Isabel caught a flash of something. She studied Rose's face. A small jewel glinted in her daughter's left nostril.

Rose grinned at her. 'It'll be another date. Only this time, it's for real.'

Twenty-seven

Grace met Lilian at their usual restaurant near Piazza Dante. She found her, as always, tucked in the furthest corner, nose in a book and an unlit cheroot between her fingers. She'd been a ferocious opponent of the smoking ban, but had finally given in when she'd been asked to leave a bar.

Lilian stood up as soon as she saw Grace. She barely reached Grace's shoulder and Grace had to stoop to apply her lips to each of her friend's cheeks.

'I was pleased to get your call this morning,' Lilian said. 'I haven't seen you for ages.' She waved the menu under Grace's nose. 'What would you like to eat? I've ordered two glasses of prosecco.'

'I'll have a pizza neapolitana.'

'Are you sure? You usually try something different.'

'Not today. When in Naples…' Grace wondered if she sounded too wistful—Lilian's antennae were sharp.

'Two of your wonderful pizzas, per favore.'

Grace watched Lilian's coquettish smile at the waiter, as she returned the cheroot to its case.

'Prego.' He responded with an extravagant flick of the white napkin, which he spread carefully on her lap.

'Grazie, signore.' Lilian snapped the menu shut and the waiter turned away. Grace was left to deal with her own napkin.

 

Last night she had woken suddenly. In the dim light she could make out the shape of someone sitting on the bed facing her. She heard breathing and had opened her mouth to scream, when Franco's voice came out of the darkness. 'It's me.' She reached out and snapped on the bedside light. Franco's shoulders were hunched, his head bowed. He was leaning forward on his elbows, his hands dangling between his knees.

'Whatever's the matter?' she asked.

He looked up at her then, and she saw what he held in his hands. It was her contraceptive pills.

Grace struggled to sit up. She drew the duvet up to her chin. 'Franco, let me explain.'

'You promised.'

'I know I did.'

'I go to England, you say. We have baby when I get back.'

She put her hand on his arm. 'Let's talk. I need to explain—'

'Talk. Explain. It's all about you. What you feel. What you want.' He banged his hand down on hers as if her touch stung his skin like a mosquito's. 'You don't care about me.'

'Of course I do. Because I'm not ready to have a baby doesn't mean…'

She watched Franco lift his arm. His hand was almost touching his shoulder. She saw the flash of his wedding ring. What was he doing? She felt the rush of air and pain as his fist slammed into her jaw.

 

She sipped the prosecco while the waiter placed their food on the table. Nothing compared with the taste of a Naples' pizza and this one might be her last. But still she picked up her knife and fork hesitantly: chewing was bound to hurt.

'So, what's new?' she asked.

Lilian dropped her cutlery as if she'd been dying for Grace to ask the question. She clapped her hands and her frizzy hair quivered. 'I'm going to the States.'

Thank goodness. Once Lilian picked a topic, she was off.

'Walt, my American professor—I must have told you about him—has gone home. His six months' sabbatical was up and he's invited me to visit him.'

Had Lilian told her? Grace couldn't remember. 'Really? Is it… you know?'

Lilian laughed, a loud trumpeting laugh that made the people at the next table look round. 'I know old witches like me shouldn't expect lust. That's for you young things. But…' she paused to shovel in another mouthful of pizza, '… he lives in Boston and I can manufacture lust for a month in Boston. Nathan went loads of times when he was in the diplomatic corps, but somehow I missed out on the trips.'

She reached down to the floor for her leather holdall. She fished around inside and found her diary. 'Let's make a date for lunch when I get back. What about July? I know it's busy for you but—'

'Lilian…'

'Shall we say the fourteenth?'

'I won't be here in July.'

Lilian licked her finger and turned over some more pages. 'Problems with your mother again?' she asked, almost absently. 'We'd better make it August, although lord knows how I'll keep my news until then.'

'I won't be here in August either.'

Lilian looked at her. 'Oh?'

'I'm leaving Ischia.'

'That is a surprise. I was talking to someone only the other day and they'd been over to your restaurant. Couldn't praise it enough.'

'It's not that—'

'It makes sense, I suppose. Franco could do bigger things in Rome or Milan. I always said he was ambitious. Mark my words—that husband of yours will go far.'

'I'm leaving Franco.'

Grace looked down, but she could feel the shock coming across the table. Lilian clasped Grace's hands in hers. 'My poor child,' she murmured. One of her rings bit into Grace's palm, but she didn't take her hand away. The discomfort gave her something to concentrate on.

She gestured to the waiter who was passing their table. 'Un litro rosso, per favore.'

Grace shook her head. 'Not for me.'

'It's not for you! I'm the one who's had a shock.'

Grace tried to smile, but the movement trapped her face in pain. She pulled her hands from Lilian and cupped her chin in her hand. The cool palm was a comfort, but more than that, she wanted to conceal the bruises she could feel developing.

She accepted the large glass of red wine Lilian poured. It wasn't as if she had to worry about the ristorante that evening. She intended to stay in Naples until the last ferry left. She'd already sent Franco a text to say he should get Carolina to help him this evening. She didn't think he'd be too surprised.

Lilian drank her first glass almost in one go, her head thrown back. Grace stared at the necklace of lines circling her throat. Lilian poured a second glass and removed one of her thin cheroots from a silver case. She tapped it on the table. 'Don't worry. Just my comfort blanket.'

Grace noticed her initials had been engraved on the lid of the case. 'Is that new?' she asked. 'I don't remember seeing it before.'

'A parting gift from my swain,' Lilian said. 'But I'm more concerned about you. What's happened?'

Grace shrugged. 'Nothing, really.' Lilian was fun to be with, but the humiliation of Franco striking her was too raw to confide. 'No one thing, anyway, more an accumulation.'

'Tell me.'

Where to begin? Grace thought. 'There's the whole baby thing for a start,' she said.

'Still not sure about wee ones, eh?'

Grace remembered their earlier conversation when Lilian had told her how much she'd longed for children. She didn't want to hurt her friend, but she couldn't deny the way she felt. 'I feel pressurised. Franco, his parents, especially his mother, his brothers, even his sisters-in-law, all seem to think they've got a say in whether I have a baby or not.'

'The Italians are big on families. You must have known that when you married him.'

'I thought I loved him. It was all that mattered at the time.'

Memories of that first summer with Franco filled her mind. She'd been besotted. There was his wide easy smile, chocolate-brown eyes, the endearing halting English. Mostly there was his lean tanned body. She'd had several lovers, even lived with someone for a while when she was teaching in Suffolk, but nobody had been able to make her body ache with sexual pleasure like Franco. He'd arrive at her apartment on the second floor of the palazzo about midnight when he finished work in the pizzeria. Her windows would be wide open to catch what little air there might be. Waiting for him through the evening, she'd feel it was too hot to breathe, but the sultry atmosphere only intensified their passion. They'd cling together, slippery with each other's sweat.

'Grace, are you all right?'

Grace forced herself back to the present. 'I was remembering.'

'Is it only the baby?'

'Yes. No. He wasn't there for me the night my dad died, Lilian.'

'We all let each other down, child. It doesn't mean you can't still have a life together.'

'Somehow my dad dying so suddenly changed things. I've realised how short life is. I love Ischia. But I want more.' And would you want to live with a man who hit you? It would be a relief to ask the question. To see shock on Lilian's face. Feel her sympathy. But Grace couldn't. Saying the words would make it real. 'First though, I need to go home to be with my family. There are things we have to sort out.'

Lilian poured more wine. Grace had always joked that Lilian's capacity for alcohol was limitless, but now she tried to keep pace.

'Why don't you talk to Franco?' Lilian asked. 'Perhaps you can go back to England for six months.' Her face brightened. 'He could come with you. Didn't he always dream of a restaurant in London?'

'That's not what I want,' Grace said. 'I want to travel. I'm going to go to America. I wanted to years ago, but Dad stopped me.'

Lilian touched her hand. 'You seem different.'

'In what way?'

'Harder somehow. Is it only Franco?''

The side of Grace's face throbbed. Perhaps Franco had broken her jaw. It had been a pretty violent blow.

'Grace?'

She looked across at Lilian, at her weather-beaten skin, the knowing expression. What things had she witnessed? 'It turns out Dad was not my youngest brother's father.' She hesitated. 'George is my half brother.'

'And you didn't know?'

'No idea.'

'How did you find out?'

'I had a letter from an old friend of my dad's. And it seems Mum told Isabel the day Dad died.' Grace screwed up her napkin and flung it on the table. 'It means Mum had an affair when I was a baby.'

'These things happen.'

'If you'd known my parents… they worshipped one another.'

'You never really know what goes on in a marriage.'

'The worst thing is…' Grace stopped. What she was about to say, she'd hardly admitted to herself. 'I've spent all these years wondering if my father truly loved me. But now I don't seem to love him any more.'

'That's a bit harsh, child. If he loved George as his own, isn't he the good guy in this?'

'I know. If I blame anyone, it should be Mum.'

Lilian didn't reply and the silence stretched between them. She stood up. 'Let's find a table outside. I need some nicotine.'

The early summer sunshine felt warm on Grace's face, but the breeze was cool, and she pulled her jacket tight. They sat down at one of the tables on the pavement in front of the pizzeria. The waiter followed them out with the remainder of the wine and their glasses. Lilian lit her cheroot and her eyes narrowed against the thin column of smoke.

'Nathan had a child,' she said.

The announcement jolted Grace. 'I didn't know he'd been married before you met.'

'He hadn't. It was an affair.' She stared at the cheroot as if she was surprised to see it between her fingers. 'He confessed the day of our silver wedding.'

'How awful for you.' She'd always had the impression that Lilian and her husband were devoted.

'It was only a fling. Probably one of many, if the truth were known. The diplomatic life opens the door to that sort of thing. But this time there was a baby boy, Justin. He'd be about twenty now.'

'What happened?'

'It was in Yugoslavia, as it was then. His mother was a typist at the embassy by all accounts. I wanted to adopt the boy and bring him back to England, but she wouldn't hear of it. Nathan used to send money at first, but then she stopped writing. He went out there when the trouble first started in Serbia, but he couldn't find them.'

'Were you able to forgive him?' Grace was trying to imagine what it would have been like for her father when he found out about George.

Lilian shrugged. 'What could I do? I'd stayed behind in Scotland on that trip. My mother was ill and I didn't want to leave her. Nathan said he was lonely. I couldn't give a damn about the woman. I've never thought love is about sex anyway.' She stubbed out her cigar, squashing it into the ashtray. 'But the baby hurt. Nathan had a son and I didn't.'

'How did you cope with that?'

'I told myself providing the sperm doesn't make you a dad. It's the long haul—broken nights, the first day at school, cold football pitches on a Sunday morning—that's what makes you a dad.' Lilian started pulling on her jacket. 'Don't be too hard on your mum and dad. They probably had all sorts of reasons for not telling you.'

All at once Grace saw her father's face clearly. Since his death it had been impossible to get a picture of him in her mind. He was there, but out of focus. Now she saw his broad jaw, his slow smile, his eyes, which none of the family could agree on. She and George thought they were hazel, but Rick and Isabel insisted they were green. Whatever their colour, she'd thought they were the most honest she had ever seen. You could trust him utterly.

Lilian bent forward to kiss her cheek. 'Look after yourself, child.'

 

Grace walked down the hill and rounded the bend. The ristorante was in darkness. It wasn't even eleven o'clock and she'd never known Franco shut before midnight. In the stillness the only sound was the slap of her sandals against her feet. She could smell the heavy scent of pine from the wood on the hill above. To her left, the dark mass of sea was striped with lines of golden yellow from the castle lights. She wouldn't let herself look back at the bulky outline of the castello. Her eyes had sought it, first thing in the morning and before she went to bed; part of the daily ritual, like cleaning her teeth or kissing Franco goodnight.

She expected the front door of the restaurant to be locked, but it swung inwards with that familiar creak of the hinges. For most of the day and evening, it stood open, apart from in the middle of winter, and she and Franco kept forgetting to oil it. It was strange to think such things wouldn't be her concern any more. She stepped inside the restaurant and leaned back against the door, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Only the swishing sound of the electric ceiling fans disturbed the silence.

'You're back.' Franco's voice made her jump. She reached up and turned on the wall lights. He was sitting at the far end of the restaurant. Grace always chose a table near the window so that she could see the sea, but Franco liked this one tucked away from public gaze. She walked between the tables, picking up a stray spoon that had been forgotten, until she was standing beside him.

He was hunched over, his chin in his hands. A coil of smoke drifted from a cigarette sitting in the ashtray in front of him. She counted three more stubbed out ends besides. He'd given up smoking when they got married. She hadn't asked him to, but he'd said, 'You always smell so fresh and clean, I can't do it any more,' and he hadn't smoked again. Until now. He didn't look at her and, not knowing what else to do, she sat opposite.

'You're late.' His voice was husky.

'I met some friends.'

'I thought you weren't coming back.' He looked up and their eyes met. His were puffy and red. She'd never seen him cry.

'How's your face?' he asked.

'Sore.'

He lifted his hand to her hair and stroked it back from her face. She heard his intake of breath.

'I'm sorry, carissima.'

'So am I, Franco. Sorry it's come to this.'

'I can make it up to you.' He caught hold of her hand. 'I didn't know what I was doing. I am tormented.'

She pulled her hand free. 'I'm leaving you.'

'For how long?'

She felt sick. Her head was spinning from all the wine and a hard knot had formed in her stomach. 'Forever.'

'Please. No.'

'I've made up my mind.'

'I know I've gone on about a baby.' He stretched out and she thought he was going to touch her again. She folded her arms across her chest.

'It's not only the baby. I can't do this any more.'

'Do what?'

'This.' She gestured to the room behind her. 'Us.'

'We'll change things. I'll change.'

Grace didn't answer. What could she say? She couldn't tell him that his pleading only made things worse. The Franco she'd fallen in love with had been vibrant, extroverted, always ready to laugh. That night when he'd arrived in the courtyard of the palazzo with the pot of bolognese sauce, it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her. Where had all that fun gone? Sexual attraction is a trap. Before you know where you are, you've tied yourself for life to someone you hardly know because of the way his hair curls or the little kisses he plants all over your body when you wake in the mornings.

