Текст книги "The House on Fever Street"
Автор книги: Celina Grace
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Epilogue
The wind threw a handful of rain against the pub windows as she ducked inside the doorway. Bella paused, head down, shaking her wet hair towards the floor. The pub was warm, dark, smoke hanging in writhing grey ribbons as she made her way towards the seats at the back.
“Hi Bella.”
Mark held a hand out towards her, directing her towards the empty bench. Bella smiled weakly and sat down.
They faced each other for a moment. Then Mark leant forward. She felt the momentary press of his mouth against her cheek and closed her eyes. His lips were warm and soft.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I’m okay.”
“I got you a drink. I thought – wine?”
“Thanks -“
“God – you’re soaked-“
“It doesn’t matter -“
Their eyes met, properly. Mark put his hand out. She felt the warmth of his fingers, the shock of it.
“I can’t believe it,” he said.
“It’s alright,” said Bella, automatically. The same phrase, always.
Mark picked up his pint. Bella looked at his fingers, curled around the glass, and was reminded piercingly of Jake, sat across from her in the Black Horse. She felt her jaw clench. She picked up her cool wine glass, feeling the condensation slip beneath her fingers.
Mark put his glass down.
“I can’t believe it,” he said again. He was looking down at the table but then he raised his gaze to her face. Bella tried to smile. She couldn’t, at that moment, speak.
“I’m sorry I missed you at the funeral. It was a bit of a – well – a bit – “
Bella swallowed painfully.
“It was a bit,” she managed. Then she thought, why am I so worried about crying? Mark will understand. She felt the threatening tears well up and spill over. Mark’s face contracted.
“Bella – “
He moved to sit beside her, perhaps to take her in his arms. She put a hand up to stop him.
“It’s alright,” she said. A tear fell onto her hand, a tiny splash of warmth. “I’m okay. It’s just – I’m still very sad.”
Her voice broke on the last word. She coughed, wiping her face.
Mark was nodding.
“I know you are. I am too. I still can’t believe it.” For a moment, he frowned. “How that bastard Carl is still alive, and Jake’s – “
“Not.” Bella finished the sentence for him. Both of them were silent for a moment. Mark brushed at his eyes.
Bella clasped her hands together in her lap.
“Well, anyway,” said Mark, after a moment’s silence. “He’ll be going to prison for a nice long time, at least.”
“Will he?”
Mark looked appalled. “You don’t he’ll get off?”
Bella sighed.
“He’s got the money to afford a good lawyer.”
“He can’t.” Mark looked close to tears again for a moment. “He can’t. Life wouldn’t be that unfair.”
Bella laughed mirthlessly.
“Wouldn’t it?”
The two of them sat in a bubble of silence. Bella looked down at her glass.
“What about Veronica?”
Bella shrugged. She took another sip of wine, trying to swallow past the knot in her throat. After a moment, she felt calm enough to speak.
"It's funny," she said, looking at the depths of her glass. It felt easier to speak without looking Mark in the face. "The way we met – Jake and I – it threw us together, literally. I mean, he found me in the darkness and he led me out of the tunnels, up into the light. He saved me. And he said I saved him. I didn't understand then that what he meant was I saved him from what he'd done before."
"The murder," said Mark.
"Yes. I didn't understand – how could I? And he was wrong, too. I couldn't save him. How can someone else be the – the solution to that kind of trauma? The only person that could have done anything to make him feel better about himself was Jake himself, but he couldn't see that."
Bella forced herself to look up at Mark, to see how he was taking this. He reached for her hand across the table and for a moment, she allowed him to hold it. Then she pulled her hand away, gently.
"What hurts the most," she said carefully, "Is that it wasn't really me he wanted. Anyone would have done. If he'd latched onto anyone in that train carriage, they would have been the one to save him – that's how he would have seen it. It just happened to be me."
Mark looked troubled.
"That's not true," he said. "He did love you."
Bella stretched her mouth sideways in an attempt at a smile.
"It's nice of you to say that," she said. "But I don't think it's true."
Mark said nothing. He was rolling a beer mat between the fingers of his free hand and Bella watched the cardboard oblong go round and round, half hypnotised by the movement. It helped to distract her.
"Perhaps I didn't love him either," she said, almost to herself. "But I thought I did. I thought I did."
They said goodbye on the pavement outside. The rain had stopped and a watery gleam of sunlight was struggling through the clouds overhead. Mark pulled Bella towards him in a brief, crushing hug. Then he released her.
