The soft closing of the front door jerks me from a doze. A moment later, the hall light flicks on, shining through the open door to my room. Since when had it got so dark?
Mum’s silhouette appears in the doorway. “Luke, what’re you doing here?”
“Huh?” My throat cracks like soil after a decade of drought. The question makes no sense. Am I not meant to be here? Is there somewhere else I’m supposed to be?
“I thought you’d be at Dean’s,” Mum says. “His family were having a barbecue. He was going to ask if you wanted to stay over.”
He was? Clearly we hadn’t got to that particular part of the conversation before he decided I wasn’t someone worth knowing anymore. The memory of his expression, twisted with disgust and disillusionment, springs up to knee me in the stomach.
“Luke?” Mum’s voice radiates concern.
I realise my fists are clenched on my thighs, nails eating into the palms. With an effort, I uncurl my fingers. “He…must have changed his mind.” Despite my attempt to sound casual, hurt pulses through every word. Even to someone who didn’t know me inside-out, it would have been obvious.
Mum doesn’t speak right away. She crosses to draw the curtains against the blackness, always tinged a dirty orange from the streetlamps below. It’s a far cry from Cornwall, from those nights lit only by stars and the silvery sheen of the moon. I thrust the memories down, burying them in the depths of my soul.
After switching on the bedside lamp, Mum sits on the edge of my bed, the way she used to when I was sick or woke from a nightmare. “I wish you’d talk to me.”
I avert my face, staring at the wall. I can’t tell her, can’t handle having another person I love look at me with incomprehension, as though I’ve become a stranger overnight.
Mum lays a warm hand on my thigh. “You can tell me, whatever it is. I just can’t stand to see you so unhappy.” She pauses, before asking, “Did something happen with Zara?”
The lamplight throws wavering shadows over the faded wallpaper. I keep my gaze on them and nod once. It’s all I can manage.
“Oh, Luke.” Mum rubs my leg, her tone gentle. “I’m sorry. I know how much you liked her.”
It would be so easy to go along with it, to wallow in her sympathy and let her assure me there will be other girls. But I can’t do it. I turn to look at her, see the genuine tenderness and compassion in her eyes, and I can’t keep up the pretence.
Grimacing at the stiffness in my muscles, I struggle into a sitting position and bend to retrieve my phone from the floor. Aware of Mum’s anxious gaze, I scroll through the photos, skipping past the one Zara shot by the pool—it’s just too intimate—and find the picture of Theo on the cliff.
I intend to hand the phone straight to Mum, but Theo’s eyes snare mine and hold them. His words to me during that last incredible night come back to me. “Whatever you want to do, tell people or not, is fine with me.” and my reply, “I don’t want this to be a secret. I’m sick of sneaking about behind people’s backs.” Somehow, it’s still true. I may have screwed things up with Theo, but I can’t behave as though none of it ever happened.
Mum leans into me, peering at the screen. “Who’s that?”
“Theo.” I pass her the phone. “Zara’s cousin.”
The queer one. Dean’s throwaway remark echoes in my head.
Mum studies the photo. “He looks nice.”
“He is.” My voice catches, and I glare at a fading bruise above my left knee. Don’t let me break down.
Mum’s quiet for a while. She glances from my face to the photo and back again, trying to understand what I’m telling her. At last, she sets my phone on the bedside cabinet and takes my hand. “Look at me, Luke. Please.”
I can’t move. Anxiety weighs like a barbell on the nape of my neck, making it impossible for me to raise my head.
“Luke?” Mum cups my chin, her fingers soft but insistent.
I put up no resistance as she tilts my face to meet her eyes, don’t have the strength to try and hide my unhappiness.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She pulls me into a hug, wrapping me in her arms.
I collapse onto her shoulder and sob. Mum doesn’t speak. She simply holds me, rubbing soothing circles on my back, and lets me cry.
And, once I’ve calmed down, she listens. She listens while the words I’ve held hostage for days tumble out of me. I tell her about Theo, the dizzying realisation that I was falling for him and that he might feel the same; about the strain of hiding how we felt from Zara, all the frustration and misguided jealousy, and the horror of that last morning when she caught us together. Finally, I tell her about Dean, the spiteful things he’d said and how he looked at me, as though I’d betrayed his trust in the worst way imaginable.
