Six days after the confrontation with my parents, I still haven’t been back to Blossom Hill House. Though I did have a courier drop off my old mobile phone for Olivia. She calls me every night. Mum and Dad weren’t happy about it. They want to wrap her in cotton wool and shield her from the whole world, but she isn’t a teenager anymore, and for her to have even a slim chance at a normal life, she needs to be exposed to regular, everyday things like mobile phones and restaurant dinners and shopping trips. In the future, she might want a career, or a house, a husband or a child, or maybe she won’t. Maybe she’ll want to travel and see the world. And our parents have to let her. I won’t allow them to curtail her ambitions the way I’ve allowed them to do to mine.
I’ve tried not to mope too much, but Dad’s words, his claims that I am attention-seeking and difficult, have stuck inside me like hot needles. Oscar is meeting a client, and the quiet leaves too much time to dwell. It’s an effort but I push all thoughts of my parents aside, like sweeping loose pieces of paper from a crowded desk. With a cup of fresh mint tea, I go upstairs to the tiny box room I converted into my workspace. The far wall is panelled and painted ivy leaf green. Against it is the mango-wood desk I bought at a market, complete with a vintage, wicker chair. There is artwork: prints and pressed flowers, small original watercolours and framed embroidery. Opposite the door is a lockable cupboard where I keep projects in progress for Wanderlust Illustrations, alongside tattered exercise books and terribly dull files filled with seating plans and lesson outlines. I put the standing fan on – it’s so hot in Somerset, I’m sure I could fry an egg on the windowsill – and sit at my desk, intent on tackling some of my school workload for the looming September start. After only half an hour, though, I am almost bored to tears, and the call of Wanderlust Illustrations is too much. I get out my phone and log onto the website.
Since Olivia’s return, I’ve neglected my page and online shop. There is a backlog of orders, so I spend a couple of hours forwarding them to my printer in Bristol. They ship them too, taking ten per cent of every order. Any money I make from Wanderlust goes into a savings account. There’s a decent chunk in there now. I’m not sure what exactly I’m saving for. In the back of my mind it was a travel fund. But if the likelihood of me abandoning my fiancé, my job and my family to backpack around Europe was low before Olivia returned, now, it is non-existent.
There are dozens of comments on my last post, all asking where I’ve gone. There’s even some speculation that I’m closing my business. I don’t respond. Instead, I go through my phone gallery, find a photograph of my latest piece that I hadn’t yet uploaded, and do so. Within minutes, there is a flurry of responses, all of them positive. I smile, joy dousing the burn of my father’s words.
I hear Oscar’s key in the door and a couple of minutes later, he is in my office, tugging me from my chair and pressing his lips against mine. When he pulls back, his dark eyes are playful. ‘Go pack a bag, I’m taking you away.’
St Ives is gorgeous. It’s all quaint ice-cream parlours and bakeries, seafront art galleries and winding cobbled streets. I spend an hour in the St Ives Bookseller and come out with a bagful of paperbacks. We check into the most beautiful cottage before going for a walk around the town, ducking in and out of bookshops and art galleries and boutiques. We share a newspaper bouquet of salty chips and sit on a bench overlooking the beach. A breeze rolls across the sea and for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m breathing in the arid air of an open oven. We people watch. I spot a man with a mullet throwing a ball for a bouncy Labrador.
‘Cute dog,’ says Oscar.
‘Very,’ I agree, helping myself to another chip. ‘But too big.’
He pulls a face. ‘You prefer a chihuahua?’
‘Too small.’
‘Greyhound?’
‘Too bony.’
He laughs. ‘What’re you? The Goldilocks of the canine world?’
I grin. ‘Cocker spaniels are juuuuust right.’
‘We could get a cocker spaniel.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. I work from home most days; you have the school holidays.’
‘Shouldn’t we start small? Get a goldfish or a hamster or something?’
‘Why?’
I shrug. ‘Dogs are a huge commitment.’