Perhaps that was what happened to her mother when she met George's father. Their desire had been impossible to resist. In a way Grace hoped so. She couldn't bear to think of George being the result of some sordid fling like Lilian's husband's child.

'Please give it another chance.' Franco's voice came from far away. 'I love you. I'll do anything to make you happy.'

Grace shook her head. 'It's no good. It's over.'

'Please.'

Grace stood up. The chair crashed behind her on to the tiles. She glanced round. She remembered how she'd agonised over the exact colour for the floor. Franco had wanted pale marble, but she'd insisted on dark green, and she'd got her way.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

Franco looked up at her. She could see the yellow flecks in his eyes that caught the light and made them glow.

'Don't leave me. I'll tell Mamma to—'

'Franco… it's no good.'

He buried his head in his arms.

Grace ached to touch that funny wave at the nape of his neck. She knew exactly how it would feel. She went upstairs to pack.

Twenty-eight

The bedroom was darker. Grace turned on her side and felt for Franco. He was usually curled into a ball, his back a smooth curve. In the early days she'd snuggled up to him, pressing her breasts against his warm skin. Gradually he would stir, roll to her and take her in his arms. Now she was more likely to pretend to be asleep until he got up to go to the fish market. This morning something made her stretch out her hand to see if he was still there. And then, she remembered.

She wasn't in her light airy bedroom in Ischia. She wouldn't be able to throw open the shutters, step out on the balcony into a morning where the sun would bathe her bare arms and legs, where her eyes could feast on the castello.

 

'This is a record,' George had said the previous night as they climbed the steep narrow stairs. 'The third member of my family to stay in this room in the past year.' He laughed as he heaved her suitcase on to the bed. 'First no one visits me. Now I can't get rid of you all!'

Grace tried to smile, but her lips stuck to her teeth. All she wanted was sleep. Sleep would block the memory of Franco's sobs. Block thoughts of Maria, Vincenzo and Alphonso standing in a sombre line outside the ristorante when the taxi arrived to take her to the ferry, Franco inside, nowhere to be seen.

'Are you okay, Sis?' George had said. 'I've never seen you look so bad.'

'I need a good night's rest. I'll be all right in the morning.'

 

Now the morning was here. Outside the gulls shrieked. Rain pattered against the window. And she wasn't all right. A throbbing pain attached itself to her head and was spreading down into her neck. The weight lodged in her stomach was worse. The single bed felt constricting and she was cold. Franco would be up by now, drinking his first cup of strong sweet coffee. She turned on her side and pulled the duvet over her head.

It was late morning when she woke again. She listened for sounds of activity. Unfamiliar with the house and its habits, she didn't even know what noises to listen for.  Perhaps she could shut herself away in this little room, insulated from the world. Instead, with a great effort of will, she pushed back the duvet and forced her feet to the floor. She pulled on some trousers and a thick jumper and splashed her face with cold water. She risked looking in the mirror. Just as she'd thought. The side of her face was a mottled bluey green. Yellow patches leached into the other colours. She ran a comb through her hair and drew it forward across her cheek.

Downstairs, she hesitated. She had been so tired the previous night; she hadn't taken in George's instructions. She made for a door at the far end of the hallway. A young woman sat at the long pine table reading a magazine. As soon as Grace appeared, she got to her feet. 'Hi. You must be Grace. I'm Chloe.'

'Hello.'

'George said to say sorry. He's got classes all day. He asked me to look after you. Are you hungry?'

'A black coffee would be nice. Strong, please.'

Grace sat down at the table. Deep windows looked out on to a garden. A huge Aga took up most of one wall and several copper saucepans were strung along a cord hanging from the high ceiling. A bowl of fruit and a jug filled with fat pink roses stood in the middle of the table. A pile of books took up most of one end.

Chloe was busy boiling water and spooning coffee into a cafetière. With her dark hair scraped back into bunches and her blue dungarees, she looked like an overgrown child. Grace watched as she reached into the cupboard for a mug. She remembered George mentioning her in his emails, but she hadn't pictured her as so young.

Chloe brought the cafetière and a mug over to the table. 'I hope that's how you like it. I don't drink coffee, so I'm never sure if it will be all right.'

'It will be fine.' Grace pulled the sugar bowl towards her. From the look of the pale liquid she would need something to make it palatable.

'You're so like GP,' Chloe said. Her elbows were on the table, her chin resting in her hands.

'Who's GP?' Grace forced down a mouthful of coffee.

'Georgy Porgy. My nickname for George.' She laughed. 'It's a joke, you see, he's skinny.'

Grace couldn't imagine the brother she knew responding to the name Georgy Porgy.

'It's uncanny.' Chloe's gaze was fixed on Grace's face. 'It's like looking at George's double.'

'Everyone says we look like our mother.'

'But you're nothing like Isabel.'

'Do you paint, Chloe?' Grace hoped for a more neutral conversation.

'Yeah. But nowhere near as well as George. He's brilliant.'

'Do you teach at the art school as well?'

'I take one or two classes.'

'It's hard work, isn't it? I remember when I was teaching English in Naples.' Grace bit her lip. What on earth had she said that for? The last thing she wanted to talk about was Italy.

'George has helped me loads. I don't know what will happen when he leaves. I can't see Mark making a go of it on his own.'

'George is leaving?' Grace hated having to ask, but the question was out before she could stop herself.

'Hasn't he told you?'

'Perhaps he's mentioned it, but I've had a lot on lately.' There was something irritating about Chloe. The proprietorial way she talked about George for a start, as if she was the one who knew him best.

'He's going to Naples. He's fed up with teaching, even though he's so good. He just wants to paint.'

'Why Naples?'

'He feels comfortable in Italy, he says. Plus he'll be nearer you… Are you okay?'

Grace looked up and found that Chloe was staring at her.

'Only you look ever so pale.'

'I'm fine.' She moved her head to let her hair fall forward over her face again. 'What about you? What will you do if George goes?'

Chloe's eyes filled with tears. ''I can't bear the thought of it,' she mumbled. 'I'm in love with him, you see.' She looked directly at Grace. 'Don't tell him, will you?'

 

When Chloe left to go to an art class, Grace went upstairs to her room. She fished around in her case for writing paper and began a letter to Archie Stansfield:

 

I'm in England for a while and I was wondering if you'd be willing to meet me. There are still lots of questions I'd like to ask you about my dad. As you've known him so long, I think you might be able to fill in some pieces of the jigsaw. I can get the train up to you, if you'd prefer.

 

When she'd finished, she had a shower and got changed. She wrote a note for George in case he came back and set off to explore Penzance. She turned left out of the house and found herself at the gates of Penlee Park. Recent rain had left the air fresh. The greenery was verdant. Grace breathed in, relishing the damp sweet scent that was peculiarly English. She wandered along the path, enjoying the sense of freedom. There would be no cries of 'Signora!' No constant calls for decisions at the restaurant. A sign to the right pointed to an open-air theatre. She passed tennis courts, their nets hanging low.

Before long she was through the park and out into a tree-lined street. She turned left and headed down to the sea. She slipped her letter to Archie Stansfield into a post box. When she reached the Promenade, she crossed the road and sat on the low wall which ran the length of the beach. The tide was in and little waves slapped against the wall. She shaded her eyes and looked out to where the horizon met a grey sea. Gulls swooped and squalled. One landed on the wall and perched a few moments before taking off, with a great fluttering of wings. She closed her eyes and behind the lids a picture of an azure sky, sunlight sparkling on sea of the deepest blue, the outline of a castle sprang unbidden. She forced her eyes open again.

She continued her walk along the Promenade, but every step was an effort. All she could think of was Franco. Sometimes he had a siesta between four and five. Was he lying on their bed now? The shutters would be closed. They would often make love when they woke from their short rest, their bodies languorous. Grace could almost taste the slightly salty sensation of Franco's skin on her tongue.

Further along the Promenade, she came across an open-air swimming pool. 'Jubilee Pool,' the sign said. It had been opened in 1935, the year of George V's Silver Jubilee. She watched people splashing in water, which looked remarkably green against the blue terracing and white walls.

The open-air pool that her parents had taken them to as children flashed into Grace's mind. She remembered a magical place, with fountains, chutes, green open spaces and a diving platform. Once, when she was about ten, she'd clambered up the metal steps, determined she was going to jump. She got to the top at last, but she couldn't bring herself to step out on to the diving board.

People began to push past, their wet bodies brushing against hers. She saw her father on the ground, shouting something and gesticulating for her to come down. But the way back was crowded with people. She started to cry and the boy at the top of the steps laughed. 'Cry Baby Bunting!' he jeered. He had pale skin and his shoulders were burned a livid pink. He had red hair and huge freckles spattered his face and arms. She'd hated red hair from that day. At last Rick's face had appeared at the top of the stairway. 'You stupid little girl!' he shouted, but he'd taken her hand, turned her to face the steps and climbed down ahead, his steadying hand at her waist all the way to the ground.

 

George was home when she arrived back at the house. 'You look done in,' he said as she opened the kitchen door. 'What have you been up to?'

'I went for a walk.'

'Bit of a shock—the bracing sea air—after Ischia.'

She slumped at the table.

'Have you had anything to eat?'

She shook her head.

'I'll fix you cheese on toast. It's my speciality.' George took a blue and white striped apron from a drawer. He eased it over his head and tied the strings round his waist. 'Ecco fatto! I have nothing to declare but my genius!'

Grace watched as George sliced bread, slotted it into the toaster and began grating cheese. All his movements were graceful and elegant, feminine, almost. She couldn't help scrutinising him for signs of Henry. Some fleeting expression, a tilt of the head, maybe. She so wanted Archie Stansfield to be wrong. But there was only his hands, she thought, as he placed the food in front of her. Those same short stubby fingers that her father had and which didn't at all fit the rest of George's slim physique.

She picked up her knife and fork and took a mouthful. The cheese was soft and spongy. It melted against her tongue. 'This is good.'

'What else did you expect?' George sat at the table. 'Sorry I had to abandon you today. Mark's covering for me tomorrow, and I'll take you to St Michael's Mount.'

'You don't have to do that,' Grace protested. 'I'll be fine on my own.'

'I don't think you will. I've never seen anyone so in need of love and affection.'

Grace concentrated on her cheese on toast.

'I'm not going to ask what's happened,' George said. 'But I hope the other one came off worse than you.'

Grace didn't dare look up. 'Did you know Deanna's been in hospital again?' she asked.

'Yeah. Eva said something about it last time I rang home. I thought she was on the mend.'

'I don't know if she's going to make it.'

George fiddled with the pepper mill, twirling it round and round. 'She'll pull through. She must be tough to have survived all these years with Ricky Boy.'

'You know he hates to be called that.'

'Why else would I do it?'

Grace sighed. Her brothers' hostility was worse since Henry's death. 'What is it, Sis?'

'Please give up the idea of Dad's piano. Rick will never back down and it will only cause more stress for Deanna.'

'Why should I let that bastard have it? He can't even play the damn thing.'

'He's having lessons.'

'Credit me with some sense, Grace. He might be a wizard with computers, but he's got no chance learning to play the piano.'

Grace chased the last piece of toast around the plate. George had made up his mind. She tried a different tack. 'Chloe said you're thinking of moving to Italy.'

'Chloe's got no business gossiping about my plans.'

'I don't think she meant any harm. Are you?'

'I haven't finalised it yet, but probably.'

'Why?'

'Why not?' George went to the fridge and poured out a can of beer. 'I love the light. The language. I've always felt more at home in Italy.'

Grace felt her heart leap. Did he feel an affinity with Italy because he'd been conceived there? 'Whereabouts are you going?'

George came back to the table. 'Near Naples. Not all that far from Mum's village. Plus, I'll be near you.'

Grace thought she detected something wistful in her brother's face. But it was gone in a flash and his usual smile was back.

'If you're going to Italy,' she said, 'what's the point of having the piano? You'll only have to leave it behind when you go.'

'I'll have it shipped over.'

'Why not buy one over there. New pianos are supposed to be better anyway.' Grace felt excited at the thought of a possible solution. 'You could buy a grand piano. Go to Venice instead. I can see you in some palazzo, music echoing across the Grand Canal.'

'I don't want a grand piano.' George's mouth tightened. It was an expression Grace had seen on her mother's face. 'I don't want a Steinway or a Broadwood or any other piano you care to mention. I want Dad's.'

Grace winced at the word Dad. It would break his heart when he knew the truth.

'That man meant the world to me.' George prodded the table with his forefinger. 'He believed in me when everyone else had written me off as a waste of space and—'

'I didn't mean—'

'I don't want to hear any more pleas for poor Rick.' George got up and poured his beer down the sink. 'I played duets with Dad on that piano for more than thirty years. It belongs to me.'

 

Grace arranged to go up to London. She had to face her mother and Isabel with the news that she'd left Franco. The morning she was due to leave, a letter arrived from Archie Stansfield. He was sorry it was short notice, he wrote, but he could come to London the following day. Would she be able to meet him, as she'd suggested? He was catching the ten twenty-five train to Euston. It should arrive just before one and he would wait for her by the barriers. If she couldn't make it, his phone number was 01625…

Before she left for London, Grace asked George if she could use his computer. Her email to Isabel was brief:

 

Sorry I haven't been in touch. I need to talk to you face to face. I'm in England. I've been staying with George, but I'm coming up to London today. I'll stay at a friend's tonight, and tomorrow I've arranged to meet Archie Stansfield. If it's okay with you, I'll come on to you after. We've got to decide how we break the news to Rick and George. This secret has gone on too long as it is.

Love, Grace

Twenty-nine

Isabel studied Rick across the kitchen table. His hair, which he normally wore short, sprouted from his head in an untidy mess. He ran his fingers through it constantly. He had developed a nervous tic and kept screwing up his nose, like a rabbit. His gaze raked the room, back and forth, up and down like a searchlight. The big pine table, which Isabel had insisted on keeping from the old house, took up most of the space. You had to move the rocking chair to reach the cupboard and plates and saucepans were piled on a worktop because there was no room to store them. Most of the time the kitchen didn't seem as small and inconvenient as it had when Isabel first moved here, but now, with Rick's eyes on it, she squirmed in her seat.

'How is Deanna?' she asked.

He blinked furiously. 'Doing great.'

'And the girls?'

'They're good. Flavia's got her last exam next week.'

Isabel wanted to ask about Alicia—the memory of that scene on Christmas Day still haunted her—but the expression on Rick's face silenced her.