“Give me a ring sometime. Please?”
Bella smiled crookedly. “I will. I promise.”
“How are you getting back? You’re at your Mum’s at the moment, aren’t you?”
“At the moment. I’ll walk back to the station, it’s alright.”
“It’s a bit of a trek –“
“I’ll be fine.” She stretched up to kiss his cheek. He squeezed her hand.
“Take care of yourself.”
“Yes.”
She watched him walk away from her. Then Bella turned, her cold hands in her pockets. She began the slow walk back to the train station, dodging other pedestrians, trying to keep her shoes out of the puddles of water on the pavements. Ahead of her, a dark gap in the row of shops loomed – the entrance to Goodge Street underground station. Bella felt the familiar sickness surge up, her pulse rate begin to quicken. She clenched her hands into fists.
The bus that would take her to Waterloo was just up ahead. She put her head down and began to walk towards it, looking at her feet on the pavement, the toes of her boots flashing in and out of her vision. Nearly there, now. The entrance to the Underground was there, on her left, and she was walking past it, level with it, nearly past it.
Her footsteps slowed. She came to a halt in front of the entrance. A young couple pushed past her, speaking in Spanish. Bella looked fearfully into the entrance. More people came out, stepping round her as she stood as if turned to stone on the tiles of the entrance hall.
Bella took a deep breath. She took a measured step towards the entrance, another, another. She paused on the tiled floor of inner hall, breathing quickly. She remembered Jake, his face above her as they lay in bed, smiling down at her, his hair falling into his eyes. For a second, she hesitated. Then she walked towards the ticket machines, trying to breath properly, fumbling for coins, saying Jake’s name under her breath, like a talisman. Bella walked through the gates that snapped sharply back to admit her. She walked toward the escalator; shaking, her breath coming in short gasps, her legs weak – but still moving forward, walking toward the trains that rattled and hummed beneath her hesitant feet.
THE END
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NEW! Celina’s new psychological thriller, Lost Girls is now available from Amazon:
Twenty three years ago, Maudie Sampson’s childhood friend Jessica disappeared on a family holiday in Cornwall. She was never seen again.
In the present day, Maudie is struggling to come to terms with the death of her wealthy father, her increasingly fragile mental health and a marriage that’s under strain. Slowly, she becomes aware that there is someone following her: a blonde woman in a long black coat with an intense gaze. As the woman begins to infiltrate her life, Maudie realises no one else appears to be able to see her.
Is Maudie losing her mind? Is the woman a figment of her imagination or does she actually exist? Have the sins of the past caught up with Maudie’s present... or is there something even more sinister going on?
Lost Girls is the new novel from the author of The House on Fever Street: a dark and convoluted tale which proves that nothing can be taken for granted and no-one is as they seem.
Read the first chapter below...
LOST GIRLS
Celina Grace
Prologue
In the dream, it is always the same. Up ahead, I can see the holed stone outlined against the sky; drawn in shadow, a monochromatic sketch in my mind’s eye. The moon is so bright, it’s almost like daylight. I can see the glint of Jessica’s eyes as she comes and crouches down beside me, as I wait by the hedgerow. Behind us, the stream runs over the rocks and flows through the weed that grows like thick green hair in the water.
“Come on, stupid,” Jessica whispers and then she’s gone, creeping forward towards the rocks that are just a few steps away from the hedgerow. They are huge. Monolithic, they rise up and up and up, outlined against the harvest moon; a craggy jumble of stone, all sharp edges and depthless shadows in the moonlight. The Men-an-Tol is enormous, far bigger than in real life – a great stretching circle of stone, the hole in the middle of the rock gigantic, filled with a darkness that ripples like moonlit water. Jessica’s blonde hair shines in this weird, bleaching light, the same colour as the cornfields that grow all about the farm. She creeps away from me, her long, thin legs in their red shorts flashing pale in this strange landscape that is at once a memory and a fantasy. I watch as she draws near the rocks. I can’t move from this spot, I can’t throw off the weight that presses me to the ground. It’s as if unseen hands are holding me to the grass and earth beneath my feet.