‘And we’re committed.’ He pauses. ‘Aren’t we?’
‘Of course we are.’
‘Maybe we just get a pet mayfly. Easy to manage, only lives for twenty-four hours. Can you commit to that?’
‘Absolutely, we’ll name him Egbert.’
Oscar laughs but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I would love to bring a dog into our home but I imagined that home being filled with trinkets from our travels. A dog, much like a marriage, is something I thought I’d tick off my list after I’d seen more of the world. Painted it. Experienced it. But I made a promise to Olivia that I wouldn’t go. In a way, the second I accepted Oscar’s proposal, I made the same promise to him, too. Hopping on a plane and disappearing for months isn’t an option. I’d have to leave my job and without an income, how would I cover my half of our mortgage? It would be selfish to expect Oscar to pick up the bill. Then there’s the strain of being so far apart …
‘So, you really want a dog?’ I ask again, trying to unwind my fingers from the string that tethers me to my travelling fantasies. I need to let it go, watch it soar into the sky like a lost balloon.
‘I really want you and I to build something long-lasting. I want us to get married. Get a dog.’ He looks out over the beach. ‘We could get married here, on the seafront. We could do it this autumn.’
That’s soon. Very soon. Will I be able to prise my fingers from that string in just two months? ‘What’s the rush?’ I ask.
‘We’ve been engaged for almost three years, Caitie,’ he deadpans.
Guilty, I glance away.
‘I want to marry you. The sooner the better. Marriage is important,’ he says. ‘It lends us more credibility.’
‘With who? For what? I don’t think the dog will care whether or not we’re married,’ I offer, trying to lighten the mood. I wonder if his parents are putting pressure on him. They don’t think I’m good enough for their precious son. I don’t take it personally, though, they haven’t liked a single one of Oscar’s previous partners. But maybe he’s hoping the little comments will stop once we’re married.
He dips his head to catch my gaze. He is all frown lines and solemnity. ‘You do want to marry me?’
‘You know I do. I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t.’ And it’s true. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love Oscar.
‘It’s just, I thought you were hesitant because the day would be difficult without Olivia. But now …’ He shrugs. ‘Things are different. She’s back.’
‘She is,’ I concede, choosing my words carefully so as not to hurt him. ‘But she’s only been back a few weeks. Can we let her settle in first? Let the media attention die down a little?’
He stares at me, chewing on this request as though it is a lump of gristle, but he swallows it down. Then he sighs, resigned. ‘Sure. You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Stupid idea.’
I take his hands. Hands that know my body almost as well as I do. Hands that held me as I opened up about my sister. Hands that taught me how to play Billy Joel on guitar. ‘Not stupid,’ I say. ‘Never stupid.’ Some of the tension eases out of him and I relax, too. ‘Let’s set a date. This time next year maybe?’
Disappointment flickers across his face. ‘Yeah. Next year.’
We fall quiet and go back to watching the man with his Labrador. ‘The dog is beautiful,’ I admit. ‘Same can’t be said for the owner’s mullet.’
He arches a brow. ‘Not a fan?’
‘Mullets are the most effective form of contraception.’
‘You don’t think I’d suit one?’
‘No one suits them. They belong in the eighties.’
‘That guy is actually from the eighties.’
I frown. ‘He’s younger than we are.’
‘He’s a time traveller,’ Oscar declares with a playful smile.
I lean into it, glad the tension is dispelled, like shaking sand off a beach towel. ‘Delorean or Tardis?’
‘Magic armbands. Slip them on and—’ he throws his hands up, fingers splayed ‘—poof! He’s here to stoke a mullet revolution. He’s the founder of MAS.’
‘MAS?’
‘Mullet Appreciation Society.’
I grin, enjoying this whimsical side of my fiancé. I point out a few more people and Oscar concocts wild, hilarious tales about them, too. I’m still laughing when he gets to his feet, picks up the remnants of our chips and puts them in the bin. He takes my hand and we start walking along the seafront.
