I collect Florence from the train station. Her hair is a short curtain of inky silk, falling halfway between jaw and collarbone. Her lips, which are usually painted red, are rosy and glossed. Her pale blue dress is full length and tiered with billowing sleeves and an open back. The material is linen. Expensive.
‘Gorgeous dress,’ I tell her as she slides into the passenger seat.
She bites her lip. ‘It’s not too much?’
I pull out of the train station car park. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’m so nervous. Why am I so nervous?’
‘Because you haven’t seen her in sixteen years. But it’ll be fine. Promise.’
She gives a nervous little laugh. ‘And we’re sure it’s Olivia?’
I glance away from the road to see if she’s serious. ‘Of course we’re sure.’
‘Just checking. I mean, it’s a shock, isn’t it? I never thought I’d see her again.’ She exhales loudly, as though trying to dispel her tension. This is new. Florence is certainty and strong coffee. Ambition and whimsy. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry we’ve had to rearrange this a couple of times. Olivia wasn’t too upset?’
I shake my head. ‘No. She’s looking forward to seeing you. She understands you had to work. Speaking of, how was London?’
‘Busy, dirty, congested.’ She launches into a rant about the horrors of underground commutes. I only half listen as I weave us between hissing buses and determined joggers who run out in front of me. ‘But I’m glad I went,’ she says. ‘This new Noah Pine book is set to be another best seller. I can’t believe I was chosen to do the audiobook. It isn’t even out yet and I’m already being asked to narrate books for other authors.’
‘That’s great. Your mum must be thrilled.’
Florence glows. ‘Naturally.’
I feel a twinge of envy that she grew up with a parent who supported her dreams. Even when those dreams consisted of being a Broadway actress. Susan didn’t push her daughter into teaching or some soulless tech job because it paid well. Florence loves her mother, but I don’t think she can ever truly appreciate how lucky she is to have a parent who encourages her to pick whatever path she wants in life and happily holds her hand as she walks down it, no matter whether it leads to a dead end or a pot of gold.
‘So much has changed in such a short space of time,’ she says.
‘Yep. You got your first big narrating break … I got reunited with my long-lost sister.’
‘Can you believe it was just three weeks ago we met in that bar and debated whether I should be Odell-Fox or Fox-Odell?’
I shake my head and join the clug of cars snail-crawling across Bath and its torturous one-way system.
‘Missed you,’ she says.
‘Missed you, too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ I say, checking my rear-view mirror. ‘Why would you even question that?’
In my peripheral, she shrugs one slender shoulder. ‘Olivia is back.’
‘And?’
‘And I assumed there wouldn’t be as much room for me in your life. Rightly so, obviously.’
‘There’s nothing obvious about it. You’re as much as a sister to me as she is. You always will be. Olivia coming back doesn’t change that.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes! You’re one of the most important people in my life, Florence. I mean, Jesus, I’ve known you since I was seven. It’s been nineteen years. If our friendship was a person, she’d be old enough to drink. She’d be standing in line for a club and she wouldn’t even need a fake I.D.’
Florence throws her head back and laughs.
I go on. ‘She’s old enough to vote. To drive. To pilot a plane. She can legally buy scissors and have sex.’
‘I hope she doesn’t get the latter two confused.’
I grin.
‘So …’ she says. ‘What you’re telling me is that our friendship is old enough to legally suck a dick?’
‘Yep.’
We’re both laughing now. Love for her fizzes up. Florence is family in every way that matters. In every way but blood.
‘It’s just, I don’t have a sister,’ she says with so much of her soul bared to me, ‘but with you in my life, I feel like I do.’
We’re in standstill traffic. I put the handbrake on and twist in my seat so I’m facing her because I need her to see how sincere I am. ‘And that’s never going to change.’