I manage to move my head. I look down and I am dressed in the clothes that I wore that summer, my favourite outfit of nineteen eighty-nine; blue-spotted shorts and a yellow t-shirt, but it’s all wrong because my body is the body I have now, the body of an adult. Jessica has reached the rocks, her blonde hair a puff of corn silk blown by the midnight breeze. She stands in front of the Men-an-Tol and puts her ten-year-old hands on the rock and somehow I can feel the chill of the stone under my own palms. And at last I can move, can get up and run forward, released from whatever bondage held me to the ground. But it’s too late, I look up, and Jessica looks up, and I see her mouth fall open as, emerging from the blackness of the hole in the centre of the stone, is a creeping arm, a bulbous leg, as if the blackness itself is coalescing into a hideous form.
Jessica turns to run. I see her mouth wide open, the gleam of moonlight off her teeth as behind her the black figure shakes itself free and rears up against the moon, monstrously big, moonlight glinting off fangs and claws and its dead black eyes. It swoops on Jessica and smothers her blonde hair in blackness; she disappears as if an inky curtain has been drawn across her.
I stand there in the moonlight and scream, and scream, and scream.
Always, in my real life, I wake up then, my heart thrumming. Kicking and flailing, I run from the dream into wakefulness and I lie there in the dark. I remember that I am an adult, no longer ten years old, and the realisation hits me once again; I am grown but Jessica is not. Almost a quarter of a century later, she is eternally ten years old; lost back there with the rocks and the cornfields and the dead white moonlight.
PART ONE
C hapter One
The day of the funeral dawned cold and bright, sunlight filtering weakly through the curtains. The fine weather didn’t last. As I dressed shivering, after my bath, I could see dark grey clouds massing over the distant mountains and a thin white mist beginning to rise from the valley. By the time we went down to breakfast, the sunlight was gone; the sky sagging with imminent rain.
By the time I finished dressing, Matt had already left the room. He’d rested his hand on my shoulder before he left, had given me a reassuring squeeze, but he hadn’t said anything. What was there to say? I sat at the dressing table and drew a thick, black line over each eyelid. My hand was almost steady and it only took two attempts. My skin looked too white, dull and lifeless. I pinched each cheek.
Caernaven was as cold as it always had been. Despite the clanking radiators in every room, I could almost see my breath as I walked down the corridor, my heels muffled by the carpet runner. I hesitated outside Angus’s room. They’d found him here, just by the door which was now firmly shut, thank God. I looked at the floor, as if there would be some mark, some stain. Nothing, of course. I felt a sudden rush of nausea and swallowed it down. It must be hunger – I hadn’t eaten much lately.
The dining room was as dark as ever. In the blackened fireplace were the ashes of last night’s fire. Mrs Green, or someone, had switched on a little electric heater which stood in front of the hearth, both bars glowing red but sending out a pathetic heat that barely warmed the patch of floor in front of it. I stood for a moment in front of the fire, feeling my shins scorch in their covering of fine black nylon, putting off the moment I’d have to start making conversation.
The others were already sat down to breakfast; Matt, with my empty chair next to him, Aunt Effie opposite, and next to her, Mr Fenwick, my father’s solicitor. I poured myself coffee and gave one to Matt, just the way he liked it, black and strong. He smiled at me and I managed to smile back. I directed the remnants of the smile towards Aunt Effie and Mr Fenwick. So far, so good – I was holding it together. As I sat down, I could feel my eyes being drawn towards the empty chair at the head of the table. For a moment, I could almost see Angus there; dark-suited, his pewter-haired head bent towards the copy of The Daily Telegraph folded next to his plate. He would turn his eyes to me, like twin points of metal. But of course, I didn’t really see him, because he was dead. Angus was dead. The knowledge kept thumping me in the stomach. I kept wanting to laugh, it was so ludicrous. It kept coming in waves; I was afraid at some point I wouldn’t be able to control it. I poured myself another cup of coffee, trying to distract myself. The coffee pot chimed once, twice, on the edge of my cup.
Aunt Effie and Mr Fenwick were carrying on a stilted conversation about the order of procedure at the funeral, and various travel arrangements. Matt sat beside me, saying nothing. He ate almost silently, staring across the table, and I wondered what he was thinking. From here I could see the glints of silver in the hair above his temples; they matched the frame of his glasses. I squeezed his thigh under the table and he glanced at me and smiled, briefly. I smiled back, or tried to – I’d been pushing down the scream that had wanted to emerge for so long my face wouldn’t react properly – the smile came out all wonky.
“You’ll be doing a reading today, Maudie?” said Aunt Effie.