When I’m done, my entire body sags. Exhaustion and relief have turned my bones to sludge. Talking felt good, therapeutic. Hard as it was to begin, once I did, I couldn’t stop. However painful the process, I needed to get it out, like extracting poison from a wound before it turns gangrenous. But now, as the initial rush fades, the doubts set in. Mum still has her hand on my back, but she isn’t saying anything.
“Are you disappointed in me?” I keep my face buried against her shoulder.
“What? No.” Mum tilts my chin, her gaze fierce on mine. “You must never, ever think that. There’s nothing you could do that would make me love you less. I just…I hate the fact that you were going through all this and I didn’t know.”
“That’s silly. You couldn’t have known.”
“Well, I should have. You should’ve told me.”
I imagine it, trying to explain the whole impossible mess over the phone. My mouth twitches in a wry smile. Mum smiles too, conceding the point. She puts her arm around me, and I lean into her. Grown up as I am, it’s comforting.
“What am I going to do about Dean?”
Mum ruffles my hair. “Try not to worry. He’ll come round.”
“You didn’t see him.” I cringe again, remembering. “The way he looked at me, it was like he didn’t even know who I was.”
Another thought occurs to me. Has he told his parents? Did they spend the barbecue I was meant to be a part of lamenting how I’ve deceived them, how I’m not who they believed I was? Nausea rises in my throat. And what about the bookshop? Will my job still be there for me in September?
“Sweetheart,” Mum’s voice, firm and reassuring, trickles through to me, “Dean’s bound to be shocked. That was a big thing you sprung on him, and young men—well, men of any age really—aren’t always good at dealing with these situations. You should know that better than anyone.”
Mum’s right, of course she is. The sort of piss-taking that goes on in the school changing rooms should have prepared me for Dean’s reaction. Honestly, I’m not sure what else I expected. Somehow, though, I managed to fool myself into hoping it would play out differently.
“He just needs time,” Mum says. “You’ll see.”
I wish I had her confidence. It’s only now dawning on me how lucky Theo is to have Giles. By all accounts, when Theo came out to him at fourteen, Giles took it in his stride. Whatever his faults, and I could amuse myself for many happy hours listing them, there can be no doubt Giles has been a true friend to Theo.
“And the same goes for your young man,” Mum adds. “Just give him time.”
I shake my head. “After I helped wreck things between him and Zara, I’m pretty sure Theo wants nothing more to do with me, and even if he does,” my stomach twists at the thought, “he has no way of getting in touch.”
“Trust me,” Mum squeezes my hand, “if he really wants to find you, he will.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then you’re better off without him.”
My eyes stray to my phone, to the image of Theo still displayed on the screen. Maybe I would be better off. My life was certainly a lot simpler before it collided with Theo’s, spinning it off-kilter. Still, I can’t quite talk my heart into believing it.
***
The summer passes in a haze of sweltering heat and thunderstorms that hurl spears of lightning from the sky. I spend much of it sprawled on my bed, the windows thrown wide to let in what little breeze there is, eating when Mum reminds me, showering when the stink of my own sweat becomes too much even for me to stand.
Before Cornwall, I would have drowned my emotions in the surf. I would’ve taken my board down to the coast every day at dawn and hurled myself into the waves until nothing else existed. But not now. Now, I can’t think about the sea without being reminded of Theo, and the prospect of surfing without my beloved Spitfire gouges a strip from my heart.
So I read. Finally, after so many false starts, I get stuck into A Game of Thrones, quickly becoming absorbed in George R. R. Martin’s world of ruthlessness and power, battles and political intrigue. Within days, I’m forced from the safe haven of the flat to raid our local library for the rest of the series.
When I stagger to the front desk under a stack of heavy volumes, the grandmotherly librarian glances up at me, eyes twinkling behind gold-framed spectacles. “You’ll never read all those in two weeks.”
