‘Apparently, it’s done quite a lot of damage in the UK, trees down, some damage to buildings, that kind of thing. They’ve named it Storm Clara.’
‘Storm Clara?’
He nodded, pulled a packet of smoked salmon from the fridge and began peeling off the protective plastic. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, why is it that Clara thinks the car accident was her fault?’
Tania bristled. Her instinct was to close the conversation down. To tell him it was none of his business, and that he was talking rubbish to even suggest such a thing. A knee-jerk reaction, if she thought about it, but also standard protocol for a Harrington when dealing with outsiders wanting information.
‘She doesn’t,’ she said.
Where had he got such a ridiculous idea from? How could Clara think that the accident could have been her fault? She hadn’t even been in the car.
Thank God she hadn’t been in the car.
Tania realised she’d never fully considered how she would feel if Clara had been in the car that day. If she’d died, too. She’d only ever looked at it from a single point of view, her point of view. A point of view through which she suffered Clara’s grief, but through a filter. Tania had liked Mike very much, and Poppy had been perfection. A tiny replica of Clara. And although she felt their loss keenly, neither one of them had beenhers. Not in the way Clara was. Clara was a part of who Tania was. The thought of losing her from her life was unthinkable.
Shoving her mug onto the table, she turned abruptly, taking herself back to the picture window. She hugged her arms around herself, staring at the view, the momentary blackness accompanying her thoughts almost too much to bear. Was this how Clara was feeling? Was this glimpse anywhere even close?
If it was, then it was no wonder her friend had to fight to survive every moment of every day.
Clara was surprised by the strength of Tania’s hug when she entered the living area. It was unprompted, but not unwelcome. Tania wasn’t usually one to be physically demonstrative with her emotions. She tended to keep them firmly in check, doing her best to watch what she said and what she did, especially in the public arena.
The invitation to Snow Pine Lodge itself was more indicative of Tania’s style. The invitation to spend time in the space which Tania found more restorative than any other said everything. Clara knew what the mountains meant to her. Yes, the bars and the restaurants and the parties in Près du Ciel all had their place in the mix, especially when they were younger, but the draw was deeper than that for Tania. After all, someone like Tania could spend her time anywhere she liked. Invitations to gala evenings, red-carpet events and premieres littered her mantlepiece in the same way as fliers for the local dog walking service, or pizza delivery did most other people’s. Lysander certainly spent more time crossing the Atlantic than he seemed to spend at the events he attended, and if that was what Tania wanted, she could do the same.
Instead, and especially this week, she’d chosen the quietness of the lodge setting for them to enjoy, and time spent in an outdoors that was hard to beat, however far you travelled. And Clara was under no illusion that she was the main reason for them all being here, this particular week, courtesy of Tania.
Today was Christmas Eve. Clara looked across at the tree, the lights already switched on and glittering through the polished clarity of the glass baubles, tiny drops of pine resin reflecting the light from the ends of the needles. No point trying to forget what the day was, although she wasn’t sure how she’d made it this far. Was even more sure than before that she wouldn’t have made it to this point if she had been at home. She closed her eyes and stopped seeing, concentrating instead on feeling the strength of Tania’s hug.
‘I want you to know how much I love you,’ Tania said, the words barely more than a whisper. ‘And I want you to know how much you mean to me.’
This was unfamiliar territory. Uncharted waters for them both, if the way they’d intensified their hold on one another was any indication. Tania never told people that she loved them. She just didn’t.
‘Clara, I really mean it. I need you to know.’ The words were stronger, almost fierce, as Tania pulled back, her expression intense. She rubbed at an eye, as if worried there might be a tear in it, then hugged her a final time.
‘I know you do,’ Clara said, her face in Tania’s hair. ‘I know.’
As abruptly as it had begun, the hug ended. ‘I just wasn’t sure that I’d ever actually told you how much you mean to me. To all of us.’ With that, Tania stepped away and headed for a mug already on the table.
Staring at the tree, Clara did her best to regain her composure, before the silence was broken by Madeleine tripping her way up the final few steps and Rose calling her a ‘total klutz’ from some point midway up the staircase.
Time for breakfast.
Tom was doing it on purpose, Madeleine decided. Just when she’d worked up enough willpower to forgo bacon in favour of muesli, he decided to make smoked salmon and scrambled eggs to accompany the freshly baked croissants. With little snips of chives topping the piles of fluffy egg.
The man was a monster. No two ways about it. There was no way he could possibly know it was one of her favourites. How on earth was she supposed to resist this latest temptation? The plan to have a small bowl of muesli went sailing across the room along with the crockery, in her mind’s eye, the flakes of healthy, sustaining oats and nuggets of sultanas, the clusters of nuts arcing through the air and scattering across the enormous rug that covered the floor beneath the table. So much for willpower.
‘Can I just have a small portion?’ she said in desperation.
‘No problem,’ he said, flashing her a bright smile.
Madeleine studied the back of his head as he set about whisking more eggs, checking his hairline for previously unnoticed lumps, where the beginnings of horns might show up. Perhaps demons could completely submerge their horns within their skulls, she thought, to totally fool their human victims. Victims whose trousers were unmistakeably tight this morning. She leaned back far enough to see the whole of his back view. Looking for a forked tail, subtly hiding itself behind the folds of his black apron, perhaps.
‘What are you doing?’ Rose asked.
‘Nothing,’ she replied, pulling in her chair, and banishing thoughts of satanic forces at work in the pristine snow of the mountains. Pouring herself some tea, she did her best to ignore the slices of fresh baguette in a bowl in front of her and waited, with no small edge of impatience, for a plate holding culinary heaven with an aroma to match to arrive in front of her. She pushed negativity further away and picked up her fork.
‘Is everyone happy to eat here tonight?’ Tania said.
Madeleine nodded. Might as well give Tom another chance to weave his food spell even more thickly over them all. Perhaps by the time Christmas lunch rolled around, she wouldn’t even notice the contract he would slip under her nose, wouldn’t mind when he asked her to sign, using her own blood. Or, more likely, it would just be Madeleine rolling around. She wondered if he’d made mince pies. Perhaps there would be traditional Christmas cake, or a chocolate Yule-log, with a robin made entirely from sugar paste perching on one end. Would there be Christmas pudding, with thick custard? She hoped so.