‘You’re good at that game,’ I tell him. ‘Making up stories about people. I didn’t realise you were so creative.’
‘I’m a web designer,’ he says with mock-outrage.
‘I know but that’s computer creative. It’s different.’
He shrugs. ‘I used to love writing. I joined the creative-writing society at university.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
He shrugs. ‘Dropped it after second year.’
‘Why?’
‘My degree amped up. Dad wasn’t keen on me splitting my focus. Granddad owned the farm shop before him, always intending to pass it to Dad and so he felt his path in life was set. I think he felt trapped. He wanted more for me. Encouraged me to get into computing because he knew it would be lucrative. Typically, there are more job opportunities in technology than in writing.’
‘That’s how my parents felt about a degree in English Literature versus one in Art.’
Wanting to please your parents is one of those universal instincts, like opening your mouth to apply mascara.
On the beach below, a group of teenagers throw a frisbee. There is a cooler of beers and the remnants of a barbecue. Two girls break away to cartwheel across the sand. They shriek and giggle when one of them tumbles and lands on her back. I don’t think I was ever that carefree. I never flirtatiously stole a boy’s hat and put it on just so he would chase me. Never snuck out. Never stole vodka from my parents’ house and passed it back and forth with a friend. My mother’s anxiety and my father’s austerity anchored me to the house.
‘You OK?’ asks Oscar, giving my hand a little squeeze.
‘Yeah, I just … I was never like them.’
His gaze swings towards the teenagers. ‘Drunk?’
My smile is wan. ‘Happy-go-lucky. Rebellious. I had to be perfectly behaved to make my parents’ lives easier. It was exhausting.’
‘You feel like you missed out?’
‘It was small things. Parties and sleepovers made Mum anxious. And bigger things, too. Like where I studied and chose to live after graduation. I stayed close because it was important to her. I’m aware of my privilege. I grew up in a beautiful house. I went to a good school. My parents loved me. Provided for me. But I always felt like I was dragging a weight behind me.’ I stop myself from saying more because if I picture that weight, it is her. It is Olivia. I grew up tethered to the rotting corpse of my presumed-dead sister. Lugging her around school, her wide-unseeing eyes staring up at me from the classroom floor as we learned Pythagoras’ theorem. Lugging her cold, stiff body up the stairs to my room at night where she would lie beside my bed, grey and decomposing. She’d still be there in the morning, greeting me with her milky stare. Lugging her down to breakfast where I would slowly and mechanically eat cereal as she mouldered on the tile beneath my chair.
‘But Olivia is home,’ he says, pulling me from the reverie. ‘You can let that weight go. You can do anything, be anything. You’ve done well to keep up with your art, Caitie. Maybe one day, you can just focus on Wanderlust Illustrations and give up teaching altogether.’
‘It would mean a pay cut, at least for a while.’
‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll manage. I’ll make sure of it.’
‘My parents wouldn’t approve of me leaving my career.’
‘Sometimes, the only person worth satisfying is yourself. It’s your life, you’ve got to live it for you.’
And there is my silver lining; just because I have to let go of my desire to travel the world, it doesn’t mean I have to let go of my ambitions to make a career out of being an artist. Oscar is so supportive. I’m lucky to be with someone who whisks me away to beautiful seaside towns and on a sandy beach encourages me to build a life I love. There’s a fullness in my throat. It is pure, uncomplicated affection. I kiss him. It is deep and lusty and exactly right. His hands run beneath my T-shirt and up my bare back. ‘Let’s go back to the cottage,’ I whisper against his mouth.
He gently untangles himself from me. ‘I’ve actually got something to show you first. Walk with me?’