But I do, and a fortnight later I’m back in search of something new to lose myself in. The same librarian spies me browsing the shelves in the fantasy section and bustles over to help, soon despatching me with novels by David Gemel and Terry Goodkind. I’ve always read, but never so obsessively. Then again, I’ve never been this intent on escaping my own existence. Among the pages of a book, I can inhabit another world. My problems shrink into the background, and I get caught up in someone else’s struggle until I practically forget who I am.
Only at night, when my eyes are so gritty with tiredness that the words blur into gibberish on the page, and my body trembles from exhaustion but won’t let me sleep, do the thoughts succeed in sneaking past my weakened defences. I lie awake, replaying everything that happened in Cornwall, regretting all the things I should have done and didn’t.
It seems so obvious to me now. We should never have gone behind Zara’s back. That night on the cliff, the night Theo persuaded me to stay, we should have told her then. OK, there was no guarantee the relationship would’ve worked out, but at least we could have explored our feelings without the strain of all that secrecy. Zara would still have been upset, there was no getting around it, but we could have spared her the pain of our betrayal.
The worst thing, the thing that really eats at my gut, isn’t Dean’s rejection or the separation from Theo. I behaved badly, plain and simple, and now I’m paying the price. Hard as it is to swallow, there’s a poetic justice in that. The punishment feels almost purifying, like serving time for a crime you deeply regret committing. I’ll suffer through it because it’s what I deserve.
No, what has me tossing and turning into the early hours is the conviction that I’m mostly to blame. Not that Theo doesn’t bear a portion of the responsibility, but his position was always more precarious than mine. He had so much more to lose, and in his effort to keep everyone happy, he ended up making no one happy at all. I should have been strong enough for the both of us, ensured we did the right thing.
And now I’ve abandoned Theo to pick up the pieces. Spending the summer holed up in my kiln of a room might be miserable, but it’s nothing to what Theo must be going through—Zara despising him, his best friends’ relationship in tatters, unable even to visit his sister because his dad’s the biggest arsehole on the planet, and all this after the shit that went down with Francis.
If only there was something I could do to make it up to him. I stare into the darkness, tinged pink with the approaching dawn, and scour my brain for the answer. It isn’t like I can do anything about Zara; I’ve done more than enough damage there as it is. I’d promised to help Theo hunt down his painting, but on my own with zero knowledge of the art world, I wouldn’t have a clue where to start. Which leaves…what?
My heart ricochets in my chest. It couldn’t possibly do any good. I’m crazy for even contemplating it. Yet, once the idea plants itself in my mind, it refuses to be dislodged. The question is, do I have the nerve to go through with it?
***
At my first sight of the house where Theo grew up, I almost bottle out. It presides over the valley below, basking in the early afternoon sun, a sprawl of pillars and honey-coloured stone, gables and elegant chimneys. But for the silver Jaguar parked outside, I feel as if I’ve stepped into one of those period dramas that have Mum glued to the telly on Sunday nights, the ones where someone’s daughter running off with the wrong sort of man is about as exciting as it gets.
I shade my eyes and scan the grounds. To my left, sunlight glints off a distant stretch of water. A wooden jetty just into the lake, attached to…is that a boathouse? To my right, sloping lawns meld into swathes of yellow corn fields, which in turn give way to olive-green woods. This must be where Theo played as a child. It beats a potted plant and a couple of window boxes, that’s for sure.
I approach the house, my feet dragging. All the talk of racehorses and old masters should have prepared me, but it’s impossible to be unimpressed by so much grandeur. My fists clench in the pockets of my jeans. I won’t be intimidated.
Rowanleigh hadn’t been hard to track down. An internet search on one of the library’s computers followed by a ninety-minute train ride brought me to the pretty village of Hathercombe. From there, it was a short hike uphill to the gated entrance marking the Scott-Palmer estate. What I hadn’t anticipated was that the driveway itself would be a hundred miles long. With the heat searing the nape of my neck and sweat streaming down my back, the walk seemed to take forever.
In my effort to make a decent impression, I’d dug out one of the few tops I own without a slogan or band logo plastered across the front. This happens to be a navy-blue polo shirt, two sizes too small, and which currently has my biceps in a stranglehold. Its one saving grace is that the dark colour hides the damp patches pooling under my arms.
