Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (9 page)

Warmth flooded through me, and something else – something
new and frightening. I should have been happy. To like someone was to feel
alive; to be like every other teenage girl. But to like someone meant
vulnerability.
He’ll hurt you,
said a low voice inside.

‘Scarlett?’

Luke was looking at me expectantly.

‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Ha ha! Lobsters, eh?’

He looked at me a little oddly, and I had to wonder whether
the end of the story I’d completely missed wasn’t, in fact, a funny one.

From then on, I did my best to affect my light mood of
earlier, but I think Luke sensed that something had changed. After our third
round of drinks I suggested we head back. The journey home was quieter, more
subdued, and I racked my brain for a way to restore our earlier rapport while
hiding my messy feelings, but what with concentrating on the narrow roads, I
had my hands full.

Finally, as we drove up the lane to the cottage, I took
myself to task. I couldn’t carry on floundering about; I had to do something to
correct the awkwardness.

‘Stay for a drink?’ I offered. ‘The views from the terrace
are great, and there’s some Victoria sponge I made yesterday for Bert. It’s as
hard as brick, but not too bad dunked in coffee…’

I cast a sideways look at him, hoping he’d see the offer for
what it was, and found him smiling easily back at me.

‘Sure. Thanks.’

I relaxed. It was Luke, and he was easy to get on with.
There was really no reason to have got all tense. We’d have a drink, have a
laugh, and tomorrow we’d be back on the boards and friends as usual.

But as I pulled around the bend on the approach to the
house, I realised in a second that my plan was scuppered. My vehement curse
gave Luke a jolt.

‘What is it? Oh, you have a visitor…’

Ahead of us, pulled up right before the front door to the
cottage, was a large silver Mercedes. As I passed it, a suited chauffeur
emerged and moved to open the rear passenger door – and a whole big can of
worms.

‘Luke, I’m sorry, but that drink will need to wait,’ I said
hurriedly as I pulled up alongside the house. ‘Can I catch up with you
tomorrow?’

The subtext was clear:
Leave. Please. Now.

I looked at him. His expression was pinched, anxious.

‘Scarlett, who’s…’

I sighed. ‘Look, it’s my mum, all right? Bloody surprise
visit. It’s best if I see her alone. She’s… delicate.’

He nodded, seeming to accept this, but still he was tense. I
could tell he was thinking of Sienna, wondering what darkness lay in my family.
‘Will you be okay?’

‘Yes,’ I promised. ‘I can handle her.’

He must have seen the frustration in my eyes, the pain that
had re-emerged, and he touched my arm. ‘Hey, it’ll be –’

A sharp rapping on my window pulled him up short. I turned
to see Mother peering nosily into the vehicle. I grabbed the door handle and
flung the door open, causing her to totter back sharpish.

‘Mother,’ I said as I clambered out and slammed the door
shut. ‘What a surprise. What are you doing here?’

Already the tears were flowing, and in two steps she was
clinging to me like a lush to a free bar.

‘Oh, Scarlett, Scarlett. I just had to see you, to speak
with you. My baby. My
only
baby…’

Gently but firmly, I extracted myself from her embrace and
made to lead her into the house, but her eyes had fastened on something beyond
me and suddenly her crumpled expression transformed to one of delight. I
groaned and thought,
Here we go.

‘But darling, you have a
friend
with you! How
lovely
!’

I shot a look behind. Respecting my wishes, Luke had made a
good go of backing towards his van, but now he stood frozen, unsure which way
to go.

‘Come!’ instructed Mother imperiously, beckoning him over.

Desperately, he looked at me. I rolled my eyes and then
admitted defeat with a slight nod.

I saw Mother take in Luke’s appearance as he walked around
the car to us. Looks were very important to Mother. ‘What a strapping young
man,’ she said to me.

I cringed at her speech, which was slightly slurred and way
too loud.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Blake,’ said Luke politely
when he reached us, holding out his hand to her. ‘I’m Luke Cavendish.’

I wondered what he made of my mother. Most people, on first
meeting her, were taken aback. Not only was she younger than expected (she’d
had Sienna aged twenty, making her only thirty-eight now) but she was
startlingly beautiful, with a tall, slim frame, pearly skin, vivid green eyes
and gloriously red hair that fell in artfully arranged waves. And, of course,
she was poor at concealing her ‘fragility’, as Father put it
(‘stark-raving-bonkersism’ had been Sienna’s term of choice), which had got a
lot worse since her daughter’s death. All in all, Mother was quite a shock to
the system.

‘Luke,’ she said now approvingly. ‘A good, sensible,
Biblical name – I like that.’ She gave his hand a weak clasp and then dropped
it. ‘You’ll join us for tea, won’t you, Luke?’

It was as if I was invisible to Mother; she was like a cat
with a new toy to bat between clawed paws.

