‘Tell you what?’ Rose said, her voice soft and inches from her lips.
‘I need to know this is what you really want.’
‘Of course it is.’ Rose slid her fingers into Madeleine’s hair, trailing them through it as she inched closer.
‘Are you sure? It’s just, with Lysander being here, and you wanting us to keep everything such a secret … I wasn’t sure …’
‘Maddy, I want this,’ she said, with increasing conviction. ‘I just have some things to work through for myself. And if you want me to, I promise to tell you every last gory detail of my life once I have. OK?’
‘Perhaps not every gory detail,’ Madeleine said. ‘I’m retracting any line of questioning relating to the Donkey reference, for example. There is such a thing as too much information. But I don’t want you to keep anything from me.’
Rose breathed a mint-laced laugh. ‘Deal,’ she whispered. ‘On one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you stop talking and start kissing me instead.’
Madeleine didn’t need to be asked twice, she’d wanted more than the minty warmth from Rose’s breath since the beginning of the conversation. She needed to taste her. She leaned in, Rose’s lips unbelievably soft on hers. They parted as Rose let out a low moan, allowing her to deepen their kiss. Fingers tracked across fabric, buttons yielded to allow skin to touch skin and Madeleine sucked in a breath as the heat, which had begun to build in the hot tub, exploded back into her body like a tidal surge, flattening everything in its path. The memory of Rose in that tight swimming costume, knowing how hard the nipples under that red fabric could become, was enough to submerge her completely, the last strands of rational thought loosing and washing away.
Clara leaned back against the mixed fabrics of the cushions on the sofa. There were more sofa accessories than ever before, with a couple of the throws made from faux fur. At least, she presumed it was faux fur. Some of the cushions were covered in linens, or leathers, or a variety of velvets. The cushions were of varying designs and colours, but they all complemented one another. An interior designer had undoubtably had their fingers in this particularly lucrative pie, no doubt organised by Tania’s stepmother. Brigitte liked to stamp her authority on the things she viewed as hers, a little like an animal marking its territory, with a casual nonchalance only a fool would think wasn’t backed up by teeth and claws, if needed.
The interior of the lodge had been systematically upgraded every few years, and Clara hadn’t visited in a while, but one of the most noticeable additions was the piece of art hanging on the wall between the picture window and the corner of the room. Mostly hidden by the Christmas tree, and luckily not in her line of fire when she’d launched her flute glass against the wall– was that only a couple of days ago?– the painting was undoubtably an original.
Clara levered herself from the sofa and took a closer look. She didn’t recognise the artist, but the piece was classy. She had no trouble picking out its qualities, even though paint hadn’t been her medium of choice at art school. But it had been Tania’s. Clara hadn’t seen any of Tania’s work lately, she hadn’t seen much of what anyone else was doing lately, but she had always held the opinion that Tania’s talent with a paintbrush was another thing her friend was exceptionally good at dismissing with a shrug of a shoulder.
It didn’t surprise Clara that a stranger’s painting hung in this room, alongside the window that held the view Tania loved above any other. Just visible out of the corner of her eye, every time she looked through the window, was the reminder that her father hadn’t asked for a piece of his daughter’s work to hang on the lodge wall.
Clara sighed as she retook her seat. She wondered how much of that decision was Anthony’s doing, and how much was a result of Brigitte’s beautifully manicured iron fist.
Tom was still tidying the kitchen. A wash of guilt passed over her at having asked him to sit at the table while they had dessert. He had been polite and accepted, when he probably wanted to finish with his duties and get on with his evening. Maybe he wanted to head into Près du Ciel, have a few drinks in one of the many bars which were sprinkled throughout the underground complex. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked him to join them, but she liked him. Liked talking to him. It felt normal.
Over the last couple of days she’d realised it was almost possible to feel peaceful for whole minutes at a time at Snow Pine Lodge. There were little pockets of time when, although the guilt remained sharp like a splinter under a fingernail, the grief didn’t completely overwhelm her. There were fragments of time in which Mike and Poppy weren’t spiralled into the black void, instead it was as if they were waving at her from a different room. Maybe it helped that they’d never visited Snow Pine Lodge together. Maybe it wasn’t that at all.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ Tom’s soft Scottish burr interrupted her thoughts.
She shook her head. ‘No. Don’t let me keep you. You’ve probably got somewhere you’d rather be.’
‘Not really,’ he said, switching off the kitchen lights. He hesitated as he looked at the twinkling fairy lights on the tree. All the bulbs were the same soft white, winding their way up the tree sparsely hung with nothing but delicate, handblown glass baubles holding miniature alpine scenes and a silver star at the very top. Elegant, if a little soulless, Clara thought.
‘Our tree used to be covered in all sorts,’ he said. ‘Everything shoved everywhere. Nothing matching.’ He huffed a laugh. ‘Same God-awful fairy at the top. Always felt sorry for her, sat up there with the tree stuck up her backside for a month.’
Clara wondered which tree he was referring to. His childhood tree? Or a more recent one? Folding her arms, she did her best to banish the memory of the table-top tree Mike had bought when Poppy was crawling, keeping it out of her reach for fear of her pulling it over and being hurt. Or last year’s one. The one Poppy helped decorate. Nothing but a few pieces of tinsel and some lights making it any higher up than Poppy could reach, baby fingers fumbling with every bauble but fierce determination in those blue eyes as she insisted on placing every single one on a branch. Several boughs ended up touching the floor with the weight of their festive load. Clara couldn’t stop herself smiling at the memory, her eyes filling with emotion. She did her best to shake the tears away, blinking repeatedly to get herself back under control.
‘I’ll turn the lights off, shall I?’
She stood and rubbed at her eyes while he headed for the tree and flicked the power off.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll wish you a goodnight, then.’
‘Yes. Goodnight, Tom.’
He made to walk away, then seemed to change his mind. ‘I might be way off base here, but would a hug help?’
She frowned. How much of what she was feeling was written on her face, she wondered. She tried so hard to react as normally as she could to things, even when they were overwhelming.
‘It’s just, first Christmas after …’ He squirmed away from saying the words, but she knew what he meant. ‘It’s got to be so tough for you right now. And, I don’t know, I just thought …’ His voice trailed away, his stance as awkward as his words.
‘Yes please.’ In a movement so swift it surprised them both, Clara bridged the gap between them and buried herself against his chest. After a few seconds, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