At the house, I send Florence out into the garden with an icy pitcher of Pimm’s before heading upstairs to find Olivia. When we arrived, Mum told us she was decompressing in her bedroom after a particularly taxing trip to the police station this morning. I’m expecting to find her curled up on her bed, exhausted and raw, instead, she is fastening the last wooden button of her ivory dress. It’s billowing and romantic with a tie waist and balloon sleeves. It’s jarring, how beautiful she is, she is more beautiful every time I see her – her dark lashes, angular face, her long, luscious gold hair, and the confident way in which she holds herself. I assumed if she ever returned, she’d be a hollowed-out shell, timid and awkward, unsure of the world around her. She isn’t. Gideon talked about the night terrors and anxiety, about how she is struggling and lonely, but, looking at her now, you wouldn’t know.
I feel her thinness as we hug, the gaps between her body and her dress scrunches as we collide. I breathe her in; blackberries and night jasmine. ‘I’ve really missed you,’ she whispers into my shoulder.
‘You, too,’ I say as we break away.
‘I’ve got another appointment with Gideon this week. Mum and Dad are going back to work so would you mind picking me up again?’
‘Of course.’
I perch on Olivia’s bed. At her dressing table, she spins the jewellery stand. The necklace she chooses is one I recognise. It’s an emerald on a dainty, gold rope chain. Mum adored that necklace; Grandad Aubrey gave it to Nana on their first wedding anniversary. I’ve begged Mum for that necklace a thousand times and she’s always quipped, ‘It’s yours when I’m dead.’
‘Everything OK?’ asks Olivia.
I’m frowning. I feel the deep lines of disapproval carved into my brow. ‘Yes, all good,’ I say, trying to smile through the gnawing jealousy. I know it is wrong to feel this way because it’s likely Olivia saw the necklace and, like me, fell in love with it. After everything Olivia’s been through, how could Mum deny her the emerald?
‘Are you sure because—’
‘Gideon seemed great,’ I say, cutting her off in a bid to change the subject.
‘Oh, yes, he really listens.’
‘Isn’t that what therapists are supposed to do?’
‘Well, yes, but some do it better than others. There are three I deal with on a regular basis, and he’s the only one who seems to care more about how I feel and what I want, and less about squeezing me for juicy, morbid details. I come out of those other appointments feeling like a squeezed-out lemon.’
I’m nodding. ‘He’s nothing like the therapist I used to see.’
‘How so?’
I think of the dowdy, red-faced woman who smelt of mothballs and was forever pushing a pair of cheap glasses up her crooked nose. I swallow. ‘Just, you know, he seems young.’
She pulls a face. ‘He’s in his late thirties.’
I redden. ‘Well, age aside, I’m glad he’s helping.’
She takes a brush from the drawer and works it through her hair. ‘Do you think he’s easy to talk to?’
I nod.
‘And what did you talk about?’ she asks.
‘When?’
‘Outside the coffee shop.’ Her voice is light and easy, as though she isn’t that interested in my answer, but the tension that squares her shoulders betrays her. ‘You were talking for quite a while.’
She wants to know if Gideon floated the idea of me moving back to Blossom Hill House. Naively, I hoped this notion would melt and disappear completely, like ice cubes in water.
‘He asked me if I’d consider staying here for a while.’ I clear my throat, dreading the news I know I must deliver. ‘But I can’t do it. I can’t move back in with Mum and Dad.’
She stills, hairbrush in hand. ‘Why?’
‘I have a fiancé, a home of my own.’
‘But it’s just a few weeks,’ she reasons. ‘Until you go back to school. Won’t Oscar let you?’
In truth, I haven’t even brought it up with him because I don’t want to live with my family again. ‘He isn’t like that. He wouldn’t stop me from doing anything.’
‘Except travelling.’
‘Olivia,’ I scold, stung.
‘Then what? Why won’t you move home for a while?’
‘Because Blossom Hill House isn’t my home. Not anymore. I can’t just abandon my entire life.’
Her expression sours. ‘Of course. I mean, what kind of functioning adult is single and jobless and lives at home with their parents?’ She slaps the brush down onto the dresser.
I push to my feet. ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry I haven’t seen you a lot recently. I’ve avoided coming here since my fight with Dad but I’ll make more of an effort. I’ll come round every day.’
The longest, coldest silence.
Olivia bristles with disappointment and anger. ‘Do whatever you need to do, Caitlin.’
Caitlin. She never calls me Caitlin.
She smooths down her dress. ‘Is Florence here?’
I nod.
‘Great.’