The front steps are a lot more daunting up close. I take a fortifying breath, heart bouncing around like a grasshopper, and force my legs to carry me up. At the top, an oak-panelled door bars my entrance. Beyond it, somewhere in the bowels of this elegant house, is the man I’ve come to see. I swallow hard, square my shoulders, and ring the bell.
Immediately, the door flies open. Anyone would think they’re expecting me. Not that the man shielding the threshold, as though to protect the house’s secrets from unworthy mortals, is exactly welcoming. He looks nothing like Theo, has none of Theo’s softness. He’s all angles and sharp features, with a prominent jaw and dark hair swept away from a proud forehead.
Eyes, green and cool as sea glass, flicker over me with disinterest. “If you’re here about the job, it’s already gone,” he informs me and starts to shut the door in my face.
“No.” Without pausing to think, I stick out my foot. His gaze narrows in a way that screams danger. “I mean, I’m not here about the job.”
For a moment, I’m convinced Theo’s dad will slam the door anyway, crushing my foot to splinters and bringing my surfing days to an excruciating end. Instead, he takes me in, lip curled, cataloguing my shaggy hair and the scuffed toes of my trainers.
“Well, what do you want?” He has a clipped drawl to rival Giles’s. “Much as I’d love to stand on the doorstep and chat all afternoon, I’m rather busy.”
What a prick. Theo certainly didn’t inherit his sweetness from his dad. Is this the sort of reception Francis got when he came looking for Theo? Probably. Well. I’d slit my own throat before emulating him, but a little of his self-assurance would’ve come in handy.
On the train I rehearsed what I was going to say, had my speech all figured out. Now, face-to-face with Theo’s dad, his disdain reducing me to the size and desirability of a flea, my mind goes blank. Still, I have to say something. If I don’t, he’ll order me off the property and I’ll lose my chance.
I inhale and pull my shoulders back. We’re around the same height, but I’m broader. The knowledge bolsters me, and I’m able to sound more confident than I feel. “It’s about Theo. I—”
“No.” His arm shoots out as though to fend off an attacker. “Stop right there.”
“But—”
“Contrary to what my son may have told you, I’m not running an escort agency for fucking poofters. If you’re not gone by the time I get home, or if you dare come knocking on my door again, I’m calling the police.”
Theo’s dad brushes past me, almost knocking me down the steps, and leaps into his car. A second later, it roars along the driveway like an enraged dragon. I stare after the Jag until it disappears from view around a bend. He could at least have offered me a lift.
I sigh and descend the steps. Could that have gone any worse? Of the numerous scenarios I’d prepared myself for—scorching rage, insults, even being escorted from the premises in handcuffs—not getting the opportunity to say my piece wasn’t one of them. I’d come all this way, screwed up my courage to confront Theo’s dad, and it had been for nothing.
I trudge back along the endless driveway. Sweat trickles down my spine and my mouth feels dryer than The Atacama. I’d passed a small pub in the village. Maybe I’ll stop there before heading home, buy myself a Coke and sit in the shade.
“Whoa there!”
I pause, turning. A girl, about my age, marches towards me in wellies and mud-spattered jodhpurs, a men’s shirt rolled up to the elbows. Her hair, golden brown like Theo’s, is pulled into a messy bun, but she has the same green eyes and strong jaw as the man who’d just left.
“You’re Clemmy,” I realise.
She bats my words aside. “I know who I am. The question is…who’re you? No, actually, don’t tell me. You’re one of Theo’s hangers-on, aren’t you? Like that other creep who came sniffing around a few weeks back.”
I blink. Did Theo’s sister just call me a creep?
“Mind you,” Clemmy regards me as though I’m on display at a cattle market, “you don’t look much like the last one. More of a carthorse than a thoroughbred.”
Without a word, I pivot and continue my trek along the drive. I’m hot and thirsty, the sour taste of failure strong in my mouth. No way I’m standing around in the blistering heat to be made fun of. God, Theo, where did you come from? Longing for him blindsides me, wrenching at my stomach.
