Love Always

When Mum was upstairs working this afternoon I went into the living room & read the Times with no one looking, because I knew from Archie & Jeremy talking about it at breakfast something juicy was happening in the Profumo Scandal case & I am very curious.

This is the trial of Dr Stephen Ward, who they say caused the whole thing. Well I must say I hope I am a broadminded young person but good grief. It uses the word ‘intercourse’ ten times. Every time they ask Christine Keeler if she had intercourse with someone, the answer is always ‘yes’. I’m not even sure what that means, I think sex, but the whole way or just a part of sex? (feels weird to write that word) . . . Darling diary, I wish you could tell me. Dinah Collins at our school has had sex with her boyfriend, in his car at Christmas. She is such a slut. No one talked to her for all of the Spring term when they found out. I don’t know why. I wanted to ask her what it was like, does it hurt, isn’t it embarrassing? It seems such a strange thing to do, when you think about it. People walk along the streets all smart & suave wearing new suits & yet they do that in the evenings with each other . . . I don’t understand it.

My hand hurts! I have been writing for an hour. The bump on my finger from writing in exam time is coming back. I feel very virtuous. It is supper soon & I should go & change, or at least comb my hair. We are having fish pie for supper; Dad says that’s stupid in July & we should float the pie back out to sea where it belongs.

Bust exercises: 25

Nose squashing exercises: 10 mins

Love always, Cecily

Wednesday, 24th July 1963

My Darling diary

I reread what I have written so far of this diary once again, & once again it makes me want to blush. I am a horrible person with a base mind.

Also, I don’t hate Miranda. Well, some of the time I do. She is just a bit difficult sometimes. She doesn’t really have a weird vicious streak. I was going to tear these pages out & burn them, but I want to be a writer & you have to be truthful. So I will keep them, to remind myself, & then burn them maybe later, because GOSH I WOULD DIE if eg Jeremy knew I loved him or what I have been thinking about. I have nearly filled up these pages. I don’t want to stop now. The boys haven’t arrived yet and I want to write about them, too. It’s exciting. I must get an exercise book from Penzance so I can carry on writing for the rest of the summer.

President Kennedy has signed a nuclear test ban treaty & he has promised to change the US immigration laws – but I don’t know how, I only read the headline because Archie took the paper. I like President Kennedy, & he looks a bit like Jeremy though he is not as handsome as Jeremy (though he is still handsome).

I want to be a better person than I am. I want to look better too. I am so ugly, my nose is too big. I spent a long time in the bathroom yesterday doing my exercises: I squash my nose down so it doesn’t stick out as much. I don’t know if it works, like doing ‘I must increase my bust’

fifty times a day, but I am doing them in case. It is awful to have a small bust. I hate it. Mummy says it will grow, but I hate talking about all that with her. She always wants to, & she is always wanting to have convs. about being a ‘woman’, it makes me want to be sick. Sometimes I think I am a disappointment to her, I don’t ever know what Mummy wants.

Anyway, today I said please could this painting be the last time I sit for you. She said Why? I said Sorry Mummy I just don’t like it very much. She was quite cross. Miss Powell says women should stand alone & fend for themselves, like Elizabeth I, but I’m not good at saying to Mummy what I want. Mummy can stand alone & fend for herself though that’s for sure. ‘Though I have the body of a weak & feeble woman, I have the heart of a king, & a king of England too.’ Miss P made us declaim this at school this summer. I absolutely love it. Here are my top ten list of favourite pieces to read out loud:

10. ‘Make me a willow cabin at your gate’ from 12th Night

9.

8.

7.

Thursday, 25th July 1963

Dear diary

Sorry I was called for tea & then we played games. I will finish the list soon.

Today was a funny day. Frank and Guy Leighton are here now and everything feels different. I don’t know why. Because I feel confused.

Louisa said something on the way to Penzance to get them. She said my brother is a peeping Tom. He watches her get undressed. I’m sure it’s not true. It’s disgusting if it is true. I don’t know . . .

But I am racing ahead and I should tell the day as it happened. In the morning I sat for Mummy & we talked about Profumo. I went into Penzance with Louisa and Jeremy, to pick the boys up. And I bought a new exercise book from Boots, so I can write as much as I please which is good, I’m on the last page as you see!

Silly Cecily. Perhaps this holiday is going to be all right after all, I am glad that the others are here now anyway. Help – I am about to run out of space! I have written far too much already. Now I transfer to my beautiful new bk and I can carry on from there Love always, Cecily

PART TWO

July 1963

Chapter Twelve

‘So, what time does Louisa’s new boyfriend get here?’

‘He’s not my boyfriend, shut up, Cecily.’

‘He is! You’re going to kiss him on the lips! And Miranda’s never kissed anyone before. Doesn’t that make you feel sick with envy, Miranda?’

‘Honestly, Cecily, you’re such a baby. You’re fifteen. When are you going to grow up?’

‘Poor Wardy. It doesn’t look good for him. Filthy old bugger. I say, Archie, have you read this morning’s Times?’

‘I went straight to that page, natural y. I must say, she’s a real goer, that Keeler girl. No better than . . . Wel , anyway. Fruity stuff, isn’t it?’

‘You’re disgusting, Archie.’

‘Louisa, don’t talk about my brother like that.’

‘I wil . He’s completely disgusting, and he knows why.’

‘Why, what do you mean? What’s fruity?’

A melodious voice spoke from the end of the table. ‘Jeremy, Archie, please. Not at breakfast.’

‘Sorry, Franty. It’s nothing, Cec. Have you got the lime marmalade? Jol y nice stuff, Franty.’

‘Thank you, Jeremy.’

* * *

I’m going to scream. I’m going to scream. Yes, I am.

Frances Seymour looked around the room, trying to keep calm.

Lately, the old feeling had started to come back. She had kept it at bay for many years now, she had thought the house in Cornwal was the answer, but increasingly it was as if she was not in control: of her children, of her home, of her own mind. She wished she were anywhere but here, presiding over breakfast with this loud, mucky troupe of young people, being the grown-up, sensible one. It was wrong.

There was a lot on. Too much, perhaps. She had a portrait of her youngest daughter, Cecily, to finish, for a big upcoming show in London. She had three teenagers of her own, two more staying with her, and two more on their way at this very minute, as wel as a husband who didn’t care whether you looked after him or not; she had once found Arvind absent-mindedly chewing a piece of paper, and when she’d asked him why he’d said, vaguely, ‘I was hungry. I thought I would try the paper. I don’t need it any more.’

The neighbours had just arrived for the summer, she should visit them, and the damn church fete was the week after, and Mary kept asking her what she wanted her to make. Didn’t the woman realise she didn’t care? She simply didn’t bloody care?

Frances pressed a cool hand to her forehead. Then the Mitchel s were coming to stay the week after, she’d have to get a fun crowd up for them, lots of booze in, Eliza needed constant entertaining and young men to look at. The crowds were descending; only a few days before the children came back from school she’d just said goodbye to a huge party, some old friends from art col ege, Arvind’s publisher and two couples from the old Redcliffe Square days. She loved entertaining, loved seeing old faces, loved the praise, the company, the conversation, the stimulation

– Frances had to be stimulated in order to be able to paint. She couldn’t do it unless there was something burning within her, stoking her thoughts, firing her up.

And yet daily life had to go on too, and she was the one who made it go on. There was Cecily and Miranda’s room to turn out – Cecily had grown so fast this last term, there was plenty the clothes stal could have. She needed to take them both into Penzance, or maybe even Exeter, to get some new clothes; Mary never got it right. Cecily could have Miranda’s cast-offs, but Frances, a younger child herself, always thought it was unfair she never had anything new, she deserved a party frock of her own, some shorts, a few summer shirts.

She frowned again and looked at Miranda, wondering where she’d got that rather nice cream linen top she was wearing; had she seen that before? It suited her; that in itself was unusual, Frances thought, and then felt guilty.

I don’t care about their damn clothes.

There had been a time when she had worn new clothes, put her hair up, slipped into satin heels, nursed a glass of champagne as she laughed with handsome young men at the Chelsea Arts Club, or drank long into the night in some underground shelter, thick with cigarette smoke. There had been a time when she was young, desirable, with the world at her feet, and now . . . She sighed. She had become staid. Boring. Ordinary. A staid wife and mother of three, a painter of staid, boring, repetitive landscapes. And so the old furtive unrest was beginning to creep over her again.

‘Leave me alone!’ Miranda squawked loudly. Frances looked up, startled, as Cecily smirked in triumph at some childishly won point and Miranda slumped back down against the high-backed dining chair. Across the table, Arvind carried on eating his kipper, staring into space as if he were alone.

Frances smiled at him, but he didn’t see. He never saw. That was one of the things for which she had always loved him. Arvind wasn’t suspicious. He wasn’t trusting either. He was just in another world most of the time, and they worked wel together because of it. Frances could stil remember the first time she saw him, at that concert in the National Gal ery, quiet and neat in his tweeds, impervious to everything else around him except the music, his short frame tensing at the swel ing rhythm of the piano. She had smiled slowly at him, but he had focused shortly on her and then back on the music again, looking straight through her as if she weren’t there. In years to come, Frances would always wonder if that was when she was hooked: he’d looked past her, not at her. She wasn’t used to that.

She watched him now, her gaze flicking from him to their son Archie, a young Louis Jourdan: beautiful y turned out, his hair careful y combed, his shirt immaculate. He made her uneasy though. She didn’t . . . what was it? She didn’t trust him? Her own son? He was peeling his apple, oh so precisely, with a smal knife, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt. There was something going on behind that charming smile; Frances didn’t know what. Why was Louisa so furious with him? What had he done this time? Was it the old problem again? Or was it he and Miranda, up to mischief?

Miranda – Frances sighed. Miranda was being particularly vile at the moment, and she didn’t know what to do. She never knew what to do with her.

She had been such a cross baby. She was thin and fed badly, a tiny, hairy thing, feet turned outwards, like a little monkey, her expression always stormy, and from the moment she could walk her posture was almost comical in its teenager-gait: defensive, shoulders hunched, eyes glaring and, years later, she had barely changed at al . The funny thing was that Frances, with her painter’s eye, could see that Miranda had an idiosyncratic kind of beauty al her own. She was gamine, boyish, her eyes were startlingly intense and her dark, beautiful skin glowed. When she laughed her face lit up, but she seldom did, except with her twin Archie.

Since Miranda had got back from her final term at school she’d been even worse than usual, Frances thought. She had no plans, unlike Archie who was staying on at school for an extra term to take his Oxbridge exams. Miranda was trying to drag him down, Frances knew it. She had taken A-levels, but wasn’t expected to make any mark on them. She was always saying how much she loved clothes, and fabrics – Frances was sure it was true, but to what end? That wasn’t a job. The one thing Miranda had expressed any interest in, only the day before, was a finishing school in Switzerland. Should they send her off again, pay some elite establishment to round off her rough edges a bit? She could certainly benefit from it, but Frances loathed the idea, it was so . . . oh, just ghastly. So suburban!

Frances knew her mind wasn’t ful y on the twins and it should be. When the show was over, then she’d have more time to think, be a better mother, think about what to do with them both. Soon.

Her eyes drifted round the room, to where her niece and nephew sat at the other end of the table. She stared at them, helplessly; it was unsettling to her, how much they looked like her, like her sister, like their parents. Her own children were Arvind’s children – dark, intense, complicated – and they were moody. Arvind wasn’t moody, neither was she, where did they get it from? Cecily aside, she often thought she could see nothing of herself in her children. But Louisa and Jeremy were blooming, hearty, firm and lithe, like adverts on the side of packets of Force cereal.

Her head buzzing, Frances looked at her watch; it was after nine-thirty. She got up. ‘I’m going up to the studio.’ She looked at Miranda.

‘Darling, can you make sure the table’s cleared?’

‘Oh, why me?’ Miranda sank down into her chair, scowling. ‘I was going to go to the beach.’

‘Because it’s your turn. And besides, the others are going into Penzance,’ Frances said, trying not to scream. But giving two reasons with Miranda was always a mistake. ‘Get Archie to give you a hand.’

‘Why can’t Louisa?’

‘As I said, Louisa is going into Penzance.’ A great weariness swept over her. ‘Oh, my God. I don’t care,’ Frances said crossly, turning away from the table. ‘Tel Mary to save me some chicken salad for lunch.’

‘Do you want someone to bring you up a tray?’ Louisa said, col ecting up the plates and putting them on the sideboard. Frances turned to her grateful y. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That would be lovely. Come on, Cecily.’ She looked at her youngest. ‘Off we go.’

‘Oh, no, ’ Cecily said, slumping against the wal . ‘Please, Mummy, do I really have to?’

Frances shut her eyes, briefly, blinking hard. ‘Don’t you want to?’

Cecily chewed her nail. ‘Wel , you know. It’s so boring, just sitting there for ages and ages, and it’s so hot in your studio. I think I’l die sometimes, and you don’t even care.’

‘No,’ Frances said. ‘I simply could not care less if you dropped dead in the studio because of heatstroke. It would not matter to me one iota.’

She batted her daughter lightly on the rear. ‘Come on, Cec. We’re nearly there.’

‘Oh, but I wanted to go to Penzance!’ Cecily said. ‘I want to meet Louisa’s boyfriend!’

‘You’l meet him at lunch,’ Frances said. ‘Come on.’ Cecily’s expressive eyes fil ed with tears, and her dark bobbed hair fel into her face. ‘But I have to get my new book out of the library and get a new exercise book from Boots – I want to spend my pocket money, Mum, you said I could buy that. I need it for the rest of my diary, I’ve nearly run out of space. Miss Powel says . . .’

At the mention of the sainted Miss Powel Frances, wanting to scream, gave in. ‘They’re not leaving for a while. Come up til then. Louisa wil fetch you.’ Cecily jumped up, her eyes shining. ‘Is that al right with you, Louisa?’

‘Yes, of course, there’s room for her,’ Louisa said. She cleared her throat and said, going rather pink, ‘Aunt Frances, I hope I’ve said it already, but thank – thank you for having Frank and Guy to stay. It’s awful y kind of you.’

It must be easy, being Louisa, Frances thought, looking at her niece. Or pleasant, at least. A classic English rose, huge blue eyes, flaxen blonde hair, endless legs and a big smile. Virtual y guaranteed a place at Cambridge, wealthy parents, and a young, handsome boyfriend, son of an old family friend. Al so correct and proper. Frances often thought Louisa was like the heroine from a novel. Emma, maybe. What a nice life.

Purposeful. Hearty. Rooted in tradition. She thought back to herself at that age, eighteen and on her way to London. She smiled. She’d worked as hard as she could to not be like that, to throw off the shackles of this boring, complacent, English way of being. Sometimes she wished, however, she could be content with a life like Louisa’s. Without the need to . . . feel, whatever it might be, danger, sadness, happiness. Without the need to feel everything, al the time. What was it? Frances didn’t know, she only knew she had to keep it to herself.

‘Our pleasure,’ Frances said, smiling at her. Out of the corner of her eye through the French windows she saw Arvind walking across the lawn.

He was holding a jar of lime marmalade and talking to himself.

She was enjoying her sessions with Cecily, more than she cared to admit. Normal y, Frances saw sittings as a chore: you had to do them to get the result you wanted, but it was tiresome, having to put the subject at ease. She was used to painting the landscape, marvel ing at the ways it could change, rather than getting someone to sit stil for an hour.

But this was different. She loved talking to her younger daughter. Cecily’s mind was like a waterfal , endlessly bubbling over with new ideas and thoughts and she had no filter, no sense that something was wrong or right. One day, she would be cured of this, be more self-conscious but for now, Frances loved it. Cecily was like her father in that respect: an original thinker, untrammel ed by popular opinion. She was refreshingly, blessedly unlike her sister, in temperament, in ambition, and in looks.

This morning, they talked about the news. Cecily always wanted to talk about the trial of Stephen Ward. It seemed as if it was playing out, with hitherto unseen levels of lurid detail, as near-perfect summer entertainment for the whole country.

‘What’s he done wrong, is what I want to know? He just introduced the girls to Mr Profumo. He’s not the one who’s . . . met with the girls and done al those things, is he? It’s Mr Profumo who did that. And he lied to Parliament, and he’s not even on trial. And –’ Cecily’s voice lowered – ‘Mr Profumo was married!’

Frances, seated at her easel, smiled. The sun was flooding through the large windows into the white room, il uminating her daughter’s face and casting it into shadow as she talked. She’d long wanted to capture Cecily’s mercurial quality, however fleeting.

‘Cec, stay stil for me, darling, just a few moments,’ she said. ‘Stephen Ward is a . . . scapegoat, I think. They accuse him of living off immoral earnings – don’t move! That means making money out of girls who are prostitutes. Stay stil .’

‘Wel , he doesn’t sound like a particularly sound fel ow to me, I must say,’ Cecily said. ‘Very odd way to behave.’

Frances laughed lightly. ‘How very censorious you are, Miss Kapoor!’ She felt her heart beating fast; Cecily was so innocent in so many ways, had no idea what grown-ups could be like. When she thought of herself at that age, she wanted to laugh. ‘I simply don’t think he’s as guilty as they’re making him out to be. Profumo, too – it’s al a big storm in a teacup, real y.’ She looked again. ‘Stay like that. Just a while longer, please.’

They were silent for a few moments. Outside, the faint sound of the sea crashing on the rocks beneath the house, and desultory conversation between Miranda and Archie outside on the terrace. Inside, people were moving about the house, and Frances could hear humming. That meant Arvind was working; he always hummed when he worked. She smiled.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘What’s proscuring a miscarriage?’

‘What?’

‘Proscuring a miscarriage. They had a man in the paper yesterday sent to prison for doing it to two ladies.’

Frances sighed. She hated censorship, hated lying to children about the world they were growing up in. She couldn’t stop Cecily reading the newspapers, therefore, but it was sometimes hard to explain things. Cecily was rather unworldly – she’d been at a convent boarding school for four years, after al – but it pleased Frances that she was showing signs of being surprisingly sophisticated about things, too. So awful to have a bourgeois child, a Jeremy or a Louisa! ‘Procuring, not proscuring. It’s helping girls get rid of a pregnancy they don’t want. An abortion.’

‘Why don’t they want it?’

‘Lots of reasons, I suppose,’ Frances said, after a pause. ‘They’re poor. It’s the wrong time. There’s something wrong with it. The man has run off and left them. The girl didn’t want to have sex, sometimes she was forced into it.’

‘Rape?’

‘Yes,’ Frances said. She glanced up at Cecily, but her daughter’s face was impassive. ‘This is an extremely pleasant conversation for a Thursday morning, isn’t it? Prostitution, rape and abortion. Now, stay stil . I’m nearly finished.’

A faint voice floated high up to the sunny studio at the top of the house. ‘Cecily, if you want to come, we’re leaving in a couple of minutes.’

‘Fine,’ Cecily cal ed, her long legs twitching on the stool, swinging wildly from side to side. ‘Coming.’

‘You know, because I real y don’t want to be late for Frank,’ the voice continued. ‘Cecily?’

‘Yes!’ Cecily yel ed back. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said softly to Frances. ‘I know I shouldn’t say this, but Louisa is turning into a real bore.’

Frances hid her face so her daughter couldn’t see her expression, and then she looked up reprovingly. ‘You can go, darling. Thank you. Be nice to your cousin.’

Cecily jumped up, hitching down her blue Aertex shirt, and came and kissed her mother. ‘I am nice, Mum, I’m the nicest of the lot, honestly.’

She paused, and said dramatical y, ‘Apart from Jeremy. Jeremy’s really nice. I like him.’

She opened the studio door and charged down the stairs, her shoes clattering erratical y as she cal ed, ‘Louisa, Jeremy! Don’t go without me!’

Frances picked up a cloth and started cleaning her brushes, half-heartedly, the silence of the big glass and concrete room echoing in her ears.

She looked down at her tanned, slim hand; there were flecks of vermilion paint drying on her arm. She picked them off, her fingers tracing the smooth, freckled skin, up and down. Frances closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of her own touch, feeling the whorls of each fingerprint lightly brushing the hairs on her arm . . . She breathed in. It was hot, and she was tired, that was al . There were new people coming this afternoon. That’d help. Two young men, to vary the party a little, add some excitement again, push the feeling of being trapped here in this glass studio away again . .

.

She stood up and went over to the window, gazing out at the garden, down at the gazebo, where her husband sat reading a book. She stared at him. She was forty-two, but she felt as if she could be twice that age. She was tired of it al . One day, she promised herself, she’d leave them behind and just walk down to the sea by herself, slip into the clear, cool water, and swim away.

She gave a snort of laughter as she heard the car drive off. One day.

Chapter Thirteen

‘Archie’s been looking at me again,’ Louisa said, as Jeremy’s blue Ford Anglia (for which he had saved for two years and of which he was inordinately proud) trundled slowly away from the house, towards the less direct coastal road that led to Penzance. They were taking this road at Cecily’s request, bowling through the rol ing green countryside with its hedge-rows ful of orange kaffir lilies, blooming pink and purple rhododendrons in every garden and driveway, and palm trees visible in the distance, down towards the sea.

It was hot in the car, and the engine made an ominous spluttering sound which shook the frame.

‘What’s happened with Archie?’ said Cecily, from the back. In the front, Louisa ignored her. ‘What shal I do? He’s disgusting, Jeremy.’

