Necessary as Blood

CHAPTER ONE

Sadly, I have recently come to accept what I refused to accept for so long: that the house may be only ephemeral.

– Dennis Severs, 18 Folgate Street: The Tale of a House in Spitalfields

The streets were greasy with moisture. The air inside the bus felt thick, almost solid, and in the damp August heat the personal-hygiene deficiencies of some of the passengers were all too apparent.

Gemma James stood near the center doors as the number 49 lumbered south over the Battersea Bridge, gripping the stanchion, trying not to breathe through her nose. The man in the seat beside her stank of more than unwashed body-alcohol fumes came off him in waves, and when the bus lurched he swayed against her.

Why had she thought taking the bus a good idea? And on a Saturday. She’d had a few errands to run in Kensington and hadn’t wanted to bother with parking-that had been her excuse, at least. The truth was that she’d craved the mindlessness of it, had wanted to sit and watch London going about its business without any assistance on her part. She hadn’t planned on having to protect her personal space quite so diligently.

When the bus ground to a halt just past the bridge, she was tempted to get off and walk, but her map told her there was still a good way to go, and a few sluggish raindrops splattered against the already-dirty windows. To her left she could see the rise of Battersea Park, an impressionistic gray-green blur through the smeared glass. The doors opened and closed with a pneumatic swish. The drunk man stayed resolutely put.

Gemma didn’t know this part of London well, and as the bus turned from the fairly posh environs of Battersea Road into Falcon Road, the neighborhood quickly lost its gloss.

Surely, Hazel didn’t mean to live here rather than in Islington? Thrift shops, video rentals, halal butchers, down-at-the-heels nameless cafés-and now ahead she could see the converging railway lines of Clapham Junction. Had she missed her stop? She jammed her finger against the red request button, and when the bus doors opened at the next stop, she almost leapt out.

Her feeling of relief was short-lived, however, as she stood on the pavement and looked round. She consulted her A to Zed, double-checking, but there was no doubt this was the street. It was, she saw, not even a cul-de-sac, but simply a short dead end. A square concrete building that announced itself in both English and Bengali as a mosque stood on the corner, and in the street itself a few young men in skullcaps and salwar kameez idly kicked a football.

Gemma moved slowly forward, searching for the number Hazel had given her. A rubbish skip stood on the pavement to her left, overflowing with what looked like the complete interior of the terraced Victorian house behind it. That was a good sign, surely, she thought, the area on the upswing. But aside from the short terrace, there were only council flats at the end of the street, and a high wall to her right.

The young men stopped kicking the ball and looked at her. She gave them a neutral nod, then straightened her back, surveying her surroundings with deliberate purpose. Police work had long ago taught her that it was not a good idea to wander about looking like a lost sheep-it marked you out as a victim.

She’d worn a sundress, in deference to the sticky weather, and although the persimmon-colored cotton skirt ended demurely enough at the knee, she felt suddenly uncomfortably exposed.

A bungalow, Hazel had said, with a charming garden and patio. Gemma had found the thought of a bungalow in London odd enough, but it seemed unimaginable here, and she began to wonder if she had somehow got it all wrong.

She had begun to contemplate asking the now obviously interested young men for directions when she saw the number, half hidden by the creeper trailing over the high wall. Beneath the number was an arched wooden door, its paint faded to a dull blue-gray.

Checking the address against the scrap of paper in her bag, she saw that it was definitely a match. But where was the bungalow? Well, no point in standing gawping all day, she thought, walking up to the door and pressing the bell beside it. Her stomach suddenly tensed.

She hadn’t seen her best friend in more than a year, and so much had altered for both of them. E-mails and phone calls had kept them up-to-date, but Hazel had seemed distant these last few months, and had said little about the reasons for her unexpected return to London. Gemma had begun to fear that their close relationship had changed, and then Hazel had asked that she visit without the children, a very unusual request.

Toby had been clamoring to see Holly and had thrown a tantrum at being left behind, and Kit had gone silent, a sure sign that he was worried or unhappy.

As Gemma was about to press the bell again, the small door swung open and Hazel stood framed in the opening, her face lit with a smile. She gathered Gemma into a fierce hug.

“I’m so glad to see you.” Hazel stepped back and examined her, then tugged her through the door and closed it behind them. “And you look fabulous,” she said. “Engagement must agree with you.”

