Chapter 33

“Talking to your mother is like engaging with a terrorist about to kill a hostage,” Dusty said.

We were sitting on the bench in the same spot Scarlet and I had shared weeks before.

“That’s a little strong.”

“You think me unkind?”

“I do.”

“What a lovely young woman you are,” she said with a beam. “Not afraid to tell it straight.” She linked her arm through mine in a ‘part of the sisterhood’ gesture, which I didn’t much care for. “Bit of a black sheep, aren’t you?”

“I think Zach was awarded that particular title.”

“Of course, yes,” she said, as though she’d only just remembered I had a brother. “How is he? Still on the straight and narrow?”

“As far as I know.” Which wasn’t much at all.

“Your mother was extremely distressed at the time, I recall.”

Which time, I wanted to ask. The trouble with relatives who flitted in and out was that, understandably, they had a poor grasp of the main narrative.

“Naturally, I appreciate how dreadful things are for your parents right now, truly I do,” she continued, “but your mother lives as if in a perpetual state of atonement. People like that take tragedy to heart.”

“Is there any other way to take it?”

“I don’t see you falling apart.”

“Everybody grieves in a different way. Scarlet wasn’t my daughter.” I wondered how my mum would have reacted had it been me in the crash. Would she have been stricken? I kicked the malodorous thought into the rockery where it shattered into a gazillion pieces.

“You know, Molly, you’re so like your dad. Strong, stoic, silent. Always admired him. Typical Gemini. Considered quite a catch back in the day when he worked in Vice.”

“They still call it that? Sounds very old-fashioned.”

“Talking of which–” She gave a little snort of laughter, reached for her bag and slipped out a pack of cigarettes. “Would you mind? Only I’ve been dying to light up since I got here. Your mother hates me smoking.”

“She hates anyone smoking.”

“Want one?” Dusty shook out two cigarettes.

“No, I’m good.”

“I won’t tell. Our secret.”

I’d had quite enough of those. Secrets confer power. Give it away and it loses its vitality, and the secret-keeper is forever feared and despised. In an offbeat second, it occurred to me then that too many people were asking me to keep my mouth shut about various things.

I shook my head and watched as Dusty took out a fancy gold lighter and went through the ritual. Tilting her head back, she narrowed her eyes and exhaled a sigh of deep pleasure. “You know they’re burying that poor man day after tomorrow?”

I didn’t know. How did she? Suspicious, I asked her. “Your dad mentioned it,” Dusty said. “Someone from inside the police keeps him in the loop.”

Odd, I thought. Dad had intimated that his source had dried up, unless it was Stanton, which would be incredibly indiscreet of him if not plain wrong. It also told me something. Any investigation by the coroner and police must have been concluded. Surely, that wasn’t remotely possible in the timescale?

“So?” she said.

“So what?”

“Molly, darling, I’m not daft. Whatever is going on?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Which was true.

“Nate, poor boy, told me Scarlet was drunk.”

“Yes.”

“Do we know why?”

“No.”

Her crafty gaze fell on me. With Rocco, I’d almost crumbled. Dusty stood no chance. “You have no idea?” I spread my hands. “Always seemed such a together young woman.”

“Mmm.”

“Quite the little princess when she was little.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Your mother idolised her.”

I did not need my aunt to tell me what I already knew. My mother’s mantra was that pretty gets you a long way in life. In this regard I fell massively short. It occurred to me that, as much as I’d envied my sister, I didn’t covet the weight of expectation on her shoulders, the degree of smothering she’d endured from Mum. It seemed to me then that Scarlet was always destined to tumble from the pedestal on which she’d been placed.

Smoke snatched from the corner of my aunt’s mouth and drifted skywards. “Obviously something was very wrong.” I gave her my best clueless look and, slipping my arm from hers, said goodnight and went to bed.

The next morning, I rose early and so did Mum. I found her outside in her dressing gown, deadheading roses. Barefoot, the polish on her toenails was chipped and flaking. She didn’t look up as I approached.

“Scarlet loved these,” she said dreamily.

“I know.”

“Wonderful fragrance.” She burrowed her face into a spray of yellow blooms.

“Mum—” I began.

“Every second of every minute of every hour reminds me she’s not here.” She spoke slowly, softly, painfully, as if every word cost her dear. How I wished I could shift her sorrow.

“It will get better.”

“Will it?” She looked at me then, like a small child seeking reassurance from a parent. I saw Scarlet in her expression, the hurt and the fear and blind hope. “I wish I had your certainty.” She picked up a pair of secateurs. Snip. Snip.

“Mum, about the other day—”

“It’s forgotten,” she said. “All rather silly.”

This was not how I remembered it. “The man in the garden,” I began. “Dad’s old colleague.”

The light behind her eyes flickered. “Yes?”

“What’s his name?”

She frowned. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m interested.”

Indecision shadowed her features. I faked my biggest smile. She cleared her throat. “Clive Mallis.”

I’d never heard the name before and said so.

“They don’t see each other that often. Clive came to pay his respects.”

“And Stanton? I mean did he and Dad ever work together?”

“Never.”

She carried on with what she was doing, as unanchored and lost as a guest stumbling around a country pile after a late-night party.

“Are we all right, Mum?” I blurted out. “You and me?” I didn’t bother to tame the desperation in my voice. I didn’t want to be a black sheep, as my aunt had suggested, as though being an outsider was glamorous and exciting. I wanted to belong; now more than ever. It’s all I’d ever wanted.

Mum stopped, straightened up and looked me dead in the eye. Then, unpredictably, a smile, big enough to rival the morning sun, broke out across her face. “Of course, Molly.”

I didn’t believe her. Not when she opened her arms. Not when she held me too tight. Not when she dropped a kiss on top of my head.