Jeremy eased the car around a treacherous bend. He was silent for a moment; Jeremy was often silent. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure about what?’

‘Sure he’s been . . . peeping.’

Louisa laughed. ‘Of course I’m sure. I caught him at it once. I can hear him. And he smiles at me. These disgusting smiles, like he knows I know. As if it’s our little secret.’ She shuddered. ‘Horrid . . . I hate him.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Cecily demanded. ‘I can’t hear properly in the back. What’s Archie doing?’

‘Archie’s annoying Louisa,’ Jeremy said loudly. ‘Nothing to worry about, Cecily.’

Louisa’s sharp, pretty face appeared suddenly between the seats. She said viciously, ‘Your brother kneels on the floor outside my room and looks through the keyhole to watch me while I’m . . . getting undressed. I’ve caught him doing it twice now. And when I’m getting changed to go swimming.’

‘Oh,’ said Cecily quietly. ‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘That’s not very nice of him.’

Louisa ignored her again. ‘It’s the way he looks at me, Jeremy.’ She lowered her voice even more, and Cecily made an annoyed sound. ‘That’s what I can’t stand. Can you do something? Have a word with him? Especial y with Frank and Guy arriving.’ She sighed and bit her little fingernail. ‘I have to say, I always forget how jol y odd they al are, but it’s worse this year. Arvind’s mad and darling Franty’s in a strange mood this summer, I don’t know what’s up. I don’t want the Leightons thinking we’re part of it. Don’t you agree?’

‘Er . . .’ Jeremy paused. ‘Sort of. Look,’ he said, trying to sound cheery. ‘Don’t worry, old thing. Archie’s been away at school for too long, he hasn’t seen enough girls. He’s just . . . wel , he’s a curious chap.’

Cecily, watching Jeremy, opened her mouth to say something, and then shut it quickly again. Louisa made an exasperated sound.

‘You can say that again. He’s a – a pervert.’

‘I mean he’s curious about the world.’ Jeremy blinked. ‘Perfectly natural. But yes, you’re right. Shouldn’t be spying on people, sneaking around.

It’s not on.’

‘You shouldn’t be talking about people behind their back,’ said Cecily loudly. ‘Especial y when you’re guests in their home. I’m going to put it al in my diary.’

‘Oh, shut up, you little idiot,’ said Louisa. ‘What do you know? Nothing.’ She wound down the window and adjusted the metal ic side mirror, so she could see her reflection.

‘Here, I say,’ said Jeremy. ‘I can’t see what’s coming if you do that.’

‘Just for a second, Jeremy.’ Louisa took out a rose pink lipstick and expertly applied it, winding a stray blonde curl around one finger as she did. She pushed the mirror back into place. ‘There,’ she said, leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes. ‘Gosh, this day is exhausting already.

I’m quite nervous, I must say.’

She was young and beautiful, reclining in her seat, and she knew it, the wind rippling through her hair, her lightly tanned smooth skin, her long slim thighs clad in apple-green linen shorts.

Cecily was watching her. She said admiringly, ‘You do look lovely, Louisa.’

‘Thanks,’ said Louisa, who knew this to be true. ‘Like a princess – hey, look at the Celtic cross!’ Cecily shouted suddenly, and Louisa winced.

‘Someone’s hung a garland on it, isn’t that strange? Jeremy, can we get out and see?’

‘No time, Cecily, not if you want to change your book and go to Boots,’ Jeremy said, as they drove through a little green val ey and the turn-off to Lamorna Cove, busy with daytrippers and cars turning in towards the beach. A car hooted at them as they passed by, people waving gaily. The weather was infectious.

‘Some people,’ Louisa said, annoyed, as if modern civilisation were on the verge of col apse.

The fields off to their left marked the beginning of the stark, wilder moorland of northern Cornwal , rich in tin and coal. In the distance was a chimney stack, a remnant of the once-great tin-mining industry that was al but extinct these days.

Cecily sighed, drinking it al in. She was her mother’s daughter, the landscape of the county was thril ing to her, no matter what the time of year.

She settled back and gazed out of the window as Jeremy turned to his sister and said, ‘Between you and me, sis, it’s Miranda I’m sometimes not sure about.’

If Louisa was surprised at this sudden confidence from her brother, she didn’t show it. ‘She is rather a funny old thing, isn’t she,’ she said casual y. ‘What do you mean exactly?’

Jeremy took one hand off the wheel and scratched his head in an unconscious Stan Laurel gesture. ‘I don’t know, real y. Feel she’s out to cause trouble.’

‘That’s Miranda for you,’ Louisa said with some satisfaction. ‘She’s always been the same.’

‘That’s just it, though,’ Jeremy said. ‘She – wel , she’s different this summer.’

‘How?’

Jeremy was lost for words. ‘I don’t know. More – grownup, in some ways. But worse, if anything. She stares at you, as if she’s got a message for you.’

Louisa misunderstood. ‘ She stares at me too? Oh, goodness gracious.’

‘No, not – sorry, sis, wasn’t being clear. She stares at one,’ Jeremy explained. ‘As if she had a message for one.’

‘Oh,’ Louisa said, running her hand over her hair again. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘No one likes Miranda,’ Cecily said. ‘It’s just awful. No one likes her at school, either. It’s because she’s so moody,’ she added informatively.

‘The girls at school know how to wind her up. She got into real trouble—’ She clamped her mouth shut suddenly.

‘For what?’ Louisa, alive to any possible scandal, turned round, intrigued. ‘What did she do?’

‘I can’t say,’ Cecily said. ‘Oh, I bet it was nothing, and you’re just making it up.’

‘I’m not, it was very serious,’ Cecily said furiously. ‘Very. I promised I wouldn’t say. They nearly chucked her out – gosh, I mustn’t say more.

Mind you,’ she added, as if trying to be fair, ‘she isn’t very nice. I, for example, don’t like her. And I’m her sister.’

There was a silence from the front of the car. ‘Oh, dear,’ said Louisa lightly, curling a blonde lock around one slim finger, secure in her position as family member adored by al . ‘Oh, dear. You shouldn’t hate your sister, you know.’

‘I can’t help it,’ Cecily said. ‘Oh, look, the Merry Maidens, I love them. Do look. I always mean to write a story about them. I might start it later.

After I’ve written in my diary, of course.’

She sighed, and was silent again, as they approached Newlyn. Louisa raised her eyes at her brother, but he did not respond. Already Cecily’s diary was turning out to be a wearisome feature of the holiday, with pointed references to one person’s inclusion or not in its pages, the lists it contained, and its role as a worthy receptacle for Cecily’s world view. Last night, over fish pie, she had treated the table to a lengthy description of some girl at her school and how one day, she would definitely be sorry for being mean to her, Cecily.

‘Why, Cecily?’ Arvind had asked. ‘Why wil this girl be so terribly afraid of your diary?’

The others around the table were surprised. Arvind normal y didn’t speak at meals. Cecily had turned to him, brimming with excitement.

‘Because, Dad, one day I’l be a writer and this diary wil be famous. And she’l be so sorry she was mean to me. And cal ed me names.’

Louisa and Miranda had snorted loudly in unison, and looked up, surprised, at each other.

Now Louisa said to her brother, ‘We should plan some things for the boys. For the chaps. Ask them what they want to do.’

Jeremy nodded. ‘I thought we could go to the Minack Theatre one night.’

‘Yippee, yes, please,’ Cecily shouted from the back. ‘Oh, do we have to?’ Louisa sighed. ‘Theatre’s so incredibly boring.’

‘But the Minack is great,’ Jeremy said, laughing at his sister. ‘They’re putting on Julius Caesar. We can walk to Logan’s Rock, they’l like that.

Go to the pub for lunch, maybe. And I wondered if Aunt Frances would let us have a midnight picnic on the beach, cook some food on a campfire.

It’s the last year we’l al be together for a while, you know. Seems a shame not to make the most of it.’

‘What do you mean? The last year? Summercove’s not going anywhere, is it?’

Jeremy was looking in the mirror. He didn’t reply immediately. After a while he said, ‘Just – I just sometimes think, it might be different next year. We’l al be off doing different things. And Franty won’t want us coming down every year.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Just don’t know if we’l go there every year.’

Louisa looked slightly alarmed. ‘I can’t imagine us not coming down here every year,’ she said. ‘I love it.’ Cecily’s face appeared again between the seats.

‘I used to think that, now I don’t,’ Jeremy said. ‘That’s why I want to make the most of this summer.’

Cecily opened her mouth and shut it again. Her eyes were huge. But Louisa was watching her brother, who never expressed an opinion about anything. She patted his arm.

‘I think the Minack’s a great idea,’ she said. They were on the outskirts of Penzance now, every other house a B&B or a café. Holidaymakers were walking along the harbour front, carrying buckets and spades. The outdoor seawater pool behind the harbour was in ful swing, girls in bikinis and perfect hair demurely dangling their feet into the water. A group of boys lounged against a few motorbikes, parked up by the boats. They were smoking, in black leather jackets, their hair slicked back, and they stared at the car as it shuddered past them. Cecily stared out at them, fascinated.

‘Mods are so passé. Honestly, Penzance is so out of date,’ said the worldly Londoner Louisa, glancing scornful y at them as they drove past.

‘Bet they’ve never even heard of Bazaar.’ She smoothed her hair behind her ears, anxiously, as Cecily watched in fascination. ‘Come on, Frank.

Hurry up.’ She corrected herself. ‘Jeremy, sorry.’

Jeremy laughed, and his brow cleared. ‘Don’t worry. Look, here we are now.’

Cecily got out early while Jeremy parked the car. Louisa was by this point actively anxious, looking at her reflection in every window they passed, even the glass of the ticket office at the end of the platform, much to the bemusement of the bulbous-nosed ticket officer who stared at her. It was a hot day, hotter in the station than outside, where there was a cooling breeze from the sea.

‘It’s strange being in a town on a boiling day like this, after a few days at Summercove,’ said Jeremy, running his forefinger around the col ar of his shirt. ‘Actual y does make you realise how lovely it is to be there.’

‘I know,’ said Louisa. ‘It is the most beautiful place. And we are lucky. I shouldn’t be rude about them. I do love Franty. I love being there. Joining in – al of that.’

‘Such a little homemaker,’ Jeremy said, nudging her. ‘Love it when everyone’s al together having a wonderful time, don’t you? Even when they’re not?’

Louisa put her hands on her hips. ‘Be quiet, Jeremy. That’s rubbish. I just like . . . I like the idea that we’re al together. And then we get here and . . . it’s not how I expected.’ She shrugged. ‘But hey-ho – let’s go onto the platform, shal we?’ she said, squinting at the train track.

They waited in the covered station until the train chugged slowly into view, past St Michael’s Mount in the distance, the granite castle out to sea glowing strangely gold in the midday sun.

‘There it is!’ Louisa cried. ‘There it is!’ She stared at the black engine hoving into view, as if she expected Frank and his brother to be standing on top of it, waving placards. ‘I can’t see them!’

‘Of course you can’t, you ninny,’ Jeremy said, shaking his head at his sister. Goodness, girls were such idiots about chaps. There was Frank, a perfectly decent sort, nothing wildly eccentric or unusual, and Louisa was completely gaga over him. It made him almost uncomfortable, he didn’t know how to talk to her about him. She’d even used the word ‘marriage’! Louisa, who he’d always thought was a sensible sort of girl, the kind of sister one didn’t mind having, the sort who got scholarships to study sensible things like biology . . . And it turned out she was just like al the others, obsessed with weddings and babies after al . Jeremy didn’t know what Frank would think about that at al . Yes, girls were odd sometimes, even one’s sister.

The plumes of thick white and grey steam cleared, the doors opened, and there was mayhem. Porters scurried to help the first-class passengers, elderly gentlemen in tweeds and their immaculate county ladies in neat hats and gloves carrying crocodile travel cases. Cross, important-looking City gents in bowler hats, their starched col ars wilting in the heat, clutching furled umbrel as and briefcases.

Louisa and Jeremy peered past them as the first-class section gradual y dispersed, but then instead of two young men came endless hordes of families, struggling with battered, heavy suitcases and screaming children, lots of boys with Beatles-style mop-top haircuts, sweating in polo necks, girls in pretty cotton dresses and low heels, cardigans draped over shoulders, housewives in headscarves, carrying their shopping in wicker baskets, farm workmen, officious men in suits with efficient moustaches, lounging men, old men . . . but no sign of Frank and his brother.

As the masses subsided into a trickle, and then to nothing, so that the platform was empty once more, Louisa and Jeremy looked despondently at each other. ‘Perhaps they missed the train?’ Louisa said, her mouth turned down. ‘But wouldn’t they have at least telephoned, to let us know?’

‘I should have thought so,’ Jeremy said. ‘Not like old Frank to leave us waiting.’

Louisa glanced desperately down the platform once more. ‘Perhaps they’re . . . perhaps they’re chatting with the driver.’

‘Lou, I don’t think so,’ said Jeremy. ‘They’d know we’d be waiting. Old Frank wouldn’t leave us hanging here while he swapped horror stories about Dr Beeching with some railway bod. Perhaps their old man’s been taken il again, he wasn’t wel before Easter, I wonder if that’s it . . . Hul o!

Who’s that? Frank!’ he said with relief, as someone poked him in the ribs. ‘Oh, dammit, it’s you. Hul o, Cecily.’

Cecily’s face fel as she saw his expression. ‘Hel o, Jeremy,’ she said in a smal voice, blushing to the roots of her hair. ‘I got my book and my new diary. Look.’ She held up a Georgette Heyer in one hand and in the other, a simple red exercise book, with a stamp on the front: Name, Class, Subject.

‘ The Toll-Gate,’ Jeremy read aloud. ‘Right. Sorry, Cec. Thought you were Frank,’ he added, not seeing the look of anguish on her face. He turned back to his sister. ‘I’l just check with the chap at the ticket office. Perhaps there’s a message for us, but I doubt it. Wait here.’

Louisa’s keen eyes missed nothing, and she nudged Cecily after he’d gone. ‘I can’t believe you’re blushing, Cecily. You’ve got a pash for Jeremy. Ha!’

‘I haven’t!’ Cecily cried, hitting her on the arm furiously. She stamped her foot, her face stil red. ‘Shut up, I haven’t!’And she crossed her arms, blinking back tears of mortification, like every other teenager before and since.

‘Sorry, Cec,’ Louisa said, feeling guilty. ‘That’s your new diary, is it? Gosh, you’ve written a lot, to be getting a new one already. Are you enjoying it?’

‘Yes,’ Cecily said, standing up straight again. ‘I love it. This new bit wil be even more private, I can say what I like because I’ve finished the school project.’ She hugged both books to her.

‘No sign,’ said Jeremy, appearing again. ‘I must say,’ he repeated, ‘not like him, leaving us high and dry. I thought old Frank—’

‘Oh, shut up about damned old Frank,’ said Louisa, turning on her heel. ‘They’re not coming. Let’s just get back home, for God’s sake.’

‘Yes,’ said Cecily, imitating her with a flounce. ‘I want to go home too.’

Jeremy sighed and fol owed them.

Louisa was silent on the journey home. Jeremy took the quicker main road through the open countryside, driving fast because he was hungry now, and he’d heard Mary mention chicken salad for lunch.

‘I don’t understand what happened,’ Cecily said, equanimity restored, sticking her head between their seats. ‘Why wouldn’t they have come?’

‘Perhaps we got the wrong time. Or the wrong day,’ Jeremy said.

‘Perhaps they just changed their minds,’ Louisa said. ‘I bet they did.’

‘Frank wouldn’t do that,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ve known him for eleven years, he wouldn’t just not turn up. Guy either.’

‘How do you know him?’ Cecily said. ‘I thought he was Louisa’s boyfriend.’

‘Honestly, Cecily,’ Louisa said through gritted teeth, ‘if you say that again, I wil ram this down your throat.’ She turned around, brandishing a battered old Shell Guide to the Roads of Britain with some force. Her lipstick was slightly smudged, her hair out of place.

‘We were at prep school together,’ Jeremy said. ‘Known him for years. Lives near us. We used to play tennis together, the three of us. And Guy. You’l like Guy,’ he told Cecily. ‘He wants to be a writer too.’

‘I bet he’s not as nice as you,’ Cecily said quietly. Jeremy didn’t hear her. ‘They’re good sorts. They like playing tennis, swimming, joining in with things, al of that.’ He turned the car off the main road, onto the dark, leafy lane above Summercove.

‘Wel , if they’re such bloody good sorts, why— oh, hell!’ Louisa cried. ‘This stupid car, Jeremy! The spring’s come through the damned seat, look, it’s torn my shorts! My beautiful shorts . . . oh, God.’ She squirmed around in the car.

‘Maybe if you put the Shell Guide over the spring it’d stop it tearing anything else,’ Cecily offered helpful y. Louisa shot her a look of pure loathing.

They drew up outside the house. ‘I’l put the car in the garage, if you want to hop out,’ Jeremy said, and the girls got out. Cecily opened the gate while Louisa, stil grumbling, fol owed behind her.

Cecily breathed in as they walked across the lawn towards the house. ‘Oh, it’s lovely to be back on a day like today, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I can smel the sea, I can smel the sea . . .’

Voices drifted across to them from the terrace on the other side of the house. ‘I expect they’re having lunch already,’ Louisa said rueful y. ‘Bet they didn’t wait.’

They walked around the side to the garden, and Louisa let out a cry.

‘Oh! Oh, my goodness.’ She stared in amazement across the lawn.

There, kneeling on a blanket, in slim black trousers, a white T-shirt and a black cardigan slung over her shoulders, a white ribbon tying back her dark hair, was Miranda and, with her, two young men, one in meticulously pressed linen shorts and a navy polo shirt, a cricket jumper tied round his neck, the other in jeans and an open-necked shirt. They were laughing at something Miranda had said. She looked up.

‘Oh, here!’ she said, her cat-like face breaking out into a smile as the girls walked towards her. ‘Louisa’s back from the station! I’m sure she can explain what’s happened. Louisa, look!’ she said sweetly to her cousin. ‘Frank and . . . it’s Guy, isn’t it?’ she added shyly. ‘They wired yesterday to say they’d be down early, but it obviously never arrived. Isn’t that strange?’

Frank and Guy sprang to their feet as Louisa and Cecily, on the edge of the lawn, stood there, mouths open. ‘Hel o!’ Louisa said, desperately clutching the flap of material on her bottom. ‘My goodness! What a lovely surprise! We’d quite given up on you two. How strange!’

‘Are you al right?’ Miranda asked, watching her cousin anxiously. ‘Is something . . . wrong?’

‘No, no,’ Louisa said hastily. ‘I tore my shorts, that’s al . Very annoying!’ she added heartily, one hand stil holding the ripped material. ‘Hel o, Guy, Frank—’ She patted both of them awkwardly with her free arm, bowing her head in mortification.

‘Hel o, Louisa,’ Frank said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Very – very nice to see you.’

‘Oh, we are glad you’re back,’ Miranda said. She unfurled her legs from underneath her and stood up graceful y, stretching her long arms, and Guy gave her his hand to help her up.

‘Wow,’ said Cecily, in admiration. ‘Miranda, you look pretty today.’

‘Thanks,’ said Miranda. She tugged at her ponytail and looked sympathetical y at her cousin. ‘Poor Louisa!’ she said, in honeyed tones. ‘You’d better change your shorts before lunch, it’s in five minutes. Guy, Frank – are you al settled in? Do you want a wash and brush-up?’

‘When did you get here then?’ Cecily asked. ‘How strange that we never got the wire!’

‘About an hour ago,’ Guy said. He smiled at Cecily. ‘We got a lift from a fel ow who was going to Sennen Cove. Very decent of him. We were a bit stuck, we didn’t know what to do. We weren’t sure which bus would take us to Summercove, and a taxi would have wiped us out.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’m Guy,’ he said, shaking Cecily’s hand.

‘Hel o,’ she said, pleased. ‘Hel o, Cecily,’ Frank said, also stepping forward. ‘I’m Frank, I’m Jeremy’s friend.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’

Cecily stared at him. ‘Hel o, Frank,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said awkwardly. He pointed to his shorts. ‘We’re al kitted out for a summer holiday, as you can see.’

She didn’t say anything, just kept looking at him. ‘It’s funny,’ she said after a while. ‘You don’t look like you should be wearing shorts.’

‘Aah. I am not that used to them, it’s true,’ Frank said. ‘You look more like you should be . . .’ Cecily paused. ‘Wearing a bowler hat.’

There was a silence. ‘Cecily, that’s rude,’ Miranda said, pushing her. ‘Say sorry.’ But Frank laughed. ‘No, it’s not rude. She’s right.’ He fiddled with some imaginary cufflinks, a smile on his handsome face. ‘I’m usual y more happy in smarter kit, it’s true.’

Cecily rubbed her cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, Mr Bowler Hat.’

Guy gave a shout of laughter and Frank joined in. Louisa, however, looked mortified.

‘I’m sure we passed you on the way,’ Frank said to Louisa. ‘We got our friend to sound the horn, and we pul ed over, but you didn’t seem to spot us.’

‘Oh, my goodness,’ Louisa said. ‘Of course. I remember now . . .’ She bit her lip, annoyed, and then clutched her bottom again. ‘I real y should go and change,’ she said, blushing. ‘Sorry. Wil you two be OK out here while I go off?’