He picked up his briefcase from the floor and set it on the table. He clicked the locks open and took out a notebook. 'I've made an inventory of the stuff in Mum's loft. There's a huge amount she'll have to get rid of. There won't be room in the bungalow.' He licked his forefinger, flicking through the pages of his notebook.

'About this bungalow,' Isabel began. She knew the points she wanted to make off by heart, but then she saw Rick's expression change. Don't let yourself be intimidated. The voice in her head spoke sharply. It was the same with Brian. Despite his rough edges, he was a lot like Rick, domineering, irritable, obsessed with work. But she'd changed. She hadn't been through all the doubts and self-questioning, simply to slip back when the first test came. No. She forced herself to ignore the look on Rick's face.

'Rick, did you get my email?'

'What email? Do you know how many I get a day?'

'I've got no idea. But this one was about your mother.'

Rick raised his hands. Isabel flinched. But they moved to his head. He ran first one, then the other through his hair.

'Rick…'

He slammed the notebook into his briefcase. There was a wild look in his eyes that frightened her.

She heard the voice in her head: Do it. Don't give up now. 'Mum's not happy about leaving London.'

'Isn't she?'

'Everything she knows is here.' She swallowed. 'She's lost Dad. She needs to be with all his things around her.'

Rick snapped the locks of his briefcase shut. 'She'll have us up there.'

'But you're busy with work. The girls will be doing their own thing and Deanna needs to concentrate on getting well again. She's not going to want the worry of Mum.'

'Deanna's fine. I told you.'

Isabel made one more attempt. 'You've got to see it from Mum's point of view. She checks through his books and his old records every day, reminiscing. I've seen her do it.'

'She can't dwell in the past. She's got to move on. Get on with her life.'

'But Dad was her life.'

As she said the words, the thought of the time when that hadn't been the case flitted into Isabel's mind. Once Eva had cared so little for Henry, she had climbed into bed with another man. Become pregnant with his child.

'I'm having work done on the bungalow,' Rick was saying, 'so it's not ready anyway. She can have another few months to get used to the idea and shift some stuff. We'll move her up next spring.'

'And the piano?' Isabel crossed her fingers under the table as the question dropped into the room.

'You know I'm having the piano.'

'I thought you might have reconsidered. It means so much to George.'

Rick pushed his chair back from the table. 'George. George. George. Why is everyone so concerned with him? All his life, he's messed up.'

'He and Dad spent hours playing together on it.'

Rick stood up. 'I'm not wasting time on this any longer. We'll talk to Mum about it tonight over dinner. And you'd better support me, Isabel. She listens to you.'

 

Isabel sipped her coffee and pulled a sheet of paper from her bag. It was quiet in the coffee shop and she might as well write her shopping list while she waited for Simon. Honeyed chicken, new potatoes and salad for dinner, she decided. She'd have enough to do dodging Rick's potshots without having to worry about complicated food. Rick was impossible. Every exchange resembled a high-powered board meeting, and he had to win the vote at all costs. Poor Deanna—putting up with him all these years.

She checked her watch. Simon had improved his timekeeping, but he was still inclined to arrive after they'd arranged, overflowing with apologies. She tapped her pen against her lip imagining what his excuse would be today. He'd used most of the traditional ones and was now on to the dog ate his homework variety. She hoped he'd get here soon. He would be able to advise her on a nice wine for tonight. She'd wondered about inviting him. He'd be sure to charm her mother and his presence might be a check on Rick. Besides, she was longing to show him off. But she needed to do something about Brian first. She'd already put off the meeting with him twice, and Rose kept asking when they'd all be moving back in together.

She'd almost given up hope when Simon finally arrived. She was worrying about Grace—why she was in England; why she'd gone chasing off to George's; why she'd arranged to see Archie Stansfield again—when she saw Simon push open the door.

She waved.

He rushed towards her. 'Isabel, I'm so sorry.'

She laughed. 'Did the elephant tread on your toe?'

'Sorry?'

'I'm wondering what your excuse is this time.'

He swung his jacket over the back of the chair and sat down. 'I knew you wouldn't believe me. My meeting overran.'

'It's okay. I'm teasing you.' She reached out and smoothed down the bit of his hair that insisted on sticking up at the back.

In the weeks since they'd first made love, Isabel had spent most of her free time with Simon. Walking in the park, going to concerts, cooking and eating together—every activity shared made her like him more. He was kind and generous, giving of his attention, and more importantly for Isabel, of himself. 'I've learnt,' he told her. 'I'm not going to mess up another relationship.' More often than not, they met at his flat. It was even smaller than Isabel's, cluttered and chaotic, but at least they could be sure of privacy. Rose hadn't said much after their accidental meeting, and Isabel couldn't decide if that was a good or bad sign. 'Too early to chance bumping into her again,' she'd explained to Simon.

They finished their coffee and Isabel got up to cross the road to the supermarket. Simon caught hold of her hand. 'Stay a few more minutes.'

She glanced at the time. 'I haven't got long. There's the shopping and I've got to prepare dinner. I don't want anything to go wrong.'

'I'll help with the shopping—I haven't got another client until five.' Simon looked up at her. 'Please. I want to talk.'

'Ten minutes and I must go.' Isabel put her bag on a chair and sat down again. 'I've left Rick in the flat on his own, and I'm not comfortable with him being there.'

Simon put his palms together as if he was offering up a prayer. 'Okay. I've prepared a speech…'

'Simon, you're making me nervous. I'm already on tenterhooks about tonight. I don't think I can cope with a speech.'

'I'll make it quick.' He felt in his jacket pocket, no doubt for his cigarette packet. 'I'm not going to get all lovey dovey—not because I don't want to, but in case I scare you off.' He stared intently into his empty coffee cup. 'I like you. A lot. But I know you've still got feelings for Brian—'

'My feelings—'

'No. Let me say it. I wake up in the night worrying that you'd rather be with him and I'm second best.'

She ran her hand up and down his arm. 'You're a lovely man, Simon. You could never be second best.'

'I'm sorry but I've got to ask—are you completely finished with Brian?'

'We're not divorced yet if that's—'

'That's not what I'm talking about. Be honest with me, Isabel.'

'I've still some issues to resolve with him,' she said. Please don't ask me what. Her mind tapped to the beat. Please don't ask me what.

'And then you'll finish with him?'

'I hope so.' Would that do? Would he be satisfied?

A frown passed over Simon's face. 'One last question. Are you still in love with him?'

A patch of sunlight had been inching its way across the floor of the coffee shop since Isabel arrived. Without her noticing, it had reached their table. Its brilliance illuminated the red and white checked tablecloth, the cream cups and saucers, the milk jug. 'No,' she said. 'I'm not.'

 

The shopping took longer than Isabel expected and it was nearly five o'clock by the time she pulled up outside the flat. She'd hoped Rick would have gone back to Eva's and she could have the place to herself to prepare for the evening, but his car was still parked outside. He'd asked if he could work on her computer as his laptop had crashed.

She opened the boot of the car and took out the shopping. The plastic carriers were heavy and their handles bit into her fingers. She pushed open the front door. 'Hello!' she called. There was no reply. Rose's door was ajar and she could hear the noise of the television from the lounge. She piled the shopping on the kitchen table and examined her fingers. The plastic handles had left grooves in the skin.

'You're back.'

The voice made her jump. She looked round. Rick was standing in the doorway, holding out a sheet of paper.

'You gave me a fright!' She laughed, but then she saw his face. 'What's the matter?'

'This.' He waved the paper at her. 'Perhaps you'd like to tell me what it's all about?'

'What is it?'

He came closer. His eyes were bloodshot and a high colour stained his cheeks. He loomed over her. She knew he hardly ever drank, or she'd have sworn she could smell whisky on his breath.

'It's an email from Grace. It was sent from George's computer at eight o' clock this morning. I would have thought you'd remember it, but as you can't, I'll read it to you.'Isabel's chest grew tight as Rick read out the email. She put her hand on the table and steadied herself. She was sure she'd deleted the email. She was always careful in case Rose came across something she shouldn't. She printed messages she wanted to save and deleted them immediately. Rick was looking at her, waiting for an answer.

She'd have to bluster her way out of this one. 'What the hell were you doing going through my emails?'

'That's not the issue here.'

'I think it is!'

'What is this news? This secret you and Grace are keeping.' Rick slapped his hand against the sheet of paper. She remembered his raised fist on Christmas Day. It was only Deanna who had stopped him then.

He wouldn't rest until Isabel told him. He'd always been able to ferret secrets from her when they were young. He was glaring. 'I'm waiting.'

'It's not my secret to tell,' Isabel said.

'Right. Whose secret is it?'

Isabel turned to her shopping bags. She took out the chicken breasts. 'I need to get these in the fridge,' she said. She opened the fridge door and rearranged some stuff on the shelves. She put the chicken on the second shelf. The cold air from the fridge stung her cheeks. There was nothing else for it. She was going to have to shut the door and turn around.

Behind her, she heard the bleep of Rick's mobile. Isabel clutched the handle of the fridge. Saved by the bell. She risked a glance over her shoulder. He was checking the caller ID. He clicked a button and the bleeping stopped. She'd have to tell him. There was no way out. Once she'd panicked in an exam. She couldn't answer any of the questions. She was going to fail. She stared at the paper again: the black print was fuzzy. She couldn't read a word. She looked down at the floor. It wasn't far to fall. Isabel wouldn't be the first person to pass out in an exam…

'About this secret then.'

Okay, this was it. Behind her, at the open kitchen window, she heard Samson yowling. She turned to face Rick. 'The secret relates to George. It's Mum you need to talk to really—'

'Isabel, cut the crap and get on with it.'

From across the hall, came the sound of the phone, and the murmur of Rose's voice.

'The day Dad died—'

'Mum.' Rose appeared in the doorway behind Rick.

Isabel tried to signal with her eyes: get me out of here, Rose. There must be something you need me to do. Something you want.

'That was Nonna, Mum. She said Flavia's been trying to ring you, Uncle Rick. Can you call her ASAP?'

Rick jabbed at the screen of his mobile. 'Flavia!' he barked, his eyes fixed on Isabel. 'What do you want? I'm busy here.'

Isabel watched as the colour drained from his face. 'When? Where?'

She heard a murmur coming from the other end of the phone.

'Stay with her. I'll be there in three hours. Four, max.' He glanced across at Isabel. Then turned away. 'Flavia… tell her I love her.'

He snapped the phone shut. He swayed forward on to his toes. Isabel stretched out a hand. She wouldn't be able to catch him if he fell. She remembered that look on his face when their father shouted at him for playing the wrong notes. Perhaps he'd let her put her arms round him. But then he seemed to regain his balance. He straightened his jacket.

'I've got to go. We'll continue our conversation at a more opportune moment.' The mask was back.

'What is it, Rick? What's happened?'

'Deanna's been taken to hospital.'

'Is it serious?'

Rick pushed past her. 'She'll be all right. I'll make sure of that.'

Thirty

Isabel listened to young Jonathan Hayward practising his scales. He'd been coming to her for lessons for a year and his progress was slow. He'd begun the scale of D at least five times, but kept losing his place and having to go back to the beginning.

'Right, Jonathan.' She tried to keep her voice bright. 'Let's leave the scales for today. Perhaps you'd like to work on them for next week?' He didn't answer and his face remained set in its sullen lines. She knew he was only here because his mother insisted. Probably most of his friends were out playing football.

She turned the pages of Jonathan's piano book. 'This is the piece I asked you to prepare. How did you get on?'

Jonathan mumbled a reply.

'Let's hear it, shall we?'

He held his fingers over the keys.

'It says allegro. What does that mean?'

The boy shrugged his bony shoulders.

'It means brightly, cheerfully. Let's see how cheerful you can be, shall we?'

Isabel half-listened to Jonathan's hesitant playing. If she had to sit through one more child murdering a piece of music, she'd scream. She glanced at her watch. The lesson would be over in ten minutes and then she was due to meet Brian.

He'd rung to arrange it the day before. 'I'm not accepting any excuses or postponing this time,' he said. He wanted to meet at Kenwood House: 'I know how much you like it there.' But that was the last place she wanted to go with him. It was special. Whatever happened today, she wanted to keep the memory of her first meeting with Simon intact. She suggested the pub opposite Waterlow Park. 'It's been refurbished,' she told Brian. It was a lively place and they'd blend into the hubbub.

'The pub it is then,' Brian had said. 'See you there about one.'

 

Brian was already at the pub when she arrived. At the last moment she'd decided to walk and she'd cut it fine. He kissed Isabel on the lips, and she had to resist the urge to wipe her hand over her mouth. 'I've got a bottle of champagne on ice,' he said.

She raised her eyebrows. 'Champagne?'

He scanned her face. 'Not jumping the gun, am I?' He pulled out a chair.

'Have you been reading some etiquette book?'

'Can't a man make a fuss of his wife once in a while?'

'Not when he's dumped her for his bit on the side!'

'Ouch! That hurt,' Brian said. 'I know I deserve it. But I'm going to make it up to you. Let's order some food and then we'll talk.'

Isabel watched Brian as he stood at the bar. He was wearing a yellow cotton shirt she hadn't seen before and for once his jeans looked freshly washed instead of stained with grease. Although he employed numerous mechanics to work in his chain of garages, at heart he was still a 'spanner boy'. There was nothing he liked better than fiddling with engines and he wasn't too fastidious about showering and changing afterwards. But today he'd made an effort. She looked at his thick red neck and broad shoulders. He had the physique of someone who spent their life in physical labour. Isabel thought of Simon's body. That pad of fat starting to form around his waist. His slight sloping shoulders.

'I've ordered chicken and salad sandwiches.' Brian looked pleased with himself. 'On granary bread, as you like it.'

'Great.'

He pulled his chair closer. 'Let's cut to the chase, Bel. We can get this wrapped up before the food arrives. Then we can really celebrate.'

'How do you mean?'

'It's time we stopped this nonsense. You want me. I want you. The kids want us to get back together.'

'You began this nonsense.'

'I don't blame you for giving me a hard time. When I think…' he broke off and a smile played round his mouth in a way Isabel would have sworn he'd practised if she hadn't known him better. He looked up again. His eyes gleamed as if he was a convert to some evangelical movement. 'When I think what I've put you and the kids through and all for some moments of madness.'

'Moments of madness. Is that all Anita and the baby mean to you?'

