Emily is drying her hair. It’s not easy because Ruth’s dryer is primitive and blows too hot. No wonder Ruth always looks disheveled.
Emily peers into the small mirror on the chest of drawers in herroom. Her hair looks shit from every angle. She’ll have to tie it up and if Paul tries to take it down tomorrow, the way he sometimes does, tugging at her hair clip and saying that he prefers her to wear it loose; if he tries that, there’ll be hell to pay, and it’ll serve him right.
Emily’s not afraid of a row. Nor is Paul. They can fight like cat and dog, but it doesn’t mean they love each other any less. He says she’s fiery, like her hair, that he likes a woman who’ll stand up to him.
She turns off the dryer and her bravado disappears with the sound, as if it was wired to the same switch.
They can only fightifPaul comes tomorrow.
She wishes she could have reached him on the phone. She’s determined to get down the hill and back to the farmhouse as soon as the rain has eased. Jayne said she would go with her.
In the meantime, she’ll make an effort. No point in making enemies especially if she wants Jayne’s help.
Plus, she’ll ask more about Edie. What kind of hoaxes she’s pulled in the past. Perhaps she can be convinced that Edie’s just messing with them. Perhaps then her heart will stop beating so fast and the twist in her gut that’s making her nauseous will loosen.
She scrapes her hair back into a ponytail. She looks younger with her hair back and she might have cared about that this morning, but not now. Her face in the mirror reminds her of her mother at the end of her life. She seemed to grow younger as the illness stripped her of anything that was left after the years of addiction.
It’s a painful memory. Emily turns away from her reflection.
Outside, the clouds have dipped so low it’s as if Dark Fell Barn is being squeezed between land and sky. The valley is veiled with rain. The place still feels like a fairy tale and definitely not one with a happy ending.
She’s angry with herself for not recognizing Edie for who she is. A hoaxer at best. At worst... it’s unthinkable.
You should know better, she tells herself. In the world youcame from you had to be on your guard twenty-four/seven. First, from her mother’s boyfriends, then from the cancer and what it would do next to Mum. Perhaps she’s lost her edge since living with Paul, got too comfortable, bought into a happy-ending fantasy. She should have known better.
She thinks about the times she’s spent with Edie. There haven’t been many occasions. A few nights out, the gang gathered in a pub, loud and happy. Edie was compelling. People gravitated to her naturally. She was beautiful, elegant, and witty but didn’t act like she was above you. She complimented Emily on her own looks and her clothes and Emily was flattered and seduced.
Was I being played? she wonders. And if so, why? Jealousy maybe? Has Edie found it impossible to relinquish a claim to these men, even after all these years? Did she resent Emily and Paul being together? Was all that niceness on display just to ensure that nobody was ready when she decided to unsheathe her claws?
It hits her then, the stuck-in-your-throat feeling of a difficult memory. Rob’s wake. Emily traveled there separately from Paul. The men had orbited Edie that day, acting as pallbearers, gathered around her and Imogen like a security detail before and after the service. Edie’s grief was towering, desperate, amplified by her elegance and her beauty.
The wake was crowded when Emily arrived at Edie and Rob’s house. She couldn’t find Paul anywhere downstairs or in the garden. She went upstairs.
“I don’t think so.” She heard Paul’s voice, slightly muffled, but couldn’t see him.
“But you promised.” Edie. Upset. Where were they? Should Emily interrupt? Probably not, but she couldn’t resist listening. She crept up to the landing.
“I didn’t promise,” Paul said.
They were in a room at the top of the stairs. Bathroom? The door was shut.
“Please,” Edie said. She was begging. Emily was shocked.
Then, silence. Perhaps the sound of fabric against fabric. Had Paul gone to Edie? Was he embracing her? Kissing? No. Surely not. Emily couldn’t help herself. She turned the door handle and pushed. The door was locked. “Hello?” she called. “Paul?”
She rattled the handle again, imagining them in there hiding from her, and rested her forehead on the door. When it opened suddenly, she stumbled into the room. Paul caught her by the arm.
Edie was sitting on the edge of the bath, still wearing her coat and hat with its scrap of black veil at a coquettish slant. Her face was blotched and the tip of her nose red from crying.
“I’m sorry to hijack Paul,” Edie said. “I couldn’t face downstairs. This is hard.” Her smile seemed somehow cracked.
Paul didn’t meet Emily’s eye. He looked tense.
“Mum?” It was Imogen, coming upstairs. Emily stepped aside to let her into the room. Edie snapped to attention. She checked her face in the mirror before turning to her daughter.
“Sweetie,” she said.
“Why are you up here? People won’t leave me alone downstairs.”