She looked at Frank, but he was listening to Miranda, who was saying, ‘How wonderful you’re here. Ah,’ she said, turning towards the house,

‘there’s Jeremy. Now we’re al present and correct.’ She sighed and smiled happily at the new arrivals, coiling her hair around one finger.

Suddenly a shadow passed over her. ‘Hel o there,’ said a voice behind her, and Miranda and the two boys turned to see Frances walking towards them, her hand outstretched.

‘I’m Frances Seymour,’ she said, pul ing the headscarf that had been tying her hair back off her head. She shook her honey-coloured hair out, scratching her scalp. ‘What a terrible welcome you’ve had.’ She smiled at them both, eyes sparkling, her clear, tanned face glowing with pleasure.

‘Not at al ,’ said Guy, shaking her hand, clearly taken aback. ‘It’s wonderful to be here.’

‘Yes,’ said Frank, wiping his hand on his shorts and then holding it out to her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Kapoor.’

Frances looked up at the tal , blond, godlike Frank, and smiled, almost in amusement. ‘Frances, please,’ she said.

‘I’m Frank,’ he replied. ‘Wel , so that means we’ve got almost the same name!’

‘Ye-es.’ There was a look on her face that he found rather disconcerting. ‘Wel , let’s get you a drink.’ She laughed, her green eyes glinting in the sun, and patted Miranda on the shoulder. ‘Stand up, darling. Isn’t this wonderful? I feel as if the holidays can properly start now.’

Chapter Fourteen

‘More tea, vicar?’

‘Tea? Ha – very good. Yes, please, Louisa.’

‘Guy, more champagne?’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’

Louisa turned to her aunt. ‘Franty, is there anything else I can do?’

‘No,’ said Frances, smiling. ‘You’ve been wonderful. Sit down and enjoy yourself, darling.’

They had gathered on the lawn at the front of the house for drinks before dinner. There was no wind, not even the faintest breeze from the sea.

The scent of lavender and oil from the lamps outside hung in the stil air. ‘My One and Only Love’, and John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman floated out to them from a gramophone.

Louisa, resplendent in mulberry-coloured silk, was making the rounds with champagne, but it was Miranda who was the star of the show that night. She appeared after everyone else had gathered on the terrace, in a black grosgrain cocktail dress, extremely simple and obviously expensive, with a tulip skirt and tight bodice which clung perfectly to her gamine figure.

‘That is a beautiful dress, Miranda,’ Louisa said generously, handing her a glass. ‘You look like Jackie Kennedy.’

Miranda flushed, her olive skin mottling red. ‘It is a beautiful dress,’ Frances said, curious. ‘Where’s it from, may I ask?’

Miranda turned her face to her mother. She was glowing. ‘I didn’t tel you, Mother. So please don’t be cross. But Connie sent me a postal order to school. For ten pounds. I bought this in Exeter. And some other things.’ She was pleading.

‘She gave you TEN POUNDS?’ Cecily screeched. ‘I didn’t know it was that much!’

The shirt that morning. The lovely blue pumps she’d been wearing yesterday. Of course. Frances nodded, appraising her daughter again.

She definitely had style, she’d give her that much.

Not for the first time, Frances regretted making her old school friend – married to a wealthy industrialist and without children of her own –

Miranda’s godmother. She was absentminded but very generous – when Miranda was ten and a half she bought her a pearl necklace from Asprey’s – but it wasn’t fair on the others.

‘Feel how gorgeous it is,’ Miranda said, taking her mother’s hand and running her fingers over the thick, beautiful fabric, her eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘The capri pants today, too – the cut! It’s so perfect. They’re the nicest things I’ve ever owned.’

Frances didn’t know what to say. Funny, what a difference the right clothes and a sparkle in the eye made to the girl. Al these years of struggling to make Miranda happy, and it turned out she should have just taken her to Harrods and bought her some nicer clothes.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Even as she chided herself she looked again at her daughter, laughing with Cecily for once instead of snapping at her, tucking her shining black hair behind her ear, eyes shining. She hadn’t seen her like this for a long time. She, Frances, as much as anyone else, was responsible for making Miranda feel smal , and she was suddenly overcome with guilt.

Miranda turned back to her. ‘Is it real y al right, Mummy?’

‘Did you write and thank Connie?’ said Frances, taking a sip of her champagne.

‘Of course I did.’ Miranda stared at her mother, her green eyes unblinking. ‘I wrote her a real y long letter tel ing her al the lovely things I could buy for ten pounds. And then she sent me another pound in the post, just like that! In case I went over it.’

Frances sighed. How very Miranda. ‘Darling, that’s awful of you.’ But she couldn’t help smiling at her.

Cecily sipped her champagne, gingerly holding the stem of the flute. It was a special night, so she was al owed a glass. ‘Mm,’ she said, wrinkling her nose as the bubbles tickled her. ‘It’s so fizzy.’

‘Don’t get drunk and make a fool of yourself,’ Archie told her. He was himself beautiful y turned out, his dark hair gleaming with bril iantine like a matinee idol. Next to his sister, they made quite a pair.

‘What, like peeking at people while they get undressed?’ Cecily said sharply, turning away from him.

Archie’s expression darkened and he stammered. ‘What?’ Cecily’s face flushed, but she was saved from responding by a clinking sound.

‘Welcome, al of you,’ said Arvind, addressing the assembled group, much to their surprise. He took his wife’s hand. ‘We are glad to have you al here.’

‘Yes, cheers,’ Jeremy said, raising his glass. ‘Thanks, Uncle Arvind. We love being here.’

Next to him, Miranda rol ed her eyes. Frances, seeing her expression, tried not to smile, shaking her head at her instead. Dear, staid Jeremy.

Arvind gave Jeremy a polite smile. ‘Your good health, al of you. You are the future. I salute you.’

He stepped forward, raised his glass, and then frowned, as if he was surprised he’d spoken.

‘Daddy is pretty eccentric,’ Miranda whispered loudly to Guy, who was standing next to her. ‘Just ignore him.’

Guy nodded. ‘Excuse me a moment, would you? Sir –’ he said, moving determinedly towards Arvind and leaving Miranda standing alone. ‘I’m extremely sorry to bother you with work, but I felt I couldn’t stay here and not tel you how much I enjoyed The Modern Fortress.’

‘You enjoyed it?’ Arvind said. ‘How extraordinary.’

Guy was nonplussed. ‘Wel , perhaps enjoyed isn’t the right word.’ There was a silence. ‘I – er, it’s a very interesting book, anyway.’

‘Thank you,’ said Arvind, staring at him through his smal round glasses. ‘You wear glasses too.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Guy equably. ‘Sometimes. For reading.’

‘What do you do?’

‘Er – me?’

‘Wel , yes, you.’ Arvind looked around, as if there was someone else there.

‘I’m up at Oxford,’ Guy said. ‘I’m doing PPE.’

‘Of course.’

‘What’s PPE?’ Cecily, who had materialised next to them, asked softly.

‘It stands for Philosophy, Politics and Economics,’ Guy told her.

‘That sounds pretty dire,’ Cecily said. ‘I mean very interesting. Sorry, Dad.’

‘Ah,’ Arvind said. ‘The child rejects the parent. Very disappointing.’

‘The child rol s her eyes at the parent,’ Cecily replied gravely, but her eyes were twinkling.

Watching them with surprise on his face – in most of the homes of his contemporaries, you cal ed your father Sir and you certainly didn’t cal his work ‘dire’ – Guy coughed. ‘You’re nearly tal er than your father,’ he told Cecily, flushing slightly as he couldn’t think of what else to say.

‘Thank you, young man, for pointing out my lack of inches,’ Arvind said. He jabbed Guy in the stomach and smiled, and Guy laughed, his nerves suddenly gone.

‘Sir, I wonder if you read Dr King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail?’ Guy asked hurriedly. ‘Because there are several points in it which you touch on in The Modern Fortress. How oppressed people cannot remain oppressed for ever. It is not possible. The desire for freedom always manifests itself and works its way through, even though it may take a long time.’

‘Ah –’ Arvind said, his eyes lighting up. ‘The danger of the white moderate, greater than the white extremist. Yes, I found that very interesting.’

‘What are they talking about?’ Miranda whispered to Cecily. ‘Real y boring stuff. Someone cal ed Dr King.’

‘Martin Luther King, that is,’ Archie said. He was standing next to them, one hand casual y resting in his blazer pocket. ‘The head of the NAACP. He’s a great man.’

‘NAACP?’ Cecily said. ‘National Association for the Advancement of Colored People,’ Archie said, enunciating each word. He took a sip from his drink, turning his handsome profile away from them, towards the setting sun.

‘How do you know who he is?’ Miranda asked scornful y. ‘You don’t know anything, Archie.’

She looked at her brother crossly, as she always did when Archie showed any signs of having a different opinion from her, or an opinion about which she knew nothing.

Archie licked his lips as if he were nervous. ‘I know al men were created equal. But we’re the only different people we know,’ he said suddenly.

He looked around; his father was engrossed in conversation with Guy, Louisa and Frank were laughing together on the edge of the terrace, and Jeremy and Frances were sitting on the bench by the steps. ‘And I get cal ed a Paki at school and told to go home by boys whose parents can barely read or write, when my father’s one of the cleverest people in the world, and his family lived in a palace in Lahore.’ There were bubbles of spit in each corner of his mouth. ‘You’re stupid, Miranda. You don’t stand up to those girls who bul y you because your father’s Indian. You should tel them you’re better than any of them.’

‘They don’t bul y me,’ Miranda muttered, hanging her head, her hair fal ing in her face. ‘Shut up, Archie.’

‘They do bul y you,’ Cecily said softly. ‘They’re horrible to her,’ she told Archie. ‘They cal her horrible things.’

‘We don’t talk about it,’ Miranda hissed, grabbing Cecily’s arm. She was bright red. ‘Remember?’

‘We never talk about it!’ Cecily said loudly, wrenching her arm away. Frances looked over at her three children, questioning. They huddled back together again, mutinous but quietened. Don’t break the pact.

‘There’s nothing to talk about anyway,’ Miranda whispered. She stood up straight again. ‘Al right? So shut up.’

‘Anyway,’ said Cecily. ‘I don’t think it matters if Dad grew up in a palace or not. He could have grown up in a hut. They shouldn’t do it in the first place.’

But Archie wasn’t paying attention. ‘Dad went to one of the best schools in India. With Maharajahs and – and English boys,’ he said. ‘Much posher than the pit I go to.’

‘Only because his dad was a teacher there,’ Cecily pointed out. ‘That’s what I mean, it doesn’t matter either way. Just tel them they’re bigots.’

‘No,’ Archie said. ‘I don’t want to do it like that. I want to show them I’m better than them. That I’l make more money than any of them, be more English than them, beat the faggots at their own game.’ He nodded, as though he was talking to himself. ‘I’ve got a plan, you see. We have to have a plan.’ His eyes rested, briefly, on his twin. ‘You have to understand that, both of you. They’re not going to help you. That’s al .’

The other two stared at him blankly, like he was speaking another language. And through the open window inside the house somewhere a tinkling, silvery bel rang suddenly, as if signal ing the end of something.

‘I think that means it’s time for food,’ Frances said. Miranda turned away from her siblings. She put her hand gently on Guy’s arm. ‘Guy, would you like to go in to dinner?’ she said in a husky voice.

Guy turned. ‘Oh, hel o, Miranda,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’d love to. Shal we?’ he said, turning to Arvind.

‘Wel , if we don’t,’ Arvind said, patting him on the back, ‘it’l go cold. Dinner, my friends. Let us eat.’

‘So, you’ve got two weeks,’ said Frances. ‘Is there anything you’d like to do while you’re here? Beyond relaxing and having a holiday, of course.’

Guy paused in the action of handing the salad bowl to Miranda and looked down the table at his brother, who was seated next to Frances.

‘We don’t real y have any plans,’ Frank said, staring ner vously into Frances’s amused green eyes. ‘We’d like to go to the beach. Obviously!’

He laughed, a little too loudly. Cecily, next to him, watched him in amazement. ‘Um—’ He looked at his brother for help. He was nervous, he wished it would go away. Across the table, Louisa smiled gently at him, and he looked rueful y at her. I’m not normally this much of an idiot. He had hardly said a word since he’d arrived. He’d never been anywhere like Summercove before.

The windows were open, the curtains drawn, and it was a stil night. Occasional y they could hear an owl hooting in the woods behind the house.

‘I’d like to go to the Minack Theatre,’ Guy said. ‘I’ve always wanted to.’

‘Wel , if we can get tickets,’ Louisa said, looking at Frank to see if he registered any interest in this activity. ‘But it’s often booked up.’

Frances waved her hand. ‘That’s fine. I know them. I’m sure if we motor over tomorrow there wil be some available. Terrific!’ She looked pleased. ‘I love the Minack, Guy, I hope you wil too. It’s such a wonderful setting. So dramatic. You feel as if at any moment the whole thing could be swept away into the sea.’

‘Is it very dangerous, the sea around here?’ Frank said. ‘We’ve lived here for eight years, if you count when it was just our holiday home,’ said Archie sagely. ‘We’re al pretty used to the sea.’

‘The rocks can be treacherous,’ Frances said, staring at her nails. ‘But you just have to be careful. Sensible.’

Yes, be careful. Be sensible. Don’t rock the boat. She smiled, her teeth gritted together behind her lips.

‘Wel , I’d like a picnic on the beach,’ Frank said suddenly. ‘With food.’

‘Yes,’ Jeremy said, pleased. ‘We thought we’d do that. At night, if that’s al right with you, Aunt Frances?’ He turned to his aunt, next to him.

‘Don’t want to leave you high and dry without company for the evening.’

‘So we’re not invited to the picnic on the beach, I take it?’ she asked him, amused.

‘Oh,’ said Jeremy, flustered. ‘Of course, if you’d like to – if you’d want to. How rude of me . . . I just thought, when Mother and Father arrive, you’d want to . . .’

‘I’d rather be on the beach,’ Arvind said.

Archie jumped in. ‘I say, Guy, Frank, have you been fol owing the Ward trial?’ he said. ‘Pretty juicy, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Guy. ‘I can’t believe they’re serving it up like this, every day.’

‘Profumo lied to Parliament, he deserves everything he gets,’ Guy said. He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘The times are changing. You can’t have this Establishment covering everything up as it suits them any more.’

Archie nodded, pleased. ‘What do you think, Frank?’ Frances asked the silent man next to her.

‘I’m afraid I don’t real y care much,’ Frank said, his handsome face set in a frown. ‘It’s just jol y entertaining, that’s al .’ He looked around, shamefaced. ‘Expect that’s an awful thing to say.’

‘I think that’s what we al feel,’ Guy said. ‘It’s terrible, but I want to read it.’ He turned to Miranda. ‘Do you read Private Eye?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Miranda said. ‘We sneak it in to school, I think it’s awful y funny.’

‘That’s rub—’ Cecily began, but bit her lip suddenly as Archie, next to her, kicked her.

‘Seems to me it’s the only paper or magazine tel ing the truth. There’s so much hypocrisy out there, in public life, it’s disgusting.’ Guy’s quiet face was animated. ‘L-look at the Argyl divorce case, it made me absolutely sick. We scrabble around to feast on the bones of these people, just so we can say how decadent and awful they are over our breakfast cereal, and then we bow and scrape when a lord or lady comes into the room.’

His voice rose as he came to an abrupt halt.

Silence fel as they al nodded politely, awkwardly. Frances looked at her nails again, and Guy sank back into his chair, embarrassed. Mary appeared in the doorway. ‘Shal I clear away?’ she asked. ‘Ooh, there’s not much left of it, is there?’

‘Thank you, Mary,’ Frances said. ‘That was delicious.’ The others murmured their approval, smiling, and Mary looked pleased. ‘You can go up afterwards, if you like. We can make the coffee.’

‘Behold, the symbol of our bourgeois repressive regime,’ Arvind said to Guy, after Mary had gone into the kitchen. ‘Mary. She cooks Beef Wel ington and cleans for us and we give her money.’

‘Sir, I didn’t mean –’ Guy began, looking mortified. ‘Please don’t—’

Arvind waved his hand. ‘Please. I was making a joke. You are quite right, young man,’ he said. ‘Things are changing, and we are wise to recognise it. Only I don’t think any of us knows how they wil change, not yet.’ He looked around the table, at his son Archie staring into space, at Louisa gazing at Frank, at Miranda watching them with a curious fury, at Guy, methodical y eating his cheese, at Cecily, careful y peeling a grape and looking across at Jeremy under her eyelashes, and final y at his wife. She nodded back at him, but a little frown creased her brow.

They retired one by one that night; Arvind went early, fol owed by Cecily then Jeremy. The others stayed up, sitting outside on the terrace, talking quietly over coffee. Guy was next to go up. He said he was tired, and he was fol owed by Archie soon after. Frances, Miranda, Louisa and Frank were left, until Frances took the hint and got up, with a look at Louisa and Frank and at her daughter.

Frank leapt to his feet. ‘Goodnight, Mrs . . . Mrs Kapoor.’

She held her hand in his, smiling at him playful y. She’d forgotten how touching these boys could be. How bloody pompous, too. ‘Goodnight, Frank. And please. Cal me Frances. It’s like Frank. Not too hard to remember.’

He gazed at her nervously. ‘Yes . . . yes, of course.’

She turned to Miranda, and her gaze flicked lightly back to Frank and Louisa, who was gazing shyly down at the flagstones.

‘You leaving these two to it, then, Miranda dear? See you tomorrow.’

Miranda, defeated, shot her mother a furious look. She got up from where she’d been artful y sitting on the ground. ‘Yes, I’m off too. Night, you two. Don’t be too long. It’s dangerous for the rest of us, you leaving the front door open,’ she said, somewhat obscurely.

Miranda didn’t come up immediately. Cecily was kneeling up in bed when she final y appeared, her diary beside her, and she was looking out of the window.

‘Are you peeping?’ Miranda said. ‘Watching what’s going on with the young lovers? Are they stil down there?’

‘No,’ Cecily blushed, and shut the window hurriedly. ‘Oh, you smel ,’ she said. ‘Is that where you went? Have you been . . . smoking? Urgh.’

‘Oh, shut up, you baby,’ said Miranda, flinging herself on the brass bedstead. ‘I’m eighteen, for God’s sake, I’m a bloody grown-up.’ She stared at the wal . ‘Not that anyone like Mummy seems to appreciate that fact.’

‘That’s because you don’t behave like a grown-up,’ Cecily said automatical y. ‘You don’t have a plan, unlike Archie.’ Miranda ignored her, and began unzipping her dress. Her younger sister watched her. ‘What are you going to do now? Do you know?’

‘I don’t know,’ Miranda said. ‘So leave me alone.’

‘You must have some idea,’ Cecily said, but her sister held up a hand.

‘Don’t start on me, please, Cecily. I’m not in the mood. Archie’s an idiot sometimes. A swot, with his ideas about making money and al of that rot. It’s so boring of him. I’l be fine. I’l work something out.’

‘Miranda,’ Cecily began. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘As long as it’s not about me.’ Miranda was struggling with the zip of her dress.

‘It’s not.’ Cecily leaned forward and tugged it down. ‘Thanks. Go on.’

‘Do you think it’s bad, if people . . .’ Cecily stopped. ‘A man and a woman. Do they—’ She flopped back against her pil ows. ‘Oh, never mind.

Forget it.’

‘A man and a woman?’ Miranda was intrigued. ‘What?’ she said. ‘Are you trying to spice up your diary? What?’

‘Nothing,’ Cecily said firmly. ‘I’m going to sleep now. Goodnight, Miranda.’

Chapter Fifteen

The next day, at breakfast, when Frank appeared at the table, tal and handsome in shorts and a slightly crumpled polo shirt, Louisa pursed her lips and looked down at her toast.

Frank cleared his throat. ‘Hel o, Louisa,’ he said.

Louisa blushed, ignored this and turned to Guy. ‘What do you want to do today, Guy?’ She popped a strawberry into her mouth and smiled at him.

Miranda sat down at the table, shooting a sideways glance at Cecily, who was bright red and munching her toast furiously, as if it had done something to offend her. So that was what had been troubling Cecily last night. She smiled.

‘Yes, Guy,’ she said, also ignoring the hapless Frank, who clutched his plate and sat down. ‘What do you want to do?’

Guy put down his knife. ‘I thought perhaps the beach? I don’t know, real y. Whatever anyone else wants.’ He looked at Cecily. ‘What do you like doing when you’re down here, Cecily?’

‘Me?’ Cecily looked astonished that anyone should ask her opinion. ‘Um – I like swimming in the sea, and playing card games and reading my book.’ She stretched out her legs. ‘And not having to pose for Mum, which I don’t have to do today, thank goodness.’

‘She’s painting you?’

‘Yes.’ Cecily glanced around, to make sure Frances wasn’t near the breakfast room. ‘It’s pretty dul ,’ she confided.

‘Your mother’s a wonderful painter,’ Guy said. ‘Who knows, one day you could be hanging in the National Portrait Gal ery.’

‘That’d be nice,’ Cecily admitted. ‘I just can’t see anyone wanting to gawp at me, that’s al .’

‘Nonsense, Cec,’ Jeremy said, walking behind her. He patted her head. ‘You’re a looker, isn’t she, Frank?’

As Cecily glowed, Frank, stil watching Louisa, said, ‘Oh – ah. Of course. Yes.’