'Of course not. I'll see her right. Make sure she and little Mark have got enough dosh. But as for shacking up with her… I don't know what I was thinking of.'

Isabel twisted the stem of her glass. She'd scarcely touched the champagne. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. Since that night Brian had told her he was leaving, she'd imagined this day. She'd spent hours with her father discussing how and when he might come back. 'I'm sure he loves you really,' Henry had said. 'He's just like the greedy boy at a party who wants all the sweets. Then he'll be sick.' They'd laughed at that. She remembered after her father died, meeting Grace at the airport, telling her I'm going to get my husband and son back, whatever it takes. And now, here he was, not quite pleading, but almost, to be together again. Her plan had worked. She'd got what she wanted.

'I've seen a new house for us,' Brian was saying. 'Right on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Six bedrooms, three reception, a huge garden. You always said you wanted a bigger garden at the old house.'

'That sounds nice.'

'You'll love it! I'll ring the estate agent when I get back to the garage. We can go and view it tomorrow. If you're not doing anything, that is,' he added as an afterthought. 'What do you say? You still haven't actually agreed.'

She tried the champagne. Bubbles fizzed in her throat and made her cough.

'What do you want? The full works?' Brian's champagne glass remained untouched, but he was already half way down the pint of beer he'd bought when he ordered the food. 'You always were difficult to please.'

He glanced round the pub. It was crowded with lunchtime drinkers and there was a buzz of conversation. He stood up. 'Okay, if this is what it takes.' He steadied himself against a chair and sank to the floor on one knee. The people standing round cleared a space for him.

'Brian, get up. You're embarrassing me!'

'Answer me first.' He gazed up at her with that wheedling look that had always been a prelude to sex.

Isabel was saved further mortification when the food arrived and Brian stood up.

'I want an answer, though, Bel.' He took a huge bite from a sandwich. 'You and me and the kids together again, right?'

The granary bread seemed to stick to the roof of Isabel's mouth. 'I don't think it's going to work.' There, she'd said it.

'What?' Bits of lettuce and tomato escaped from Brian's mouth. 'You've been angling for it ever since I left.'

'At first, maybe, but it's different now.'

'And what do you propose telling Rose and Josh? I've given them all the info on the new house and they're dead chuffed. There's even room for a swimming pool.'

Isabel dropped her half-eaten sandwich on the plate. It felt as if a chunk of bread was lodged in her throat. 'You can't buy them, you know, Brian.'

'Don't be ridiculous. They want to see their mum and dad happy again. We owe it to them.'

So, his knife had finally sliced open her weak spot. She did have a responsibility to give Rose and Josh their family back. She imagined their excited voices as they rushed from room to room in the new house choosing which would be theirs. Rose would be able to invite her friends back instead of going out every evening because she was ashamed of where she lived. Josh would laugh again and ask her to help with his homework, like he used to. And she'd loved Brian once. Maybe she could again.

'I can see you want to say yes.' Brian downed the rest of his beer. He drummed his fingers on the table. She watched them beat out their tattoo: one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four; little, ring, middle, fore; little, ring—a picture of Simon's damaged fingers flared in her mind. She'd never seen the violin in his hands. Never been able to hear him play. But it would have been beautiful. He'd lost so much because of those fingers. And yet they revealed everything about him: strong; sensitive; vulnerable; brave. Are you in love with Brian? he'd asked. 'No,' she'd said, 'I'm not.'

She looked across at Brian. 'I'm sorry. I don't want to be with you any more. I can't do it, not even for the children's sake.'

Brian caught hold of her hand. 'I can't complain if you play hard to get after what I've put you through.' His palm was hot and felt slimy. 'And if you need a bit more persuasion, think of lover boy's face when he hears about your dirty little secret.'

 

Grace was sitting on the wall outside the flat when they pulled up. She jumped down and rushed to the passenger side, half hugging, half pulling Isabel out of the car. 'I've been waiting for ages.'

'Why didn't you phone?'

'I couldn't get a signal on the wretched mobile. Anyway, you're here. I've got so much to tell you.' She leaned into the car. 'Hi Brian.'

'What's this?' he asked. 'A flying visit?'

'Something like that.'

'How's Franco?'

'He's fine.' Grace took Isabel by the arm and steered her to the house. The contact with Brian was over, as far as she was concerned. As Isabel passed Brian's window, he reached out and caught hold of her wrist.

'You go on, Grace. Here's the key.' Isabel turned back to Brian. 'Ring me tomorrow and we'll make the arrangements.'

Brian squeezed her hand. 'I might not say it much, but I love you.'

 

'What on earth's happened?' Isabel asked.

'You'll never believe what Archie Stansfield's told me.'

'But what are you doing in England? I didn't know you were coming.'

'I've got to tell you about Archie Stansfield first. I'm still reeling.'

They were in the kitchen and Isabel was mixing drinks into a glass jug. She measured out the Pimms and added lemonade. She dropped ice cubes and shreds of mint into the jug, carefully slicing up a lemon. She reached up into the cupboard and took out two tumblers. 'Shall we sit outside? It's such a lovely day.'

Simon had helped her buy garden furniture last weekend and she set out the glasses and jug on the wrought iron table. She put up the umbrella and positioned two chairs in its shade. She sipped her drink as Grace related what Archie had told her: the summer when their father was seventeen and fell in love with Dottie, his friend's sister.

'We know she was pregnant,' Isabel said. 'But I still can't believe it was Dad's.'

Grace tapped her glass against her lips. 'Prepare yourself, Bel. You won't like this.'

'Hurry up. I'm scared.'

'Dottie kept quiet about the pregnancy for months. Almost pretended it wasn't happening, Archie said. Her mother guessed something was up, but she denied it.'

'What happened when her mum and dad found out?'

'Archie said they went mad. It wasn't only the shame of it; Dottie was clever. She was studying at night school and she wanted to be a teacher.'

'Was it Dad's baby?'

'He was her only sweetheart.'

'So, they could have got married.'

'Apparently Dad wouldn't. He was working for his music scholarship—'

'This is awful.' A band of metal seemed to have attached itself round Isabel's head. She pushed her chair further into the shade.

'And Granny and Grandad wouldn't hear of it. They'd set their heart on Dad going to music college and you remember what Granny was like—no one ever argued with her. Dad didn't even go to see Dottie.'

'It gets worse by the second.'

'Dottie was sent to an aunt who lived miles away in Kent. Her parents told everyone she'd got a job down there as a cook in a big house. Nobody believed them, and the village blamed Dad for not facing up to his responsibilities.'

'So everyone turned against him?'

'Seems like it. And there's more.

'The baby was a boy and she called him Henry.'

'Oh no!' Isabel closed her eyes and felt tears squeezing between the lids. Her father's son. Henry. 'Did she keep the baby?'

'They made her have him adopted.'

'So we've got a half brother somewhere?'

'We've got two half brothers, Bel.'

Isabel fished a slice of lemon from her glass and sucked. Its sourness gave her something to concentrate on. She bit on something hard and found herself chewing the pip.

She poured them each another glass of Pimms. 'Imagine—a son of Dad's somewhere. I wonder where he lives.'

'I haven't told you the end of the story yet,' Grace said. 'After the baby was born, Dottie came home, but she was like a different person, Archie said. Dad had gone to London to college by then, but he wrote to her once via Archie. She never even opened the letter. Archie found it in her bedside drawer. He burnt it afterwards.'

'After what?'

'Archie cried when he was telling me, even after all these years. Dottie wouldn't go out of the house. She used to sit in her bedroom all day with the curtains pulled. After about six months, her father lost patience with her. "Lass will have to snap out of it. Moping about the house with a face like a wet week." He arranged for them all to go on a coach trip to Blackpool to see the lights. At the last moment Dottie refused to go. Archie wanted to stay with her, but his father wouldn't hear of it. "Do her good—a day on her own. Let her think about trouble she's caused." When they got back about midnight, she was nowhere to be seen. Archie went out looking for her. His parents went to bed. "She'll turn up in the morning, right enough." Archie searched all night. He found her at first light, down by the river where she and Dad used to go. It had been their hideaway. She was hanging from a tree.'

 

There was a scrabbling noise from the other side of the fence and Samson appeared from next-door's garden. He balanced on the fence and then skidded down the side, heading straight for Isabel. She leaned forward and scooped him into her arms, burying her face in his fur. He'd been lying in the sun and was warm.

'I can't bear it, Grace,' she said when she felt able to talk. 'To think what Dottie must have gone through.'

'I've been trying to get my head round it ever since Archie told me. Poor man—he's obviously never got over it.'

'He must have hated Dad.'

'He said he hit him.'

A dull fire of anger caught in Isabel. Her father's actions repelled her. 'I'm surprised he didn't rip him apart.'

Grace smiled. 'If you could see him, Bel. He's such a mild little man.'

'I remember in Archie's letter he said Dad kept writing to him afterwards—wanting forgiveness. That was some load of guilt Dad had to carry for the rest of his life.'

'Perhaps he took George on to try to make amends.'

Isabel ran her hand over Samson's fur. He arched his back and settled again on her lap. She tried to imagine that past world. The decisions that were made. The consequences that followed. They could wonder and surmise, but however much they probed what had gone before, the truth would never fully reveal itself. The past titillated—the what could be uncovered, but in the end it retained its secrets: the why and the how remained hidden.

'I suppose…' she said, unable to resist, like going back to a crossword you have to complete '…if he'd refused, Mum might have left him and taken us with her, so he'd have lost more children.'

'Or she'd have been forced to give her baby away. Like Dottie.'

'Do you think Mum knew about Dottie and the other baby?' Isabel asked.

'She must have known something because she let Archie know Dad was dead.'

Isabel heard a snuffling noise from Grace. She looked across and saw she was laughing.

'Grace! How can you?'

'Sorry. I've just had a thought… Dottie and Dad's baby was adopted…'

'Yeah. We've been through all that.'

'No, listen, Bel. The baby was adopted, but he's still Dad's son.'

'Technically, yes. What are you getting at?'

'You remember that night Rick and George had the big row about the piano?'

'Remember it? I thought if Rick ever got his hands on George—'

'Rick said that as Dad's eldest son, the piano was his.'

Isabel started to laugh too. 'Now there are two eldest sons.'

'What about us?' Grace said. 'We're his daughters. I'm sure you'd like the piano, Bel.'

'I've just remembered…' Isabel stared at Grace over Samson's back. 'Rick saw the email you sent yesterday. Kept on and on about the secret. He nearly got it out of me about George. If Flavia hadn't phoned—'

'He knows, Bel.'

'He knows?'

'There was so much other stuff to tell you, I haven't had a chance. Rick phoned while I was with Archie. He was at the hospital, but Deanna must be improving, because he'd got the bit between his teeth. Demanded to know what my email was about.'

'I should have warned you.'

'I decided there was no point stalling. So I told him.'

'What did he say?'

'Nothing. He put the phone down on me. I wouldn't be surprised if he's on his way here now.'

Isabel pushed Samson to the ground. Indignant, he stared up at her and stuck his tail in the air. She stood up and reached out a hand to pull Grace to her feet.

'Where are we going in such a hurry?'

'We'd better get round to Mum's,' Isabel said. She gathered up the jug and glasses. 'Tell her what's happened in case Rick arrives. As far as she's concerned, I'm the only one who knows about George.'

Thirty-one

Eva was in the dining room when they arrived. The table was piled high with books and letters, bills and magazines. Discarded scraps of paper littered the floor, like confetti after a wedding. Their father's records were strewn around, their covers abandoned. Eva was sitting in the middle, a sheet of paper clutched in her hand.

'Mum! What's happened?' Isabel knelt next to her mother. She stroked her arm. Eva closed her eyes and rocked backwards and forwards.

Grace put a hand on Eva's shoulder. 'What's wrong, Mum?'

Tears rolled down Eva's cheeks. Her hair was loose about her shoulders. It looked dull and lifeless, the once-glossy sheen gone.

Isabel took a packet of tissues from her bag and held one out. 'Talk to us. Has something upset you?' A thought struck her. 'It's not Deanna is it? Has Rick phoned?'

Eva clenched the tissue in her hand, but she made no effort to wipe her eyes.

'I'll make some coffee,' Grace said.

Left alone with her mother, Isabel prised her fingers from the sheet of paper. 'Let me take that.' She tossed it on the table with the rest of the debris. Isabel massaged the fingers to bring back the blood.

Grace arrived with a tray of coffee and biscuits. She placed a cup in Eva's hands.  'Drink some. It will help.'

Obediently Eva took a few sips. She looked up at Grace. 'It's good. Just how I like it.'

'What's happened, Mum? Why are you so upset?'

Eva looked from Isabel to Grace, her brown eyes like an ill-treated dog's. 'I don't want to live in Northumberland,' she said. 'It's so cold. So dark. I would die in the winter.'

'You don't have to go, if you don't want to.'

'Rick says I'll like it when I get there.'

'We'll talk to him. Make him understand.' Grace drew her mother's hair back from her face; it lay limply across her back.

Eva shook her head. 'He won't listen. I tried to tell him when he was down here, but he was making lists. Told me what I had to get rid of. I gave up in the end. I've never been able to argue back in English. I can't think of the words quickly enough.'

'It's all right, Mum. We'll do it for you,' Isabel said. 'We know how much this house means to you. Where you're surrounded by Dad's things.'

'But that's just it.' Tears brimmed in her eyes again. 'I'm so lonely without Henry and I miss Italy.' She caught at Grace's hand. 'I thought maybe I could come to Ischia. Live with you and Franco.'

Grace and Isabel exchanged glances.

'I wouldn't be any trouble. I promise.'

'No, I know you wouldn't,' Grace said. 'But Bel and I need to talk to you about something else.'

'What is it? You're not ill, are you? Or you?' Her gaze moved to Isabel. 'I couldn't bear it if anything happened.' She started moaning. 'It would be too much after Henry.'

'There's nothing wrong with us.' Isabel took the coffee cup from her mother's hands and placed it on the tray. 'But we need to talk. You know what you told me the morning Dad died? About George.'

Eva glared at Isabel. 'Not that again!' She sat up straight and jerked her head upright. 'I told you it would break your father's heart to hear you going on about it.'

'You can't keep a secret like that forever. It's bound to come out sometime.'

'Not unless you tell anyone.'

'You can't gag me, Mum. I'm not Dad.'