“What?”
“You’ll be reading today, dear?”
I took a moment to reply.
“Yes,” I said.
“What will you be reading?”
I struggled for a moment. I felt Matt give my own leg a comforting squeeze and managed to get the words out.
“A poem. One of the writers from Katherine.”
Aunt Effie looked pleased.
“Ah, of course. Very suitable, I’m sure.”
We were all silent for a moment. I crumbled the toast left on my plate. Matt raised his coffee cup to his lips and took a sip.
“Yes,” said Aunt Effie, “he would have liked that.”
She looked down at her plate, eyes glistening behind her glasses. Something about her tears made me suddenly feel faint. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I took a scalding mouthful of coffee, the cup chattering against my teeth.
Mr Fenwick excused himself from the table and we soon heard his brisk steps echoing back from the polished wood of the hallway. Matt put his coffee cup back in its saucer and the tiny sound rang out into the silent room.
“I’ll be upstairs, okay? Just got to get a few things before we go to church,” he said. He put a hand on my shoulder as he walked passed, and nodded to Aunt Effie as he left. “Put something warmer on, darling, you’re shivering.”
His comment warmed me more than a thicker jumper would and I managed a real smile. It was strange, seeing him dressed in a black suit and not one of his ratty old jumpers and his tweed jacket with the corduroy patches on the elbows. He’d had that jacket so long the corduroy had worn smooth, like velvet. He looked different in black; older, more serious. I suddenly had a glimpse of him as his students must see him. He left the door wide open, as he always does when I’m in the room, and I felt a rush of affection for him, for always thinking about me.
I pushed my chair away from the table and stood up. Aunt Effie did too, rather more slowly.
“Maudie.”
Shit. I stopped just before the doorway and turned around slowly, trying not to let my feelings show. Oh, I know I should have been more patient but I couldn’t be around anyone else’s grief.
She made her way towards me, walking stick tapping out a staccato message on the floorboards. I forced myself to wait for her. As we walked slowly towards the hallway, I concentrated on my breathing.
“Matthew is looking well,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, looking at her sideways. I had never quite ascertained her feelings towards my hasty marriage to a man thirteen years older than myself. Not hasty, let’s not say that – let’s say impulsive instead. She’s not one to talk of her feelings – we aren’t, in our family – but I thought – wondered – whether she really approved.
She startled me then. She put a hand out to my arm and pressed it.
“I know you don’t show your feelings much, dear,” she said, almost whispering. I stared at her, shocked that her choice of words could mirror my own private thoughts. “But you’re so like Angus; I know you must miss him dreadfully, dear. As we all do.”
I opened my mouth but she interrupted me.
“I know things haven’t always been easy – “ I made some sort of sound and she increased the pressure on my arm. I had to stop myself shrinking away from her touch. I felt peeled, as if I were missing a layer of skin. “I know things haven’t been easy but – well, Maudie – “
“What are you trying to say?” I said. I resisted the urge to move my arm away. It wasn’t her fault, after all.
“I’m just saying that sometimes things have to be done for the best. We all have responsibilities. It might not always be what we want to do but it has to be done, anyway.”
I made a non-committal noise. I had no idea what she meant.
She looked down. I was close enough to see the fine dusting of powder on the withered peach-bloom of her cheek.
“Don’t let me down,” she said quietly.
“What – “
“At the funeral. Please – just do what you’ve been asked to do.”
She was looking at me directly. Her eyes were the same colour as Angus’s; pale grey. For a moment, it was like looking at him and I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to say why wouldn’t I but I couldn’t get the words out.
“Okay,” I gasped, finally. I pulled my arm away, too roughly, but I couldn’t help it. I managed to nod goodbye. I could feel her looking at me as I made my way up the stairs and had to force myself not to run.
I found Matt up in the bedroom, looking out of the window at the distant mountains, his hands in his pockets. I hesitated for a moment and then wrapped my arms around him from behind, laying my head against his shoulder blades. I could feel the steady thud of his heart reverberating through his body, beating gently against my face. The suit had that dry, new-clothes smell. I sighed.
On hearing me, he turned around and took me into his arms properly, rocking me back and forth.
"You’re shaking," he said.
“I’m just cold.”
He let the lie pass. I burrowed my face into his shoulder.
“What a horrible day for you," he said.
“I’m alright,” I said.
He drew back a little and held me at arm’s length.
