Amelia Grey's Fireside Dream (25 page)

‘I knew I shouldn’t have let you out. Who were the guys you stayed out with?’

‘Just … No one, OK? Look, I don’t have to stay here, you know,’ Mirabel snapped.

‘Fine,’ I said, my patience running out. ‘Mirabel – you’re free to go. There’s the door.’ I pointed to it. ‘Good luck getting to the airport and paying for a new flight.’

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘This isn’t fair.’

‘While you’re here, you’ll live by my rules. And that means no getting drunk, and it also means pulling your weight. I want to see the spare bedroom painted – today.’

‘This is worse than being at home.’

‘I don’t care. Do you want me to call Dad and your mum right now and tell them what’s going on?’

‘No,’ she said, an expression of genuine panic on her face. ‘Please don’t do that.’

‘You know what, Mirabel, you’re getting off lightly here. You’ll be lucky if no one goes to the police about what happened, and I guess they still might. You may as well do something positive for once. I’ll show you what I want you to do, and then I don’t want to hear from you again until that room’s finished.’

*

As Mirabel got on with her work in the spare room, I resisted the temptation to look in on her. Instead, I sat down at my sewing table with the pale blue fabric I’d ordered online for the spare-room curtains. Seeing Eleanor McGuire in town the day before had reminded me of something.

I got out the scrapbook I’d found in the attic and took another look through it, using her patterns as inspiration. As I worked, the comforting hum of the sewing machine silencing the thoughts I wanted to forget, I imagined how she must have done the same thing once, perhaps in the very same room. Maybe with Sarah, the girl in the photo.

When the curtains were finished, I started on cushion covers. I’d picked up some cheap cushions at one of the charity shops in town – they were new enough but the patterns were dowdy. I unfolded the nautical-print fabric I’d bought and cut it into squares. I used the remnants of the fabric to make decorative lavender bags in heart shapes. I could use the lavender I’d collected from the garden when we moved in. I made some for the house, and then one each for Suni, Carly and Mum.

‘It’s done,’ Mirabel bellowed out, entering the room, paintbrush in hand.

‘The room?’

‘Like I said. It’s done. I’ve finished.’

‘Really?’

‘Come and have a look if you don’t believe me.’

I followed her out, wondering what I might find when I got to the spare bedroom. Spilled paint maybe, wallpaper pasted to the wall with huge bubbles underneath. While I’d carefully talked her through how to do the wallpaper, I wasn’t at all confident that she’d been listening. Perhaps
sending Mirabel to do this when she was still so angry with me had been a bad idea.

‘Look,’ she said, motioning into the room with the brush.

I peeked in. The front and back walls were rollered a pristine white, with not a drip in sight, and the side ones were transformed from the tired stripy wallpaper that had been up there and were now covered in smart nautical print, white anchors on a blue background.

‘Wow,’ I said, stepping forward to get a better look. ‘This isn’t bad.’

Mirabel shrugged, as if it were nothing. ‘It wasn’t hard,’ she said. ‘I guess you thought I’d mess this up too.’

‘I’ll be honest, I’m impressed.’

‘I did up my room and Mum’s study at home, so I knew what I was doing.’

‘I appreciate you doing it,’ I said. ‘Get yourself washed up and I’ll put the kettle on.’

Downstairs, Mirabel pulled out a seat and watched me as I got our tea ready. ‘Does this mean I’m off the hook?’ she said.

I mulled it over for a minute. While I’d been pleasantly surprised that she’d finished the room, she’d only done the minimum I’d expected of her. She wasn’t even part-way towards making up for her bad behaviour the previous night.

‘Not yet,’ I said, putting our mugs on the table with some biscuits. ‘I’ve got something else in mind for you this coming week.’

‘Tell me it’s something that involves me not being cooped up here in this stupid cottage,’ she said, flicking her hair over her shoulder.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what it is.’

‘That’s something.’

I smiled to myself. A phone call or two tomorrow ought to do it.

‘And if you’re feeling that cooped up, how about dinner out tonight?’

‘How come?’

‘Why not? You’re my sister and I barely get to see you. Plus, you’ve worked hard today. Do I need another reason?

She looked at me, and a smile crept on to her lips. ‘All right.’

*

I drove into town with Mirabel, parking up on a side street. We walked together to a small Italian restaurant my mum had mentioned to me.

About twenty minutes after we’d arrived, the waiter brought us our orders – ‘Here you go,
signorinas
,’ he said with a wink. ‘Carbonara for you,’ he said, passing the plate to Mirabel, ‘and crab linguine for you. Excellent choices.’

‘Thanks,’ we both said.

I looked across at Mirabel. ‘It’s actually kind of fun having you around, you know.’

‘Really? I got the impression you only agreed to it because Dad pushed you into it.’

‘It wasn’t like that …’ I said. ‘OK, a bit – only because of the timing, but you’re always welcome here.’

‘It’s been good to get away. Mum and Dad have been driving me mad lately. I know they want me to get a job, or some work experience or something, but I don’t know what I want to do with my life yet.’ She took a forkful of pasta, but hesitated before putting it in her mouth. ‘Was Dad strict with you when you were a teenager?’