'I don't know what you mean.' Eva's voice had grown shriller. 'It was your father who insisted we kept it a secret.'

Isabel shrugged. 'Whatever you say. But I might as well tell you, Grace and Rick know.'

Eva's face shrivelled, lines and wrinkles appearing as if she was ageing in front of them. 'You took it on yourself to tell them after all.'

Isabel didn't answer. It didn't seem the moment to mention Archie Stansfield.

But Eva wouldn't leave it at that. 'Now you'll see the trouble you've caused.'

'Me!' The accusation stung Isabel. 'I'm not the one who had a child outside my marriage.'

In the split second before it struck, Isabel saw her mother's hand coming towards her. She heard the dull slap and felt the pain almost in the same moment. She cupped her face in her hand.

Eva stood up. She staggered and caught hold of the table.

'I can't believe a daughter of mine could be so cruel. I would never have spoken to my mamma like that. I loved her too much.'

I can't believe a mother would slap her own daughter. Isabel cradled her cheek—if only she was brave enough to say the words out loud.

'I'm sorry you're upset, Mum, but we all know the secret—apart from George—and it's not Isabel's fault, so don't take it out on her.'

Isabel heard the determination in Grace's voice: she was going to stand up to Eva.

'And the first thing Rick will ask is who is George's father?' Grace folded her arms. 'It will be easier if we already know. We can pacify him.'

Eva took another tissue and blew her nose. 'All right,' she said at last. 'I'll tell you.'

Isabel's mouth went dry. She swallowed several times trying to find saliva. She couldn't look at Grace.

'But first I must ask him. See if he agrees.'

Isabel snapped her head back to stare at her mother. Eva's face was spread in a broad smile as if she had given her daughters a wonderful present.

'Ask him?' The words shot out of Grace's mouth like bullets. 'You mean you're still in touch with the father?'

Eva looked from Isabel to Grace, her mouth pouting and her eyes cast down. 'Si. Why wouldn't I be?'

Isabel couldn't believe it. Her mother didn't care. It didn't matter to her what her daughters knew or thought. Her metamorphosis from helpless widow to arrogant coquette was breathtaking.

Grace picked up a chair and banged it down next to Eva. 'Sit down, Mum.'

Eva's hands fluttered at her throat. 'I no understand. Why you shout?'

'Come on, Mum. Don't start doing the broken English, the poor me act.'

Eva's eyes flashed, but she sat down. 'I didn't know you could be so hard.'

'I must have got it from you. Now, who is George's father?'

'Henry idolised Giorgio.'

'We know that, but he wasn't his biological father, so who was?'

Isabel stared up at George's portrait of Henry. Her father's eyes met hers. He could never have imagined this scene would occur only a few months after his death. He must have thought he'd taken his secrets to the grave. Perhaps they were wrong. Perhaps they shouldn't be pushing Eva. George had a right to know, but maybe she and Grace didn't.

'Okay, you want to know…' Eva pinched her lips together spinning out the silence… 'It was Eduardo.'

'Uncle Eduardo?' Isabel had been waiting, her body tensed, for a name. She thought she was prepared for anything, had primed herself not to react, but she couldn't help the yelp of surprise.

'Your cousin?' Grace looked equally shocked. 'That creep.'

'My second cousin.'

'Second, third, fifty times removed. Who cares?' Grace stood over Eva. 'He used to visit us. He paid for your trips to Italy.'

Eva nodded. 'He wanted to help us. He had money and your father didn't.'

'But you made Dad tolerate him.'

'Henry was grateful Eduardo let me come back. And when Eduardo visited, he could see little Giorgio.'

 

The phone rang. None of them moved; locked like actors in the scene they'd just played. Isabel turned to her mother, but she had her hands clamped to her ears. The ringing bounced around the room. Someone was going to have to answer. She looked at Grace. Her sister's eyes were fixed on the portrait.

'Make it stop! Make it stop!' Eva whimpered.

The ringing finally pierced Grace's reverie. 'I'll get it,' she said.

The phone sat on Henry's bureau in the sitting room. Isabel listened to the soft rise and fall of Grace's voice. She didn't dare look at her mother.

It must have been only a couple of minutes, but it was like forever before Grace came back. 'It was Rick,' she said. 'Deanna died at ten o'clock this morning.'

Thirty-two

Isabel woke. Her heart drumming, soaked in perspiration. There'd been a voice. It was calling. She sat up straining her ears. Nothing. Only Samson's soft breathing from the foot of the bed. Rose was at Brian's, and Grace had stayed with Eva.

Isabel fell back on the pillow. She turned her head towards the clock: five a.m. Not even twenty-four hours since Deanna had died. After Rick's call, Eva had cried. 'Triste. Molto triste,' she muttered over and over. Grace made more coffee and they talked about Deanna. How beautiful she was. How Rick had adored her. What would happen to the girls. 'Poor bambini.' Eva sighed. 'She was a good mamma.'

 

Isabel lay on her back in the darkness. Sometimes weeks passed and nothing happened. You got up—you looked after the children—you worked—you prepared food—ate—you went to bed. Day after grey day slipping into each other, like one foot and then another into quicksand. Then comes a day like yesterday: Brian. Dottie. Eduardo. Deanna. She turned on her side and curled into a ball. Samson crept further up the bed and settled against her left hip. She ran her hand over his head and down his back. His body vibrated with purring under her touch.

 

Ringing reverberated in her ears. She reached out blindly for her alarm, but the noise persisted. She forced her eyes open and squinted at the clock. It was nearly eleven. The ringing stopped and started again. Samson lifted his head from his paws. She struggled out of bed, sleep still clawing her. There was a figure at the front door. She pulled it open. 'Simon!'

Isabel stared at him. She smoothed down her nightie and tried to flatten her hair. She hadn't taken her make-up off last night and mascara must be smeared across her cheeks.

'Can I come in?'

Isabel opened the door wider. 'I was going to phone you when I'd had a shower.'

'I've been texting you all morning.'

'I overslept.'

She could see the fine criss-crossings of wrinkles around his eyes. He looked as if he was going to kiss her, but she stepped back. 'I must freshen up,' she said. 'Go on through to the kitchen.'

 

Simon was looking out of the window. He'd had his hair cut since she'd seen him the other day and a line of pale skin ran across the back of his neck. She wanted to put her lips to it.

He turned. There were dark circles under his eyes, stubble where he hadn't shaved.

'You didn't phone last night,' he said.

'Sorry.'

'I got your message you were meeting Brian. I've been imagining all sorts.'

'Sorry I didn't ring. Deanna died yesterday.' She took a step towards him and his arms went round her.

'Isabel, my love. I'm so sorry.' His voice crooned close to her ear.

She rested her head against his shoulder. A tiny curl of hair in the V of his shirt tickled her face. She wanted to scratch it, but she didn't move. Her throat ached. A thread had worked loose on his shirt, and she held it between her fingers as if she might pull it. He stroked her hair, his hand cupping her head.

*

Simon made tea and they sat down at the kitchen table. He'd brought a bag of croissants and their warm doughy smell filled the room. Yesterday's sunshine had disappeared and rain clouds hung low. Isabel was glad. She needed to find corners to hide some of the pain away. The fierce sun would have forbidden that.

She told Simon about Deanna. She told Simon about Dottie Stansfield. She told Simon she was angry with her father. She told Simon she was angry with her mother. She didn't tell Simon about Brian.

 

They were still sitting at the kitchen table when the front door slammed. 'Hi, Mum.'

Isabel jumped up. 'It's Rose!'

'What's the panic?' Simon pulled a mock-surprise face. 'She's met me before.'

'You don't understand—'

Rose appeared in the doorway. 'Oh, he's here.'

Isabel saw her gaze take in Simon, the mugs, the two croissants left on the plate. 'Simon's popped round,' she said.

Rose turned her back on Simon and slipped her arm round Isabel's waist. 'Dad told me about Auntie Deanna.'

'Yes, I rang to ask him to tell you and Josh.' She knew his eyes were on her, but Isabel couldn't look at Simon.

'It's sad, isn't it?' Rose said. 'She was really cool.'

'Yes, it's sad.'

'What's going to happen to Flavia and Camilla?'

'They've still got Uncle Rick.'

'There was this girl in my class whose mum died. Her dad couldn't cope and she had to go and live with her granny.'

Isabel risked a glance at Simon. The petals of the yellow roses in a vase on the table had begun to fall. She saw him pick one up and tear it into tiny pieces. They lay scattered round his hands like specks of golden blood.

Rose said 'I feel bad because Auntie Deanna's died—'

'We'll talk about it some more, when Simon—'

'I mean I feel bad because they must be really miserable, but I'm happy about you and Dad.'

'Not now, Rose.' Please shut up, Rose. Shut up. Go.

'Dad told me last night. He said we can see the new house at the weekend. It's going to be ace.'

'Isabel?'

She tried to compose her face before she turned to Simon. Expressions came and skittered away: affronted disbelief, misunderstanding, confusion. One of those might have done, but when she turned to face him, she felt her mouth, stupidly, lift in a smile.

Simon stood up. There was no answering smile. 'What does she mean, Isabel?'

'I can explain. Rose, give us a minute, will you?'

Rose muttered and flounced out of the room. Her bedroom door banged shut.

Isabel took Simon's hands in hers. 'I'm sorry. I was going to tell you.'

'Go on. You know what a good listener I am.'

'Don't make this harder than it is.'

'What is it you've got to tell me?'

'Simon, you mean so much to me. You've changed my life.'

He pulled his hands from her grasp. He leaned forward, his palms flat on the table.

She forced herself to look at his fingers. To look at his left hand. At the two stumps that had destroyed his musical career.

'You're going back to him, aren't you?' His voice was flat.

'It's for the children.' She felt weak and futile, but her skin tingled as if she was on top of the big wheel.

He pushed past her, and she watched him go down the hall and out the front door. He didn't slam it.

Rose jumped out of her room as if she'd been listening behind the door. 'Wow, Mum. What was all that about?'

'Leave it for now. I'm tired.'

'But what did I say? You were only seeing him to make Dad jealous, weren't you?'

Isabel didn't want to talk to her daughter. She didn't want to go and see the new house. She didn't want to plan a new garden. She didn't want a swimming pool. Simon was walking down the path and along the pavement. He was getting into his car and starting the engine. He was arriving home. He was packing up the clothes and CDs and toiletries she'd left at his flat and putting them in a box. Isabel was going to live with Brian.

 

Grace phoned in the afternoon. 'Are you coming over? I could use some help here.'

'Sorry. I took a headache tablet and I fell asleep.' Isabel had been lying on her bed, dry-eyed and awake. She ached all over—she must be getting flu.

When she arrived at her mother's house, Grace was sitting at the dining room table. She looked as if she was writing a letter but she turned the sheet of paper over when Isabel came in. Her face was pale and her eyes were puffy.

Isabel sat down opposite her. 'Where's Mum?'

'In bed.'

'How is she today?'

'Weepy.'

'Have you spoken to Rick?'

Grace was doodling on the paper in front of her. Intricate shapes of circles and interlocking triangles filled the page. 'No, but Flavia phoned.'

'How are they all? Did she say when the funeral is?'

'End of the week.'

'Only gives us three days to make arrangements.'

The circles and triangles darkened as Grace traced over them again. 'Rick doesn't want us there.'

'He can't stop us going.'

'Flavia said it would be better if we didn't. She's afraid it might tip him over the edge.'

'What do you think we ought to do?'

'I don't know. Even Deanna's parents aren't going to be there. Poor things, they'd only just flown back to the States, and her father's had a heart attack.'

'All the more reason for us to go,' Isabel insisted. 'I've always loved Deanna.'

'I didn't get much sleep last night.' Grace pen wavered and aimless lines spattered the page. 'I'm too tired to think.'

Isabel caught hold of Grace's hand, squashing the pen between their fingers. 'Please stop doing that.' She pointed to the web of doodling. 'It's making me feel queasy.'

Grace threw the pen down. 'It's making me feel better!'

 

Isabel wondered what was going on in her sister's mind. Sometimes you knew. You looked at a face and it smiled at you and you knew the person inside the face was happy. Simple. But other times, that inner world was a thicket, dense and unyielding.

'What's wrong?' she asked. 'It's not only Deanna, is it?'

'I've left Franco.'

Isabel thought back to her time in Ischia. She remembered Grace telling Franco that she and Isabel were visiting the castello, remembered his comment that his wife was innamorata di Vittoria. It was a light, teasing moment, something any man might have said. But afterwards something like hatred had flickered across Franco's face: there and then gone.

'I'm sorry, Grace,' she said. 'I know how much it hurts.'

'I was the one who left and now I keep worrying about him.'

'I thought you were crazy about each other.'

Grace shrugged. 'Things change.' She picked up the pen again and drew in more lines, each one blacker than the last.

Isabel watched her sister's intense concentration. 'I was always jealous of you, you know,' she said.

'Why?' Grace took a second sheet of paper and the circles and triangles continued.

'You were the beautiful one. You were clever. Then you met Franco and it was all so romantic…'

'Romantic? You try working in a restaurant sixteen hours a day.'

'But your whole life is more glamorous than mine. Solid, dependable Isabel.'

Grace began to sob. Isabel looked at her dark head where her forehead rested on the table. Her arms were crossed and she was clutching her shoulders. Isabel stretched out her hand to touch Grace's hair. She knew it would feel soft and springy. She'd washed it for her, combed the tangles, helped her put it up for her wedding. She knew the feel of her sister's hair as well as her own. But the gulf between her hand and that black hair was wide. Despair is solitary and seals us from others. Isabel drew her hand back and waited.

 

'Sorry about that.' Grace blew her nose on the tissue Isabel offered.

'Did I set you off?' Isabel asked.

'No, I've needed to cry since I got on the ferry in Ischia. It wouldn't stay in any longer.'

'Do you want to talk about it?'

'I'm sick of thinking about it, never mind talking. I'll tell you another time.' The skin around Grace's eyes was the colour of bruises. 'Sorry, Bel. You don't need this. Especially with all the trouble you've had yourself.' She blew her nose again. 'I haven't even asked you what happened with Brian the other day.'

'We're getting back together.'

Grace put her arms round Isabel and hugged her. 'I'm pleased for you. I know how much you wanted it.'

'Yes.'

'You don't sound very excited.'

Isabel managed a little lift of her lips. 'It's complicated. Like you said—I'll tell you sometime.'

