Philippa Easton stands in the bay window of the drawing room sipping espresso from a small earthenware cup. From her position she can see across the formal gardens, all the way to the paddock beyond where the horses gallop and buck, tossing their heads, feathered manes streaming in the breeze. The sight of their joyful cantering brings a hollow ache to her chest, a heavy longing. It’s a strange sort of day, the wind up, agitating and bristling, creating a momentum she’s not ready for. The pills she took last night linger in her veins. She’s waiting for that first kick of caffeine to hit her system and drag her into the day.
She checks her Rolex and sees it’s almost eleven. Time slides away so quickly these days. Christopher was up and about early, as usual, but the girls shouldn’t lounge about in bed all morning. They should try to make something of the day. With a sigh, she rests her cup in its saucer and makes for the winding staircase.
Upstairs, her daughter’s bedroom door is firmly shut. Philippa knocks softly and waits before opening it a crack. ‘Olivia,’ she calls, her voice cajoling. ‘It’s time to wake up.’
The room is dark and silent, a heavy stillness hanging in the air. The smallest chink of light falls from a gap between the heavy velvet curtains. She steps inside. ‘Olivia,’ she says again, ‘it’s nearly eleven.’
She skirts the detritus scattered across the floorboards, navigating shadowy piles of books and clothes and a school rucksack spilling its contents onto a sheepskin rug. As she draws closer, she lets out a sharp breath. Her daughter’s bed is empty.
She blinks in the dim light and takes another step forward. Panic seizes in her chest, but no. She’s there, her slim body is pressed up against the wall, tucked into the bedsheets, barely visible but for one tell-tale foot poking from beneath the covers. ‘Olivia,’ she says, relief making her voice loud. ‘It’s time to wake up.’
The covers shift. A groan rises from the bed.
‘How was the party?’ Philippa walks to the window and pulls back the curtains, allowing bright daylight into the room.
Olivia’s incoherent grumbling increases in volume.
‘I didn’t hear you come home. Just before midnight, your father said.’
Her daughter’s wan face emerges from the covers. She rubs her eyes as Philippa picks up a discarded tulle skirt lying in a puddle at her feet and folds it neatly. ‘You really should tidy your clothes away,’ she says. ‘You have such lovely things.’ She presses the light fabric to her face, inhaling the scent of something cloying and musky, then wrinkles her nose. ‘Have you been smoking?’
‘No one smokes these days, Mum. We vape.’ Olivia squints at the window then rolls away onto her side.
Philippa sniffs the skirt again and pulls a face. ‘This definitely smells of smoke.’
‘There was a bonfire.’ Olivia reaches for her phone on the bedside table. The screen casts her narrow face in blue light.
‘I hope you haven’t forgotten you girls promised to come into Bath with me? Sarah should call her mother before we go. Diana says she’s not heard from her all week.’
When Olivia doesn’t answer, Philippa fills the silence. ‘Shall I wake her, or do you want to?’
For a moment, it looks as though Olivia might slide back beneath the covers, but then she pushes herself up, swinging her bare legs out from beneath the duvet. ‘I’ll go.’
‘Good. I’ll make tea and toast.’ She throws her daughter a knowing look. ‘It’ll help with your hangovers.’
Philippa is pouring boiling water into a pot of tea leaves when Olivia appears in the kitchen, still in her short night-shirt, her long blonde hair falling from the messy knot piled on her head. ‘What is it?’ she asks, the half-smile on her face faltering at her daughter’s expression. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Sarah,’ says Olivia, a tremor in her voice. She wraps one long, bare leg around the other, lifts the necklace hanging at her throat to her lips. ‘She’s not there.’
Philippa frowns. ‘What do you mean, “not there”?’
‘I mean, she’s not in her bed.’
Philippa stares at her daughter, trying to make sense of the words. ‘Well, where is she?’
Olivia shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. The bed… it doesn’t look as if it’s been slept in.’
‘What? Not at all?’ Philippa feels a prickle of unease pierce through the soft haze of her mind and travel as a shiver down her neck. ‘But she came back with you last night. She must be here somewhere.’
Olivia’s gaze drops to the floor. ‘Not… exactly.’
Philippa places the teapot back on the countertop, the prickling sensation moving down her spine. ‘What do you mean, “not exactly”? Are you saying Sarah didn’t come home with you?’
Olivia eyes her mother, then shakes her head, her face beginning to crumple.
‘You need to tell me what happened last night. Do you hear?’ She moves across the room and seizes her daughter’s arm. ‘Tell me right now.’