Already she’s taking over, just as I knew she would. I hold up my hands in surrender and walk out of the room, before I say something I’ll regret.
To clear my head I decide to find the girls. They’re in the garden playing with the lop-eared rabbits and my heart lifts. I stand at the back door and watch them as they sit on the grass, not caring that it’s damp, chattering away to each other. Evie has hung a crown that belongs to one of her Barbies from the ear of her rabbit, which she’s aptly named Princess. All this space, I think, surveying the vast garden, with the trampoline and a swing set. Even Amelia has seemed happier over the past few days. She’s had a playdate with Orla and, although she still insists she hates it here, her new friend has definitely cheered her up. And half-term is approaching.
I leave them to join Adrian. He’s tapping away at his laptop on the table in a corner of our bedroom. He’s concentrating so deeply that he doesn’t hear me. I watch him for ages, taking in the line of his long neck, the nodules of his spine, the sharp peaks of his shoulder blades. I think of his heart, beneath his grey T-shirt, pumping away. And I remember how he was eighteen months ago, his mind eaten away by self-destructive thoughts.
When he came home from work that day, unshaven, his tie askew, his face grey, and told me he’d walked out of the job I thought he loved, I’d been shocked. When he took to his bed and wouldn’t get up, when he snapped at me and the girls, when the Adrian I knew and loved seeped out of him to be replaced by a stranger, I rang my brother’s wife, a GP, in a panic.
I’ll never forget Julia’s words: ‘Get him to the doctor,’ she’d said urgently. ‘It sounds like he’s depressed.’
Depression had never affected my life before. Even when Natasha died Mum hadn’t experienced depression. She was in deep grief, and over-protective of me, but there was no sign of the fog in which Adrian was lost.
I’d taken Julia’s advice and frog-marched my husband to the next available appointment. It’s been a long road since but it has brought us here.
And now Selena is to be back in my life. This was supposed to be our getaway from the stress of city life, our new start. And I can’t let Selena swan in with her lies, messing it up for us. My family has been through too much and I’ll do anything to protect them.
5
Four days before
The day Selena arrives, so do the dead flowers.
It’s a Friday, the day before we open officially. The house is quiet, the girls are still in bed and Mum hasn’t surfaced yet. I’d hardly slept last night after Evie came into our room at one o’clock saying she was scared. I was so worried she might sleepwalk again (it hasn’t happened since the first time) that I let her into our bed, where she proceeded to fidget. She took up all the room, her body spread out, like a starfish, so Adrian and I were forced to sleep on opposite edges of the mattress. I woke up feeling sick. At first, I couldn’t attribute it to anything in particular, until it hit me that today I’d have to face Selena again.
I sit in the dark in an armchair in the front room, drinking tea and waiting for the sun to come up. When the sky whitens, I start dusting. I’m a doer. My hands need to be busy. I can’t sit for too long without the nagging sense that I have to get on with something. Mum is exactly the same. When I was a kid I could never relax if she was around. She was always on the go, cooking, organizing, tidying and chivvying – although I’ve noticed since she’s moved in that she hasn’t contributed as much as I’d hoped. Maybe that will change now that we’re due to open.
I’m sweeping a cloth across the TV screen even though I did it yesterday (why is there always so much dust?) when I hear the crunch of footsteps on gravel. I rush to the window expecting to see Selena, surprised she’s arrived so early, but the driveway is empty, apart from our beaten-up Honda parked in the corner, under the yew tree that overhangs the churchyard wall. We hardly use it now that I walk the girls to school. In the distance I can see the ring of mountains that forms part of the Brecons, their tops disappearing into cloud. Evie jokes that there’s another world up there, as though the mountains are like the Faraway Tree in her favourite Enid Blyton story. They feel like a safe haven, worlds away from crime-ridden London.
I notice something on the steps. I squint, but the view is obscured by the wall of the house. Perhaps the postman made a delivery but didn’t ring the bell, not wanting to wake us. I can just make out some stems poking out of a plastic covering. Intrigued, I open the front door, letting in a whoosh of cold air. I’m expecting to see a fresh bouquet, maybe from friends in London or from a local wishing us luck on our opening weekend. Instead I’m faced with a mass of dead roses, their once peachy petals wilting and edged with brown. The scent of death and decay drifts up to me.
Dismayed, I step back – and jump when arms go round me.