'I don't know about you, Bel, but I could do with a glass of something.'

'It's only five o'clock!'

'I'm going to raid Dad's wine—if George has left any. Desperate times, desperate measures.'

 

She came back with a bottle of merlot and some cheese crackers.  She poured two glasses. 'I think you're right. We should go up for Deanna's funeral.'

'What about Rick?'

'He'll have enough to do coping with his own feelings. The girls need people to support them as well.'

'I feel so sad for them. They adored Deanna.'

Grace bit into a cracker. 'Rick says Alicia isn't allowed to go to the funeral.'

'He can't do that.'

'Flavia said he's blaming her for Deanna's death.'

'That's madness!' The scene at Rick's on Christmas Day reared up in Isabel's mind: all of them frozen in that tableau of horror. 'I didn't tell you,' she said. 'Rick and Alicia had a terrible row at Christmas when Mum and I were up there. He hates her boyfriend.'

'He still can't keep her from her own mother's funeral.'

Footsteps sounded overhead. They heard the loo flushing.

'She's up,' Isabel said. 'I'd better go and see her.'

'Hang on. I want to tell you this first.'

'If you're going to drop another bombshell, I don't want to know!'

Grace sipped her wine.

'Go on,' Isabel said. Her mother would start calling in a minute and she'd have to go.

'You said you didn't want to know.'

'Get on with it.'

'I got her to tell me some more about Eduardo this morning.'

'That goat! We've heard enough about him already.'

'It's worse than we thought.' Grace finished her wine and poured some more. 'Apparently, Mum and Eduardo were childhood sweethearts. Her brothers thought he was no good, so they sent her to London. To get her away from him.'

'But she told me they sent her here because there was no money. It was after the war, and her father had died. Her brothers said she'd have a better life in England. So, she came over to Great Aunt Rosa's.'

'And there was Dad waiting—like a lamb to the slaughter.'

'Grace!' They heard their mother calling from upstairs. 'Grace!'

'Oh no!' Grace covered her face with her hands.

'It's okay. I'll go,' Isabel said. 'But I've remembered something Mum said to me about Brian.'

'What was that?'

'She said he'd come back. "Make him pay a little and then forgive him".'

'And?'

'Grace! Are you there?' Eva's voice was more insistent.

'Suppose she found out about Dottie and the baby,' Isabel said. 'Perhaps she stayed on in Italy after Nonna died to punish him.'

Grace laughed. 'And Eduardo and George were the thumbscrews!'

Thirty-three

Grace and Isabel checked into the hotel in Newcastle. It had been a long drive and Grace was glad she'd insisted on a hire car—Isabel's old Volvo would never have made it. Brian wanted to drive them, but Isabel said he needed to stay with Rose and Josh. That was one relief. The thought of being trapped with Brian for all those hours had filled Grace with dread. Eva cried off too: 'I couldn't face another funeral—not after my Henry.'

Their room was bright and spacious with a view over the river. Isabel went to have a shower and Grace stood at the window looking down at the water. Bridges spanned the river on each side. She'd seen pictures of the Millennium Bridge and was sure that must be it up on the left. She remembered Alicia telling her she worked nearby. She looked at her watch—Alicia should be here soon.

Grace had never been to Newcastle, and she couldn't have imagined her first visit would be for Deanna's funeral. She swung her bag on to the bed and took out her new dress. She hung it from the wardrobe door and smoothed the creases. It was dark green with long sleeves and a straight skirt. She'd bought it the day before, as she'd only packed the essentials when she left Ischia. Flavia said Deanna had wanted everyone to wear bright colours, but Rick would be sure to have different ideas, so she was playing safe with dark green. 'Don't say anything to your dad, but Isabel and I are coming,' she told Flavia. 'Thank you, Auntie Grace. Mum would be pleased.'

Isabel came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped round her head. She'd hardly spoken on the journey up and was really annoying, checking her phone every five minutes.

'Did Brian say he'd call you?' Grace had eventually asked.

Isabel had shoved the mobile in her bag. 'It's not him I'm looking for.'

Grace looked up from unpacking. 'Good shower?'

'Heaven, especially after the rubbish one at the flat.'

'Expect you'll soon have a designer bathroom.' Grace caught the frown on Isabel's face. For someone who'd got what they wanted, she didn't seem happy.

Grace pushed her underwear into a drawer. 'I meant to ask you…' she put her clean bra on top of the pile, '…what happened to that man—Simon, wasn't it—the one you met on the blind date?'

'It didn't work out.' Isabel's tone was studiously neutral. 'You know how it is.'

'Yeah, shame though. George said he was nice.'

'I'll give George his number, shall I?'

Oh, tetchy. She'd hit a raw nerve.

 

Grace left Isabel and Alicia in the bar of the hotel and set out for Rothbury. Up the A1 and then branch off. It looked easy on the map and Alicia said it should take no more than forty-five minutes. Forty-five there, forty-five back, half an hour at the house—she should be able to spend time with Alicia later. The trip was the last thing she needed after the long drive from London, but the thought of Rick's reaction if they turned up tomorrow unannounced urged her on.

At least it wouldn't be dark for some time. She wouldn't have to cope with the swoop and burn of headlights. She took the left fork and followed the steep curve of the road. Despite its unfamiliarity, it was nothing compared to the precipitous inclines that circled Ischia, some clinging to the island's perimeter. The road that climbed to Fontana was even worse. She remembered the bus chugging up it early one morning, and her gripping Franco's hand. They'd got up at dawn to climb Mount Epomeo before the heat grew too intense. The sky was sharp and clear, its blue stinging her eyes. When they stopped at a bar on the way down and ate a late breakfast of ham and eggs, Franco had toasted her with his cup of strong sweet coffee: 'Non posso vivere senza di te, carissima,' he'd whispered. The words played in her head: it's not possible to live without you, my darling.

She gripped the steering wheel. Her eyes wanted to close and she turned the radio on. A deep female voice filled the car with the lyrics of lost love. The road ahead narrowed and she had to swerve to avoid a car breasting the hill and coming towards her.

She reached Rothbury and made her way through the village. Alicia's directions were clear. She turned the car into the drive and the gravel shifted under the tyres. Isabel was right—it was a mansion. She parked outside the front door and surveyed the house. A face peered from one of the upstairs windows. Her heart fluttered.

She crunched over the gravel and the front door was pulled open. Thank goodness. It was Flavia standing there. They hugged. 'I'm so sorry, Flavia,' she said. 'I'm so sorry.' Flavia felt brittle-thin in her arms. She put her finger to her lips and pulled Grace inside, leading her into the kitchen.

'Dad's in his study. We'll go up in a minute. I haven't said anything.'

'Where's Camilla?'

'She's staying the night with her friend, Imogen. It's a bit bleak here and Imogen's mum said she'd look after her.'

Flavia's face was pinched and tired-looking. Poor child. It was too much for her to carry on her own.

'How are you feeling?' Grace asked.

Flavia looked down at the floor. She had on a pair of pink slippers with hearts on the fronts. 'I'm okay,' she said. 'I'm trying to be strong for Dad.'

'And who's being strong for you?'

'Mum. I talk to her when I'm in bed and she helps me.'

 

Grace followed Flavia up the staircase with its oak banister and pale yellow carpet. Huge, highly-decorated vases stood on the landing. Hand-painted probably. The opulence of the house amazed her. She remembered Franco's outrage when she ordered the quilted cream canopy for the restaurant: 'Are you mad?' he'd yelled. 'That's our income for three months blown!' She'd shut the office door so no one would hear the tirade.

Flavia led her along the corridor and they stopped at a wood-panelled door on the other side of the landing. Flavia knocked and a laugh bubbled up in Grace's throat. It was like being called to the headmaster's office.

'Yes.' True to the image, Rick's stern voice came from inside.

Flavia pushed open the door. 'Dad, Grace is here.'

This was the moment Grace had dreaded. Rick would be angry. He would shout. He would say he didn't want her here. He would tell her to get out.

But none of that happened. Rick was sitting behind a desk, the lower half of his face illuminated by the computer's ghostly light, the upper half in shadow. 'Grace,' was all he said.

She went towards him. She couldn't help it. He'd hate her for it, but she put her arms round him and held him to her. His cheek was against her heart. She wondered if he could feel it beating. He didn't say anything, but he let her hold him. It was a comfort of sorts.

She looked across at Flavia, still clutching the door. She motioned to her to go and the slight figure slipped from the room. She let her arms fall from Rick's shoulders, and he seemed to slump without the support.

'Isabel has come up with me, Rick. We're at a hotel in Newcastle,' she said. 'We're coming to the funeral.' She waited for the outburst, but Rick seemed not to register her words. 'I know you said not to, but we need to say goodbye to Deanna.'

'The church will be full,' he said.

'I'm sure it will.' It was like cajoling a small child into bed. She decided to be blunt. Better than an explosion tomorrow. 'Alicia's coming with us. She loved her mum, Rick.'

He nodded. 'Tell her not to bring that jerk.'

'She won't.' Grace leant forward and kissed his forehead. It felt hot and slick with perspiration. 'We'll see you tomorrow. You don't have to do this on your own, you know.'

Rick looked up at her. 'Deanna was my life.'

 

Alicia had already left when Grace got back to the hotel, and Isabel was in bed reading a magazine. Grace crawled into bed, shivering with exhaustion.

Isabel put down her magazine and turned out the light. 'How was Rick?' Her voice came out of the darkness.

'Very quiet. He surprised me.'

'Perhaps he'll come through okay.'

'He must.'

'Good night. Hope you sleep.'

'Night, Bel.' Grace lay on her back and listened to Isabel's soft breathing. She felt peaceful in a weird way. Perhaps it was sharing a room with her big sister.

 

Grace, Isabel and Alicia arrived early at the church, the atmosphere between them stiff. There'd been a battle at the hotel when Alicia turned up with Gary. He'd obviously made a big effort and was wearing a dark suit, and his piercings were gone from his nose and ears.

'I'm sorry, Gary,' Grace said, 'but I can't let you come.'

Alicia's eyes filled with tears. 'But Auntie Grace, he's borrowed a suit specially.'

Grace held up her hand. 'It's not fair to your dad, Alicia. Not today of all days.'

Gary put his arm round her. 'It's okay, babe. Me brother will drive me over. I'll wait for you by the bridge.'

Alicia had been silent in the back of the car all the way to Rothbury.

 

Rick was right—the church was full. Full of people, even an hour before the service was due to begin. Full of flowers, hundreds and hundreds of creamy pink roses in huge displays at the entrance, in front of the altar, along the aisles. Full of light, the red and gold banners of it streaming from the massive stained glass window. Full of music. 'What is it?' she muttered to Isabel as the organ swelled into sounds that reverberated on the walls. Isabel made a face. 'It's that Bach Toccata—Dad used to hate it.'

They hesitated at the beginning of the main aisle.

'We'll wait with you here till they arrive,' Grace said to Alicia. 'Then you can follow the coffin with your dad and sisters.'

Alicia caught hold of Grace's hand. 'I can't,' she said. 'Suppose he says no.' With her straw boater, a wide black band circling it above the brim, her blue and white checked dress, she looked young, little more than a schoolgirl. Grace swallowed hard. If she started to cry, Alicia would never be able to do it.

She saw Isabel put her arm round Alicia. 'Come on, Alicia. Be strong for your mum.'

'I can't… I can't do it… I'm going to find Gary… I'm—'

The organ crashed into a crescendo of chords. Sounds rose and billowed through the church and into the far reaches of its ceiling. The noise was deafening, but at least it stopped Alicia. She stiffened, head tilted back, like a deer catching the scent. From the corner of her eye, Grace saw the cortege pull up outside.

 

Grace and Isabel walked back up to the house. It felt like a party or a carnival as other mourners thronged the hill, the women with their bright clothes—as Deanna had wanted—like a cloud of butterflies against the dark branches of the men's suits.

Grace put her arm through Isabel's. 'That was wonderful, so sad and so awful, but wonderful too.'

'I'm glad Rick let Alicia sit with them,' Isabel said. 'You did well to persuade her to wait for them.'

'I was afraid she was going to have a real wobbler when she said she couldn't do it.'

'She's rushed off now though. Can't see her coming back to the house.'

Grace thought about the straw boater she'd glimpsed bobbing towards the river. 'Do you remember when Rick used to call them his three princesses?'

'Over-the-top, typical Rick,' Isabel said. 'Like the funeral itself, but you could tell he'd done it all for Deanna.'

Grace laughed. 'I couldn't believe it when they started playing Islands in the Stream! I didn't think Rick had a sense of humour.'

'Deanna loved Dolly Parton,' Isabel told her. 'And when you listen to the words—especially that first line—they're perfect for Rick and Deanna.'

'Why's that?'

'I sometimes wonder if Rick went to America because he was so unhappy.'

'That's a bit melodramatic. He got that job offer with IBM.'

'But when I think about it now, Dad was horrible to Rick. I remember once Rick telling him about a football match. He'd scored three goals and come home full of it. But I heard Dad send him away: "Can't you see George is practising his scales?" he said.'

Grace felt a rush of air behind her and a hand on her back. 'Is that my name you're taking in vain?'

She swung round. 'George! What are you doing here?'

George kissed her and Isabel on the cheek. 'Same as you, I imagine.'

'You mean you were at the funeral?' Isabel asked.

'Of course. Had to make sure my sister-in-law had a good send-off. And Ricky Boy did her proud, I must say.'

Grace turned to walk the last bit to the house. Just as she thought they'd got through the worst, George turns up with his Ricky Boy taunts.

George fell into step beside her. 'What's up? Did I say something wrong?'

 

Back at the house, Rick spent most of the time sitting in an armchair by the window in the drawing room. He didn't talk much and every time Grace looked in, he had fresh glass of whisky in his hand. There was such a crush of people, with luck, he wouldn't even notice George.

Grace stood out on the lawn talking to some of Deanna's friends. 'Tragic'… 'such a lovely person'… 'I'll miss her so much'… their love made Grace want to cry.

 

She was standing at the French windows consoling Mrs Crosby—I loved her like me own daughter—when she heard shouting from the drawing room. She pushed past the group gathered in the centre of the room. Rick was still in the armchair, his head dipping forward on to his chest, a glass hanging from his hand. George stood over him, flapping a sheet of paper.

Isabel appeared beside her. 'What's going on?'