‘Frank . . . Franty, your name is just like Mummy’s,’ Cecily said, flushing with exhilaration. ‘I think we should just cal you Bowler Hat from now on. To avoid any confusion.’

‘Yes,’ Louisa said, looking up suddenly, giving a thin smile. ‘Bowler Hat’s the perfect name. Because I’ve been thinking about it and Cecily’s right. You do look as if you should be wearing a bowler hat. Shorts real y don’t suit you. Your knees are awfully thin.’

Into the silence that fol owed this statement came Mary. ‘Now, does anyone want some more coffee?’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Eggs? Frank, how about you?’

‘No – no, thanks,’ Frank said. He smoothed his hands nervously along his muscular arms. He looked too big for the smal seat, the cosy dining room.

‘We’re cal ing him Bowler Hat now, Mary,’ Louisa said. She pushed her chair back from the table and stood up, her long legs clad in a pristine pair of shorts, this time pale blue. She languidly stretched her arms above her head. ‘Not Frank. It’s too confusing.’

‘Bowler Hat, eh?’ said Mary, col ecting up the empty scrambled egg dish. ‘Right you are.’

When Miranda and Cecily were cleaning their teeth in the little sink in their room after breakfast, Miranda said carelessly, ‘So, was Frank asking Louisa something a bit . . . rude, last night, Cec? Is that what you overheard?’

Cecily’s mouth was ful of toothpaste. She stopped, toothbrush in hand.

‘Wha’?’ she said. ‘Something about sex.’ Miranda mouthed the last word. ‘Something she didn’t want to do.’

Cecily bent over the sink and spat, and when she stood up again her smal face was red.

‘I wasn’t eavesdropping. Honestly. I wasn’t.’

‘I know you weren’t,’ Miranda said. ‘I don’t think the Bowler Hat’s very nice,’ Cecily said. ‘What did he do?’

‘Wel .’ Cecily spoke in a whisper, and turned the square tap so the water was running. ‘I was watching them, because I heard them say my name. I had the windows open ’cause I couldn’t sleep. They were sitting on the floor, and he . . .’ She paused. ‘Oh, my goodness.’

‘What?’ said Miranda, nearly mad with curiosity. ‘He . . . wel , he put his hand on her . . . chest.’

‘Oh. Is that it?’

‘Miranda!’

‘Come on, Cecily. You’re such a baby!’ Miranda turned the tap off. ‘What did Louisa do?’

‘She pushed him away,’ Cecily said. ‘Quite hard.’

‘What did he do then?’

‘He asked some other stuff. I’m not saying.’ She was bright red now. ‘And he was angry. He said, “For God’s sake, Louisa. Don’t be so frigid.”’

‘Gosh,’ said Miranda. ‘The Bowler Hat is real y Stewart Granger. Who’d have thought it?’

‘He is not Stewart Granger.’ Cecily was furious at this impugning of her idol. ‘Stewart Granger is tal and handsome, and a gentleman. And Frank is . . . tal . That’s it.’

‘Oh, he’s handsome. And I think he’s rather sweet, in a buttoned-up way,’ Miranda said, musing, looking out of the window. ‘And the brother, too.’

Cecily frowned. ‘Oh, goodness,’ Miranda said in irritation, turning round and catching her sister’s expression. ‘Do grow up a bit, Cecily. You’re such a baby. Life’s not like bloody boarding school, you know. One of these days you’l realise it’s normal for men and women to want to be with each other, you know.’ She looked in the mildew-spotted mirror above the sink and ran one finger careful y over a silken dark eyebrow. ‘It’s going to be hot again today. Very hot. I hope the others don’t get hideously sunburnt at the beach.’ She smiled at Cecily, and ran one hand over her smooth, coffee-coloured skin. ‘Have you ever kissed a boy?’

‘Me?’ Cecily said pointlessly. ‘No.’ She turned away. ‘Stop making everything about boys and girls, Miranda.’

‘That’s what life is about, Cec darling,’ Miranda said. ‘Look at Mummy, flirting with every man that comes her way. Look at Louisa, sticking her bum out at the Bowler Hat, like she’s an ape in the zoo – even you, Cecily dear. It’l happen to you one day—’

‘You’re vile,’ Cecily said, pushing past her. ‘I’m not listening. Stop it.’

She picked up her swimming costume and threadbare towel, and ran downstairs.

The path down to the sea from the house was narrow, impassable in winter. Every Easter, the overgrown brambles that threatened to strangle the high hedgerows were cut away. In late July, the brambles had crept back, tangled together with goosegrass, wild roses and ivy and croaking with grass-hoppers. Cecily led the way, fol owed by Guy and Frank. Louisa and Jeremy said they’d pack up the hamper.

‘It’s only eleven, and it’s baking already,’ Cecily said. She jumped over a trailing bramble. ‘The sea wil be gorgeous, it’s lovely and warm but it doesn’t get too hot. We went to Italy a couple of years ago,’ she added airily, ‘and already by now the Mediterranean is like a bath. So warm and soupy, it’s disgusting.’

‘Where in Italy?’ Guy asked. ‘I’m going in August, for a month.’

‘I love Italy, you are lucky,’ Cecily said. ‘We went to Florence, and Siena, and then on to the Tuscan coast. I wasn’t actual y there with friends, you know. Daddy was doing a lecture,’ she explained.

‘I understand,’ said Guy gravely. ‘But I want to go back one day. When I’m a student myself.’ She slowed down a little, and turned back to look at Guy. ‘I want to travel al over Europe. I’ve drawn a map of where I’m going to go.’ She stopped. ‘Here’s the path. It’s a bit tricky, so be careful.’

The steps were only a couple of feet wide, through the cliffs. ‘Good God,’ Frank said, as they started climbing down. ‘I’m a bit unsteady.’ He looked back. ‘Wil Louisa be al right, carrying that huge great hamper down the steps?’ he asked.

‘Oh, she’l be fine,’ Cecily said blithely. ‘She’s been doing that walk since she was a toddler, Bowler Hat. Calm down.’

But Frank said he’d stay back and carry the hamper with Jeremy, so Cecily and Guy carried on down.

‘Ye gods and little fishes!’ Guy exclaimed, when they reached the bottom. He rubbed his head. ‘This is al ours? You’re sure?’

Cecily ran across the sand. ‘It’s not strictly speaking our own beach, but who else comes down here? No one!’ She grinned at him, holding her hair back from her face. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘It’s great,’ Guy said, setting down his pack. ‘Everything here is great.’ He smiled at her. ‘I don’t know how you can bear going back to school, when you live in a place like this.’ His gaze roamed back towards the fields. ‘And your parents are marvel ous people, too. So interesting, so relaxed.’

Her smile grew a little more rigid. ‘I suppose. So what are your parents like?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know.’ Guy sat down on one of the huge black rocks. ‘They’re more Bowler Hat than . . . than your parents. Very correct. Think Weybridge is the centre of the universe. Very kind, rather strict.’ He grimaced, a bit helplessly. ‘We don’t often see eye to eye, put it that way. They certainly don’t watch TW3. And as for discussing the Profumo scandal . . .’ He laughed. ‘My goodness, if they had a daughter like you and she knew some of the things you know I think they’d have a heart attack.’

Cecily was picking up stones, but she stood up at this and looked at him. ‘Why?’ she said simply. ‘What’s wrong with a daughter like me?’

‘Nothing,’ Guy said, shaking his head at her. ‘Absolutely nothing. You’re not like most other girls, that’s al . You think for yourself, not for others.

It’s great. Wel , I think so, anyway.’

‘That doesn’t sound very al uring,’ Cecily said, scratching her arm. ‘Girls don’t want to be told they’re a bit odd, Guy. I jol y wel hope you don’t say that to girls at Oxford. No wonder you’ve had to tag along with your brother for the holidays, if that’s the way you normal y speak to your hosts.’

Guy gave a shout of laughter. ‘Come here, you vile child,’ he said, getting up and racing towards her. He grabbed her and tickled her, pinning her arms above her head while she screamed.

‘Stop it!’ she cried breathlessly, but he carried on. ‘Stop it, Guy, stop it!’ Suddenly her mood changed, as if she wasn’t finding it funny any more.

‘Get off.’

She leapt up. ‘I’m sorry,’ Guy said, standing up, breathing hard. ‘Cecily – sorry, I didn’t mean—’

‘It’s fine,’ she said, and moved away from him, towards the sea.

Louisa appeared at the bottom of the steps. ‘Here,’ she cal ed, as Jeremy and Frank emerged behind her, gingerly carrying the hamper. They were fol owed by Archie, who was wearing tortoiseshel sunglasses. Louisa looked at Cecily and Guy in a rather disapproving manner. ‘You’re making such a racket, you two.’

Cecily turned away, biting her lip, as Frank lifted the hamper clear above his head and carried it the last few steps onto the beach. ‘Whew,’ he said, laying it down on the sand. ‘That path is pretty hair-raising.’

‘Thanks, Frank,’ Louisa said, glancing at him. ‘Now, what have we got in here?’ She knelt down on the ground, and he gently pul ed her head towards his crotch as she opened the hamper. Her fingers fumbled on the leather straps as Frank stroked her hair, softly, looking down at her flaxen blonde crown, his fingers working their way through her scalp. ‘Um,’ Louisa said, faltering. ‘Wel —’

‘Is there anything other than ham for lunch?’ a voice behind her said, and Miranda stepped onto the beach, in a bathing suit of blue and white vertical stripes that accentuated every bump and curve of her body. She gave Archie a half-wave. ‘It’s just I don’t real y like it, especial y the way Mary cures it. It’s awful y soapy.’

‘Yes,’ said Louisa, not blinking. ‘There’s tomato, with some lettuce and mustard.’

‘Oh,’ said Miranda, her expression unreadable behind her large black sunglasses. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Wel , that’s fine. I’l just pick out the tomatoes.’

Louisa opened her mouth, but Jeremy said hurriedly, ‘Thanks so much, Louisa, that al looks wonderful. Anyone fancy a game of rounders before lunch?’

‘Games?’ said Miranda. She spread her towel delicately on the sand. ‘Oh, no, thanks. I’m going to sunbathe. And read my Private Eye.’ She lay down, leaning up on her elbows, and, making a tiny moue with her lips, produced a magazine from a canvas bag.

Cecily opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it rapidly again. Louisa gave a loud snort. ‘How amusing,’ she said. ‘Let me know if you need any explanatory notes. Or let Guy know, rather.’

Frank cleared his throat. ‘Louisa,’ he said, placatory. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk along the path? We can play rounders later.’

‘Yes, please,’ Louisa said. She looked up at him and smiled. ‘I’d love that.’ She took his hand. ‘Let’s go.’

They disappeared up the steps. Miranda looked around. ‘Oh, has Louisa gone off to play with Frank?’ she said, after a moment. ‘I was hoping she’d get me a drink. He’s forgiven, I take it.’

‘Miranda,’ Archie said, under his breath. ‘Stop it.’ He turned to the others and rocked on his feet. ‘We can play rounders with four, can’t we?

Improvise a bit?’

‘Of course,’ said Guy. He looked up at the path and then back at Miranda. ‘Sure you won’t play, Miranda?’

‘Oh.’ Miranda was rather trapped. ‘Um – no, thanks, Guy dear. I think perhaps later? I do so want to read my Private Eye.’

‘I feel sorry for Miranda,’ Cecily said, as the four of them moved across to where the beach was smooth. ‘It must be awful, being so bad at whatever it is she’s trying to be.’

‘Shut up, Cecily,’ Archie said automatical y. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He spun the cricket bat around in his hand. ‘Hi!

Leighton, Jeremy, what do you say we play cricket instead? I fancy trying out my new fast bowling technique. It puts Wes Hal to shame.’

‘Great idea,’ said Jeremy, whose bulky frame was better suited to rugby than cricket. ‘Cecily, do you want to bat?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Cecily said. ‘Miss Moore said I was a great batswoman this term. I’ve real y come on, apparently. Perhaps I’l play for England one day.’

The three men were silent. She looked at them, smiling slightly.

‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. I’m a girl. How ridiculous of me.’

‘Right,’ said Archie, handing her his bat. ‘Show us what you’re made of.’

A rather hilarious game of cricket ensued, as Cecily demonstrated on a tiny pitch that she was, in fact, a talented batsman. The tennis bal landed in the sea so many times the game had an extra added spin to it, but this did not daunt Cecily in the slightest.

‘My hand-and-eye co-ordination is excel ent,’ Cecily said immodestly, when Guy congratulated her. She smiled at him. ‘I’ve often been told so.

I’m remarkable.’

‘So I can see,’ Guy told her. He looked up at Louisa and Frank, back from their walk. ‘Hi, you two.’

‘Where did you go?’ Archie asked, as Louisa opened the hamper.

‘Oh, just around, up along the rocks,’ Louisa said. ‘There are loads of tourists on the beach behind us.’ She lifted out a large package wrapped in greaseproof paper. ‘Isn’t this fun, a picnic like this on the beach?’ She gave a great contented sigh. ‘Oh, it’s lovely when everything’s lovely. Here are the sandwiches,’ she said, suddenly practical Louisa again. ‘Frank, can you give them out?’

‘Of course.’

‘We walked pretty fast,’ Louisa went on. ‘It’s lovely, there’s a good breeze when you’re up on the path. I saw a lovely flower, quite unusual. What did we think it was, Frank?’

‘You thought it might be a Meadow Cranesbil ,’ Frank said. ‘Wow,’ said Miranda, gingerly inspecting the pile of sandwiches Frank was offering her. ‘Fascinating. What japes.’

* * *

After lunch, Jeremy, Frank and Louisa lit cigarettes, and sat back. The occasional light spray of water hit them, but otherwise everything was stil .

‘I want to get as boiling as possible, and then dive into the sea,’ said Cecily, closing her eyes and stretching out. ‘So that my skin feels hot to the touch.’ She slid one slim leg across a smooth black stone. ‘It burns!’ she said.

‘It’s great,’ Frank said. ‘We could be in Greece. Or India.’

‘Or France, it gets jol y hot in France,’ Jeremy said. ‘I want to go to India one day,’ Cecily said. ‘Go and see where Daddy’s from. Except it’s Pakistan now, Lahore.’

‘I want to go to India,’ Guy said. ‘Some friends of mine thought they’d go after they’ve come down from Oxford.’

The others were silent. ‘It’s a long way,’ said Louisa eventual y.

‘Wel , but we’ve got the rest of our lives,’ Guy said easily. ‘I want a bit of adventure before I settle down. In ten years’ time, I’l be a boring old something-or-other. I want to be able to look back and say, “Oh, yes. I did that.” Before I go back to sleep by the fire.’

‘You’l never be a boring old something-or-other, Guy,’ Frank told his brother. ‘I wil be. Not you. You’l be living in a flat on the Left Bank, wearing a beret and smoking Gitanes, talking about the summer you spent with Arvind Kapoor.’

Guy gave a short laugh. ‘The Bowler Hat’s right,’ Louisa said. ‘You’l be up at the Moulin Rouge every night, hanging out with cancan dancers and drinking absinthe—’

‘I say, when is this?’ Guy said, amused. ‘1890? Is Toulouse Lautrec my best friend?’

Louise looked rather stumped. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Where wil you be in ten years, then?’ Guy asked her. ‘Not one of the cancan dancers, I’l bet, Louisa. Not you.’

‘Oh. I don’t know. Where do you think I’l be?’

Guy put his coffee cup down and stared out to sea. ‘I think you’l be in New York, running the UN.’

‘Oh, Guy! Come off it!’ Louisa said. ‘He’s right,’ Frank said. ‘I think you wil .’

‘Yes,’ said Archie. ‘Hundreds of men underneath you. You’d like that, Louisa.’

‘Shut up, Archie, you little pig,’ Louisa said. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘God, you’re vile, you real y are.’ Guy and Frank watched her, puzzled. She turned her back on Archie and swivel ed round to face Frank. ‘You don’t think that, real y, do you?’

Frank was stil staring at Archie in confusion, but he stopped and wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t know, but I can imagine it, Louisa. You’re a terribly organised girl. Awful y clever, much more than me. You’re a real go-getter.’

‘Wel , I don’t know if I want to be a go-getter,’ Louisa said archly. She seemed a little disturbed by this. ‘Perhaps I just want to be at home. Have some children, look after them. Be a good wife.’

‘Urgh.’ Cecily made vomiting sounds behind her. ‘Please, Louisa.’

‘You could do both, you know,’ Guy said. Louisa looked at him blankly.

‘What about you?’ she said, gently nudging Frank. ‘Where do you think you’l be in ten years’ time? What wil you be doing?’

‘Oh. Um.’ Frank looked uncomfortable. ‘Don’t know.’ He picked at the embroidered logo on his polo shirt. ‘Sounds rather boring, if you say it out loud.’

‘Say it,’ Guy said quietly. ‘It’s not boring, old man, not if you real y want it.’

Frank stretched his arms above his head, faux-nonchalantly, and said, ‘Wel , it’s not much, real y. Think about having a nice house somewhere.

With a little drive, some hedges.’

‘Hedges?’ Cecily said, almost in disbelief. ‘Why—’ Guy nudged her.

‘And you know – I’d have qualified as a chartered surveyor. Be working at a good company. I’d get the train into town every day. Work with some nice chaps. I suppose, I never thought about it much. And – and wel ,’ he said, getting into his stride. ‘There’d be a . . . a family at home for me when I got back.’

‘You real y are the last of the great romantics, Bowler Hat,’ Cecily said. ‘Who is this family, a load of gypsies you’ve welcomed into your home?’

Frank took Louisa’s hand. ‘No,’ he said, squeezing her fingers. ‘My own family. My wife, and our children.’

There was a silence as the others digested this and Louisa’s eyes shone.

‘If she’s back from work, of course,’ added Frank, breaking in again. ‘Er – she might stil be working, of course. Perhaps we’d even get the train back together,’ he said, real y into his stride now.

Cecily got up. ‘I’l buy you both matching bowler hats for the wedding,’ she said. ‘Goodness, I got you quite wrong, didn’t I?’ She stretched herself out, languorously. ‘What about you, Archie?’

‘Don’t know,’ Archie said simply. His eyes roamed round. ‘Here’s Miranda.’ He cal ed out to his approaching sister, ‘You going for a swim?’

‘I thought so, yes. I’m boiling. Come in?’

‘Sure,’ said Archie. ‘Miranda’s a bril iant swimmer.’

‘She’s pretty amazing, actual y,’ Cecily told Guy. ‘She can do a somersault in the air off the diving board at school. She swims like a fish. It’s—’

She stopped as Miranda reached them.

‘Are you talking about me?’ Miranda said suspiciously. ‘Yes,’ Cecily said. ‘Just saying what a great swimmer you are.’

‘Don’t lie,’ Miranda said. ‘We were! Weren’t we?’ Cecily said, turning to Guy. ‘What about you, Miranda?’ Guy asked. ‘Where do you think you’l be in ten years’ time? What wil you be doing?’

Miranda looked taken aback. ‘I’m going to be running the UN,’ Louisa said. ‘Guy’s going to be living on the Left Bank wearing a beret, Frank’s going to be wearing a bowler hat and going into the City every day and Jeremy, we didn’t do you, or you, Cec.’

‘Oh, I’m boring,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’l be a doctor. I know what I want to be.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ Cecily looked at him with adoration. ‘Archie, what about you?’ Miranda asked her brother quickly.

‘I don’t know,’ said Archie helplessly. ‘I’d like to live in a hotel. You know, Monte Carlo or somewhere. Drive a fast car, see a bit of life.’ He crossed his arms. ‘But I’d be successful. Have my own business, sel ing cars or something. Studying’s a waste of time.’

‘But you’re going to Oxford, I thought,’ Cecily said. ‘No, I’m not.’ Archie shrugged. ‘Don’t see the point. Whole world out there ful of fun and excitement, I’m not going to moulder away in some old building for three years studying things people don’t care about any more.’

‘But—’ Cecily’s mouth dropped open. ‘Did you know that, Miranda?’

‘He can do what he wants,’ Miranda said. ‘But have you told Mummy and Dad?’

‘Cross that bridge when I come to it,’ Archie said, turning his face to the sun and closing his eyes.

‘So that’s the plan,’ Cecily said, nodding at him. She looked at her brother and sister, from one to the other. ‘Right. Wel , it’s none of my business.’

Louisa, ignoring this exchange, said, ‘What about you, Miranda?’

Miranda shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Never real y thought about it,’ she said, adjusting the rubber strap around her goggles which were on her head.

‘You don’t know what you want to do yet?’ Louisa said. Miranda turned on her, and said vehemently, ‘Oh, shut up, Louisa. Just because you’re perfect and know exactly what’s going on with your stupid boring life. Leave me out of it. I don’t know, I tel you. I’m not good at anything, and that makes it rather hard.’

‘You must be good at something,’ Guy said, not unkindly. ‘Wel , I’m not,’ Miranda said flatly. ‘I’m ugly. I’m too thin, too hairy, too stupid to go to university. The only things I like doing are buying clothes, and sunbathing and swimming, and last time I checked you couldn’t do that as a job. I’m the lame duck of the family, and I know you al despise me. So – so just . . . just fuck off.’

She spat out the last three words and stalked off towards the sea, leaving Archie to run after her.

‘Poor girl,’ Frank said, watching her costume-clad figure as she slid into the blue-green sea.

