Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (18 page)

I felt Luke shift beside me and he echoed me: ‘Stunning.’

Then his hand was on my cheek and he was turning my face to
look at him and I could see it in his eyes – he was going to kiss me. And I
should have leaned forward, should have found his lips, but I couldn’t move.
Because there was no going back from this point. If I took this step, I was
lost. I would
feel
, and I would let him feel for me, and then if I ever
lost him… I cringed at the thought, and Luke caught the flash of pain on my
face. He pulled away.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just…’

‘You’re frightened.’

His eyes missed nothing; he
knew
me. I nodded ever so
slightly. He sighed and sat up and looked away, at the view.

Silence fell.

How had such a sunny day got so dark, so fast? I wanted him
to kiss me – I wanted to kiss him – why was I making it so damned hard?

‘I’m sorry,’ I said miserably. ‘I’ve done a Scarlett.’

‘What?’ He turned to me.

‘Done a Scarlett. Something my sister used to say. A lot.
Whenever I wasn’t… well, like her.’

‘Like her? What does that mean?’ His tone was stern, almost,
and I squirmed.

Hole. Shovel. Digging deeper.

‘Um, well, brave, I guess.’

He shook his head, and his mouth twisted. Disgusted, that’s
how he looked. I was mortified. And all the more so when I couldn’t hold back
the hot, stinging tears any longer.

When he saw the first tear run down my cheek he ran a hand
through his hair. ‘Oh hell. You’re crying. I made you cry…’

I buried my face on my knees, hiding from the horror in his
eyes.

He swore, and I flinched, and he said quickly, ‘No! I wasn’t
swearing at
you
. I was swearing because I’ve upset you. Because I’m a
total idiot when it comes to talking about… stuff.’

I didn’t understand. He was blaming himself?

‘The last thing I want in the world is for you to be
hurting,’ he said softly. ‘Jesus, haven’t you hurt enough? All I want to do is
protect you from pain, not open you up to it. Scarlett?’

I wanted to look up. But I couldn’t quite get the tears
under control. It had been like that for me since Sienna – never one tear;
always an ocean.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Look at me.’

‘Give me a minute,’ I said thickly into my knees.

He moved, and I thought for a moment he was going to walk
away, leave me to pull myself together, but then he was behind me, a leg
sliding either side of me, and his arms were enclosing me, pulling me up to sit
against his chest. He leaned down and put his lips near my ear and said gently,
‘Is this okay? Can I hold you?’

I nodded, beyond words. He’d found a way to respect my need
for space, while reassuring me that he was there, right there.

‘You cry if you need to cry,’ he murmured, his breath warm
on my ear. ‘And I’ll just sit here and tell you… I want to kiss you, Scarlett
Blake. I’ve wanted to kiss you since that first day on the beach, when I pulled
you out of the water. You were so lost and bedraggled but determined to prove
you were fine. And I knew you weren’t fine, but your courage…’

I jerked at the word.

‘Your
courage
,’ he breathed into my ear, ‘that day –
every day; it’s beautiful. I know you don’t see it, but I do. It’s all I see
when I look at you. You’re the bravest, strongest person I’ve ever met.’ I
began shaking my head, but he shushed me. ‘You’re crying, remember, and I’m
telling you how I feel. And you’d better let me, because I’m not half as brave
as you, Scarlett, and if I don’t get this out now, I may never say it.’

By now my eyes were dry – and wide with shock. And hope. But
I didn’t tell him that.

‘Go on,’ I whispered.

‘You came to Twycombe all on your own. You went in that
water all on your own. You were so scared to surf, but you did it – you fell
off that board I don’t know how many times, and every time you got back on. You
kept trying; every day you keep trying. You think you hide it, I know, all that
pain you’re carrying around, but you can’t hide it from someone who’s been
there.

‘When my parents died, when Cara got hurt…’ His arms
tightened around me. ‘After that, it was black for so long. Everything I did
was under a shadow. I know grief, Scarlett – I know how you’ve been hurting.
I’ve wanted to be there for you, but how? I’ve wanted to be with you, but you
didn’t need that pressure too.

‘I told myself it was pointless. You don’t even live here;
you’re passing through – there’s no future in it. At best it’s a summer fling.’

I winced at his last words. What was it I had said earlier
at the pub?
‘There was this one guy in Tuscany last year, but just a summer
fling, you know.’
Surely he knew he meant more to me than that? I opened my
mouth to put him right, but he was talking again.