'Search me, but we've got to get George out of here.'

As they moved towards the two men, George caught sight of them. 'Don't you dare try and shut me up! The bastard's gone too far this time.' He flicked the paper in Rick's face.

The movement brought Rick round. He opened his eyes and shook his head, like a threatened stallion. He half rose from the chair, but George pushed him back.

Grace caught hold of George's arm. 'What is it? What's wrong?'

George flicked the paper again. 'Ask him. Ricky Boy.'

'Rick.' Grace bent towards her brother. Alcohol fumed in her face. 'Do you know what he's going on about?'

Rick stared up at her with glazed eyes.

Isabel grabbed her arm. 'Look.'

Grace whirled round. George had climbed on the coffee table and held the sheet of paper out in front of him.

People were crowding into the room, wondering what the commotion was. Their horrified faces flashed in front of Grace. Flavia materialized next to her. 'Make him stop, Auntie Grace,' she pleaded. 'Make him stop.'

Grace stood one side of George and gestured to Isabel to stand on the other. 'Get down, George.' She raised her voice above the hubbub. 'You're making a show of yourself.'

'The letter,' George shouted. 'You wait till you hear the fucking letter.'

Isabel stretched up for the paper, but he held it out of reach. 'This is Deanna's day, George. It's not only Rick you're hurting. Think of the girls. They've lost their mother.'

George ignored them. He lifted his arms. Grace could see the paper shaking in his hands.

'I'm sure you'd all like to hear this letter.' George's voice was lower now. The silence in the room was intense. 'This is a letter to me. It's a letter from my late father.' His gaze dropped to the paper. 'It says My dear George, you and I have shared the closest friendship possible between father and son…' George paused and looked up. His eyes focused on the people packed into the room. 'How lovely, you might be thinking. What a lovely sentiment for a father to express to his son. And I would have thought the same…' He slapped his hand across the paper. The noise shattered the silence. 'If I'd ever seen the letter. Which until today, I hadn't, because… because…'

Grace closed her eyes. Thank God, he'd stopped. He'd run out of steam. She opened her eyes and sensed a ripple of movement in the people packed into the room. Please let someone intervene.

'Because…' Oh, no, his voice was louder again. He turned to point at Rick. 'This bastard! This fucking arrogant bastard had the letter and kept it a secret. Let me read you another bit, which is, I presume why he stole the letter. I want you to know the piano is yours. It's possible Rick will claim it, but he's never played it, nor wanted to, so it's my wish you should have it.' George jabbed his finger again in Rick's direction. 'That, my friends, is what my father thought of my esteemed brother.'

Thirty-four

When Isabel and Grace got back from Northumberland, Eva was waiting at the gate. 'I've been looking out for you ever since you phoned.'

'Mum, its miles away. You know that,' Grace said.

Isabel heard her irritation.

'My poor bambini. You look esausta.'

'We are exhausted. It's been a hard few days.'

'Come in, come in. I have pasta for you.'

They sat at the table in the dining room and ate the pasta pomodoro that was one of their mother's specialities. She'd bought brown crusty rolls, and she scrutinised every mouthful.

'I love to see you eat!' She clapped her hands and Isabel heard bracelets jangling on her arm. She was almost herself again.

'So, tell me, how is my Ricardo? He must be desolato.'

Eva was reverting more to Italian every day. 'He is.' Isabel supposed desolato summed up Rick. 'You know how much he loved Deanna.'

Eva shuddered. 'I understand so well. When my Henry died—'

'Please don't Mum.' Grace was close to tears. 'Can we recover from this funeral before we have to relive Dad's.'

Isabel saw her mother pout. She hadn't even got into her stride.

'Was it in the Catholic church? I told Ricardo he must make sure he had a Mass.'

'Deanna wasn't Catholic, was she?'

'No, but the requiem Mass is beautiful and you can have the incense—'

'But why would you want it if you weren't Catholic?'

'Grace, mia cara, you're very cross with your poor mamma today.'

'I've been to a funeral. I've driven hundreds of miles and I'm tired.'

'Of course! Of course!' Eva stood up. 'Silly me. You must have a sleep. And you must want to speak to Franco. He'll be worried about you.'

Isabel signalled across to Grace: you haven't told her, have you? Grace shook her head: no, and don't you say anything.

Isabel pushed her chair back. 'I must get off. I need to check on Rose and Josh.'

'Before you go…' Eva put her hands together. She'd painted her nails again, Isabel noticed. 'I want to take you both out for dinner tonight.'

'Mum, you've fed us a mountain of pasta.' Grace kissed Isabel. 'I'll see you in the morning. All I want to do is sleep.'

'Tomorrow night, then. I want you to be wide awake.' Eva smiled. 'I've got some news.'

 

When Isabel pulled up at the flat, she noticed Brian's car parked further along the road. That was all she needed.

He was in the lounge with Rose and Josh watching television.

'Hi, Mum.' Josh sat on the floor, close to the screen. She was always on at him to sit further back. 'Come and watch this, Mum. It's ace!'

'Hi. How are you, Rose?'

Rose was curled up on the sofa next to Brian. 'Yeah, I'm good. How was the funeral?' Her gaze didn't move from the screen.

'Oh, you know.' Isabel dropped her bag on the floor.

Brian got up and came over. 'Hi, gorgeous.' He put his arms round her and pulled her close. 'How did it go?'

'It was very sad to see Rick and the girls without Deanna.'

'No point grieving now—he didn't appreciate her while she was alive.'

'And you've always appreciated your wife, have you, Brian?'

'Ouch! No, you know I haven't, but I'm lucky I've got another chance.' He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. Wet smeared her lips, and she had to clench her fists to stop herself wiping them.

She tried to ease out of his grasp, but he held her tighter. 'Brian, you're hurting me.' The smell of his after-shave assaulted her.

He laughed. 'Can't a man show his wife a bit of love?'

'I thought you were going to keep Rose and Josh tonight,' she said. 'I'm shattered.'

'Change of plan. We're going out to celebrate instead, aren't we, kids?'

'Oh, Brian—'

'No excuses. I signed the contract today for the new house.'

'That's great news. But let's not tempt fate. We ought to wait till we get completion.'

'We'll celebrate again then!'

'I can't go out tonight, Brian. It's already late.'

'Tomorrow, then. Don't suppose another day will make much difference.'

Isabel pulled away from him. She couldn't stand his crotch pressed up against her another second. 'My mother's taking Grace and me out for dinner tomorrow night.'

'Am I invited?'

'It's family only.'

'I am family, aren't I?'

'Just be patient, Brian. It will give me a chance to tell them we're getting back together.'

 

Isabel was still in bed the next morning when Grace came. She'd been awake early and finally fallen into a restless sleep, plagued by dreams and tormented half-awakenings. She dreamt she received a parcel. As she unwrapped layers of brown paper and plastic, a rotten smell drifted from the package. When she unpeeled the final layer, she had to rush to the sink to be sick. Inside the parcel were two fingers, putrid and decomposing. There was a card, spattered with blood, in Brian's writing: From Lover Boy.

 

She woke to hear loud banging at the door. She stumbled to open it. Grace was standing there.

'I've been out here for hours, Bel, ringing and knocking.'

'Sorry, I didn't hear you.'

'So I gathered. Are you going to let me in now you have opened up Fort Knox?'

Isabel pulled open the front door. She bent down to retrieve the post, which was all bills.

'You look as if you need coffee.' Grace walked down the hall to the kitchen. 'Rose and Josh with Brian?'

'He kept them overnight.'

'And most of today. It'll soon be lunchtime.'

'I'll get dressed,' Isabel said.

 

When she got to the kitchen, the smell of coffee greeted her. 'Just what I need.' She sat down at the table. 'What brings you round? Escaping Mum?'

'George rang me this morning.'

'Oh God! What did he say?'

'He's driving up—'

'But he's only just arrived back there from Newcastle. Is Mum dragging him up for the dinner?'

'Be better if it was. He'll be here about nine this evening, and he's got a removal van coming in the morning.'

'A removal van?'

Grace dropped a spoon on to the draining board. It landed on the stainless steel with a clatter. 'He's taking the piano.'

Isabel covered her eyes with her hands. She couldn't do this any more. She wasn't strong enough. The blackness helped, but sounds wouldn't be silenced. She could hear a tap dripping in the bathroom. The distant ringing of next-door's phone. Samson scratching at the back door.

She opened her eyes. Grace was leaning on the worktop, her head bowed. There wasn't anything to say. She pulled the post towards her, more for something to do than curiosity. She shuffled through the envelopes. Caught between two bills was a postcard. She recognised the picture. She glanced over at Grace to see if she'd noticed her shock. Grace hadn't moved. Isabel stuffed the postcard to the bottom of the pile and started going through it again, studying each envelope. A gas bill. A letter from the bank. An invoice from a music publisher. One that said 'To the Occupier.' She reached the bottom. She couldn't put it off.

The postcard showed a picture of a young woman playing a guitar. Vermeer. Isabel stared at her ringlets, her yellow dress, her fingers on the guitar. She turned the postcard over. I hope you're okay, Simon had written. I've packed up your stuff—what do you want me to do with it? I can send it, or I'll bring it over. It's the only thing that's keeping me going—the thought I'll see you one last time. S x

Isabel could hear Simon's voice in the gallery at Kenwood House: 'You can almost see the strings vibrating under her fingers.' She wanted to go back to that day. She wanted it to be the day she'd met Simon. When she might have passed him in the street with scarcely a glance. When she didn't know what a broken heart felt like.

 

Isabel took a taxi to the restaurant. It was a new one called Luigi's, and she'd heard it was expensive. Apparently it was popular with the Hampstead set. Whatever her news, Mum was pushing the boat out. Perhaps she was going to sell up and move to be nearer Rick after all. Perhaps, with Deanna gone, she thought he'd need her.

Grace had suggested getting to the restaurant early. 'Get back before George arrives,' she said.

'Have you told Mum he's coming?'

'No. He can explain himself what he's up to.'

'I never thought he'd actually do it,' Isabel said. 'I can't imagine the house without Dad's piano.'

'And what the hell is Rick going to say?'

 

Eva and Grace were already there. Eva beckoned her over. 'Cara, you look wonderful.'

Isabel had chosen her red and gold dress from Naples, the only posh one she owned.

Eva was wearing a floor-length turquoise gown with a deep décolletage—it looked more as if she was going to a ball than a dinner with her daughters. It was the first time she hadn't worn black since Henry died.

She ordered a bottle of champagne, flirting outrageously with the waiter.

'Order anything you like.' She batted a hand towards the menu Grace was holding. 'It's all on me tonight.'

They ordered their food, and the waiter poured their champagne. Eva raised her glass. 'Salute. I am so lucky to have such beautiful daughters.'

Her mother had never called her beautiful before, Isabel thought.

Grace raised her glass, but she didn't drink. 'What's your news, Mum? Are you going to tell us now, or have we got to wait till the end of the meal?'

Eva clasped her hands together. She was wearing a gold charm bracelet Isabel didn't remember. It already had a cross, a car, a high-heeled shoe and a lipstick hanging from it. 'Now. I'll tell you now and we can celebrate properly.'

'Let's hear it then.'

'I'm going home to Italy.' She clapped her hands and the golden charms danced and sparkled.

'You haven't got a home in Italy,' Grace said.

'Eduardo has bought a new house. And I am going to live there with him.' Eva looked from Isabel to Grace.

Isabel didn't dare meet Grace's eyes, but she saw her fingers clenched round the stem of her glass.

'Let's get this straight.'

Isabel was glad Grace kept talking. Her tongue felt as if it was too big for her mouth and she was sure no words would come out.

'You're going to live in Italy with Eduardo?'

'He's lonely. I am lonely. And he loves me.'

Isabel stared at her mother. Her hair was newly-dyed black and shone harshly under the lights. Brilliant red lipstick outlined her mouth.

'This would be the same Eduardo your brothers sent you to England to escape.'

'Si.'

'The same Eduardo you slept with while you were married to Dad.'

'Si, but your father—'

'The same Eduardo who is George's father?'

'Si. It's miracoloso.'

 

Isabel went back to the house in the taxi with Grace and her mother. Her eyelids wanted to close, and she longed for home and the oblivion of sleep.

Grace had persuaded her to come when they went to the Ladies at the restaurant: 'I can't do this on my own, Bel.'

'But you handled Mum brilliantly. I could never have pinned her down like that.'

'I'm tired. I can't take much more.'

That makes two of us, Isabel thought, but she agreed to go.

She was already regretting it as the taxi pulled up at her mother's house. She started to apologise—'I don't feel well, Grace'—but Grace had opened the door and was out on the pavement before they'd even stopped.

'What the hell?' Isabel heard her shout.

Eva screamed. Someone's broken in!'

Isabel stumbled from the taxi. Lights streamed from every window. The front door stood open and next-door's dog began to bark. Isabel followed Grace through the gate and up the path. A figure huddled on the step by the front door. 'Grace, don't…' she began, as Grace bent over the crumpled form. In the glow of the streetlight, Isabel saw a face peering up. It was Flavia. She was sobbing: 'It's Dad. It's Dad.'

Isabel pushed past Grace and Flavia and stepped into the hall. 'Don't let Mum come in,' she shouted over her shoulder.

'Rick?' she called. The silence was unnerving. Where was he? What was he doing? She strained to hear the smallest sound. She could almost feel his presence on the other side of the dining room wall. She listened again and heard him breathing, a thin rasping. She looked back. Grace and Flavia stood framed in the front door. Eva was on the path behind them. 'Be careful, Bel,' Grace shouted.

She turned back to the dining room door. 'Rick?'

The silence was broken by something infinitely worse. A blood-chilling howl came from the dining room It was the cry of a creature from the wild. A cry of anguish. Her scalp crawled as if spiders had invaded it.

The wailing died away. What should she do? She needed to go in and talk to him. Tell him she understood. He'd lost Deanna, and there was nothing to live for. The sky was black. The grass was black. The sun was black. If snow fell from the sky, it would be black. But light would come again. However obdurate the blackness, a rainbow would glow, the clouds would lighten.

Another terrifying howl erupted.

Isabel flung open the dining room door. Rick was standing in front of the piano. Blood streamed from a wound on his forehead. His face was the colour of brick dust and his eyes bulged. Obscenities gushed from his mouth. His arms were raised above his head. In his hands was an axe.