She turns and heads for the door.
‘I’ll grab some glasses and we can—’
She spins on her heel. Lifts her chin. Determined. Stony. ‘Actually, I think I’d prefer to spend some time with her alone. It’s probably easier to reconnect with your childhood best friend when your little sister isn’t hanging around.’
She turns and leaves without looking back.
I go after her but Mum catches me at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Can I have a quick word?’
I look past her. I can’t see Olivia, but I hear her grabbing glasses from the kitchen cupboard.
‘Whose idea was it to take Dad’s credit card the day you and your sister went shopping?’
I’m distracted, eager to catch up with Olivia before she goes out into the garden. ‘Dad gave it to her.’
‘You didn’t take it from his office?’
I hear the French doors opening.
‘Did you?’ she presses.
I drag my gaze away from the kitchen door and see that Mum is anxiously twisting her wedding band around her finger. ‘Did I what?’
She sucks air between her teeth, irritated. ‘Take your father’s credit card?’
‘No. I just told you he gave it to Olivia.’
She turns her face away.
‘Didn’t he?’ I ask.
A beat of silence. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She smiles. ‘Aren’t you joining the girls in the garden?’
Girls. As though they are still thirteen years old. I nod and walk quickly down the hall and into the kitchen, stopping at the French doors. Olivia and Florence stand in the splash of sunshine, drinking each other in. Florence lifts a shaking hand to her mouth. Then they collide. They are a tangle of hair and breath and sweet, disbelieving laughter. They cling to one another. And I see it. I see the moment they slot perfectly back into one another’s lives. The last sixteen years of separation dissolves between them. Florence pulls back, still clutching Olivia’s hands as though she is terrified that if she lets go, even for a second, she will vanish, a mirage melting beneath the too-hot sun. Then they are hugging again. Tightly. So tightly.
I sit in the cool kitchen for half an hour before I venture outside to join them with a fresh pitcher. After all, the plan was for the three of us to spend time together. The sliced fruit and ice clink against the jug as I cross the garden. They don’t even look up as I approach. They laugh, heads bent close. I hover beside the table until Olivia’s gaze flicks up to mine, her smile white and wide. But it is a smile that was never intended for me. It’s left over from the brilliance of Florence’s company and I am dining out on the crumbs of their shared joke.
She sobers quickly, her smile wilting in the afternoon heat. ‘Everything OK?’ she asks in the same tone you’d spit, ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ I answer, gripping the handle of the jug so hard my hand starts to ache. The air around us grows rigor-mortis stiff with awkwardness. I have slipped back in time, I am the clingy, irritating little sister, desperate to hang out with Olivia and her cool friend. But it’s different now. It should be different now. Florence is my friend. She’s been my friend, and only my friend, for the last sixteen years.
‘Thanks,’ says Olivia, gaze falling on the jug in my hands.
‘Oh, sure.’ I set the cocktail mix down on the table as though I’m a waitress.
They smile at me. They are waiting for me to go. Rejection needles my skin and I turn to go. But then Florence catches my wrist and says, ‘I’ll come find you before I leave.’
‘You don’t need me to drive you home?’
‘Daniel’s going to come get me.’
‘Great.’ I take in the two of them, wishing they’d ask me to stay. ‘I’ll … leave you to it.’
As I make my way back up the garden path, their easy conversation resumes.
In the kitchen I am alone.
Mum asks for my help bringing boxes down from the attic. They’re full of photo albums and old family videos. I assume they’re for Olivia. I’m just stacking the last dusty box on the landing when I hear the two of them come in through the French doors. They are giggly. I move to the stairs so I can talk to Florence before she goes. I’m not even halfway down when I see Florence kiss Olivia’s cheek before disappearing out the front door.
She didn’t say goodbye. She forgot to say goodbye to me. I stand there, staring at the spot Florence had been just seconds ago, feeling like a jumper that’s become too itchy and too tight, shoved in a drawer, and forgotten.
Olivia turns around, sees me dithering. My heart beats faster, wondering what she’ll say, but she barely glances at me as she climbs the stairs. She moves by without so much as brushing my shoulder.
A moment later, her bedroom door slams shut.