‘Still, how could I help but fall for a girl like you?’ he
said. ‘It’s like you have this inner light that brings the people around you to
life. You make me feel alive. You make me feel like the guy I was before,
before...

‘Then, the other day, when you called me after hitting that
deer… I will never forget that. I drove like a maniac through those lanes,
Scarlett, and when I found you in the road, there was so much blood and you
were so white and still, and I couldn’t wake you up and I thought, I thought…’

I twisted in his arms, then, quickly; I wouldn’t leave him
alone in baring his soul like this.

‘It’s okay, Luke,’ I said. ‘I was fine – I am fine.’

‘I know. But the thought of losing you…’ He took a deep
breath, closed his eyes, opened them again and said, ‘So you see, you’re not
the only one who’s afraid here.’

For a long moment we stared into each other’s eyes. And I
remembered the first day we’d met, how I’d looked into his eyes and thought how
much nicer it would be to drown in that kind of blue. And I decided then and
there, on that grassy hill with Luke, I would do it. I would let go.

I stood up.

‘Scarlett?’ He sounded alarmed. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t
have…’

‘Shhhhh.’

I reached down and grabbed his hand and pulled him up.
‘C’mon.’

Gently, I tugged him toward the folly.

‘But your vertigo…’

I looked up at him. ‘Luke Cavendish,’ I said, ‘it’s time to
face the fear.’

The crumbling stone steps inside the folly were
treacherously steep, and behind me Luke kept his hands on my hips as I climbed.
At the top a window cut into the stonework framed a breathtaking view. I leaned
forward and looked down. One wrong move and we’d be on the rocks far, far
below.

We stood together, looking out, on top of the world and a
step from death, and then… then I did a Scarlett. Not the Scarlett I saw in the
mirror but the one Luke had described.

‘You know earlier,’ I said. ‘At lunch, when we were talking
about music?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you said you liked Ed Sheeran.’

‘Yes.’

‘The Plus album.’

‘Yes.’

‘Track eleven.’

‘I don’t… Hang on.’

Luke rummaged in his pocket, pulled out his phone and tapped
a few times on the screen. I felt his arm tighten around me as he found the
track.

‘Kiss Me.’

He hit ‘play’, and slowly, as the verse began, I turned to
Luke. Our faces were so close, barely a breath of air between us, but there was
no rush, no urgency. We watched each other, listening to the words – and then,
as the chorus began, I pushed up onto my toes and his head sank down and our
lips met. And though my feet were planted firmly on stone that had stood
solidly for centuries, in that moment I fell. I fell for him, I fell in love. I
fell, and I didn’t want to be saved.

We kissed again on the walk back to the ferry, and again on
the boat, and again in the van. And then at Twycombe on the beach, larking
about paddling in the twilight surf, and then back in the cottage, curled up on
the sofa watching another cheesy romance film. And then at the front door, as
we said goodnight. And then nine hours later, at the front door, as we said good
morning. And then as Luke cooked Sunday lunch. And then as we washed it up. And
then as we sat on the roof terrace. And then on the beach, before surfing – and
during surfing – and after surfing. And then back at the cottage, in the
garden, in the sitting room, in the kitchen, until, finally, we were down to
one, two, three goodbye kisses at the front door as Luke headed off for an
evening shift at the pub.

Once his van went out of view around the hedgerow, I sank to
sit on the step and just focused on breathing for a while: in, out, in, out.

I missed him already.

God, how was it possible to feel this much this fast? I
ached for him – the way he made me feel; it was addictive, altering. There was
no better rush than kissing him. But it was more than that, more than the
thrill of intimacy. He got me. He knew me. And who I was with him, it was who I
wanted to be.

Dreamily, I combed my fingers through the long grass
trailing over the step and let memories meander through my mind.

Luke at the restaurant, waxing lyrical about a mouthful
of cheesecake, eyes dancing, hands waving, knees firm and warm against mine.

In the van, on the drive home from Royal William Yard,
unthinkingly rubbing my eyes and Luke glancing over and declaring that really,
pandas are adorable.

On the beach, walking in the surf, feet sinking into the
gritty sand, legs stinging from the salt, fingers intertwined.

On the roof terrace, eyes closed, side by side; his
clumsy invitation: ‘So this All That Jazz thing of Si’s. You’ll come with me,
right?’