‘Oh, she’l be fine,’ Cecily said, with a sister’s impatience. ‘She just wants to go to finishing school and learn how to get out of cars properly and she’s furious Mum and Dad won’t let her.’

‘How do you get out of cars properly?’ Guy asked, intrigued. ‘No idea but we’re al doing it wrong apparently,’ Cecily said. ‘She’l learn, and teach us, and then she can marry a rich husband and spend al day in Harrods buying al the dresses she wants. I suppose that might make her happy.’ But she didn’t sound sure.

Jeremy nodded. Louisa was silent. The little group was stil , for a moment, watching the twins as they bobbed in and out of the clear water.

‘What about you?’ Guy asked Cecily. ‘What wil you be doing in ten years?’

‘Thank you for final y asking, Guy.’ Cecily pointed one foot delicately in front of her. ‘Working on the script of the film of my best-sel ing novel about Mary Queen of Scots,’ she said. ‘Living in Hol ywood with Stewart Granger. Buying my second silver Rol s Royce because the first one wil be worn out with driving me to film premieres and parties. And eating al the cream eclairs I want.’ She stood up. ‘OK?’

‘Yes,’ said Guy, taken aback. ‘You’ve worked it out, haven’t you?’

‘Oh, absolutely,’ Cecily said pragmatical y. ‘But I’l have time to go to India with you before, if you want. Come on, let’s swim.’

Chapter Sixteen

That night, at dinner, a party atmosphere set in. Perhaps it was because of the sun but it became clear, when they gathered on the terrace that evening, that there was something in the air. The holiday was real, it was happening. It was theirs to enjoy.

Yes, they were al on good form that evening. Louisa, like Grace Kel y in a blue Grecian dress, shyly touching Frank’s hand; Frank, tal and more assured dressed for dinner in a jacket, shirt and trousers than he ever was in shorts, dutiful y meeting Louisa’s smiles. Miranda, the last one down, eventual y appeared model ing another of her recent purchases, a crisp cotton black and white gingham shift, with a sash tie behind, her hair pushed back with a black silk Alice band.

Her mother stared at her, Frank and Guy swal owed, and Cecily whistled.

‘Wow, you look great, Miranda,’ Jeremy said. He stared at her with admiration. ‘You look like a film star. Doesn’t she, Franty?’

Frances nodded. ‘Absolutely. You’re like a swan, darling.’ Guy whistled. ‘Why, Miss Kapoor, you’re ravishing,’ he said, in a terrible American accent.

‘Thank you so very much, darling,’ Miranda said, in a husky film-star voice. There was a little throb in her throat, almost as if she was nervous.

‘So very kind of you. So kind.’ She accepted a drink from Jeremy. ‘You look lovely tonight, Louisa,’ she said in a loud voice.

Louisa, visibly touched, stil looked startled. ‘Oh, Miranda . . . thank you.’

‘No one has complimented me on my dress,’ said Arvind, who was sitting in a chair on the edge of the terrace, admiring the sunset. ‘No one has said, How nice you look today, Arvind.’

‘Daddy, you look ravishing,’ Miranda said, wanting to bestow compliments on everyone now. ‘Mummy, you too.’

‘Very heartfelt, Miranda,’ Frances said drily. ‘I’m not quite ready for the bath chair and the nursing home yet, you know.’

‘Mother,’ said Miranda, in a wheedling tone. ‘Can I ask you a huge favour, please?’

‘Er—’ Frances said. ‘What is it?’

‘Can we put on the Beatles? Please? Your record player’s so much better than the one upstairs.’

Louisa clapped her hands. ‘Oh, Aunt Frances, please. I think you’d real y like it,’ she said. It was so far the only thing Miranda and Louisa had found they had in common.

‘I know it very wel ,’ Frances said drily. ‘I’ve heard that dratted album wafting down the stairs about ten times a day for the past week. And over Easter. I’m sick of it.’

‘Oh, go on,’ Miranda pleaded. She drank some more of her gin and tonic. ‘Listen to it properly. Please. Please Please Me!’ she said, and Frances laughed, and unbent.

‘Al right,’ she said.

So they ate supper to the strains of ‘Please Please Me’ playing on the old gramophone from the sitting room, and Louisa sang ‘Love Me Do’

softly in Frank’s direction, and even Cecily (who was secretly rather keen on John Lennon), sang along to ‘Twist and Shout’. ‘Because they didn’t write this one,’ she explained, when Miranda looked at her cool y and asked why she was singing, if she hated them so much?

Arvind and Frances were not censorious parents, and they al owed wine at the table, though Cecily was only al owed a glass. This night, perhaps because of the wine, or the heat coming off their sun-kissed skin, or the heady, late summer smel of lavender and sea and sun oil, the wine disappeared faster than it might have done.

‘Another bottle?’ said Mary, when she came in to put down the peach melba.

‘Oh—’ Frances, who had been working in her studio al day, was tired and rather drained. She waved her hand. ‘Yes, a couple more, please,’

she said. ‘My glass is empty.’ She looked around the table. ‘I do feel old,’ she said, to no one in particular.

It was stil very hot outside, humid and stil , and Frances went to bed after supper, pleading a headache, fol owed by Arvind. The younger generation moved out onto the terrace where they sat for a while, too tired to move, not real y saying much. Frank and Louisa stood at the edge of the group, he with one arm round her waist, a glass of wine in the other. He was rather drunk.

‘This time next week, your parents wil be here,’ Cecily said into the silence. She smoothed a hand over her brow, to the scarf she had tied back her hair with, and stood up. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said, as if realising she was not in the right frame of mind for the party. ‘Goodnight, everyone.’

With her departure, it was as if the spel had been broken, and the party was deflating.

‘I’m actual y quite tired,’ Louisa said, moving Frank’s arm which was creeping up around her waist towards her breast. He drained his glass, and she moved away from him. ‘It must be al that sun.’

‘Wel , I’m off,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’l take the glasses through.’

‘I’l help you,’ Louisa said. She turned to Frank, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Night, Frank. See you – tomorrow.’

‘Oh.’ Frank blinked. ‘Yes, tomorrow. You’re – going.’

‘Yes, I am,’ Louisa said.

Frank’s lips drooped. ‘Oh, right then. I suppose I’d better be off soon as wel . Night, Louisa.’

He stayed on the terrace as, one by one, the others filed into the house, saying goodnight. He was swaying slightly, but after a minute he shook his head and looked around him, as if noticing for the first time that the party was over. He stared contemplatively into the darkness.

Someone appeared around the corner, making him jump. ‘Mrs Ka— Frances, hel o,’ Frank said, his eyes widening. ‘I thought you’d gone to bed.’

Frances leaned against the wooden table, her eyes dancing. ‘I was having a cigarette down by the gazebo. It’s such a beautiful night, I couldn’t quite bear to go inside just yet.’

She hugged herself, wrapping her slim, bare arms round her black-silk-clad body. Frank stared at her.

‘Do you have a cigarette, Frank?’ she said, and held out her hand.

Befuddled by wine, but mesmerised by her, Frank gave his hostess a cigarette. She put it to her mouth and watched as he lit it.

‘Don’t worry,’ Frances said, her voice rich with amusement. ‘I won’t bite you.’

‘We’re having such a jol y holiday, Frances,’ he told her. ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ she said, smiling in the darkness. ‘I hope there’s more to come.’

She rol ed her head from side to side, listening to the vertebrae crunch slightly. ‘Ouch,’ she said.

‘You al right?’ Frank asked. ‘Just – it’s been a long day,’ she said. ‘My back’s stiff. You’re lucky, you lot. You’re young. You sleep wel , you eat wel , you have fun . . . And then you become a proper grown-up. And it’s different.’

Frank, holding his glass at an angle, appeared to have realised he was a little too drunk for this conversation. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s not your fault.’ Frances bit her lip, sat down on the terrace and was silent for a moment. ‘But that’s for another day. I don’t want to puncture the golden dreams of youth.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Ah, when I was younger, we used to come to this part of the coast for picnics, to swim.

Pamela and I, and our friends. I’d see this house, up on the hil , and wonder about it.’ She brought her legs up so her chin was resting on her knees.

‘I always wanted to live here. And now I do.’

‘That’s great, isn’t it?’ Frank sat heavily down next to her. ‘Yes,’ Frances said softly. ‘Yes, it is. I’m very lucky. I have to tel myself that. It’s just sometimes I wish I was anywhere . . . anywhere but here.’

He was silent, as was she. Upstairs, a window opened quietly, but otherwise the house was completely stil .

Chapter Seventeen

Over a week passed, but it could have been a year: time seemed to stop, wrapping them in a cocoon. The days were fil ed with warm weather, fresh cold seas, lazing, reading, listening to music. By night they watched each other on the terrace or over dinner, watched as they grew more tanned, more at ease, knew each other, for better and for worse. It felt as if it had always been like this, a kind of heightened reality where everything was more exciting, colours were sharper, people were more beautiful, life was there to be taken. But of course, it wasn’t real y like that.

Perhaps it was the summer wind, blowing off the sea and through the house, sweeping them up in its path. But none of them was un affected by it.

They left Summercove, too. Frances got them tickets to the Minack Theatre and they saw Julius Caesar: sitting out in the refreshing night breeze on the theatre at the edge of the sea. They ate pasties in Marazion, and Cecily and Guy walked across the glittering silver causeway to the beautiful fortress castle of St Michael’s Mount.

Some of them went surfing in Sennen Cove; one morning the others stayed behind while Guy, Louisa and Cecily went with Frances to St Ives to see her dealer and talk about the London show. As they were leaving, Frances stumbled and stepped on Frank, who was kissing Louisa goodbye; she pierced his foot with her stiletto heel, and was horrified as he sank to the ground in agony. They bought him sickly pink sticks of rock from St Ives to say sorry, the sweet candy already stuck to the striped paper bags by the time Frank returned that afternoon from the beach, hobbling and supported by Miranda and Jeremy. One evening, they went into Penzance, to see Doctor in Distress playing at the Savoy. Guy took photos with his old box Brownie: Cecily on the beach, standing on a rock, her bobbed hair blowing about her face like a glossy brown halo; games of cricket, the bal flying into the sea; Frances at her easel (after he’d asked permission, of course); Frank (by now recovered, no more than an angry red stigma on his foot) snoring on the lawn like a slumbering blond god, the view of the path down to the sea blinding white in the midday sun.

It would seem from the outside as if they were in a blissful, untroubled holiday bubble. It would seem, too, as if the Leightons fitted in perfectly with the household, though of course it was their very outsider status which gave the summer its frisson of excitement, of fun, of them – al of them –

feeling as if they were watching themselves in a film, that it was unreal.

The longer their stay the hotter the weather became, night and day. Frank was happiest when he was outside, playing sports with Jeremy and Archie, trying to flirt with Miranda and Frances, and trying also – it would seem unsuccessful y – to seduce his girlfriend. His wandering hands became something of a feature, the fingers creeping across Louisa’s wel -upholstered, neat figure, only to be pushed briskly away, much to his dis appointment. Guy, on the other hand, just seemed to get on with everyone. Everyone except Miranda.

‘He’s so damned pleased with himself,’ she said to Cecily one Friday, a week after the Leightons had arrived.

Cecily had just returned from sitting for her mother upstairs and was in a bad mood; she disliked being stil for so long. She was slumped in one of the worn-out damask armchairs in the cool of the living room, flicking through a recent Country Life. ‘Look at this girl,’ she said, slapping the back of her hand in annoyance onto the page. ‘“Lady Melissa Bligh”. Why do they always have these photos of boring English girls with awful teeth?’ She gazed longingly at Lady Melissa’s black lace dress and swanlike neck. ‘Anyway, Guy’s not pleased with himself,’ she added after a moment.

‘Yes, he is,’ Miranda said, also flicking through a magazine. ‘He thinks he knows it al . What’s wrong and right. He’s very pleased with himself, if you ask me.’ She looked out through the French windows onto the lawn, where Guy was playing cricket with Frank and Jeremy, practising his bowling action. ‘I don’t like the way he acts as if he knows us al so wel .’

‘That’s what I like about him, actual y,’ Cecily said. ‘I feel like I’ve known him for ever.’

Miranda rol ed her eyes. ‘You would say that, because I said the opposite. Of course.’

‘I mean it, honestly,’ Cecily protested. She looked awkwardly at her sister. ‘Please. Don’t let’s row again,’ she begged. ‘Last night was so awful. I said sorry for it. You know I did.’

‘Al right,’ Miranda said crossly. She touched the glowing red scratch on her cheek, and Cecily too; they were almost identical. ‘We’re al right now. Let’s leave it, for heaven’s sake.’

There was a silence. The magazine slid off Cecily’s lap onto the floor; she ignored it. ‘Wel , I don’t like Frank,’ she said after a while. ‘I just don’t.’

‘Why don’t you go and play cricket, Cecily?’ Miranda said icily. ‘Burn off some of that energy before lunch. Little girls need to behave if they’re going to eat with the grown-ups.’

‘Wel , I’m going to go and play cricket,’ Cecily said, as if her sister hadn’t spoken. She shot out through the French windows, cal ing, ‘Hi! Can I play?’

‘Of course,’ Jeremy said, smiling fondly at his youngest cousin as she ran up to them. ‘Do you want to be a fielder?’

‘Oh,’ said Cecily. ‘Um yes, why not?’

‘Cec,’ said Guy, handing her his bat. ‘I was about to go up and wash my hands before lunch, why don’t you take over?’

Just then, there was a scream from upstairs. ‘Oh! Oh, my God!’ There came a muffled thud. ‘Leave me alone, you vile, vile little shit!’

‘What’s that?’ Frank looked up in alarm. ‘That’s Louisa. Louisa? Are you al right?’

There was no answer. Frank began to run, fast, towards the house. ‘Louisa? Hel o? I say, what’s happened?’

Jeremy fol owed him. ‘Louisa?’ he cal ed, breaking into a sprint. ‘Hey!’

‘Archie again,’ said Cecily softly to Guy, who was looking up at the house.

‘Archie what?’ he said quickly. ‘He’s a peeping Tom,’ Cecily said flatly. ‘Come on, let’s go and see if she’s al right.’

But it was Archie who needed the attention when they reached the top of the stairs. Through the open door Frank could be seen with his arms around Louisa, comforting her while she cried. And on the landing, rocking backwards and forwards, was Archie. Blood dripped from his nose onto the green carpet, staining it black. His careful y groomed hair was messy, the quiff bobbing loose over his forehead, and his beautiful white short-sleeved shirt had blood on it.

‘What happened here?’ said Guy. He leaned down. ‘Oh, my goodness. We need Jeremy, where is he? I think you’ve broken your nose.’

Cecily ran back downstairs to fetch him, her eyes wild, staring at her brother.

‘She hit me,’Archie said. ‘Sil y bitch.’ He shot Louisa a look of hatred, his hand clasped to his nose. ‘I was just walking back from the bathroom and she came out of her room and hit me. I’ve no idea why. She’s hysterical. She’s a hysterical bitch. Bitch!’ he repeated, as if that was the worst thing he could say. He wiped one hand on his jeans, smearing them with blood, and swore again. That was what was almost as shocking, seeing him so dishevel ed. Archie never had a hair out of place, he never showed any emotion other than amused detachment or careful watchfulness.

Cecily reappeared with Jeremy, who grimaced. He put his finger under Archie’s chin and looked at his cousin, who had blood pouring down his face into his shirt. ‘My goodness,’ he said. ‘How did you do this?’

‘I’l tel you how,’ said Louisa, breaking away from Frank and coming forward. ‘He spies on me, I told you, Jeremy! I was just changing out of my bathers, and I heard a noise again, and I looked towards the door. There’s a gap at the bottom, you can see shadows moving. So I pretended to be going to fetch my hairbrush off the dresser.’ She swal owed. ‘And then I opened the door and – I shoved my knee right in his face. Hard.’ She came up to Archie. ‘You disgusting, disgusting little dirty bastard,’ she spat. ‘What is it with you? What’s wrong with you, with you and your damn sister?

You’re both disgusting!’

‘I didn’t do it!’ Archie cried, looking around for support. His gaze fel on Miranda, who had arrived and was standing at the top of the stairs, watching them. ‘Miranda, I didn’t do it. You know I wouldn’t do it.’ He looked imploringly at his sister.

Guy said quietly, ‘What were you doing there, then?’ Archie was silent. ‘Exactly,’ Louisa said triumphantly. ‘Look at you.’

Frank put his arms around her again. ‘Poor honeybun,’ he said into her hair. ‘Why don’t we get you a drink.’ He looked at Cecily. ‘Where are your parents? You’d have thought they’d have heard.’

‘Mum’s stil upstairs working I think, she doesn’t real y hear anything when she’s in the studio. Dad – oh, who knows. He probably didn’t notice either.’ Cecily knitted her fingers together, as if the unconcern of her parents was an embarrassment to her. She turned to Guy. ‘What shal we do?’

‘Why are you asking him?’ Miranda said scornful y. Guy looked at Jeremy and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘I’m going to take you into the bathroom downstairs and get you cleaned up,’ Jeremy said calmly to Archie. ‘And then let’s have a chat.’

‘I’m going to tel your parents,’ Louisa said. Her expression was vicious, ugly. ‘I’ve had enough. This whole holiday, the two of you . . . if it’s not your sister like a dog in heat, it’s you.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Archie said. ‘I mean, this house is . . . Oh, God, I don’t know!’ Louisa threw her hands up in the air, almost in despair. ‘I hate it! The two of you together, you peering and spying, and Miranda, getting up to God knows what at night-time, I’ve heard her, I know what’s going on . . .’ She trailed off. ‘You should both be locked up, what is it with you two? Is it something in your blood? The other side of the family, I mean.’

There was an awful silence. ‘I wouldn’t say anything more if I were you, Louisa,’ Miranda said, facing her cousin, her hands on her hips. ‘It’s not your house, it’s ours. You’re lucky to be here.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that.’

‘I’l speak to you how I like.’ Miranda was shaking, her voice low, bursting with venom. ‘You’l be sorry, Louisa. I tel you. Don’t – don’t cross me.’

There was a silence, and they were al stil , frozen to the spot, staring at each other, as if seeing each other for the first time.

Louisa broke the spel . ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ she said in a shaky voice, and turned back into her bedroom, Frank holding her hand. ‘Of al of this.’ She shut the door, leaving the others on the other side of it, Archie stil bleeding, Miranda gazing almost in astonishment at the closed door, and the other three standing there, unsure of what to do next.

The atmosphere was charged with tension, bursting out everywhere, as if it had final y found a release valve.

‘Let’s go,’ Jeremy said uncomfortably, handing Archie another tissue, and their strange procession trooped downstairs. ‘I think we should find

—’

‘Hel o?’ A thin, rather querulous voice came from the sitting room, and as they got downstairs a figure appeared in the hal way. ‘Hel o? Is anyone there?’

‘Oh, my God,‘ Jeremy whispered. ‘Jeremy? Is that you? My goodness, what on earth has been going on?’

‘Mother?’ Jeremy said, emerging into the hal way. ‘We weren’t expecting you til tea-time!’ He strode forward, a smile on his face.

Pamela James, Frances’s sister, was standing in the hal , holding a pair of immaculate white gloves. She offered her cheek to her son. ‘We left earlier, to avoid the traffic. Hel o, dear,’ she said. ‘Daddy’s just parking the car. Where is Frances? No use asking for Arvind, I suppose.’

She was like a figure from another world, in a deep fuchsia tweed suit and sensible black patent court shoes, her handbag tucked into the crook of her elbow. Her calm, rather distant gaze took in Cecily, Guy and Archie, a handkerchief pressed to his nose. ‘Again. Can someone explain what has been going on?’

Jeremy took charge. He said, ‘Archie walked into a door. I’m just going to get him cleaned up now, Mother. Cecily, why don’t you go and find Franty – Aunt Frances, I mean?’ Cecily nodded and ran towards the back staircase to her parents’ room.

‘Wel , it’s good to be here, even if no one seems prepared for our arrival,’ Pamela said, putting her gloves down on the table and looking around, while Archie, Jeremy and Miranda stood transfixed in the corridor. ‘It was a very long drive and I’m rather tired. Is lunch soon, do you know?’

‘I think so –‘ Jeremy said, and just then, much to their relief, Frances appeared. ‘Hel o, hel o,’ she said, rushing towards her sister, pushing her hair back up into her head-scarf. ‘Pamela, darling, how wonderful to see you. We weren’t expecting you til tea! You have made good time!’

‘Thank you,’ Pamela said. ‘Yes, we set out early. I hope this doesn’t throw your plans off.’ She pronounced it ‘orf’. ‘I did say we might be here for lunch.’

Frances waved her hands. ‘No, of course not! It’s wonderful to have you here.’ She linked her sister’s arm through hers and they stood there, both tal and similar in looks, but utterly different people: Frances barefoot in cropped trousers and a bil owing smock, a patterned scarf tying back her hair, glowing with sun and a smudge of paint on her shirt and her long slim neck: and Pamela, perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place even after a six-hour drive.

‘I’l go and help with the bags,’ said Guy, glad to have an excuse to disappear.

‘We’ve been overrun with young people,’ Frances told her sister. ‘Absolutely overrun with them. I’ve been feeling terribly old and dowdy, and now you and John are here, we can redress the balance.’ She smiled manical y at Pamela, as if she wasn’t sure who she was.

‘I hope the children have been behaving themselves,’ Pamela said. ‘That they’ve not been too much trouble.’