‘What are you doing?’ Adrian peers over my shoulder. He smells of toothpaste and sleep. He’s still wearing the T-shirt he slept in. Usually he tries to go for a run in the morning. He must have overslept, thanks to Evie. He frowns at the dead roses on the doorstep. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘They were just left there.’ I’m not superstitious but this feels like a bad omen. Adrian steps forward, feet bare, and bends down to gather them up. Brown water drips down the stems and along his arm. Wordlessly he holds them out in front of him as he walks to the green garden bin we keep by the garage and shoves them into it. As he comes back he winces as the gravel digs into his feet, swearing under his breath.
‘It’s bloody cold out there,’ he says. He leans against the closed door, his dark eyes fixed on me. ‘Are you okay? You look freaked out.’
‘Wasn’t expecting a delivery of dead flowers.’ I try to keep my voice light. ‘I wonder who put them there.’
Adrian stretches his arms over his head and yawns. His T-shirt rides up to reveal his belly, once soft but taut since he started running. His antidepressants make him put on weight so he’s taken to exercise. ‘Oh, I expect it was just kids messing about. I bet they came from the churchyard next door.’
I turn and watch his retreating back, familiar in the old T-shirt and checked pyjama bottoms, as he climbs the stairs. It’s lovely to see him more relaxed. If Selena wasn’t arriving today I wouldn’t think anything of the flowers. I’d agree with Adrian. And, okay, some of the locals have eyed us with suspicion, particularly Mrs Gummage. Her face had set rigid with disapproval when we revealed we had bought the Old Rectory and turned it into a guesthouse, as though we’d defaced the walls of the church with foul language and sworn at the mild-mannered rector, Mr Somers.
And Stan something, who’d been in the Seven Stars, had commented to Adrian about Londoners coming in and bumping up house prices. I was outraged. ‘I hope you told him I’m Welsh!’ I’d cried.
Adrian’s right. It’s just a prank. A coincidence. Nothing to do with Selena.
When she arrives I’m on the first floor, in Tulip, straightening the duvet for the umpteenth time, plumping the pillows, moving around the items on the dressing-table. Each one needs to be exactly positioned: the tea tray, the vase of fresh flowers, the vintage-style jug and bowl. Everything must be perfect for the opening tomorrow, even the rooms that aren’t booked in case we attract passers-by. Sian, Orla’s mum, warned me that could happen. She grew up in a guesthouse in Abergavenny and has given me some tips. She told me the village sees a lot of hikers looking for beds for the night.
I hear the thrum of an engine, then the grinding of gravel, as a midnight blue SUV pulls into our driveway. The dread I’ve felt all morning intensifies. The passenger door opens and I hold my breath as I wait for Selena to step out. The last time I saw her she was a teenager, drunk, wearing too much make-up and swearing in a short skirt, her breasts practically hanging out of her strappy dress. Now her hair, once bleached and halfway down her back, hangs in a soft blonde bob. It hasn’t frizzed in the drizzle, like mine does. She’s wearing heeled boots that sink into the gravel, dark jeans and a grey poncho that looks like cashmere. She’s still whippet thin. She stands by her car, looking up at the house, ignoring the fine rain falling on her clothes and hair. I dart back behind the curtains, my heart racing.Has she seen me?When I’m brave enough to peep out again, she’s helping a little girl into a wheelchair. The child, Ruby, looks younger than Evie. She’s skinny with pale brown hair and a white, drawn face. I picture my own daughters, with their plump cheeks and glossy hair. The little girl untangles her arms from around Selena’s neck and Selena kisses her tenderly. My eyes smart with tears.
‘Selena!’ I hear Mum call, as she darts over the gravel in a way that belies her years. She grasps Selena’s hands in hers.
I hear Selena cry, ‘Aunty Carol!’ but their next words are snatched by the wind. There is something in the way they hug that makes me think they’ve seen each other over the years, although Mum has denied it.
I grip the windowsill, inhaling deeply, preparing myself. I have to put on a polite façade and it’s going to be bloody exhausting.You can do this, I tell myself. I still can’t believe she’s here, that I’m letting her into my life again, that she’s going to meet my husband, my children, that she’ll draw me back in then leave me broken, like she did before.
I plaster a smile on to my face. I’d made an effort to tame my unruly curls with serum so they didn’t resemble a frizzy halo, but my reflection in the mirror on the upstairs landing shows me it hasn’t worked. My cheeks are too ruddy and the liner I’d applied earlier has disappeared into the folds of my eyelids. I want her to think I’ve aged well, even when I know I haven’t.