His fingers twirling a strand of my hair; his eyes
searching my face as he asked, ‘Are you tired? You look tired.’

His patience as I ‘helped’ him in the kitchen; the smell
of burning gravy; sieving out the lumps; his head thrown back with laughter.

The feel of him behind me, holding me – before the
mirror, at the folly; like an impenetrable shield at my back, solid and
comforting.

In a little over a day with Luke, I’d amassed more happy
memories than the past month, year – lifetime? – had given me. I would always
look back on this summer, I knew, and live in these memories. This was my
summer of discovery, of growing up, of self-definition. This was the very best
of summers. If only I could freeze time, stay here, stay like this for ever.
But time was an unstoppable force. Autumn would come, and with it a farewell to
the cove. To Luke. To Cara. To Bert and Chester. To surfing. To the peaceful
little cottage on the cliff.

‘I don’t want to say goodbye,’ I told the sea, the sky, the
flowers.

There was a rustling nearby, and a frantic scampering. I had
frightened an animal. I scanned the wild land beyond the drive. There, all but
camouflaged against the gorse and the sun-scorched grass, stood a small deer.
Even from this distance, I recognised the white patch on its rump. It was the
fawn I’d hit with my car.

It eyed me for a long moment, and then darted off. Leaning
my head against the porch, I watched it go, leaping gracefully over the uneven
ground, and I wondered how I’d ever thought it badly injured, let alone dead.
All that drama, for a perfectly healthy deer. It ran in the family,
unfortunately. All my life I’d dealt with Mother’s and Sienna’s tendency
towards the dramatic. I smiled as I remembered one of their rows:

‘You’re making a tempest in a teapot, Mother!’

‘I am not, young lady! And the expression is “storm in a
teacup”.’

‘Storm in a teacup? But that makes no sense!’

‘Of course it does! Much more than your ridiculous
tempest in a teapot!’

I’d attempted to intercede then and point out that they both
were making a storm in a teacup/tempest in a teapot about a storm in a
teacup/tempest in a teapot, but from their high horses, neither saw the funny
side. The problem was, they were always too lost in emotion to be level-headed.

But then, couldn’t the same be said of me now? I’d just been
thinking of a huge, wrenching farewell to the cove, but maybe it didn’t need to
be that way. University terms were short, and I could spend the long holidays
in Twycombe. And perhaps Luke would consider a long-distance relationship
during term-time… Okay, that was thinking way too far ahead considering we’d
had only one official date. Still, the idea put a smile on my face and sent me
inside to look up travel options from Plymouth to London.

*

The Luke high couldn’t last forever, I knew that. Still, it
would have been nice to have got through the rest of the weekend, at least, in
a dreamy haze before bumping down to earth. Note to self: when feeling good,
steer clear of contact with anyone who can change that.

Having set up my laptop on the coffee table in the lounge
and Googled route options from Twycombe to Chelsea, I scanned the emails in my
inbox. I read Father’s first, because it was such a shock to receive one from
him – this was the first in memory. It was blunt and confusing:

Dear Scarlett,

No doubt your mother’s been in touch and explained the
situation.

I’m sure you’ll agree that, in the circumstances, there’s
nothing to be gained by our continuing with some semblance of a father–daughter
relationship. Your mother detests me and says she wants me nowhere near you,
and you understand that I must respect that.

I wish you well.

PS – I have attached contact details for a psychiatrist
on Harley Street who once treated your mother, just in case.

Slowly, reluctantly, I double-clicked the next email, whose
subject line read,
SCARLETT!!!!!

Dear Scarlett,

I tried to ring you SEVERAL TIMES THIS WEEK, but it’s
gone to VOICEMAIL. I know you usually ring every fortnight now, but REALLY,
would it hurt to answer the phone?

Since I can’t get hold of you, I’ll just ‘OUT WITH IT’,
as Sienna would have said:

Hugo has left me. We’re getting a divorce.

I’m sorry it’s a shock for you, darling. But the TRUTH –
which I have tried all these years to protect you from – is that Hugo is a
COLD-HEARTED BASTARD. Leave him to his BLOODY golf and his BLOODY Hooray
Henries and his BLOODY money and his BLOODY secretary with her BLOODY implants.
I’m better off without him.