‘The children?’ Frances tugged at a blue glass necklace hanging round her neck. ‘Oh . . . goodness, no. They’re wonderful. Terrific to have them al here. And the Leightons are lovely boys. I think they’ve been getting along fine – I’m afraid we’ve been terribly lax hosts,’ she said, scratching her head and smiling vaguely as Guy reappeared, carrying two suitcases, fol owed by John James, who was taking off his driving gloves as he entered the house. ‘Ah, John, how lovely!’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I was just saying to Pamela, I’m sure the children have been getting up to al sorts of mischief. It’s a good thing you’re both here, I’m sure!’

Only then did she catch sight of Archie, and she ran her hand rather helplessly over her brow. ‘Goodness, Archie, you have been in the wars, darling.’

They were al silent. Pamela and John stood there, watching them. From upstairs came the sound of Louisa’s weeping.

‘Is that crying?’ Pamela said, as if she’d never heard it before.

‘Oh, dear,’ Frances said, looking almost annoyed. ‘What have you al been up to?’

‘You real y didn’t hear, did you?’ Cecily said quietly to her mother.

‘No,’ Frances said. ‘Have you al gone wild? Started beating each other up? Is this Lord of the Flies?’ She laughed, but it sounded odd, harsh.

‘What have we let ourselves in for, dear?’ John said, rocking on his feet. His face was stern; he was only partly joking.

There was no answer to this. The others were silent. Frances went over to the front door, pushing it shut. ‘Come in,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘I’l find out when lunch wil be ready. I’m sorry. Welcome, welcome.’

Chapter Eighteen

There would be no ‘Please Please Me’ blaring out of the sitting-room record player into the dining room now that Pamela and John were here, that much was obvious. There would also be no smoking after dinner, and Cecily would not be given her customary glass of wine. And there would be no lazing around on the terrace afterwards. Something in the atmosphere had shifted that day.

When Pamela and John came into the living room that evening, Guy was saying to Frances, ‘The Stratford by-election is soon, isn’t it? I bet old Macmil an must be terrified. The way things are going, that Monster Raving Loony party could win it, you know. They’ve certainly got my vote.’

‘I don’t think that’s a suitable subject for discussion,’ said Pamela, stopping in front of him. ‘And I don’t think one should refer to the Prime Minister of one’s country as “Old Macmil an”, Guy.’

Frances jumped up. ‘No, of course not,’ she said cravenly, shooting Guy a glance of apology. ‘Quite right. Jeremy, wil you get your mother a drink? Pam, wil you have a gimlet? Darling, that’s a beautiful dress, you put me quite to shame.’ She patted her sister’s arm and turned, catching sight of her daughters, who were looking bored on the sofa. ‘Miranda, Cecily, you look like vagrants,’ she said, her voice sharp. ‘Go and change, for God’s sake.’

Looking slightly surprised at her mother’s harsh tone, Cecily said, ‘But Mummy, Guy and I were picking the blackberries, you said it was al right.’

‘Not like that,’ Frances said. ‘Look at you.’ She waved a hand, encompassing her youngest daughter’s stained yel ow shorts and crumpled white cotton top. Cecily’s hair was in knots where the wind had caught it. ‘Guy changed, why on earth can’t you?’

Cecily turned to her, mystified. ‘Mother, you are very very annoying.’

‘Cecily!’ Pamela said, scandalised. ‘You shouldn’t talk to your mother like that.’

‘She is annoying,’ Cecily said. ‘In the mornings when she paints me she’s always trying to get me to be more ruffled up and dirty, and when I am, she tel s me to go and change! Come on, Miranda.’

‘I’m not changing,’ Miranda said. She crossed her arms and stared defiantly at her mother, thick hair tossed to one side, her rosebud lips pouting.

‘Oh, yes you are,’ Frances said, her voice quiet.

Miranda squared up to her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to. And you know you can’t make me.’

She carried on staring at Frances, her jaw set, her eyes blazing. Cecily watched them.

‘Fine,’ Frances said eventual y, turning away from Miranda, but not before she’d given her a cold, hard look, quite chil ing. ‘How did you get that scratch on your cheek?’ she said suddenly. Miranda covered her face with her hand, blushing.

‘Did it myself,’ she mumbled. ‘Where’s Archie?’ Frances asked. ‘Early night,’ Guy said. ‘Stil a bit shaken.’ Frances looked as if she would ask something else, but then a voice behind her came from the corridor. ‘Ah. So, the outsiders are inside.’ Frances turned around grateful y.

‘He lives!’ she cried, trying to keep out the harshness she could hear creeping into her voice. ‘Darling, hel o. Get a drink. How’s your day been?’

‘Unpleasant,’ Arvind said. ‘Troubling. Disrupted.’

He advanced gingerly into the room; he was uneasy around his tal , brash, far too English sister-in-law.

Frances went over to him, smiling suddenly. ‘Poor darling,’ she said. ‘Have a gimlet. Thank you, Mary.’

‘Welcome,’ Arvind said, raising his glass to Pamela and John. They nodded politely.

Silence threatened to engulf the room. ‘How – how is your work going?’ John enquired, looking vaguely from Arvind to Frances, both of whose professions, if you could cal them that, were a source of mystery to him. John was a solicitor of the old school. Philosophers and painters were outside his remit but, unlike his wife, he thought you had to ask to find out.

Frances and Arvind looked at each other, like naughty children caught by a teacher.

‘You first,’ said Arvind. ‘Oh, wel . I’m preparing for a show, at the Du Val on Gal ery, in September,’ Frances said.

‘How interesting.’ John nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Frances smiled. ‘We’re having a party! They’re sending out invitations soon.’

John nodded again. ‘Delightful.’

There was an awkward pause. ‘Did you – did you hear about Ward taking an overdose?’ Miranda said. Her mother frowned.

‘They say he won’t make it through the night,’ Jeremy added.

‘This whole case,’ John said, shaking his head. ‘The state of the country after this trial is over – the damage wil be incalculable.’

Pamela nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I agree. Some of the details—!’ She shook her head.

Frances batted her husband playful y on the arm. ‘Go and see if Mary’s ready for us, wil you, darling?’

‘Of course!’ Arvind exclaimed with relief. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, exiting for the kitchen.

Guy was watching this exchange when a movement by the French windows caught his eye. Cecily had reappeared, in a simple black linen dress, her hair smooth and gleaming, her cheeks flushed. She was leaning against the door frame, staring at them, smiling, her eyes ful of tears.

‘Hey, I say.’ He went over and nudged her. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing!’ she said quickly, brushing away something on her cheek. ‘I’m just a bit tired. It’s almost too hot, isn’t it? There’s a storm coming, I think, there’s no breeze at al .’

Guy ignored this. ‘Cecily? What’s wrong?’

She smiled. ‘Darling Guy. Nothing. They’re so funny, my parents, that’s al . I don’t understand them. I look at them and I think I don’t real y know them at al . That must sound sil y.’

‘You never sound sil y,’ Guy said, his voice ful of warmth. ‘Trust me.’

‘You’re being nice.’ She turned to him, her face glowing, and Guy was taken aback; she was so beautiful in that moment, her clear coffee-coloured skin covered with a smattering of dark caramel freckles from the sun, her green eyes so dark they were almost black, and the evening breeze ruffling her hair. He caught his breath; the smel of lavender from the bushes next to them was almost intoxicating. She breathed in too, with a shudder. ‘I sometimes think I’m too emotional. Most of the girls at school, they’re quite happy to leave their parents and brothers and sisters behind, for months on end. And their homes. I hate it, you know. I love them and I love it here, it’s awful being away. And then I come back and I forget . . . how things are.’

He was touched. ‘Why don’t you tel them?’

Cecily shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh, it’s good for me to toughen up, I’m sure. I just – I wish I didn’t feel things so much. Al the time.’

‘Such as?’

She stared at him. ‘I – I can’t say.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, Guy, I wish I could. To you of al people, I wish I could. But I can’t.’

‘It’s a good thing, feeling too much, Cecily,’ he said. ‘It means you care . . .’ He touched her bare arm and was surprised when she jumped.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘You didn’t,’ she said. She caught her lower lip in her teeth, and raised her eyes to his, slowly.

‘God . . .’ Guy heard himself saying. ‘You real y are beautiful, Cecily.’

They stared at each other, blankly, for a moment. He held out his hand – she held hers out too. For a split second their fingers touched, and then she stepped away, hastily, and Guy was left standing by the window, watching her as she picked her way towards her mother. Something strange, fundamental, was shifting within him. He cal ed to her, in a low voice, ‘Cecily—’

But she ignored him.

He did not take his eyes off her until they were cal ed in to dinner.

Louisa linked her arm through Frank’s as they walked towards the dining room.

‘I do hope Daddy isn’t too boring,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘He can be rather . . . old-fashioned. He’s furious about the Profumo affair, I don’t quite know why. He tends to expound, once he’s had a glass of wine. It’s rather mortifying.’

‘Oh, I’m used to it.’ Frank yawned, and nodded. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Awful y tired. Don’t mind me, Louisa. Not on very good form tonight.’

Louisa squeezed his arm in jokey exasperation. ‘How can you be tired? You had a nap this afternoon while we were al swimming and picking blackberries, didn’t you?’

‘Perhaps that’s the problem,’ Frank said. ‘Oh, too much sleep, I suppose. It’s – I’m much better now, promise.’

She looked up at him. ‘Are you . . . al right, darling?’

‘I am.’ Frank squeezed her arm back. ‘Been on rather subdued form, I’m sorry. I am very al right.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Listen, I’ve been rather a brute this holiday, I know. Trying to persuade you to do something you don’t want to. Wil you come for a walk with me, after supper?

Steal away when the grown-ups have gone to bed?’

‘Frank?’

‘There’s something we need to talk about,’ he said. He took her hand and squeezed it tight and Louisa smiled, her eyes fil ing with tears.

There came voices from next door and suddenly her expression changed.

‘Oh, dear,’ Louisa said. ‘I think I was right.’

‘About what?’ Frank sounded alarmed. ‘Right about Daddy.’

‘Absolute rubbish,’ John James was saying, as they sat down. ‘I tel you, the woman is a common prostitute, nothing more. The men she was associating with. Black men, in Notting Hil . That Edgecombe fel ow, turning up and shooting people. Those are the people Mr Powel is talking about and I for one can’t blame him. What are we coming to? It’s al very wel , and yes, people must be al owed to come into the country, but when they set up enclaves like this . . .’ He waved his wine glass in the air. ‘Whole system starts to go to pot.’

‘What system?’ Miranda was sitting opposite him, in between Guy and Cecily. She was examining her dirty fingernails. She barely raised her voice; it was the disdain in her tone that was most surprising of al . ‘The system of white men oppressing everyone else for hundreds of years? Or the system of raping countries and people so you can make money?’

Al of a sudden, the atmosphere in the room was electric. ‘Miranda –’ Frances said, in a warning tone. ‘There’s coronation chicken and salad,’

Mary said in a bright voice. ‘If that’s al —’

The others were al sitting stil . No one got up. John said, ‘Young lady, you are confusing the argument. It’s a question of how our own great country has been pol uted, is being pol uted, with the question of immigration, with this lax – lax behaviour in public life . . .’ He trailed off, cleared his throat, and then said, ‘With al respect, I don’t think you know what you are talking about.’

‘Of course I don’t,’ Miranda said scornful y. ‘I’m just a girl, what would I know? After al , girls are pretty stupid, aren’t they?’

‘Miranda –’ Cecily hissed desperately, next to her. Her uncle was watching her, imperturbable, one eyebrow slightly raised, cold grey eyes in a thin, sculptured face.

‘I don’t think,’ said Pamela, ‘this is appropriate.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Louisa, have you been keeping up with your tennis? Frank,’ she said, ‘do you know that Louisa’s tennis instructor says she’s—’

‘No,’ Miranda’s voice cut through, biting and clear. ‘Girls aren’t nearly as clever as boys, of course not. They’re born with fewer brain cel s, did you know that? They can’t drive properly or do science or maths, you know? Al they’re real y good for is . . .’

‘Yes?’ John looked disdainful y at his niece. ‘Do enlighten me, Miranda.’

‘Fucking and cooking,’ Miranda said, standing up and throwing her napkin on her heaped plate, which Mary had just set down. Louisa gasped, and Guy screwed his napkin into his fist. ‘That’s al we’re good for, wouldn’t you say?’ She stopped and looked round then, as if realising there was no turning back, she took a deep breath and ploughed recklessly on. ‘Even someone like me, though, that’s the question? Me, and my sister, and my brother, and my dad, do you real y want us, pol uting the country?’

‘ Miranda! ’ her mother hissed furiously. ‘Miranda, apologise to your uncle!’

‘Oh, don’t you dare talk to me,’ Miranda told Frances, her eyes blazing. ‘You of al people, don’t you dare! You’re the biggest hypocrite of them al , tel ing me what’s best for me, how worthless I am!’ Frances looked as though she’d just been slapped. ‘Yes, we’re in such an honest country too, aren’t we?’ Miranda’s voice shook. ‘Not hypocritical at al , oh, no. Definitely worth preserving the old way of life. Essential.’ Her face was pale; her eyes were huge. ‘I wish Archie were here. He’d say it better. Oh, hang it al .’

She took Cecily’s hand in hers and gripped it. Cecily wriggled away, embarrassed. She could not bear to look up at her sister, as if she were a leper on the street.

Into the stunned silence a voice spoke from the end of the table.

‘No, Cecily, take your sister’s hand,’ Arvind said. ‘Wel said, Miranda,’ he told his eldest daughter. ‘Very wel said. You don’t need to swear, but you are absolutely right in everything else you say.’

Miranda looked from him to her mother, who was looking down at her plate, not meeting anyone’s eye, and then back again at her father, smiling very faintly at him, almost in shock.

‘Wel –’ Pamela began. ‘I must say—’

Frances put her hand over her sister’s. ‘No, Pamela,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t.’ She seemed to be wrestling with something inside herself. ‘This is al wrong,’ she said. She tried to catch Miranda’s eye, but Miranda stared straight ahead.

‘Let us eat,’ Arvind said, lifting to his mouth a huge serving spoon that had ended up on his plate. His authority was, as ever, absolute. ‘We wil not discuss the pol uting of this great nation in my house. We wil give thanks for it instead. Enjoy your coronation chicken curry.’ His expression was grave, but his eyes twinkled.

They ate without noise, in the airless room.

Chapter Nineteen

It came to an end for them not long afterwards. The fol owing day, Saturday, was hot and muggy, and over the next few days the winds seemed to drop as the temperature increased.

The atmosphere had changed inside Summercove, too, since Archie was caught peeking, since Miranda’s blow-up with her uncle. The cousins eyed each other with greater suspicion; they fel into their own ranks, only Jeremy on the sidelines. Louisa barely spoke to Miranda or Archie, and was extravagant in her affection for the Bowler Hat, who was himself perfunctory in the repaying of it. Miranda and Archie were together even more. They would barely speak to Cecily, whom they considered to be some kind of pariah. And Cecily – Cecily changed, suddenly, almost overnight. Something had got to her. Whatever it was, she wasn’t the same in the days that fol owed.

On the Tuesday morning, four days after the James’s arrival, the thermometer in the kitchen read 91 degrees, and Mary said it was the hottest she’d known it. At the breakfast table John did what he’d done since he’d arrived, taking first the Express and then The Times and reading them in silence, digesting every last dirty detail of Stephen Ward’s death three days previously and his upcoming funeral, while the others waited, resentful y, for their chance to read, eventual y giving up and going outside to sit in the relative cool of the morning shade.

Arvind had taken to having his breakfast in his study, these last few mornings. Guy had got up early, gone for a long walk, the Bowler Hat said.

No one had seen him. The others drifted outside, one by one, hoping for some relief from the heat.

Pamela passed her napkin delicately over her upper lip. ‘It is extremely close, isn’t it?’ she said to Frances. ‘Too close. I should have thought the breeze from the sea would provide a little relief, but no.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Frances said. She was drumming her fingers anxiously on the table; there were dark circles under her eyes. ‘Perhaps the cloud wil burn off later, you know. It’s stil early.’

‘Hm,’ said Pamela. ‘It’s getting to be unbearable,’ she said, standing up. She nodded at her sister as she left the room.

‘I agree,’ Frances said mirthlessly. She turned to Cecily, who was sitting further down the table by herself. ‘Cec, darling, wil you be ready to start at ten?’

Cecily was picking at her placemat. She looked up. ‘Oh,’ she said, in a smal voice. ‘Of course, Mummy.’

‘You look rather pale, darling. Are you al right?’

‘Ye-yes.’ Cecily stared back down at the bowl. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t sleep very wel , that’s al . Our room’s awful y hot.’

‘I know, I must do something about it. I’m sorry, darling. The studio wil be baking too, I’m afraid. We could do it in the evening, when it’s cooler.

Why don’t you and Guy go for a swim again?’

‘No. Not Guy.’

‘What’s wrong with Guy?’ Frances stared at her daughter. ‘Cec darling, what on earth’s the matter?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with Guy,’ Cecily said. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. Let’s just get it over with.’

She looked so wan and sorry for herself that Frances leaned forward and put her hands together. ‘Darling, are you sure you’re al right?’

Cecily looked intently at her mother. ‘Mummy . . .’ she said after a pause. ‘You would love me no matter what I did, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course I would,’ Frances said. ‘And Miranda, and Archie. You’d stil love us, even if we did something terrible.’ She glanced down, picking strips of raffia off her mat. ‘That’s the way it works, isn’t it? We have to love each other no matter what?’

Frances paused. ‘What’s going on, Cecily?’

Cecily said, ‘Not sure.’ She looked wildly around the room. ‘I’m not sure any more. Everything’s changed.’

Frances turned towards the open door. There was no one there. Out in the garden, Jeremy and Louisa were lying on the grass, The Times spread out like a huge, sand and black coloured towel, in front of them. They were reading intently.

‘What’s going on?’ she said again. ‘Cecily?’

Cecily got up. She took a deep breath. ‘Nothing, Mummy. I’m just being sil y. Look, can I go and brush my teeth and my hair? And write my diary up before that? I’l only be a few minutes.’

‘Of course,’ Frances said. ‘I’l go and set everything up.’ She took something out of the pocket of her embroidered top. It was the ring Arvind had given her, the ring his father had sent over from Lahore after he’d proposed. Cecily loved it. It was her favourite thing, and Frances had even let her take it to school last year. She had her wearing it on a chain around her neck in the painting she was working on. ‘Here, have this.’

Cecily stared at it blankly. ‘What, put it on now, instead of later?’

‘No,’ Frances said. ‘I want you to have it to keep. From me. Because . . . because I want you to.’

‘But it’s yours.’

‘Now it’s yours,’ Frances said. Her eyes fil ed with tears. ‘Why?’ Cecily said. ‘You love it, don’t you? You’ve always said you did.’ Cecily stared at the ring, lying flat on her smal palm. ‘Yes. But why do you want me to have it now?’

‘I just do,’ Frances said. Her voice was thin. ‘I like the idea of you having something of mine, darling, some jewel ery to wear of your own from me. Like a talisman.’ She smiled. ‘Why, you’re practical y a woman these days, it’s time we thought about this kind of thing.’

Cecily didn’t even smile. She just said, ‘Thank you.’ Frances didn’t know what to do next. She came round to her and kissed her daughter’s silky head. ‘I’l see you soon, my darling.’ She added, ‘It’s going to be fine, honestly.’

Cecily paused at the door. ‘Is it?’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t know that it is.’

Frances watched her daughter go. She didn’t know why, but she knew that Cecily had grown up in some way, that the lanky-legged teenager who ran ahead of the others down to the beach, chattering nine to the dozen, had gone for ever.

Chapter Twenty

‘What’s for lunch?’

‘I don’t know.’ Louisa stretched out on the grass. ‘You’re so greedy, Jeremy. It’s too hot to think about that now.’ She turned on her side. ‘Do you know where Miranda and Archie went?’

‘Think they’ve gone off round the cliffs.’

‘They might bump into Guy,’ Louisa said. ‘Gosh, everyone’s in a bad mood today.’ She rol ed her head from side to side. ‘I’m starting to look forward to leaving, you know. Like I’l be glad to get away from here.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Jeremy said uneasily. ‘Don’t see why.’

Louisa glared at him. ‘You’re the one who said you didn’t like it down here, before the Leightons arrived.’ She chewed a nail. ‘It’s – I don’t know. How’s it ever going to be right again after what Archie did?’ she said pragmatical y. ‘I mean, he could go to prison. And Miranda – what she said to Daddy, I can’t believe she hasn’t been punished for it!’

‘I think Franty and Arvind aren’t such sticklers for dis cipline,’ Jeremy said diplomatical y.

‘Wel , and look where it’s got them,’ Louisa said tartly, but lowering her voice. She looked at her brother. ‘Don’t you think Miranda went too far?

I mean, I think she was awful, and no one’s real y done anything about it.’

‘Er –’ Jeremy said. ‘I think she was a bit rude. But – wel , I think she meant, wel , what she was saying. P’rhaps she didn’t quite say it right.’ He plucked at the lawn. ‘Dad’s a bit outmoded. He doesn’t understand the way things are these days. Or the way things are going, if that makes sense.’

‘I know,’ Louisa said. ‘I mean, we’ve got Indian cousins, we know what it’s like.’