“You, too. I mean, you look wonderful,” answered Gemma, awkward in an attempt to cover her shock. Hazel didn’t look wonderful at all. While she had never been plump, there had always been a bit of softness about her that made her particularly attractive. Now her cheeks were hollow, and her collarbone jutted above the neckline of the cotton sleeveless blouse she wore. Tan hiking shorts hung on her hips, as if they’d been borrowed from someone several sizes larger, and her feet were bare, making her seem oddly defenseless.

“I know, I’m pale,” Hazel said, as if she sensed Gemma’s reaction. “It’s Scotland. We had no summer this year. I’m sure I must look as though I’ve been living in a cave. But enough of that. Let me show you the house.”

Gemma took in her surroundings. The door in the wall had actually been a gate, and they stood on the brick patio Hazel had described, overarched by trees. Across the patio stood a white-stuccoed bungalow, its single story capped with a red tile roof. Yellow roses climbed up trellises on its front, and lemon trees in tubs stood at either side of the front door.

“It is a bungalow,” Gemma said, delighted. “It’s a bit exotic for London, isn’t it?”

“I call it my Secret Garden house.” Hazel took her arm. “I fell in love with it the minute I saw the photo online. I know it’s not Islington, but the neighborhood grows on you, and I could just barely afford it.”

“Those boys-”

“Tariq, Jamil, and Ali,” Hazel corrected. “They’ve taken to keeping an eye on me. Tariq said he wouldn’t want his old mum living all on her own. Quite took the wind out of my sails, I can tell you. Not that his old mum is likely to be more than thirty-five.”

Hazel’s brightness seemed a little forced, and Gemma wondered if she were really as comfortable as she made out. But this, she sensed, was not the time to force the issue, and she followed Hazel obediently into the little house.

The front door led directly into a sitting room that ran the width of the house. The walls were white, the floor tiled, so that the room seemed almost a continuation of the patio. One end held recessed bookshelves on either side of a brick fireplace, the other a dining area and a small, fitted kitchen set into an alcove.

“It’s still a bit bare, but I’ve raided Ikea, and I’ve got books on the shelves, so that’s a start,” Hazel said. “And I’ve got tea, and wine in the fridge. Life’s essentials.”

Gemma recognized the pink-and-red-floral sofa and red-checked armchair from a recent Ikea catalogue. Hazel had added an ottoman, an end table with a lamp, a rag rug, and baskets filled with magazines and knitting yarns, a comfortingly familiar touch. The dining furniture was pale wood, pleasingly simple, and Gemma thought it, too, had come from Ikea. A vase filled with red tulips stood on the table, another familiar touch. Hazel had always had flowers in the house.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why Hazel hadn’t brought anything from Carnmore, her house in Scotland, or from Islington, when Hazel said, “It’s a doll’s house, really. Reminds me of the garage flat. Do you remember?”

Hearing the hint of wistfulness, Gemma squeezed her friend’s arm. “Of course I do. It’s only been-” She stopped. Had it really been that long?

Gemma had rented the tiny garage flat behind the house in Islington where Hazel had lived with her daughter, Holly, and her now-estranged husband, Tim Cavendish. It had proved both sanctuary and launching pad, allowing Gemma to regain the confidence so badly damaged by her marriage, and to move on in her personal as well as her professional life. Hazel had cared for Gemma’s son, Toby, who was the same age as Holly, and had provided Gemma with a stability she’d never felt in her own home.

Then an unexpected pregnancy had propelled Gemma into a new life with Duncan Kincaid, and a few months later, Hazel’s marriage had collapsed and she had moved to the Scottish Highlands to take over her family’s whisky distillery.

“It will be two years at Christmas,” Gemma said wonderingly. Two years since she and Duncan had moved into the house in Notting Hill with Toby and Duncan’s son, Kit, two years since she had lost the baby.

“There’s only the one bedroom,” Hazel was saying. “But when Holly stays, she’s comfy enough on the sofa. And of course she usually manages to creep in with me.”

“When Holly stays?” asked Gemma, brought sharply back to the present. “What do you mean, when Holly stays? Isn’t she with you?”

Hazel looked away, started to speak, then gestured towards the kitchen. “I’ll just put the kettle on, shall I? And then we’ll have a proper talk.”