She is mortified.
Earlier this morning Beatrice had sent her to the shop for milk, announcing an unfortunate spillage. Her godmother had knocked over the milk bottle with shaky hands, and Charlotte felt she had no choice but to minimise the situation by replacing it as soon as possible.
She was about to apply her make-up when Beatrice said, ‘Chop, chop, darling! This coffee won’t make itself, will it?’ and Charlotte had immediately scampered to the shop, for she is the guest, although she rather feels like one of those companions of a bygone era, sourced via the small ads in her grand-mother’s The Lady magazine.
Still, it’s better than facing the emotional warzone of her own family right now. If she’d spent Christmas with her father and his fiancée, her mother might implode. And she couldn’t face her mother’s … everything. 145
On the way down to the store Charlotte’s stomach plummeted to see someone she thought she knew approaching. She tilted her head down and imagined wrapping a cloak of invisibility around herself. For two or three awful seconds she believed it was one of Golly’s chums, but as the man neared, she realised it was just a random stranger.
She managed a swift ‘good morning’ without further interaction, turning as if to take a photo on her phone.
Charlotte is used to this evasive action – scuttling around corners in the local Planet Organic if one of her neighbours is shopping at the same time as she is, crossing the road and pretending not to see an acquaintance. For a woman who spends an awful lot of time putting herself out there as Kit once mocked, she is adept at making herself disappear. Especially, crucially, if she is not feeling her best; if her face is pasty and naked without the aid of cosmetics and ring lights, if her eyes are bloodshot from an unfortunate binge and purge session.
She had still not managed to put on her face after her return with the milk, and of course Kit popped round then, unannounced. Damn.
As Charlotte strides up and down the garden she watches him while appearing not to – taking swift sips of his beautiful face. From her peripheral vision she sees him disappear from the kitchen, and she hears the front door close behind him.
Her mood darkens.
Despite Beatrice’s enticements to spend Christmas and New Year with her on Tresco, and her assurances that her son was on the cusp of dumping that ghastly barmaid, Kit has shown not one iota of interest in her since she arrived. Charlotte has 146made it pretty obvious that she’s available, without appearing desperate, but now she’s losing hope.
There’d been Golly’s jewellery line launch party three weeks ago in her London club, when Kit gave her that lingering hug, and Charlotte had hoped it might develop into a kiss. But when she nuzzled into his neck, he’d pulled away, laughing, as if her affection was a joke.
She’d attempted to drag him up for a dance at the pub last night, but he’d smiled and shook his head. But then he’d danced with the barmaid, if that awful woman’s flailing about could be called dancing.
And there had been the confrontation in the toilets, which was rather terrifying, truth be told. There was a savage look in the barmaid’s eyes, as if she’d rip your head off or something. Even Beatrice was shaken.
But then she had been delighted to witness the very public spectacle of the hideous Hannah taking it out on Kit – shouting and gesticulating wildly – surely he wouldn’t forgive that! Yet now Charlotte herself is being blamed for the incident along with his mother. Most unfair.
And the way Kit has just dismissed her, as if she were an irritating fly – Will you please go away. I’m trying to talk to my mother. Enraging!
Charlotte’s thoughts suddenly turn to the large slab of cheese in the fridge. And she knows where the Ritz crackers are in the cupboard. No! She mustn’t! She is all too aware that no matter what she eats, it will not stuff down these uncomfortable emotions. It is a terrible habit. 147
*
She has totally failed at not eating since she’s been here. No discipline, that’s her trouble. She’d scoffed two scones when Beatrice took her for a cream tea at the garden café yesterday afternoon. Two! Slathered with cream and huge dollops of jam oozing out of the sides like a popped pimple. Charlotte downed them both like she was a starving wolf.
She instantly felt so panicky she couldn’t wait until they got back to Falcon, and she had rushed to the café toilets. It was a risk. Someone might have come in and heard the awful retching noises. When she got off her knees and left the cubicle, she had to lay her head against the cool tiles by the side of the sink as she washed her hands, feeling dizzy and tearful. It took her a few minutes to reapply her concealer and lipstick, then she sucked a mint and braced herself to face Beatrice and the other customers.
Charlotte pushes back her hair, which is blowing every which way, and marches to the bottom of the garden and back again, hoping the brisk sea breeze will blast away those awful memories, scour the shame, and that the activity will get rid of some excess calories.
Beatrice is a feeder. She provides huge servings of yummy food, and then merely nibbles, pushing things around her own plate, claiming the Bloody Marys are the equivalent of soup, darling! Unless they’re planning to welcome a rugby team, her host has grossly over-catered for the festive season.
The tempting slab in the fridge is a Cornish Yarg. There’s also a mild soft goat’s cheese, a huge wheel of camembert, fresh bread and unsalted butter…
Charlotte takes another inhale of the cotton-candy-flavoured 148vape – a festive way to kill oneself – and exhales on a long sigh. She really believed she and Kit might have something special. Their paths keep crossing at various social occasions in London, which is hardly surprising as they have so many chums in common, but mightn’t it be fate? Couldn’t it be the universe’s way of saying they belong together?
Thinking about Kit is making her stressed. Perhaps she should try to book a massage at the island spa.
Beatrice gives her a wave through the kitchen window. Beckoned, Charlotte goes inside.
‘A drink, darling?’ says Beatrice.
Charlotte shrugs off the pink fake fur. Empty calories, alcohol, but still. It has been a challenging morning.
‘Oh, go on then,’ she replies.
Much later, after she has finished a significant portion of the cheeses, plus the whole box of Ritz crackers, Charlotte escapes upstairs to stick her fingers down her throat to rectify the latest binge. She knows she’ll ruin her teeth if she carries on like this, but she can’t see another way out of it. She crawls to bed with bloodshot eyes.
Then in the dead of night she is tormented by fevered dreams. She lies in bed terrified, immobile, as her nemesis creeps into her bedroom … Hannah sliding her fingers around her neck, choking her, and Charlotte tries to fight back, but she’s too weak to prise the fingers off her windpipe, which is hurting now, aflame, until the deep rage suddenly spews out of her throat and a torrent of hot acid splatters the barmaid’s face, dissolving the features until all that is left is a horror.