‘Er –’ Jeremy said again. ‘I suppose so . . .’ He looked at his sister. ‘I’m just suspicious of Miranda’s motives, that’s al . Think she had a point to prove rather than moral outrage.’

‘Wel , that’s Miranda, isn’t it?’ Louisa said lightly. She leaned her head back, face held up to the sky. ‘It’s so humid, I can’t even see the sun.

She’s an awful drama queen. And she’s been so much worse, the last few days.’

‘It’s true.’ Jeremy rol ed over. ‘It’s al rather . . .’ His shoulders slumped. ‘I’m a bit tired of her and Archie, to be perfectly honest. Al that sneaking around together and whispering. Odd behaviour. What Guy and Frank make of it al I don’t know. Old Frank’s a sound chap though,’ he added reassuringly.

‘Ye-es.’ Louisa spoke slowly. ‘Yes, he is.’

She didn’t sound overwhelmingly sure and Jeremy was not the type to pry. He was silent, and a few seconds later Louisa said, ‘He’s asked me to marry him.’

‘My goodness!’ Jeremy said. He stood up. ‘Louisa, old girl, that’s wonderful news! Where is he?’ He looked around. ‘I say—!’

Louisa sat up and pul ed him back down. ‘Oh, sit down, Jeremy, you big fool! Shut up a second!’ She gripped his arm. ‘I said no.’

‘What?’ Jeremy’s mouth dropped open, and he appeared lost for the right thing to say. ‘You said no to Frank? Thought you were keen on him.’

‘Yes,’ Louisa said. ‘I was surprised, too. But—’ She rol ed onto her stomach and stared at the grass. ‘I just don’t know if that’s what I want.’

They were both silent for a moment. ‘Real y?’ Jeremy said. ‘Old Frank?’

‘Frank, yes – wel , no—’ Louisa shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He’s been different, these holidays, rather off. But I do think I love him, I suppose. Before they came here, I was so sure.’ She looked at Jeremy, her huge blue eyes wide open. ‘I thought we had an unspoken sort of agreement, that we were to be engaged, even if it wasn’t talked about. And now – I just don’t know any more.’

‘Why?’ Jeremy asked softly. ‘Something Miranda said, if you can believe that. About women, about us and what we can do with our lives. I – I do love Frank, but oh, Jeremy—’ She hit the bal of her palm against her forehead. ‘Can you possibly understand? I don’t know if you can, Jeremy. I think if I marry him, my life wil be over.’

‘Oh, Louisa, come off it.’

She shook her head, smiling, and stood up. ‘You don’t understand, I knew you wouldn’t.’ She put her hand out to reassure him. ‘Don’t worry, it’s me. I have to decide. Go to Cambridge, study hard, get a good job afterwards.’ She brushed her shorts down methodical y.

‘Can’t you do both?’ Jeremy stood up too, looking mystified.

‘I don’t think I can,’ Louisa smiled. ‘I rather feel that if I marry him, my identity, me, it wil be gone.’

Jeremy looked upset. ‘I don’t—’

Louisa put her hand on his. ‘Don’t worry, big brother,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’

As they turned towards the front door, Frances appeared at the bottom of the side staircase.

‘Gosh, it’s hot. Where’s Cecily, do you know?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been waiting for her for ages.’

‘She’s with you,’ Louisa said stupidly. ‘Isn’t she?’

‘No,’ said Frances. ‘She was supposed to be, but she went to brush her teeth and write her diary up. That was half an hour ago. She’s not in her room.’ She stared impatiently across the terrace. ‘Where on earth’s she got to? I know she hates it, but it’s so very nearly done.’

And then there was a scream, and hol ered shouting, from the path towards the sea. ‘Help! Help!’

‘What on earth . . . ?’ Jeremy darted forward. ‘What’s that?’ They ran to the bottom of the terrace. Miranda was running towards them, fol owed by Archie and another figure behind them.

‘Help! Get help! Ambulance!’ she screamed. ‘Get the . . . get the ambulance!’

‘What?’ Louisa said, running towards her cousin. ‘Miranda – what’s wrong?’

Frances stood stock-stil , as if frozen to the spot. ‘It’s Cecily, Cecily.’ Miranda was racing like a madman, her hair whipping round her face. Two circles burnt red on her cheeks. ‘She fel – she stepped back and she slipped . . . Oh, God.’ She stopped and looked up at them imploringly. ‘What have I done?’

‘You didn’t do anything,’ Archie said.

Guy appeared behind them. ‘What’s happened?’ he was shouting as he approached them. ‘I heard screams – who is it? Where’s – where’s Cecily?’

‘I’l get the ambulance,’ Miranda sobbed. ‘Oh . . . Cecily . . . oh, my God.’

‘What?’ Guy stood stil . Sweat ran down his forehead. ‘Cecily?’

Frances was running towards the sea. ‘Where is she?’ She was opening the gate, but Archie stopped her. He put his hand on her arm, blocking her path. ‘No, Mum,’ he said, his face unreadable. ‘I don’t think you should go down there.’

‘Why?’ Frances’s voice broke. ‘Get off me. Why?’

Archie said very quietly, ‘I don’t want you to see her like that.’

They knew, then. As Miranda’s voice came out to them: ‘Yes, Summercove. Parry Lane. It’s the Kapoors. No, dammit, Kah poor. Come quickly!’ Her voice was breaking. ‘Please, hurry up!’

‘I’m going down there,’ Guy said, breaking away and running towards the gate. ‘I’m going . . . she might stil be al right, we have to do something.’

Miranda, emerging from the house, her pale face stained with tears, just looked at him, and then at Archie, and shook her head.

‘What happened?’ Frances said, watching her daughter. ‘What did you do, Miranda?’

Her son tightened his grip around her. ‘Mum. Don’t say that. She didn’t do anything.’

Miranda, who had opened her arms to her mother, let them drop to her side. She looked back at her, and sank onto the stone doorstep like a broken dol .

They brought Cecily’s body back up from the beach late that evening, as the sun was setting and the grey moths were fluttering around the candles they had set outside to light the way, just as the storm broke and it began to rain.

The police came, too, of course: they had to know what happened, had to see where she’d fal en, take measurements and photographs. And what happened, it would seem, is that Archie and Miranda were out walking when they bumped into Cecily, at the end of the path on her way down to the beach. Guy was walking in the opposite direction, towards the cliffs, and he heard raised voices, shouting, and then screaming. Apparently Cecily had turned and slipped, a little of the rock breaking away with her.

She had fal en down the steps, her neck broken in the fal . It had rained the day after the James’s arrival, and even in the height of summer, the steps, cut into the rock and without any sunlight, were often dank and slippery. Arvind and Frances had been advised to get them resurfaced. It was one of those things they’d been meaning to do, but the pair of them – when did they ever do what they were supposed to do?

She should have taken greater care, even Cecily who knew the path, the steps and the beach so wel . She should have been more careful. She should not have died. And though no one said it out loud, and though at the inquest a verdict of accidental death was recorded, it wasn’t enough to silence the rumours that al was not what it seemed, that it wasn’t, in fact, an accident.

There was something in the air that summer, like a poisonous cloud, growing in strength. And when it broke, like the storm that raged al that night after her death, nothing was the same again.The day after Cecily’s funeral, when they had scattered her ashes out to sea (Arvind’s idea), and everyone had gone – the mourners, the rest of the family, a stunned Guy, a teary Louisa – Frances locked her studio door behind her, and went into her bedroom. Arvind was in his study, of course.

It was a dul , wet evening, mid-August. The nights were noticeably earlier. There was a chil in the air, a suggestion for the first time that summer was drawing to a close. She held the key in her hand, staring out of the bedroom window. She gazed at the gazebo where her son and remaining daughter sat, huddled together, looking out to sea. Her eyes narrowed as she watched them; hatred, she told herself it was hatred, squeezed her heart.

‘It’s over,’ Frances said to herself.

She clutched the key tightly and shivered. Then she opened her bedside drawer and dropped the key in, next to the ring she’d taken off Cecily’s damp, cold finger a week ago. She shut the drawer and went downstairs, and sat in the big, empty sitting room until the light faded and she was alone in the dark. Miranda and Archie came in separately, and went to bed. Arvind too. None of them knew what to say to each other, so they didn’t say anything at al .

PART THREE

February 2009

Chapter Twenty-One

‘So. Miss Kapoor. Thank you for coming today.’

‘Not at al ,’ I say. ‘I’m as anxious as you are to sort this out?’

Unfortunately, I raise my voice at the end of this sentence so that it sounds as if it’s a question, not an answer.

There is silence from across the grey plastic desk. I wipe my sticky hands on my skirt and I blink wearily; I’ve had not quite four hours’ sleep.

This is good for the sleeper train, where things fal onto the floor as the carriage judders suddenly or drawers fly out as you round a corner, rousing you from your too-light slumbers. But it’s stil not much in the grand scheme of things and I am very tired. I can’t escape the feeling that I’m stil there, lying in a rocking berth. The office in Wimbledon – where my business account manager is located and thus where I have to go if I want to stop the bank cal ing in debt col ectors – is warm and my eyes are heavy. The bump on my head from my Victorian heroine-style fainting fit is stil swol en, and has turned an impressive purple colour during the night. I haven’t been home yet; I’m stil wearing my funeral outfit, ironical y appropriate for today as wel as yesterday.

Yesterday seems like a world away. The pages of Cecily’s diary are stil in my skirt pocket. They make a crumpling sound as I shift in my seat.

Ten pages, that’s al , and then – what? Nothing.

When I climbed wearily off the train this morning, I wondered if I’d dreamed the previous twenty-four hours. It would make more sense, somehow. These scant pages in Cecily’s scrawling, cramped handwriting, al too little an insight. I keep thinking of them al after the funeral, in the living room at Summercove. My family, standing around in knots, not talking to each other. The taxi ride with Octavia, the near-pleasure with which she thought she was tel ing me the truth about my mother. Was she?

I can’t think about it now. I shut my eyes again. Opposite, Clare Lomax, Local Business Manager, stares impassively at me, her hands clasped neatly on the desk. Her suit jacket is slightly too big. It looks like a man’s.

‘So. We’ve been trying to contact you for a while about your overdraft, Miss Kapoor.’

‘Yes.’ I shift my focus back to the present moment. I nod, as though we’re in this together.

‘We’ve become extremely concerned about your ability to sustain a viable business. As you know. That is why we have decided to withdraw your overdraft facility and request immediate repayment of the amount in question.’

‘Yes,’ I say again.

Clare Lomax glances at her sheet. She reads, in a sing-song voice, ‘You are five thousand pounds overdrawn at this time, and you have defaulted twice on repayments for the loan you took out with us last year, also for five thousand pounds. I see you also have considerable debt on your credit card, also held with this bank. And despite several letters requesting repayment we have not been contacted by you with regard to these matters, which is why you’ve left us no other option, I’m afraid, Miss Kapoor.’

‘Yes,’ I say again, stil nodding, so hard now that my neck is starting to hurt. It is such a huge amount, it doesn’t seem real. How has it come to this? What have I been doing? And the answer comes back to me, clear, booming, Octavia’s persistent voice in my ear. Living in a dreamworld.

‘If we look at the company’s bank statements –’ a flick through the sheaf on her desk, before one almond-shaped pearlescent nail smoothly drags the offending sheet of paper into the light – ‘wel , we can see what the problem is. Too many outgoings, not enough incomings. In fact the last payment into the company account was October 2008, for one hundred and thirty-five pounds.’

Bless Cathy. Those were Christmas presents for her mother and her sisters. But I flush with shame that these were the last payments into the account: I am being propped up by friends, by my husband. There have been no website sales since then.

‘Miss Kapoor.’ Clare Lomax shuts the folder with a flourish and puts her fingers under her chin. She stares at me. ‘It’s not good, is it?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘And in the meantime –’ the same nail scratches down a long list – ‘we’ve got payments coming out of the account regularly, driving you further into debt.’ I gaze down. ‘Website hosting . . . three hundred pounds . . . Two hundred pounds to Walsh and Sons, Hatton Garden?’

‘They make tools. Er – pliers and things.’ It’s the truth, yet I sound whol y unconvincing.

‘Right. This payment here, for six hundred and forty-three pounds, in September, to Aurum Accessories.’

‘That was for materials.’

‘What kind of materials?’

My voice sounds high, like a little girl’s. ‘Um . . . gold wire, earring studs and clutches, that kind of thing?’ I try to remember. ‘I’ve got the receipts in my folder here, I’l check.’ I’ve got every single piece of paper I could possibly need, neatly filed away, carried with me to Cornwal and back in preparation for today. I’ve documented the failure of my business meticulously.

‘It’s fine.’ Clare Lomax scribbles something on her pad. ‘Have you thought of using cheaper materials?’

‘What, like string?’ I smile, but there’s a silence and I realise she’s serious.

‘I’m just saying there are some very nice necklaces and bracelets made out of waxy thread and beads. You know, you see them in Accessorize, Oasis. And so forth,’ she adds, pul ing out the ‘th’ of ‘forth’ on her tongue, as if to give weight to it. ‘I’m just saying,’ she repeats. ‘You need to look at some other options, Miss Kapoor.’

‘I don’t make jewel ery like that,’ I explain. ‘I work with metals, enamel, laser cuts mainly, it’s different—’

‘Miss Kapoor.’ Clare Lomax raises her voice slightly and shifts her arms forward and then back into their clasp. I see the flash of a tattoo on her wrist, quickly hidden again by her polyester jacket. I wonder how old she is. ‘We are here today to discuss your business and to work out a way to keep you from going bankrupt, which at the moment is looking likely.’ Her voice is clipped, brisk, precise. ‘You have defaulted on your loan repayments twice. You have refused to respond to us about your overdraft. If you want to avoid a consolidation repayment plan, where we charge you twenty per cent interest and demand repayment of the overdraft beginning now, we need to work out how you can change your working practice so that you don’t accumulate debt.’ She gives a thin smile. ‘Otherwise, you wil have no business. Is that clear?’

I nod. ‘Yes. It’s very clear.’

‘Do you want to change the way things have been?’ She’s staring at me. I sit up straight and meet her gaze. This woman, girl real y, whom I’ve never met before, is cal ing me out, pointing out my flaws in a way no one else has, in a way I could never do. If she can see them, they must be pretty obvious.

I clear my throat. ‘Yes,’ I say softly. ‘What?’ She leans forward. ‘Yes,’ I say again, more loudly. ‘Yes. I real y do want to. I want to change the way it’s been. I don’t want it to go on like this.’

As I hear my voice, soft and tentative, saying these words out loud, it gives me a jolt, and I realise again how true it is. I nod, as if confirming it.

To her, and to myself.

Clare Lomax folds down a smal corner of one of the bank statements in front of her. ‘Right.’ She permits herself a smal smile and I want to smile too. ‘Let’s carry on, then. So – five hundred and fifty pounds paid out in November. To Aird PR Limited. There’s a couple of payments to them last year. Who are they?’

‘It’s a PR firm. I hired them to publicise my jewel ery.’ She looks at me blankly, as wel she might. ‘They’ve worked with a few designers I know.

People who have gone from having a stal or sel ing stuff through just a couple of shops to being featured in magazines, in blogs, so people write about you, look you out at the trade shows, and so on. It helps you to get a name for yourself.’

‘And have they done that for you?’

‘No,’ I admit. ‘Not real y. They got me a mention in the Evening Standard, but they got my website wrong. So I didn’t real y get any uptake from it.’

Clare Lomax says, suddenly kind, ‘You have to ask yourself if your product is right for the general public. If there’s more you can do. We see this al the time with smal businesses.’

Now I’m feeling more confident, I take a deep breath, to try and stick up for myself. ‘Miss Lomax – we’re in a recession. Two years ago I was getting interns to help me, I had orders for shops here and in Japan, the Far East, for fifty necklaces, a hundred bracelets a time. But that’s al gone now.’ I try to sound as though it doesn’t bother me. ‘People are stil buying jewel ery, but not like they used to. And if they are they won’t take a punt on some random girl they’ve never heard of. It’s real y hard.’ I sound as though I’m trying to talk her out of lending me more money.

‘I can see that,’ she says drily. She leans forward, so that a lock of her thin brown hair fal s over her face. ‘But if you’l al ow me to say it, it seems to me you’ve been burying your head in the sand, Miss Kapoor. You’ve failed to keep up the repayments, you’ve not explained what’s happening and why you’re in difficulties, and most importantly you’ve failed to communicate with us despite many attempts on our part. And that makes you a bad risk in my book. You’ve got to face up to it. As it is, you’l probably lose the business if you go on at this rate.’

You’ve got to face up to it. I stare at her, my heart hammering in my chest. ‘Right. Right.’

She says, not unkindly, ‘I just don’t understand why you’ve let it come to this.’ She sounds for a second like a concerned friend. I blink. I can’t stand it if I start to cry. Don’t cry.

I clear my throat noisily and sit up. ‘I don’t understand either,’ I say softly. ‘I’ve had a lot of other shi— stuff going on. And it’s been a hard time.

Loads of my friends are going out of business. But I’m hopeful. I’ve got a new col ection I’ve just finished designing.’

‘Real y?’

‘Yes,’ I say. This is a lie, but it’s a hopeful lie. ‘I’ve just got to get the cash together to get it made up. And take it to the shows. And I have to start doing the market stal s again. That brings in the money.’

‘I don’t understand why you haven’t been doing that al along,’ Clare Lomax says. ‘According to my notes when you opened the account you were sel ing at a stal at least twice a week, and always Sundays.’

‘I don’t do that any more.’

‘Why not?’

Why not? Vanity, greed, wanting to spend time with Oli, his jealousy at not having me on Sundays, believing the hype of Joanna, the PR

person I hired, who told me I didn’t need to stand in the cold on a stal next to lots of other jewel ers al vying for attention and space. After the up-and-coming pop star was photographed wearing my necklace the orders started flooding in, and the website was launched a few months later. I listened to them, to Oli and Joanna, when they said I didn’t need to do that any more. And it was expensive – eighty quid a day for the stal , and the Truman Brewery near where I live has too many stal s anyway, and not enough customers, I told myself. I – Oli and I – decided I could live without it, that it’d be a better use of my time to take myself out of that scene, try and move up a level.

I was so wrong. I was wrong about that, about overpaying for the website, about the people I listened to, the way I changed my focus. Ben, in the studio next door, warned me but I didn’t listen.

‘You love the stal , Nat,’ he’d say. ‘You like meeting the people, it keeps you fresh. It’s not good for you, sitting at home or in the studio al day.’

I started trying to become a brand. A brand like the ones Oli promotes. He thinks everyone is their own brand and I’m sure he’s right, but al I can say is, I was better off when everything was simple, when I could sketch in my book, pay the nice old man off Hatton Garden to make up my gold and silver pendants, and sit there in my studio happily making up the necklaces, cutting the chains, choosing the right pair of pliers from my set to bend gold and silver wire, researching suppliers, thinking up new ideas and just trying them out, listening to my iPod, and chatting to Ben and Tania, his girlfriend, who works with him. The trouble is, most of the time I’d prefer to be in their studio with them, instead of on my own. Everything’s OK

when they’re around. There’s a distraction, someone to talk to, instead of sitting alone amidst the accessories and pliers, staring into space, wondering what on earth comes next. It’s so easy to pop next door and ask for a cup of tea, or bring them biscuits.

Ben never seems to mind. He’s one of those open, friendly people who can work in Piccadil y Circus and stil concentrate. He likes chatting and so do I. We like the same humour, the same old films, the same biscuits, we were meant to be office buddies, as we continual y say. I think Tania is not quite so keen on me hanging around like a bad smel al the time while she’s trying to mark up contact sheets or negotiate with a magazine. I think she knows I’m lonely. She wants to tel me to back off and go and do some work. And so I’ve started limiting myself to one knock on the door a day.

When I realise I’ve started thinking about it like that, I suddenly see that I have to control my loneliness – that crying al over Ben when Oli left, while Tania made some tea and went and got Jaffa Cakes (and she is French, so Jaffa Cakes are unfathomable to her, so I appreciated the gesture even more) is something you do once, because it’s a crisis point, not every week, every day.

The new strong confident me looks at Clare Lomax to see if she’d understand this, the mind that has too much time to think. She wouldn’t. I wouldn’t either if someone else explained it to me. It’s as though my life has veered way off track, and although I stil can’t quite see where it began, at least I can recognise this. I put my hands on the desk and take a deep breath.

‘Look, Miss Lomax,’ I say. ‘I have real y screwed up, but I can show you how and why, and how I’m going to change things. I know I’m good at what I do, and I want to work hard. I’ve just taken bad advice, and I know how to fix it.’ I look at her imploringly. ‘Please, please believe me. I’ve ignored you and I’m real y sorry, but I’ve been an idiot, keeping my head in the sand. I’l get the money to repay the default loan payments, I can pay them with my credit card today. But please, please don’t withdraw my overdraft facility. I just need a bit more time, but I’m going to pay it off.’

She narrows her eyes. ‘I am,’ I say. ‘I don’t want it to be like this any more. You need to trust me.’ I smile and I can hear my voice is shaking. ‘I know you’ve got no reason to, but I real y hope you do.’

I sit back in my chair and clutch the papers again.