Isabel screamed. The axe crashed down on the piano. She covered her ears against the noise of splintering wood and mangled notes. A terrible symphony of sound. Rick raised the axe above his head again. It slammed into the piano a second time, slicing a deep gash in the smooth polished surface. He hauled the blade from the wood. Grunts reverberated from somewhere deep inside him. He steadied his position, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He swung the weapon above his head. It crashed on to the keys. Isabel's head filled with the cacophony. The ivory splintered and cream particles shot in all directions. Rick panted. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth.

The axe smashed down a fourth time. The top caved in. A piece of wood flew off and its sharp point pierced Isabel's cheek. She clutched her face. The axe began its arc again. 'Rick!' She dragged at his arm. 'Stop!' His shirt was wringing wet. He turned to her. The axe was above her. She stared up at the shiny blade. The corner was a foot from her head.

'Isabel, get back!' She felt arms grasp her from behind. Push her to one side. It was George. She watched as he reached up for the axe. His hands were on it. His fingers tried to prise Rick's away. A flash. Rick. The steel blade. George. They turned and twisted. The weapon between them. Light glinted as the blade scythed downwards. She saw George stagger. He fell on his knees, blood spouting from his head.

Eva pushed through the others to stand in front of Rick. The axe was still in his hands. 'Il mio bambino,' she sobbed. 'What have you done?' She clung to the piano, now a mess of broken wood. 'You wicked boy. Your father's piano.'

Isabel heard screaming. 'Get an ambulance!' she screeched. 'The police!' It was her screaming. George was on the floor, blood streaming down his face. Grace shoved her to one side. She dragged the cloth from the table and held it down on George's head.

Eva was cradling the piano.

'Mum. It's George. He's hurt.'

Eva looked round and her eyes focused on George on the floor for the first time. Grace had ripped the tablecloth in two and bound it round George's head. Still the blood pumped out.

Eva got down on her knees, her head close to George's. 'Carissimo,' she crooned. 'Mio tesoro.'

George opened his eyes. He must have rallied at the sound of Eva's voice. He fixed his eyes on his mother. 'Bitch,' he said. 'Bitch.' And he closed his eyes again.

 

The ambulance men and the police arrived at the same time. The policemen approached Rick. One lifted the axe from his hands, and the other snapped handcuffs on his wrists. 'We'll need you to come with us, sir.'

A paramedic knelt beside George. He put his fingers to the pulse in his neck. He looked up, shaking his head. 'I'm sorry. He's gone.'

'Oh… Oh…' The sound of Eva's weeping filled the room. 'Mio tesoro.'

Isabel bent and stroked George's hair. It felt soft and silky.

A hand touched her shoulder. 'Come on. You'd be better away from here.'

She looked round at the paramedic. 'He's dead.'

'I'm afraid he is.'

'My brother's dead.'

'I'm really sorry.'

She stared at her hand stained red. 'There's so much blood.'

'Bel, let's go.' Grace's voice came from a long way off. 'There's nothing more we can do tonight.'

'But there's so much blood.'

Thirty-five

Isabel stepped out of the taxi. She hesitated, her hand gripping the door handle.

'You all right, miss?' the driver called.

She wondered if he'd seen the blood on her face and jacket. She'd swilled water over herself, but there must still be blood on her. She could smell its rusty odour. 'I'm fine.' Her teeth wouldn't stop chattering. 'Is this okay?' She shoved a ten-pound note in his hand.

'Thank you very much, miss. You go carefully now.'

She hadn't realised how scared she was until she opened the front door of the flat. She was sure it had never been so dark. She turned on the light and listened. She stood with her back to the door. Listening. The doors leading off the hall were all firmly shut. But what was behind them? Who was lurking there? She rushed through the flat, drawing curtains, turning on lights.

 

The chair tapped against the kitchen unit every time she rocked backwards. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound, the normality, comforted her. Tap. Tap. Tap. Samson jumped down from the table and climbed on to her lap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Isabel had vomited after Rick and George had been taken away, and she couldn't stop shivering.

'It's shock,' Grace said. 'I'll take Eva and Flavia to a hotel. You go home.'

'I'll come with you.'

'Bel, you're not in any state to cope with Eva after what you've been through. Get Brian to come over. You shouldn't be on your own.' She wrapped her arms round Isabel. 'I'll ring you first thing in the morning.'

 

Isabel wasn't sure if she'd fallen asleep. The overhead light glared into her eyes. Tap. Tap. Tap. She stretched. Her arm was numb where Samson had been lying on it. Tap. Tap. Tap. The movement of the rocking chair was making her feel sick again. She pulled her mobile from her bag. She scrolled down contacts until she reached S. She pressed her thumb on Simon's name. Call. She clicked on Call. The ringing trilled against her ear.

There was no answer. He wasn't going to answer. He was asleep. He was out in a noisy bar and couldn't hear his phone. He'd seen her name flash up on the phone and was punishing her.

'Isabel?' His voice was muzzy with sleep. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm sorry… can you come over?'

'What's the matter?'

'Please. I need you. Can you come?'

'God, you sound terrible. What's happened?'

'Simon, please.'

'I'm on my way.'

Thirty-six

Isabel sat on the floor in front of piles of clothes, books and papers. She'd thrown so much away when she and Brian split up, but here she was again weighed down with possessions. She'd also inherited George's painting of Henry. It was propped in the hall, packaged in bubble-wrap and thick masking tape. She didn't know what she was going to do with it, but her mother hadn't wanted it and she couldn't bring herself to get rid of it.

One of the problems was her piano music. Some of it went back to pieces she'd played when she first started having lessons aged four. She didn't see the point of keeping them when she was going to get rid of her piano. Simon had tried to persuade her not to. 'There's room for it in my flat,' he'd said again last night, 'and once we move somewhere bigger…'

But Isabel had made up her mind. She couldn't imagine she'd play again.

 

Now that she'd decided, she couldn't wait to leave the flat. There were too many memories: of her life, and the one her parents had shared not far away. All her affection for that house where the family had grown up was gone. She'd hated having to go back every day to help her mother pack. But now Eva had left for Italy, and the house was for sale.

She'd clung to the idea of a family which—in reality—had never existed. That was why she'd been so devastated, she realised, when Brian left. She'd felt such a failure not being able to reproduce the idyllic marriage her mother and father had shared. But that image was now exposed as a sham. And knowing Simon had taught her that her relationship with Brian had been based on lies and secrets. Not of the kind that Henry and Eva had shared. But smaller ones that wore away at fulfilment. The worst secret was the one she'd kept from herself—Brian was not the husband she dreamed of having.

Her new life wasn't going to be easy. Rose and Josh were both going to live with Brian. Rose wouldn't have anything to do with her. She'd become hysterical when Isabel told her that she wasn't getting back with Brian, that they weren't moving to the big house. She'd punched and kicked like a toddler. 'I hate you!' she screamed in Isabel's face. 'You're a cheat and a hypocrite.' Brian had grinned as he listened to the tirade. He'd put his arm round Rose and walked her to the door. When they got there, he turned back to Isabel: 'That just about sums you up, don't you think?'

 

Isabel sorted her clothes into two piles. She'd lost so much weight that she was taking most of them to the charity shop and the pile she was keeping would fit into one suitcase. She snapped the locks shut on the case and stood it in the corner with the trunk and boxes already waiting to go. She stretched backwards, easing the ache in her spine.

Sitting down on the bed, she reached for the envelope in the top drawer of her bedside cabinet. She drew out the two sheets of paper. They were creased and dog-eared where she'd read and reread them. The first sheet was a letter she'd received from Chloe a few days after George's funeral.

 

Isabel and Grace had already started organising the funeral, fending off constant demands from Eva for a requiem mass, a choir, a mahogany coffin—'Everything must be perfetto for my Giorgio', when a letter arrived from a solicitor in Penzance. He was in possession of a document, signed by George, which stated that in the event of his death, George wanted a simple ceremony with only his friends from the art school there, and afterwards his ashes were to be scattered in the sea. Eva had spent a day crying in her bedroom. 'Perché? Perché?' she asked whenever they went up to see if she was all right. 'Why is he punishing me? What did I do?'

 

Isabel smoothed down the page with Chloe's loopy schoolgirl handwriting:

 

Hi Isabel

I've been sorting out George's room and I came across a diary he kept for a few weeks last year. There's one entry he wrote while Henry was staying down here. I think you'd be interested to read it—it explains a lot about George.

I hope you're beginning to recover from the trauma of George's death. From what you said on the phone, it must have been terrible. I hope his brother has to stay in prison for the rest of his life for what he did.

I miss George more than I can tell you. I loved him so much, and he'd asked me to go to Italy with him. I don't really know what I'll do now, but I can't see how the art school will survive without George. I go down to the sea where we scattered the ashes nearly every day. I know it's silly, but I feel closer to him there.

'Come on, Chlo,' he used to say. 'Put your sparkle on—we're hitting Penzance.'

Let me know how you are, and come and see me if you're in Penzance.

 

Chloe x

 

The letter always made Isabel want to cry, but it helped to know George had someone like Chloe. The other sheet of paper was more difficult. She almost knew it by heart:

 

14 March

Wow, it's been some weird day. Navel-gazing doesn't usually do it for me, but today the old man told me something that's rocked my boat, capsized it, you could say.

He suggested going down to The Admiral for a quick pint before dinner. He's going back tomorrow and I thought it'd be nice to have a chinwag before he hops it back to the smoke. 

He downed the first pint straight off and then he ordered another. I'm not a great beer drinker, but I thought why not? It's his last night and he's bought my portrait of him. Christ knows if he likes it—he paid a tidy amount.

So, I'm half way down the second pint, feeling nicely sozzled and planning the third, when he comes out with it: 'I've got something to tell you, dear boy.' If a lottery win depended on it, I couldn't have guessed what that something was.

It's funny but even writing this—when it's only me who's going to see it, and I already know what the SOMETHING is—it's hard to put it down in black and white. Here goes: the old man is not my father. Even reading that back gives me the shivers. Okay, so he's looked after me, bought me clothes and food, taught me the piano… everything… you name it, he's done it for me. Except for that vital bit of business, which somehow he missed out on—her fanny was feeding some other prick. And what a miserable little prick she chose! He said she wanted it kept secret because her brothers would kill her if they found out. They'd got some sense—those old Italian uncles.

He told me no one else in the family knows, but I don't believe him. He's joined at the hip to Isabel—there's no way he wouldn't have told her. I expect they all know. I expect they laugh at me behind my back. Bastards and bitches the lot of them. Mind you, it's my dear mamma who's the biggest bitch. I'll tell her so one day as well. 

 

Isabel stood at the cooker stirring a sauce to go with pasta. Simon would be here soon, and although it had only been a few days, she couldn't wait to see him again. His wife had finally agreed that his son could come down from Scotland to visit. 'I'd like you to meet him,' Simon had said. 'So would I, but let's take it slowly. You don't want to do anything to mess it up.' He'd put his arms round her and kissed her. 'Oh, wise woman.'

*

The phone rang. She lowered the heat under the pan and picked up the receiver: it was Grace.

'How's Rick?' Isabel asked. Grace was staying up in Rothbury with the girls. Rick had been charged with manslaughter and was being held in a secure psychiatric unit until it was decided if he was fit enough to stand trial.

'I went to see him yesterday. He stared out the window the whole time. I don't know if he even recognised me.'

'What do the doctors say?'

'They think it will be a long road, but they're hopeful he'll recover from the breakdown.'

'And the girls?'

'Camilla wanders round the house like a lost soul. But Alicia went to see Rick the other day.'

'Gosh, was he okay with that?'

'She said she held his hand and he smiled at her.'

'That's a breakthrough. But it's a shame about Flavia's university place.'

'It's only deferred,' Grace said. 'She might still go next October.'

'What about Alicia's boyfriend?'

'Gary comes over most days. He's a lovely boy, Bel. Really looking after Alicia.'

Isabel smelt burning and carried the phone over to the cooker. She'd caught the sauce just in time. 'And you're staying up there? No hope of reconciling with Franco?'

'I'm filing for divorce.'

'Still planning to go to America?'

'One day. I've waited this long, I can wait another couple of years. But we're rattling around in this big house. I've been thinking of shutting it up and moving to that bungalow Rick bought for Mum.'

'Worrying about that seems a long time ago.'

'I'd better go,' Grace said. 'I can hear Camilla calling me. Oh, forgot to ask—have you heard from Mum?'

'Eduardo phoned to say they'd arrived. Apparently Mum got a film star's welcome.'

'She'd have enjoyed that.'

'Just before you go, Grace…' Isabel hesitated. Now it had come to it, she didn't know how to tell her sister. What her reaction would be.

'Come on, Bel. I've got to see what Camilla wants.'

'I've decided I'm going to look for him.'

'Who?'

'The baby that was adopted. Our half brother.'

'Wow! That's a big decision.'

'I've talked it through with Simon, and he agrees I should.'

'It will have repercussions. Look how it's blown our family apart.'

Isabel could tell Grace didn't approve, but she'd made her mind up—it was something she had to do. 'It was the secrecy that caused that. I need to find him if I can.' Isabel took a deep breath. 'I think it might help heal some of the wounds.'

'I can hear you're determined, so go ahead and I'll support you.'

 

Isabel shredded lettuce and sliced tomatoes. She added some basil and sprinkled black pepper on the salad. Brian hated basil. 'Smells like cat pee,' he used to say. Simon liked the same food she did. Simon. He would be here soon, and she was hot and grubby from packing. She left the sauce simmering and went to the bathroom. It didn't take her long to shower and then it was time to decide what to wear. She picked out the dress Simon had bought for her birthday. It was a rich midnight blue and the velvet was soft against her skin as she slipped it over her head and reached over her shoulder to pull up the zip. She picked up a brush and glanced in the mirror. The dress set off her hair and eyes. Even she could see she looked good these days. She thought of Simon's face when she opened the present. His eyes had that warm soft look that made her shiver. She leant over to kiss him and he pulled her closer. 'I love you,' he'd said.

Isabel stopped, hairbrush in mid-air. Heat flooded through her body as she remembered. The sex with Brian. She still hadn't told Simon her dirty little secret. She thought of what he'd said about her parents: 'The trouble with secrets is that they come back to haunt you.'

She'd been telling herself for weeks that she had to confess about Brian. But the time was never right. It would have to be this evening or she'd need to keep quiet forever.