Luke gave me a nervous look. ‘Well, I really do have
things…’

‘Nothing that can’t wait, I’m sure.’

‘Mother,’ I said in a warning tone. ‘I’m sure whatever
you’ve come here to discuss isn’t of interest to Luke.’

Wasn’t it enough that I’d messed up this afternoon by
getting all awkward? No way should Luke now be subjected to this dramatic,
ridiculous woman. And then there was the problem of her loose tongue and what
she may say in front of him if he stayed.

‘Silly Scarlett, I’m just here to visit with you. See how
you are.’

I regarded her sceptically. With Mother, there was always an
agenda.

‘So, that’s settled then. Three for tea! Now Scarlett,
really, aren’t you going to invite us in? I’ve been sitting in the car waiting
for you for an hour now, young lady, and it’s been stiflingly hot.’

I didn’t bother pointing out that the Mercedes was
air-conditioned and equipped with an integrated ice bucket and mini-bar, which,
judging by the smell of gin emanating from her, I had no doubt she had drained.

‘Why don’t you go around to the back terrace, and I’ll make
drinks.’

‘Perfect. Luke here can escort me round.’

Poor Luke. She held out her arm for Luke to slip his
through. I had to admire his cool in taking Mother in his stride. They made a
strange pair, walking away – Luke, tall and broad in his casual shorts and
shirt alongside Mother, thin as a pin and weaving along in six-inch stilettos
and a very tight designer shift dress.

As they disappeared around the side of the house it occurred
to me that Mother was bound to ask how Luke and I knew each other, and the very
worst thing he could do was say he was my surf instructor – perfect recipe for
a Mother meltdown; not entirely unreasonable given that she’d lost her other
daughter in a ‘surf accident’, as she liked to call it.

Quickly, I unlocked the door, threw my bag down on the hall
floor and charged into the kitchen. I grabbed the nearest drink to hand – a
bottle of lemonade – decanted it hurriedly into a jug, slammed it down onto a
tray along with some glasses and a packet of biscuits grabbed from a cupboard,
and pushed through the back door into the garden.

Mother and Luke were sitting at the white patio table, Luke
relaxed back and Mother perched delicately on the edge of her seat. As I strode
across I was in time to hear Luke say, ‘… teaching Scarlett to…’ and I launched
straight in:

‘Drive! Advanced driving lessons. The lanes are so tight.’

I risked a glance at Luke and mouthed a silent,
Please
.

‘That’s right,’ said Luke easily. ‘Ten to two,
mirrors-signal-manoeuvre and all that. Safety first.’

I smiled my thanks at him. So already he’d picked up on the
fact that Mother was the nervous type then. But she was distracted…

‘Scarlett,’ she said disapprovingly as I set the tray down
on the table before her. ‘Really, is this the best you have to offer? Not even
a pot of tea?’

‘It’s fancy lemonade,’ I pointed out as I poured it into the
three glasses – mismatching ones, I now noticed. ‘Look, it’s got floaty lemony
bits.’

Luke helped himself to a biscuit and began munching.

Mother took her lemonade, looked at it as if it were a toxic
chemical and took a delicate sip. She winced as she swallowed.

‘So,’ I said, sitting beside her and looking her right in
the eyes, ‘what brings you all the way down here. On a Thursday afternoon. With
no advance warning.’

‘Oh, Scarlett,’ she breathed tragically, placing her drink
down. ‘I’ve just been so
worried
about you. You don’t return my calls.
You don’t write. You don’t come home to see me. It’s like you’ve vanished…’

Luke was suddenly absorbed in picking apart his biscuit.

‘Now, Mother,’ I said with as much patience as I could
muster. ‘Be fair. I emailed you last week. You know I’m okay.’

‘But Scarlett, I can’t bear to think of you here, in this
dreadful place. What if something
happened
to you…’

I could see the tears forming, could feel where the
conversation was heading –
like Sienna
.

‘I’m fine here,’ I said firmly. ‘I told you – I’m almost
eighteen. Old enough to live independently.’

‘But for just a couple more weeks. Then you’ll move to
London. For university.’

‘Term starts at the end of September,’ I corrected. ‘Almost
two months.’

I felt Luke’s eyes on me, and there was so much more I
wanted to say – about the cove, and how I loved living here; about London, and
how I’d begun to realise I would
not
love living there. But it wasn’t
the time.

‘Oh, Scarlett, you’ll be all alone! In that little Chelsea
apartment. Two bedrooms – one empty! Your sister… your sister… Sienna should
have been with you…’

Now Mother’s shoulders were wracked with sobs. Luke looked
distressed. Standing, he offered to go and find some tissues.

‘Thanks,’ I told him. ‘In the kitchen.’