Clare Lomax sighs. ‘OK, look, there’s a way out of this.’ I hold my breath. ‘You wil have to pay us back a regular amount each month and if you default just once more, that’s it. We’l cal in debt col ectors. You’l have to cut back on your company expenditure. And I see you’re married, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘The flat is in both your names?’

‘Just my husband’s.’

‘So they can’t take that.’

‘They can’t take what?’

‘You won’t lose your flat.’

My head is spinning. ‘Lose the flat? No, of course we wouldn’t . . . would we?’

She says musingly, ‘Miss Kapoor, I honestly don’t think you realise how serious this is.’

‘I do,’ I say, my voice practical y begging. ‘Absolutely I do.’

‘Your husband’s working?’

‘Yes – yes, he is. But—’

‘You’re lucky,’ she says, pul ing her papers together. ‘You can live off him for a few months while you sort yourself out. We’l draw up a payment schedule for the overdraft too and then work out a new way for you to go forward with the business.’

I nod numbly. Maybe I’l have to, but I don’t like the idea. I want to get back together with Oli, but not because he’l pay for everything. I’d rather lose him, and the business, than feel that I’m taking him back so I can ‘live off him’ the way Clare Lomax suggests. But I don’t say anything. After al , what choice do I have? I’ve got to make this work for myself. I’ve got to change the way things have been. I quiver with purpose, I’m surprised Clare Lomax doesn’t notice.

‘And then we’l ask to see that you’re conducting your business more profitably. So it’s viable.’ She clears her throat. ‘Does that sound like a way forward to you, Miss Kapoor?’ She looks down at her pad. ‘I’m sorry. Is it Mrs Kapoor then?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s Mrs Jones.’ I hate being Mrs Jones, for al the obvious reasons. I shift in my seat again, and the papers in my pocket wrap around my thigh.

‘Oh. Sorry.’ She isn’t real y paying attention. ‘Don’t be,’ I say. ‘It’s fine. So—’

‘I think we’re going to be able to work this out,’ she says, pul ing the keyboard out in front of her and swivel ing round to face the computer. ‘Like I say, Miss Kapoor, things are going to have to change. The question is, are you wil ing to make those changes?’

‘Yes, I am,’ I say, nodding, and this time I hear myself speak and it’s clear, low, confident and I believe what I’m saying, for the first time in ages.

‘I real y am.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

It is a cold day but sunny as I walk down from Liverpool Street towards the studio, hands in my pockets. I’m the other side of the City, heading back to my beloved East London. Pushing past me on either side are bustling City workers in black and grey, enlivened only by the flash of a red tie or the glint of a gold earring. I shiver in the icy wind, walking briskly.

I hug the papers to myself, trying to keep warm. Now I’m out of it, the meeting seems almost funny, it’s so awful. And one thing’s clear: though Clare Lomax and I are not destined to be friends who meet in unlikely circumstances and form a life-long bond, she’s completely right. She could see it. Things need to change. I’l be thirty-one in May. I’m a grownup, for God’s sake.

Five minutes later, I am opening the door of the Petticoat Studios at the bottom of Brick Lane. ‘Studio’ is a euphemistic name for the room I rent. It is basical y an old sixties warehouse that has been roughly divided up into different spaces of different sizes. My aunt Sameena says that when she was over visiting relatives in the seventies, she’d come to Brick Lane and see row upon row of Bangladeshi men asleep on the floors.

They’d wake up in the morning and go to work on a building site nearby, and their beds would be taken by the night-shift workers who’d come back as they were getting up. Now it has exposed brick and steel girders, and Lily the textile designer has stencil ed huge patterns onto the wal behind the erratical y manned reception desk. Being bohemian and cool does not necessarily mean the heating works or the loos flush al the time, I’ve found.

‘Hel o!’ I say to Jamie, one of the two receptionists whose salary is paid for by our extortionate rental fee. Jamie looks up and moves part of her blonde fringe away with her finger. She is wearing a black velveteen hoodie with the hood up, and is flicking through Pop magazine.

‘Hiya, Nat!’ she nods perkily. Jamie is very perky. She’s pretty and sweet and kind, like an East London version of Sophie Dahl. ‘How was the funeral?’

‘Fine,’ I say, reaching into my pigeonhole and pul ing out the post. ‘Wel , you know.’

‘Oh, of course.’ She nods understandingly. ‘It’s real y hard, isn’t it?’

I am in no mood for trite funereal conversations, and I’m in no mood for beautiful sunny Jamie, whom I sometimes want to punch in the mornings, she’s so upbeat. I smile and nod, then trudge up the cold concrete circular stairs and unlock my studio.

It’s only been two days since I was here, but it feels longer. It’s very cold, and the big square windows don’t keep in the heat, though it’s always light. My own studio is about twelve square feet. It’s al painted white. There are floor-to-ceiling shelves next to the window and an alcove with a safe in it, covered with a curtain, a red, lemon and grey geometric fifties material from one of the bedrooms at Summercove. I keep my unsold pieces in there, and any metals I’ve bought. There’s a smal wooden table with an old, battered, paint-spattered radio, a kettle and a few mugs on one of Granny’s old trays, and the rest of the room is taken up with the workbench with al my tools on it. A hammer, pliers, dril s, wire and chain cutters, sharp knives, al covered with tiny pel ets of old copper or gold wire, my apron which makes me feel super-professional, and my sketchbook, where I used to be constantly scribbling down ideas. I haven’t drawn or written anything new in it for months.

Above the work table six big cork tiles are glued to the wal , onto which I have stuck photos – the one of Granny when she was younger; me and Jay at Summercove when we were five, squinting into the sun, both dark, fat, smal and serious; and Ben and me last year when we went as Morecambe and Wise to the Petticoat Studios Christmas drinks. Tania didn’t get it, but as she grew up on the Left Bank that’s excusable. No one else did either, though. Their average ages are about twenty-three. The photo makes me smile every time I look at it; there’s such panic in our eyes as we realise what a mistake we’ve made, and behind us are grouped our effortlessly trendy fel ow studio-renters in a variety of super-cool fancy dress outfits, from Betty Boo (Jamie, of course) to Johnny Depp as Captain Sparrow (Matt, one of the writers in the writers’ col ective in the basement). I never remember that about fancy dress: that you’re supposed to look bril iant, but gorgeous as wel . I always just look insane.

Final y, there’s a picture of Oli and me on our wedding day two years ago at the Chelsea Physic Garden, he in a light khaki summer linen suit, me in white Col ette Dinnigan. We’re in profile, black and white, laughing at each other, and we look for al the world as though we’re in a photo shoot in Hello! . Sometimes, in the middle of the afternoon, I’l glance up from my work and catch sight of that photo, and I’l have to remind myself it’s me. There are clippings from magazines, lots of pins just in case I have ideas for things, a cartoon from Private Eye about artists, and a Sempé cover from the New Yorker which Oli had framed for me on our first wedding anniversary.

I have to cal Oli now I’m back. We need to talk again. It’s been nearly three weeks, and coming back from Cornwal , from everything there and the meeting this morning, has made me see one thing clearly: this state of in-between nothingness can’t go on.

There are window boxes outside with pansies and geraniums which have died. I need to sort them out now spring is nearly here, take a trip to Columbia Road and buy some more. Cheaply, of course. There’s nothing to be frightened of. I can get on with things. I want to channel my new-found, urgent sense of purpose, of the need for action. But stil there’s something stopping me, I don’t know what. It’s more than Oli. It’s Granny’s funeral, it’s what Arvind and Octavia both separately said, this casual crumbling of the wal I’d always thought was around us al . It’s the scant pages of the diary I’ve read, enough to make me want to read more, desperately read more.

Where’s the rest of it? Cecily didn’t just write that first chunk, that much is clear. What happened that summer, after the boys arrived? I’m holding the post in my hand and I feel myself screwing up the letters as I screw up my eyes, trying to think. To go from never hearing her name mentioned, to being able to hear her voice so clearly that it’s almost as though she’s talking just to me, is incredibly strange. To go from thinking that your family is sane and happy, if distant, to realising you don’t real y know anything about them at al – where’s the rest of it? What happened afterwards, with my mother, with her, with al of them? I have to find out, but how? I have to find the diary. And I have to find some way of talking to my mother about it.

I put the post down on the table. The letters fan out by themselves. At least two are from the bank. I can stop ignoring them. There are two more window envelopes, which always means a bil or a reminder. And there’s an invitation to a new trade fair, in June, in Olympia. I’ve been ignoring those for a while too: what’s the point? But now, flushed with enthusiasm, I feel as though anything’s possible. I realise that if I’m ever to make my own business work, I need to start designing again. Come up with a new col ection that’s so amazing I’l be on every fashionista’s blog, sold in Liberty’s in a year and have my own diffusion line in Topshop by next year. But more importantly, get it right. Do it because I love it, not because I have to. So what . . . what col ection? What wil it be?

Then, as if someone else is tel ing me to do it, my hand steals slowly but surely to my neck. I feel the thin chain and Cecily’s ring hanging on it. I walk over to the tiny mirror hanging by the fridge and stare at myself. There are dirty brown circles under my eyes.

The ring nestles against my skin, the almost pink gold soft against my skin. The twisted metal flowers are beautiful. I think about this ring, about Granny, about my dead young aunt. And suddenly, I hear my grandfather’s voice, as his dry fingers push Cecily’s diary towards me: Take it . . . And look after it, guard it carefully. It’ll all be in there.

I take the pages out from my skirt and look at them, wondering what comes next.

‘Nat,’ a voice cal s outside. ‘Hey! I’m early!’

Of course she’s early. It’s Cathy, she’s always early. Quickly, I shove the pages into my bag as Cathy pokes her head round the door.

Cathy is very short; I am tal . It is one of the many differences that brought us closer together, since we were eleven-year-olds negotiating the nightmarish, unforgiving terrain of the al -girls West London grammar school. She is holding up a brown paper bag.

‘I went via Verde’s,’ she says. ‘I bought quiche. Terrible morning. I think I lost someone fifty grand.’ Cathy is an actuary, she works in Bishopsgate, the financial district on the edge of the City which encroaches daily ever further into Spitalfields, bringing glass office blocks and Pret a Mangers into the once-ramshackle, historic streets. ‘I’ve got salad. And cakes. And some real y expensive fruit juice.’ She comes towards me and kisses me on the cheek. ‘How are you, love?’

I lean down and hug her tightly, feeling her cold, silky, thick hair against my skin, her reassuring Cathy smel – I think it’s a combination of Johnson’s baby lotion and Anaïs Anaïs. She’s not one to experiment with new things, our Cathy. If she’s happy with something, she sticks to it. She found Anaïs Anaïs when we were sixteen and she’s worn it ever since. She likes Florida and goes there every winter with her mum, to the same hotel in Miami. If Horrific Ex Boyfriend Martin hadn’t chucked her out and changed the locks three years ago she’d stil be with him, which is worrying to me, as he was a bona fide psychopath. She doesn’t like change.

She sets the bag down on my workbench and pats my hair. ‘I kept thinking about you yesterday. How was it?’

‘It was OK. Awful, but you know what I mean.’ I kick my bag further under the table.

‘What’s that on your head?’ She points to the purple bump on my forehead and frowns. ‘Did you have a fight with someone? Did your mum behave herself? Or did she try and snog the vicar and you got in the way?’

Cathy knows my mother of old. She remembers our parents’ evening of 1991. She actual y saw Mum with Mr Johnson.

‘It’s fine.’ I laugh, though I feel a stab in my side as I think of my mother. I remember how jumpy she was al yesterday, see her distraught face as she remonstrated with Guy, waving me and Octavia goodbye, hear Octavia: ‘ Do you really not know the truth about her? ’

‘Just a bump.’ I don’t want to, can’t, get into that at the moment, not even with Cathy. ‘They’re al pretty mad, my family. You know that.’

‘They are,’ Cathy says briskly. ‘It’s a wonder you’re not a complete mentalist, Nat, I’ve often thought that. Or even more of a mentalist than you are, if you know what I mean.’

‘That’s so kind of you,’ I say. ‘I want to know how you are, though. What’s up with work? Why’s it terrible?’

‘I think my boss hates me. Genuinely hates me.’ Cathy is stil staring at my head. ‘Look, forget about that. How was the meeting this morning?’

There’s a noise in the corridor and my eyes dart to the door. I don’t know why I should care; I’m paranoid about anyone, apart from Cathy and Jay, knowing how stupid I’ve been. Even Oli doesn’t know the ful extent of it. I hid it from him, just as he hid things from me. I don’t want Ben, for example, to walk past and accidental y hear the reality of my idiocy. Why should I care what he and Tania think? I don’t know. But I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. I’m sure he already does, and I wish he didn’t. I don’t want him to know how stupid I am either.

‘Um—’ I put the cutlery and plates on the bench and reach for some napkins which I keep in my apron pocket. ‘It was pretty awful.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ I hasten to explain. ‘I have to find a thousand quid now to pay back the defaulted loan payments. But I can put that on my other credit card.’ Cathy whistles. ‘And I have to pay off the overdraft, two hundred pounds a month plus interest. And they won’t, like, cal the debt col ection agencies in, or the police, or take me to court.’

‘Ha-ha,’ says Cathy. She pul s her ponytail tight with both hands, as though she’s flexing her muscles. ‘Right.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m serious. They were going to.’

‘Jesus,’ she says. She looks genuinely shocked. Cathy has never been in debt, always pays her credit card off each month. She never even gets the ticket gate beeping at her because her Oyster card’s run out. That’s how organised she is. ‘I didn’t realise it was that bad.’ Then she asks awkwardly, ‘How did it – er, how did it get to that stage then?’

‘I know how it got to that stage,’ I say. I gesture to the one chair and give her a plate and fork. ‘I’ve been a fool. Sit down. Eat some of your food.’ I pour her a glass of apple juice into a navy chipped mug that says ‘Tower Hamlets Business Seminars’. ‘Drink.’

Cathy cuts some of the quiche away with her fork. ‘It’s been a hard time for you though, Nat.’

‘Maybe, but it’s my fault. I haven’t been doing it properly,’ I say simply. ‘And I’m fucked as a result. If Granny knew she’d be horrified – she was so proud of me. Man alive.’ I shake my head when I think about Granny now, I think about her in the diary, her impatience with Miranda, her daughter, as though she knew she was a bad seed. Did she know?

No. I shake my head. I have to stop these thoughts, at least til I know more. ‘If she’d had any idea I’d be leaving her funeral early to come back for a business meeting to stop me being taken to court by the bank . . . if she knew how much I’ve screwed it up . . .’ I think of her and how much she loved me, how I felt that love al through my childhood. It’s hard to admit it but I plough on. ‘She’d be so disappointed.’

Cathy is concentrating on her quiche on the plate. She says after a pause, ‘I don’t think she would be.’

I laugh. ‘Bless you. But I think she would. She was real y proud I did fine art at uni. She was so disappointed when I didn’t become an artist, and she was OK with the jewel er thing because she thought it was arty. She didn’t expect me to go bankrupt, did she.’

‘I think you’re being too hard on yourself. It’s real y tough out there at the moment, apart from anything else,’ Cathy says. She swal ows and clears her throat. ‘Not to be rude, but you know, I always thought . . .’ She stops. ‘Actual y, forget it.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

I’m laughing. ‘Come on, Cathy! What?’

‘I always thought she was pretty hard on you too, if you want me to be honest.’

‘Who?’ I don’t understand her. ‘Your granny, Nat.’

I scoff, it’s so unlikely. ‘No, she wasn’t!’

Cathy says slowly, ‘I just remember, when we went to Summercove, the summer after we’d finished our A levels before you went off to col ege, she’d make you paint instead of coming down to the sea with me and Jay, and then she’d critique you. When she hadn’t painted herself for like thirty years, and you were only eighteen!’ She winces, as though she doesn’t like the taste of what she’s saying. ‘I think it was unfair. Like she wanted you to be something your mum wasn’t. Or Archie wasn’t. You know?’

That’s so outlandish I goggle at her. ‘Cathy, it real y wasn’t like that!’ My voice is rising. ‘I wanted to learn from her.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Cathy is a bit red. ‘I just think sometimes she was using you to make up for disappointments in her own life. Please, I didn’t mean anything by it. Forget it. I’m just glad you’ve sorted it out. You have, haven’t you?’

I think of my already huge credit card bil ; I’ve been putting things for the business on that, too, of late, instead of putting them through the account. I am going to be very poor. These last couple of weeks without Oli to split the bil s for food and cabs and toilet rol s have already taken their tol . I nod. ‘I have. It’s going to be tight, but I think I have.’ I touch the ring around my neck. I’m going to start sketching tonight. I take another sip of apple juice and lean forward, patting her arm. I am perched above her on the stool, she is in a low chair, so this is more difficult than it might be. ‘I’m sick of talking about me, though. How’s tricks? Tel me. I haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘Oh, OK.’ Cathy shrugs, so that the shoulder pads in her suit jacket shoot up, almost to her ears. ‘Had another date with Jonathan on Friday.’ I raise my eyebrows.

‘Hey, how was it?’

Just then the door opens and a thick head of hair pokes round. ‘Nat?’

‘Ben!’ I stand up. ‘Hey, come and have some food.’

The hair advances into the room, fol owed by its owner, my neighbour. He looks quizzical y at the meagre quiche, half-eaten, on the table, and the smal salad next to it. ‘No, thanks. I’m on my way out anyway,’ he says, scratching his head. ‘Hi, Cathy. I just came to see how you were doing, Nat.’ He hugs himself. ‘It’s freaking freezing in here.’

Ben is wearing his usual uniform, which is a large wool en sweater. He has an endless supply of them, mostly bought from junk shops or markets, and they are al extremely thick. His hair is curly and long. It bounces when he’s enthusiastic about something. I am glad to see him, as ever. I’m sure I have a Pavlovian response to Ben, because he represents company of some sort during the day, so it’s normal y lovely to see him.

I’m sure if we went on holiday we’d fal out on the first evening. ‘It’l warm up soon, hopeful y,’ I say. ‘Hey, man. Stay and have a cup of tea.’

‘I won’t,’ he says. ‘Just popped by to say hi.’ He looks at me. ‘So you’re doing OK?’

‘I’l come by later,’ I say. ‘It was quite something.’

‘The funeral? Or the meeting?’

‘Oh – both.’

Ben nods. ‘Wel , I’ve got a shoot this afternoon, but I’m not sure when. Knock me up, chuck.’

‘OK.’

‘Nice to see you, Cathy,’ he says. ‘Nat – see you later. I want to hear about it.’

I nod, and turn back to Cathy as the door closes. ‘I’m sorry about that. Blithely inviting him in when you’re in the middle of tel ing me about Jonathan. Go on.’

‘He’s so lovely.’ Cathy gazes at the shut door. ‘Who, Ben? He’s got a girlfriend,’ I say. ‘I don’t mean like that.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘No, I don’t. He’s just lovely.’ She sighs. ‘Why can’t al men be like him, eh? I don’t get it.’

I think about Ben, who I’ve known vaguely for years because of Jay, and his floppy hair and thick jumpers. I’ve never real y thought about him in that way. ‘He’s adorable. But he’s a bit like a big sheep, don’t you think?’

‘What?’ Cathy laughs. ‘You’re insane. I think he’s real y cute. Those big brown eyes. That smile. He’s got a lovely smile. If he had his hair cut . . .

Wow, he’d be absolutely gorgeous. Pow.’

She mimes an explosion with her hands. I sigh. Cathy has such weird taste in men. ‘Come on. Tel me. I’m sorry. You and Jonathan.’

‘Yes.’ She sighs. ‘It was odd. I don’t get it.’

‘OK, so what happened?’

‘OK. We had a good dinner. Good conversation.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Kettner’s. I don’t like it there now though, since the makeover. They’ve done it up like a whore’s boudoir. It used to be so great.’

I nod, a shiver running down my body. Kettner’s, in Soho, was our favourite place. Oli and I, I mean: we used to meet there al the time when we lived on opposite sides of the city. Cheap beautiful pizzas and a lovely champagne bar. Chintzy, seaside-hotel decor, old-fashioned service and a pianist playing jazz standards. Now it’s been ‘done up’, the menu’s been changed, and I think it looks awful.

Oli and I went there in November, and had a bad evening. Terrible, in fact. It was our first night out for a while and, to cut a long story short, it began when, during a conversation about the merits of our flat, I used the phrase, ‘because we might want a bigger place some day, if we have children’, and it ended with me leaving the restaurant and taking a very expensive cab al the way home on my own. Oli wasn’t ready for the ‘if we have children’ conversation, you see. Apparently, being married for two years doesn’t mean you’re ready to even talk about it.

‘Kettner’s did used to be so great. But anyway. Did anything happen?’ Ah, did anything happen, possibly the most-asked question in London.

‘Sort of.’

‘Like what?’

Cathy shifts in her low chair, looking down at the ground, so I can’t see her face. She is bad at the details. ‘Wel , I mean, it was unsatisfactory.’

‘How?’

‘Wel , we had quite a lot to drink. And we kissed, outside Kettner’s. And he lives in Clapham too, so we got a cab home. But it was odd.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘We got to his and he could have asked me in, and we’re in the back of the cab, you know –’ she mouths the word snogging –

‘and we’re kind of –’ again, she mouths what I think is doing stuff under each other’s clothes, but I don’t want to check and interrupt the flow – ‘And he chucks a twenty-pound note at me and says, Oh, thanks for a lovely evening, and then gets out!’ She’s practical y squeaking in outrage at this.