“Hey, hold your horses.” Clemmy calls after me. “Where’re you going?”
“Home.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Wait a minute, will you?”
Curiosity wrestles with my desire to make a quick getaway. Curiosity wins, and I stop so Clemmy can draw level.
“This is why I hate people.” She brushes a loose strand of hair off her face with an impatient hand, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “You insist on misunderstanding everything I say. It’s like you’re determined to be offended.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You called me a carthorse.”
“So? I love horses. They’re my life. I’m hardly going to use one as an insult, am I? But, of course, you had to jump to conclusions.”
I shake my head, suspended somewhere between amusement and irritation. Theo told me his sister was horse mad, but he omitted to mention just how…eccentric she was.
Clemmy assesses me in a single glance. “You need watering. Come inside, and I’ll get you a drink.”
“I dunno.” I peer down the driveway, expecting the Jaguar to reappear at any minute. “Your dad threatened to call the police on me.”
She waves away my concerns. “You mustn’t mind him. His tongue’s sharper than his teeth. Anyway, he’s gone to look at a horse, won’t be back for hours. Come on.”
Clemmy clicks her tongue as though cajoling a nervous colt. I shelve my misgivings and follow her towards the house. Instead of climbing the front steps, she veers along a path that skirts the edge of the building.
“What?” I ask. “I’m not respectable enough to use the front door?”
“Not you, idiot, me.” She gestures at her boots. “Mrs. Jenkins will have foals if I tread mud all over her clean floors.”
Clemmy leads me through a side door and into a sort of lobby area. She kicks off her wellies, tossing them into the jumble of riding crops, golf clubs and bridles. Anxious not to incite the wrath of Mrs. Jenkins, who I’m guessing must be the housekeeper, I take off my trainers and follow her down a passage panelled in dark wood.
The kitchen is clean—courtesy of Mrs. Jenkins, I assume—but cluttered. Junk mail and unopened bills threaten to spill from the dresser onto the flagstones, and copies of Horse and Hound and The Racing Post litter the farmhouse table. The moment we enter, an old chocolate Labrador waddles over to greet us, tail wagging.
“Hey, girl.” Clemmy bends to pat her head. “I’ve brought a friend to see you. Cocoa, this is…” She glances at me. “Sorry, I don’t know your name. Should’ve asked you that before, I suppose. I’m hopeless at this social interaction lark.”
“It’s Luke.” I get down on my haunches. “Hi, Cocoa.”
The dog approaches, sniffing my hand before licking it with a warm, wet tongue. She sits next to me and thumps her tail.
“I think she likes me.” I scratch her behind the ears. “At least I haven’t completely lost my touch with the girls.”
“I wouldn’t let it go to your head. Cocoa adores everyone.”
While Clemmy rummages in the fridge, I pet Cocoa and examine my surroundings. I can’t help picturing Theo in this room, sprawled in the armchair by the Aga, his nose in a book and Cocoa at his feet.
The smack of glass on wood shatters the illusion. Clemmy waves me over. “You want this or what?”
I give Cocoa a final stroke and join Clemmy at the table, accepting the glass she shoves towards me. Cocoa retreats to her basket in the corner, where she curls up and watches us through half-closed eyes.
I sink into the nearest chair, swallowing half my drink in a single gulp. It bubbles down my throat, sweet and lemony and ice cold.
“So,” Clemmy leans against the worktop and surveys me over her glass, “what’s so important that you came to see Theo without checking he was even here?”
“I didn’t. I mean, I came to see your dad.” I rest my chin on my folded arms. My plan seems so futile now. What had I really expected to achieve?
Clemmy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Dad? What on Earth for? I’m guessing you weren’t trying to sell him a horse.”
“Hardly. It’s just, well, Theo’s been through a rough time, and your dad…he’s completely turned his back on him. I thought, if I talked to him…I dunno. It was stupid.”
“Pretty stupid, I’d say, but brave, too. You must care about my brother a lot.”
My throat tightens. I reach for my glass, downing the remainder of the lemonade. I’m aware of Clemmy regarding me, expression pensive, and brace myself for the inevitable interrogation.