“Are you?” he said. His eyes met mine and I blinked and looked away.
“I’m alright,” I said again. I kissed him briefly, just a quick peck on the lips. He pulled me closer to him again.
"Don't worry," he said, the slow metronome rock of his arms bringing me a little comfort. "I'm here for you. Don't worry about anything."
He gave me a final squeeze and released me.
"I'd better go down and see if I can help out with the cars," he said. "Wrap up warm."
I nodded.
“This is really shit, Maudie,” he said. “I know it is. But you’ll get through it. I’ll help you get through it. You know that, don’t you?” He looked at me with such concern, I had to look away. “You do, don’t you?”
I felt my face twist and fought it. I managed to nod again. Matt put his arms around me again.
After he left the room, I waited in the same spot, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to recreate the same sense of comfort that Matt's embrace had given me. It didn't work. Out of the window, I could see Matt walking across the driveway, stopping to speak to Mr Fenwick, their faces serious. The black limousine stood on the gravel forecourt, chugging clouds of white vapour into the air. I felt a momentary qualm because Angus wasn't a limousine type person; he thought they were too brash, too vulgar, but the funeral director had suggested it and I'd agreed, too bleary with shock to think of saying no. Would he have disapproved?
My head swam. I couldn’t get through this day, I couldn’t... One thing would help, if I could find it. I went to the wardrobe and knelt down, throwing old shoes aside, pushing past the litter of paper and plastic bags that cluttered the bottom of it. It was a faint hope but...my questing fingers felt the sharp edges of a shoe box and something leapt up inside me. I took a quick look over my shoulder at the firmly closed bedroom door. Then I lifted the lid of the box. Still here, after all these years. There was at least a quarter of a bottle left. Thank God. I felt the heat of it slide down my throat, the wonderful burn of it hitting my stomach. I finished the vodka in six quick gulps and pushed the bottle back into the box, hiding it under a welter of old clothes. My head swam as I got up from the floor but this time I welcomed it. I began to feel that wonderful sense of distance, a glass bubble surrounding me. In the bathroom, I rinsed my mouth with mouthwash. Then I buttoned my coat tightly about me, ran my finger tip under each eye and went to join the others.
“Angus, as you know, lived most of his youth in Scotland and always retained a great deal of fondness for his native land – “
As the vicar spoke, I glanced around the packed church. Angus had had few close friends but very many acquaintances, nearly all of whom were here. My eye picked out various members of the board of governors from Katherine, all of whom I would need to speak to later; several young faces, who looked like students, or recent graduates; a few ancient family members down from Scotland; what looked like all of the directors from the company, down to the lowliest executive: a smattering of what had to be press, packed into the last few pews; faces, young and old, that I didn’t recognise at all. I slid my gaze back to the front of the church. Coffins always look too small to hold the person they enclose. I looked at the wooden sides, French-polished to a deep lustrous shine, and thought: how can Angus be in there? How can he be dead? A rush of unreality hit me, and I jerked a little in my seat. All of a sudden, I felt swamped with heat. I’m going to faint, I thought, and for a moment could not decide what would be worse – to faint in full view of everyone in the church, or to disturb everyone by rushing pell-mell towards the exit…
“Darling?”
Matt’s whisper jerked me back to reality. I reached out for him, my other hand pulling at the hair that lay hotly against my neck.
“Angus inherited the family business on the death of his father in the late sixties and under his leadership, Sampson & Sons became one of the most successful manufacturers in the United Kingdom, if not Europe. By the age of forty, Angus had increased turnover of the business by two hundred percent, and as we all know, became one of the most successful – “
“Are you okay? Maudie?”
“I’m okay.” I breathed deeply in and out. I was okay – the panic was receding. I put my shaking fingers to my forehead and wiped away a thin film of sweat. My fingertip ran over the familiar ridges of my scar, a jagged L-shape that linked my eyebrow and my temple.
“However, unlike some entrepreneurs, Angus wanted to use his fortune for good. As well as generous donations to a host of charitable foundations, Angus founded the Katherine College of Art and Creative Writing in nineteen ninety-two, enabling many young people to follow their dreams and ambitions in the creative arts, and I know he would be so pleased to see so many alumni here today. Named after his wife Katherine, who died so tragically young, the College quickly became a – “
Matt was still looking at me anxiously. I dredged up a smile from somewhere. I was still damnably hot – I began to surreptitiously unbutton my coat.