As soon as he was out of earshot I said sharply, ‘Stop it,
Mother. Luke is a friend, and you’re parading our family’s pain in front of
him. It’s embarrassing for me. Please pull yourself together. I’m okay, you can
see I’m okay. I’m happy here. I feel better. Time here is helping. Now please,
can we have some pleasant time together before you head back?’ I paused as a
terrible thought formed in my mind. ‘You are heading back tonight, aren’t you?’

Mother had stopped crying and was gazing at me wide-eyed.
She seemed lost for words. Eventually, she reached over and pulled me in for a
long hug. When we broke apart, she looked stronger.

‘You’re right of course, darling. Terrible to air personal
stuff in front of a stranger.’

I winced at the word – Luke was hardly that – but said
nothing.

‘It just hurts so, still, and I worry about you. You’ve
always been so independent and self-sufficient, and I don’t know what’s going
on in your mind, and now you’re here, where it happened, and I torture myself
thinking about, well, an accident…’

She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, but I knew her
meaning, and I reached over and held her hands. ‘Mother, you have to believe me
when I say I’m okay. Really. I’m not going to have an “accident” like Sienna.’

She searched my eyes and then finally nodded, relaxing.
‘Okay, darling. Okay. But tell me now – are you well?’

I thought of the packet of painkillers in the bathroom
cabinet, bought last week and only two remaining; of the head rushes that came
sometimes with standing up too fast; of the exhausting dreams that plagued me
every night and the bone-aching weariness that stalked me.

‘I’m fine, Mother,’ I replied.

‘You look tired. Doctor McNesby could prescribe you
something to help you sleep, you know.’

It was tempting, but no. ‘Honestly, Mother, I feel good.
Sun, sea air – it’s good for me here.’

She looked at me long and hard, and I saw tears glittering
once more, but then the kitchen door swung open and Luke – who’d had the good
sense to take an age finding the tissues that I knew were in clear view on the
kitchen table – reappeared.

The transformation in Mother was impressive. She accepted
the tissues, blotted under each eye, gave Luke a dazzling smile and said, ‘So
tell me, Luke, do you live locally?’

In the following half hour there was no trace of the
grief-stricken mother; instead she was charming and polite, and carefully
steered the conversation along safe lines of the weather and what had changed
in the village these past years. When she discovered that Luke was into
cooking, she launched into a lengthy conversation on the best way to prepare
king prawns. As she chatted away, I felt the familiar ache from childhood – the
wish that this Mother, this lovely Mother I had been proud to identify as my
own at a school play or in a park, could be permanent, and the black cloak of
depression wouldn’t cover her and turn her into someone else, someone needy and
selfish and strange; someone I did not want to be around.

Finally, Luke made his excuses. Mother insisted on a peck on
the cheek, and he obliged. Then, promising to see me on Monday for our lesson,
he disappeared around the side of the house and I heard his van engine start
and recede into the distance.

‘Thank you,’ I said to Mother.

I didn’t have to elaborate. She knew that I meant thank you
for toning down the emotion; for remembering how to be a mother.

She smiled at me. ‘You like him, don’t you? Luke.’

I was surprised at her perception; usually Mother was in a
world of her own. I shrugged, unwilling as ever to confide in her. But
apparently the shrug was answer enough.

‘Hugo wouldn’t approve, of course.’

‘I don’t give a damn what Father thinks.’

I expected a ticking-off, but she just snorted and said,
‘No, neither do I much these days. But anyway, Luke. I like him. There’s
something about him, something genuine, that’s refreshing. Right now, with all
you have going on, I think he could be good for you, Scarlett.’

I blinked at this endorsement from Mother, who’d never once,
in my entire life, brought up the subject of boys with me – though I know she’d
lectured Sienna endlessly about her string of boyfriends.

I said nothing; I didn’t know what to say. She reached over
and squeezed my arm.

‘Now look, the sun is dipping, and Jervis will be wanting to
get on the road. I’ll just freshen up.’

We went inside. In the kitchen Mother stopped and sighed as
she looked about, then she click-clacked across the wooden floor, into the hall
and up the stairs. It felt strange having her here, in the house. I was used to
having it all to myself, and though this had once been her home, as a child,
living with Grandad and Nanna, she didn’t fit here.

I washed up the lemonade glasses and jug, and wiped down the
kitchen table. After a few minutes I began to wonder about Mother; it was very
quiet upstairs. I went to check.

The door to the bathroom was open wide, revealing an empty
room. My eye was drawn at once to the end of the hall, to the door that
remained closed. Sure enough, when I pushed it open, I found her: sitting on
the bed, the patchwork quilt clutched in her hands, eyes fixed on the view from
the window. Tears streaked her face, but she cried silently now, without
theatrics.

‘Oh, Mother,’ I said. I crossed to her, sat beside her and
put my arms around her.

‘I’m sorry, Scarlett,’ she said quietly. ‘I just wanted a
moment. Her room at home, it doesn’t feel like hers – she was there so rarely,
what with school and summers away. Here, she feels closer.’