She hops off the counter and heads for the door, beckoning me to follow. “This way.”
Baffled, I hurry to catch up with her. Clemmy shows me from the kitchen and up a back staircase to a small landing. We twist along a series of passages, and I glance around, wondering which of the many bedrooms we pass belongs to Theo. Is it comfortably messy like his room at the cottage, or utterly barren as though no one has ever slept there?
At the top of a second staircase, narrower than the first, Clemmy pauses outside a closed door to look me in the eye. “What you said about Dad turning his back on Theo, it isn’t true.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she raises her palms in a silencing gesture. “No, don’t say anything. I knew you wouldn’t believe me. That’s why I’ve brought you up here. You need to see this.”
She pushes the door, which swings inward with a creak, and indicates for me to go in. With no idea what I might find, I step over the threshold. The attic space stretches ahead of me, dusty sunlight filtering through tall windows at the far end. Cardboard boxes line the right-hand side in teetering stacks, while on the left-hand wall…
My heart jumps. Displayed against the bare plaster, like exhibits in a long-forgotten gallery, are paintings.
Slowly, without really knowing what I’m searching for, I move from one canvas to the next. I pause by each one, not so much to study the artwork, but to read the signatures. Hockney, Reynolds, Constable—the remembered names leap out at me, interspersed with others I don’t recognise. When I reach the final painting, I stare at it for an eternity. Excitement tingles in the pit of my belly.
At last, I rip my gaze away to face Clemmy, who’s studying me from the doorway. “I don’t understand. Theo told me your dad got rid of them.”
“He did.”
“So, how…?”
Clemmy sighs. Crossing to stand beside me, she examines the painting that snagged my attention. “Dad’s never been good with words. We’re alike in that sense. When Theo came out to him last summer, he reacted the only way he knew how. He shut down, refused to acknowledge it. Dad hasn’t mentioned it to me, not once, but I know him well enough to see how cut up he is.”
“And you think Theo isn’t?”
“Just shut up and listen. I’m not defending Dad, but I’m the one who’s had to live with him this past year. Fact is, although he’d rather eat manure than admit as much, he misses Theo. Most of all, he feels bad about everything that happened after Mum died.”
“Yeah, really seems like it.” I can’t keep the derision from my voice.
Clemmy’s eyes flash. She jabs a finger towards the paintings. “Do I have to spell it out? Dad has zero interest in art. He’s never seen the point in it. Theo, though, he was more upset about the loss of Mum’s collection than the rest of her things put together. Why else would Dad go to such lengths to recover a load of paintings he couldn’t care less about unless he was trying to make amends?”
I let the revelation sink in. There’s no denying Clemmy’s logic, and yet I struggle to match these actions with a father who’s capable of ignoring his own son for an entire year. “Have you told Theo?”
“Not in so many words. Don’t look at me like that. Of course I’ve spoken to him, tried to get him to come home, but he’s seemed distracted lately. Trouble is, I’m not even supposed to know about all this. It was an accident. I came up here the other day to hunt down my old riding boots for one of our work-experience girls. It’s weird.” Clemmy frowns, scrutinising the painting. “I could’ve sworn this was the one Mum gave Theo before she died. He always loved it because the mare looks so like Epona. She was his first pony, you know. Still, I must have got that wrong.”
The tingle flares to life in my gut. The moment I’d seen the painting—a lush meadow under a summer sky, the horse dipping her head to drink from the bubbling stream—I knew what I was looking at. I didn’t even need to read the signature. All the same, it takes Clemmy’s confirmation for me to truly believe it.
I grasp her by the arm. “Theo has to know about this. You have to tell him. It’s important.”
Clemmy rakes my face with that shrewd gaze of hers, apparently unfazed. “What about you? Does Theo need to know you came?”
I think back over my grand plan, the determination that gave me the nerve to go through with it. Then I recall the run-in with Theo’s dad, his slur about an escort agency for poofters, the way he’d stormed off in his car. In my effort to help, I’d somehow succeeded in making things worse.
“No,” I say at length, “he doesn’t need to know about that.”
* * * * *