He wants a quick divorce to keep gossip to a minimum, so
we’ll split it all down the middle. He’ll have the London and Edinburgh
apartments and the villa in Portugal, and I’ll keep Hollythwaite. So you’ll
still have HOME, darling – AND ME!

Come home and see me soon, Scarlett. PLEASE. You’re ALL I
HAVE NOW.

Your mother

I sank back onto the sofa and let the feelings come:

Anger, that as usual Mother was dumping her emotional burden
right onto my shoulders; that she was determined to entangle me in her dramas;
that she was casting herself in the role of the victim.

Guilt, that while I was all loved-up Mother was clearly in a
bad way. The shouty email wasn’t her usual style, and told me she’d been off
her head as she typed – on tranquilisers or booze or, more likely, both.

But the overriding feeling was one of relief. Yes, this was
a shock, but not a wrenching one, as Mother assumed.
About bloody time
was the thought running through my head. For if my mother’s intention all these
years had been to protect me from the knowledge that my father was a bastard,
she’d failed spectacularly. I had no happy childhood memories of words of
encouragement or bedtime stories or loving hugs. His Dear John letter dumping
me as his daughter was evidence enough that the man was emotionally warped.
‘Good riddance’ was my reaction – at least I’d never again have to look at him
and wonder why I was such a disappointment as a daughter.

This was a good thing, I thought. Once Mother got through
the unpleasant intricacies of the divorce, she would come to see that. I felt a
fizz of hope in my stomach. Perhaps this would be the turning point for her –
now she’d be forced to take responsibility for herself, and that would mean an
end to wallowing.

Determined to send the right – level-headed – signal to both
parents, I deleted Father’s email and shot a quick one back to Mother, telling
her I’d come to visit the following weekend – Saturday I was out at the Drake’s
Island party, but Sunday I could manage a trip to Hollythwaite.

Checking emails had left a bad taste in my mouth, and I
scanned the remaining ones quickly, keen to close the laptop, go make a
sandwich and curl up in front of the TV. But the word
Sienna
jumped out
at me on the page, and my eye flew to read the sender’s details:
[email protected].

I clicked.

Hey Scarlett.

Hope yr OK.

I lkd in the trash folder on my email and it was there –
the picture from Sienna of her with the surf lot. I dunno whether one of them’s
the guy she liked. But hey – take your pick! Some hotties, eh?

K xx

I thought back to my meeting with Katie in the coffee shop –
it seemed an age ago. Then, everything had been dark and painful, and my mind
had been consumed with why, why, why – why had Sienna done it? The discovery
that Sienna was seeing a surfer had been meaningful. I’d intended to get close
enough to the surfers to find out who that guy was. What he knew. Whether he’d
done something, perhaps, to push my sister over the edge.

Now that I knew why Sienna had drowned, I felt differently
about the ex-boyfriend. He’d gone from being a sinister shadow to a regular
bloke who’d cared about my sister. I doubted very much she’d have told the guy
that she was dying; Sienna never wanted to be perceived as weak. So perhaps
she’d shared some happy times with him towards the end. It would be good to
find him now and ask him about those.

I clicked the attachment and the photo opened on my screen.

Twycombe Bay. An overcast day – misty white sky and grey
waves rising high behind a large group of surfers in black wetsuits. There were
plenty of unfamiliar faces, but I made out Geoff and Duvali and Lucy and Andy
and Big Ben and Si and Kyle. And Luke: he was there in the back row, smiling
easily like he was quite at ease in this ensemble.

In the colourless setting, though, it was Sienna’s
bright-red hair that most drew my eye. She was in the centre of the bunch,
smiling widely. As well she might, given that she was flanked by two handsome
guys.

The first looked like he’d just swapped military fatigues
for a wetsuit. He was tall and muscular; imposing, formidable. His hair was so
severely cropped its colour was indeterminable; his face was symmetrically
perfect and somehow all the more attractive for the angry scar dissecting one
cheek. He wasn’t looking at the camera; he was looking at Sienna. Seriously.
Intently.

The second was an altogether different breed to the first.
Too much soul to be a soldier – he exuded it, no more so than in the look on
his face as he, too, watched my sister. Like she was not the fiery hellcat I
knew her to be, but something better, brighter. He stood a little awkwardly beside
her, one hand holding the opposing forearm. There, I knew, beneath the thick
neoprene, a single word was inked onto the skin.

Serviam.

It was Jude.