He stands and leads me down to the beach. I slip my sandals off my feet. The sound of the waves rushing to the shore is soothing. The breeze lifts my hair, making it dance around my face. We pass the giddy teenagers but I hardly notice them, my focus on Oscar. He’s humming with anticipation. We make it to a flight of stone steps that are carved into the cliff face. We walk around the corner, the velvet sea to our right. We come to a ledge, the man-made path sprawling out into jagged rocks and smooth boulders. The setting sun is a line of fire splitting sea and sky. He squeezes my hand, gaze fixed ahead. I follow it. That is when I see a wooden easel with the blank canvas. Beyond it, a postcard-perfect view of the Cornish Sea.
‘You did this?’ I say.
He grins, then tugs me over to the easel. He shrugs out of his rucksack and opens it to reveal art supplies. Acrylic paints, new brushes, chalk.
‘You’re so damn talented, Caitie. You haven’t drawn in weeks. Go ahead.’
Love for him bubbles up. I kiss him and wonder how I got so lucky. ‘I can’t believe you did this – thank you.’ I take the tubes of paint and turn towards the easel.
And for the first time in my life, that barrelling wave of loneliness falls softly, like rain. Fine, inconsequential rain. I won’t drown, not now. In fact, it won’t even leave me damp. I have my sister back. I have Oscar, always. The only thing more valuable than being loved is being known by someone. Truly known. And he knows me so well. I’d never have given myself a gift like this, during a time so turbulent for my family, but I need it and Oscar knew.
Later, with my painting drying by the door, Oscar runs me a bath and pours two glasses of wine. But I’m not interested in wine. I want him. Still, I strip and lower myself into the warm water. When he sees me, gaze drifting over my wet, naked body, his fingers tighten around the stems of the glasses. He sets them down and without taking his eyes from mine, he strips too.
Before he climbs in, he pauses for just a moment, grinning and shaking his head as though he can’t believe his luck.
I straddle him. We kiss. The paint washes off my skin and runs rainbow streams into the bath water, turning it peony pink and indigo, violet and cornflower blue. My desire for him burns like a fever. We have sex. Or we try to have sex, but the tub isn’t as big as I thought. My knees bang against the sides and the taps dig into my ribs. We slip and slide and laugh it off. We move to the shower where he presses me up against the cool tiled wall and I gasp into his wet shoulder.
The next morning, we have breakfast at Beach Café Bar. We sit outside, nursing cups of coffee as we wait for our food to arrive. It’s stifling today, but the sea breeze offers intermittent relief. Oscar is scrolling through his phone when he whispers, ‘Jesus Christ.’
Thinking it is another difficult client, I don’t take my eyes off my own phone as I ask, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Caitie, have you seen this?’
The trepidation in his tone makes my stomach swirl nervously. I take the phone from him and my insides twist. It is an article about Olivia. Some two-bit journalist exhuming the long-buried theory that Olivia was never kidnapped and instead was a lovesick teen who ran away with an older boyfriend. I skim the article, knowing it is trash, but anger sours on my tongue as I see the photographs. They are of me and Olivia in the bridal boutique. From the angle and clarity, it’s obvious they were taken by the sales assistant. She didn’t let on that she recognised my sister. It’s such an invasion of privacy. Photographs taken without our consent, as though we are animals in a safari. This article will be another dagger for my father to fling at me when the urge strikes. Boiling over, I thrust the phone back at Oscar. Then I am struck by a sickening thought. I snatch the phone back from him. I scroll and scroll and scroll. I read every word carefully this time, heart hammering. I’m relieved, so relieved, the shop assistant didn’t overhear Olivia’s comment about the wedding dress. The press would’ve had a field day with that.
‘Are you OK?’ Oscar asks.
I nod and hand him the phone.
He leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘What’s going on?’
I’ve kept Olivia’s marriage revelation a secret for a week. It has squirmed beneath my skin like a parasite. I look at Oscar and know I can trust him. He’s my fiancé and one day he’ll be my husband. He’ll keep Olivia’s secret. So I open up to him. Tell him about the man I’ve seen twice now. Tell him what I know. Everything Olivia told me. And it feels good to flush the secret out.
