There is a bitterness to her tone, and I wonder if Annette and Rosemary have fallen out.
‘Peter Bryce?’
‘Yes. He’s her lodger.’
‘And was he a troubled teen?’
‘Yes, he was convicted of assault when he was in his mid teens, but he seems a nice enough lad,’ she admits grudgingly. ‘I suppose he’s company for her. I think he’s like the son she never had.’
I want to ask more about Rosemary but I can see Josh glowering at me from across the table. He’s not stupid, he must be able to tell by my line of questioning that I’m too interested in Dorothea.
‘Maisie is such a talented lady,’ Annette continues. ‘She wasn’t a founder – she was actually one of our first customers, coming to have therapy herself after an abusive first marriage. But it was in the company’s infancy and she loved our ethos so much she came on board. We all had different gifts, but we all complemented each other.’
Interesting. I would love to get Annette’s input into what the hidden sculpture could mean, but instinct stops me.
Dorothea kept it under lock and key, not telling anyone about it, which could mean she didn’t trust those around her, and that included her oldest friends.
27
Dorothea
Sixteen Years Before
It was a sunny day for December. The blue skies and chirruping birds were at odds with how Dorothea was feeling. It should be raining with brooding grey clouds, not a beautiful day like today. Not when they were burying such a gorgeous soul as Ruth. They’d all tried to help her escape her abusive husband, but he’d found her anyway.
The horror of it still hadn’t left Dorothea in the five weeks since it had happened. Those poor girls. She could see them now, standing at the graveside, the older sister with her arm around Imogen’s shoulders. Little Imogen. So skinny in her long black coat, her lovely hair tied back from her drawn, tear-stained face. It was the second time Dorothea had met Alison. The first had been the morning after Ruth’s death, when Dorothea had waited with Imogen until Alison arrived from Cardiff. She was willowy with the same dark hair as their mother, although, unlike Imogen’s hair, Alison’s was poker-straight and fine.Dorothea bit back her tears. It didn’t feel it was her place to cry.
There was going to be a small gathering at the house in Keynsham and Dorothea followed on in her car. She hadn’t had the chance to talk to Imogen properly yet, only a quick hug before the service began. The street wasn’t unlike the kind Dorothea had grown up in, and she could see which red-bricked semi-detached it was by all the cars parked outside. The front door was propped open and people trooped in and out. She had no idea who any of them were. She’d never met any of Ruth’s friends or family apart from her daughters and she felt strangely conspicuous as she followed on behind, wishing, not for the first time, that Rosemary, Annette and Maisie had agreed to come. She steeled herself for small talk and introductions, two things she wasn’t great at. She preferred the peacefulness of her villa and the surrounding woods. She’d hoped these things would have helped save Ruth and it broke her heart that they hadn’t, that somehow, despite her best efforts, Ruth had ended up back with her abusive husband. And now it was too late …
‘Dorothea?’ A little voice at her shoulder made her turn to see Imogen, looking small and lost in her own home as though she couldn’t understand where all these people had come from, or how they’d found themselves in her front room eating egg and cress sandwiches. Dorothea, who had never thought of herself as maternal, had the sudden urge to scoop up Imogen, bundle her into her car and drive her back to her villa.
‘Oh Imogen, my love, come here,’ she said, pulling the girl into her arms and hugging her tightly. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry about your mum.’
‘Thank you,’ Imogen replied softly, when they’d pulled away from each other.
Dorothea had so many questions. Where will you live? Who will look after you? Will you be allowed to stay in the house? But she didn’t want to bombard the poor girl. Instead she settled on, ‘How are you coping? Do you need any help?’
‘It’s okay. Ali is doing it all. She’s been great.’ She smiled sheepishly. ‘Me, not so much.’ She twisted one of her curls around her finger and moved from foot to foot. ‘Have you … does Harry know?’
Harry Starling. The girl was obviously sweet on him. ‘I think so, but do you want me to pass on a message?’
She gave Dorothea another sad smile as she reached into the pocket of her dress. ‘Would you mind giving him this?’ She handed Dorothea a pink scented envelope and Dorothea felt her heart break a little bit more.
‘Of course. I’ll make sure he gets it,’ Dorothea promised, carefully slipping it into her handbag.
‘Thank you.’
Dorothea was about to say more when Alison wandered over. ‘Immy, would you mind helping Sharon with the teas and coffees?’
‘Sure.’ She threw Dorothea an exasperated look and then disappeared into the throng of her well-meaning relatives to ask what they wanted to drink, and it struckDorothea how stoic Imogen was being, all things considered. She was just fourteen and was keeping it together so admirably, and Dorothea wondered who would be there for her after everyone had gone. Would Alison, at only twenty-one, have the emotional maturity to cope with not only her grief but her little sister’s too?
She turned back to Alison, who was now staring at her with a face like thunder. ‘Well, if it isn’t the infamous Dorothea Roe.’
Dorothea couldn’t understand why she provoked such hostility in Alison, but it was obvious that the girl didn’t like her. Maybe she blamed her for not being able to save her mother.
‘I wouldn’t say I was infamous.’
‘Famous then. Whatever.’ Alison folded her arms across her chest and scowled some more. ‘You shouldn’t have let my mum go back to him.’