“He was, in short, a most generous benefactor to the Arts, a benevolent entrepreneur and a man devoted to his friends and family. Here to read a poem from one of the first graduates of the College, is Angus’s only daughter, Maudie.”
I could feel eyes swivelling toward me as I sat struggling to release myself from my coat. Blushing, I wrenched at the last remaining sleeve and felt the lining give in a purr of ripped stitches. I managed to stand up, clutching my notes in a sweating hand. Matt gave me a strained smile as I manoeuvred my way past him and made my way to the front of the church. I felt the pressure of two hundred pairs of eyes boring into my back. I was sure my scar was glowing red, as if a branding iron had been laid against my face. I just about managed to restrain myself from putting my hand up to cover it. Then I was level with the coffin.
I could only do this if I didn’t think about it, about any of it. I could feel that weird sense of disconnect again but this time I welcomed it; I felt as if I were watching myself from afar. See, there’s Maudie climbing the steps to the pulpit. I could feel the cool slip of the little banister beneath my palm but it was as if it were happening to someone else. I stood facing the packed rows of the church, all those eyes on me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the hard edges of the coffin. Angus, I thought, where are you now? Was he in this church, waiting for me to mess up, once again? I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I began to read, as professionally as my quavering voice would allow.
It was later. I manoeuvred my way slowly through the drawing room, clutching an empty wine glass. People were drinking a lot, although discreetly, and conversation was at a subdued hum. I kept my face fixed in a restrained smile and moved through the little groups as though I had somewhere specific to go. As I made my way across the room, squeezing past elbows and shoulders, I looked at all the different pairs of feet shifting back and forth; polished brogues, black court shoes, a pair of grubby trainers, which marked their owner out as either a disrespectful teenager or an arts graduate from the College.
I found Aunt Effie sitting on one of the drawing room sofas. She looked exhausted, as if she'd shrunk a little during the afternoon. For a second, pity softened me. She’d had her eyes closed and I began to move away but she opened them and spotted me.
“Would you like a drink, Auntie?" I said, pretending I hadn’t been trying to leave.
"A cup of tea, thank you dear." The bulbs of her knuckles shone bluishly through her skin as she clasped her walking stick. "Mrs Green has some Earl Grey in the kitchen, I believe."
I just nodded. It would give me something to do.
The kitchen was relatively empty. Mrs Green was busy in the pantry, stacking more canapés on white plates. She pointed me in the direction of the tea and I made it, hastily and badly. I could see a nearly full bottle of brandy on the shelf behind Mrs Green’s head and wondered if it would sound too strange if I asked to have it. I decided it probably would, and picked up a bottle of wine as a substitute.
As I handed Aunt Effie her tea, Matt came up to me.
“What can I do?” he said after a moment.
I seized the opportunity and asked him to get me a glass of brandy – “just a small one”. He nodded and hurried off to the distant kitchen. I sat back down, feeling slightly better. Aunt Effie and I sat in silence, the subdued hubbub of the wake swirling around us. I tried to think of something to say, something bland and inoffensive, but I couldn’t think of anything. I looked around the room, at the ornaments, the pictures and glassware and sculpture. Angus likes to collect beautiful things. Liked. I looked around the crowd to see if I could see any of his women, but I didn’t recognise anyone. Perhaps that tall redhead in the corner, in black velvet? I thought I’d spotted the young one earlier; I couldn’t remember her name – the one who’d been here when Becca and I had visited – but that had been a few years ago and I couldn’t be sure. I put my hands up to my head, massaging my temples.
Matt came back with the brandy. He poured me a glass and stood over me until I’d had a sip.
“That’s better,” he said. “You looked like you were about to keel over. Just sit there for a moment and keep Aunt Effie company. I’ll be back soon.”
We both watched Matt move slowly about the room, topping up people's drinks, helping with coats, having his hand shaken. Occasionally, he’d look back at me, and smile. I sipped at my brandy, my mouth puckering.
"Matthew's been very helpful," said Aunt Effie. I nodded. He was good at this stuff, putting people at their ease, making sure everything ran smoothly. He was so much more interested in people than I was. Sometimes I admired this trait in him. At other times, I regarded it with a half-contemptuous amusement.
Aunt Effie was still speaking.
"I haven't had much of a chance to get to know him since your wedding," she said. I smiled, guiltily. "Being so far away from you. You must come up to visit more often, Maudie. Particularly now..."