His mouth hangs open, a tunnel of disbelief. ‘Married?’
‘Not legally. Apparently. I can’t stop thinking about it.’
His brows rise so high, they almost disappear into his hairline. He clasps his hands at the nape of his neck, making his biceps strain against the cotton of his T-shirt, and leans back in his chair. ‘Christ,’ he breathes. ‘This is huge. Marrying a sixteen-year-old girl? Simon is sick in the head.’
I still, cup halfway to lips. ‘Simon?’
His face drains of colour. Flustered, his eyes flit around my face.
‘Who’s Simon?’ I demand again.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. ‘Don’t be angry.’
Foreboding edges beneath the gaps of me. ‘Tell me.’
He blows out a breath. ‘My cousin, Rachel, her husband works for the police. I bumped into him. We talked. He assumed I knew far more than I did and he told me things he shouldn’t. He was mortified. As soon as he realised his mistake, he made me promise not to say anything to you or anyone else.’ He thrusts his fingers back through his sandy hair. ‘This is serious. He could lose his job, Caitie.’
My breaths are coming faster. ‘What did he tell you?’
He shakes his head. ‘I promised.’
I put my mug down so hard, coffee sloshes over the side. The woman on the table next to ours glances up. ‘She’s my sister.’
He scrubs his hand over his face. He doesn’t want to tell me anything, but what choice does he have? ‘Olivia called her captor Simon, but he never gave her his surname. She was kept in a tiny rural house in the woods. She doesn’t know where but, based on the information she gave the police, they’re focusing their efforts on the Forest of Dean.’ He holds up his hands as though in surrender. ‘That’s it. That’s all I know.’
A waiter arrives with our food. I wait until he leaves. ‘She hasn’t told me any of this.’
‘She told the police. That’s the main thing. Caitie, you can’t tell Olivia or your parents what you know.’
I’m nodding, even though I am desperate to talk to my sister about it. How did I manage to unburden myself of one secret in exchange for half a dozen more? Oscar picks up his knife and fork and starts slicing into bacon and maple-drenched waffles. My stomach rebels at the sight. I watch him, this man I was so sure only minutes ago I could trust. Yet, he has kept all this from me with startling ease.
Feeling my eyes on him, he looks up. ‘What is it?’
‘You lied to me.’
‘I didn’t lie. I didn’t tell you, sure, but I didn’t lie.’
‘You’re seriously going to argue semantics?’
He softens. ‘You’re right. Look, I wanted to tell you but I didn’t think it was a good idea to pile all this information on you only to insist you keep it from your family. I was trying to protect you.’
I scoff. ‘I didn’t ask for your protection, Oscar.’
‘You’re right, I’m sorry. But there was so much more to it. I didn’t want a man to lose his job, his income, because of an honest mistake. I’m sorry I kept it from you. I really am. But my hands were tied. You do understand that don’t you?’
Accepting the reasons behind his deceit feels a lot like swallowing stones. He lays his hand on mine and I resist the urge to snatch it away. ‘Sure.’ My smile is forced. ‘I won’t repeat anything.’
Satisfied, Oscar tucks into his breakfast. But I am too distracted to eat.
Simon.
A perfectly mundane name. It isn’t villainous or menacing. Simon, the man behind the mask who held a knife to my sister’s throat. Who stole her and ruined my family. Simon, who married a child and locked her away in a cabin, deep in the woods. Simon, who put himself inside a young, terrified girl. Simon who isn’t made of smoke and malice but of blood and bone. I imagine myself coming face to face with him, with this ordinary man and calling him by his ordinary name, right before I sink a knife into his chest. I imagine it slicing through flesh and sinew, lodging into bone. Not much different from carving a beef joint. I pick up my butter knife. It glints in the sunlight. I turn it over in my hands and I know, if it comes to it, I could do it. I could kill my sister’s captor.