‘No, not really,’ I said. ‘I didn’t see him that much back then. He and Mum had only just separated, so they were giving each other a bit of space. Mum was travelling a lot, and Grandma Niki didn’t really know what I got up to. When I did chat to him, he was always quite laid-back – he certainly didn’t lay down any laws. He’d just met your mum; he was starting a new life, I guess.’

‘That must have been weird,’ Mirabel said. ‘It’s not as though I like him being on my back all the time, but if he wasn’t there – well, that would be worse, I think.’

‘There were times when I would have liked to talk to him more.’

‘I suppose he was busy with my mum, setting up home
and stuff,’ Mirabel said flippantly, taking another a forkful of pasta.

‘I guess so. He deserved a new start anyway, after the way Mum pushed him out.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I get the sense he didn’t have any choice but to go. Back then, Mum was putting herself first.’

‘What gave you that idea?’ Mirabel said.

‘I heard them, the night Dad left. It didn’t sound as if it was his choice to leave – or if it was, it was something Mum had driven him to. She wanted to be an air hostess even though she knew it was likely to put a strain on the family.’

Mirabel raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s not how my mum tells it.’

‘She’s probably just being nice,’ I said. I called the waiter over and ordered a glass of red wine and a top-up of lemonade for Mirabel.

We ate in silence for a while, until Mirabel spoke up, ‘Mum said she feels awful about the way Dad left your mum. She never thought he’d really go through with it – leave her with you still quite young.’

‘Oh, she’s got that wrong,’ I said. ‘That’s not why Dad left. He didn’t meet Caitlin until about a year later.’

‘Is that what he told you?’ Mirabel said, her voice unusually soft.

I put down my fork. My chest felt tight. ‘He wouldn’t lie to me.’

‘OK, then.’

Would he?
There was the loan, still unpaid; the visit to the UK he’d been promising to make for the past few years; the celebratory graduation dinner that, eight years on, I was still waiting for. I’d never thought of them as lies before – just slight bending of the truth that kept the cogs of our relationship moving smoothly.

‘There was probably fault on both sides,’ I said. ‘I can’t see how Mum is blameless in all this …’

‘Maybe it doesn’t matter; they’ve both moved on now. Callum told me about her and his dad.’

‘Oh yes. That,’ I said. I still hadn’t quite got my head round the idea of my mum being in love.

‘I really don’t see the problem,’ Mirabel said, shrugging. ‘Dad’s always saying she deserves to find someone else, someone who can treat her better than he did.’

The story I had always believed about my family life and my parents’ break-up butted up awkwardly against what Mirabel had told me. My sister was only sixteen. How could she possibly know more about my family than I did?

‘Did he really say that?’

‘Yes,’ Mirabel said, nodding. ‘He said he couldn’t help falling in love with Mum, but he wishes he could have done it without making such a mess of things.’

The words sank in, and my chest began to tighten. Had I really got it wrong all this time?

I was distracted by the chatter of two women at a table about five feet away from us. I recognized them from the village bake sale I’d gone to with Mum.

‘That’s her,’ I heard one of them say. ‘Not much of a role model, the sister, is she?’ They didn’t seem to be making any effort at all to lower their voices.

I felt a rush of heat come to my cheeks.

‘You’re not going to let those idiots bother you, are you?’ Mirabel said, noting my discomfort.

‘No. Of course not. We’ve got nothing to feel bad about.’

‘I heard she was running riot in the streets. About three in the morning it was.’ The words echoed out in the restaurant, which had fallen quiet. ‘Not the sort of thing you’d see from the locals. It’s Rosie I’m embarrassed for really. It’s her reputation that’s taken the knock.’

‘Oh God, what a pair of idiots,’ Mirabel said, laughing.

‘They are, aren’t they?’ I said, glancing over at the other table. Now I looked more closely, they were just two bored women in their sixties, who clearly had nothing better to talk about.

‘Nothing like being a local celebrity,’ Mirabel called out boldly. She alerted the attention of most of the people in the restaurant, and all eyes were now on her. ‘And I’m fine
with that. Yes, I did go out and get pissed, and yes, I probably should have behaved a bit better.’

I bit my lip as Mirabel continued, trying to gauge if and when I should step in and say something. She turned and gave me a nod. ‘Relax,’ she mouthed silently.

‘But don’t drag my sister or her mum into this. They’ve got nothing at all to feel bad about. As it happens, they are two brilliant women you’d be lucky to have as your friends – not that you’ll get that chance any more.’

I felt a swell of pride for my little sister. The two women muttered something to each other, and then picked up their handbags to leave without saying a word in reply. Mirabel and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. I covered her small hand with mine, and gave it a squeeze in thanks.

‘Bravo!’ came a male voice from the corner. I looked up to see Sally and her husband having dinner, and Sally gave me a little wave. I hadn’t seen them when we came in. Her husband called over. ‘Had that coming to them for a long time, those two.’

*

On Monday morning Mirabel and I set out early in the car, and drove down to a flea market on the Kent coast.

With takeaway coffees in hand, we joined the shop owners and traders browsing the stalls and car boots, picking out bargains – I chose a 1920s desk lamp and a Persian rug, and
Mirabel picked out a flowered set of crockery and some sparkly costume jewellery for herself.

When we’d reached our budget, we packed everything away in the car and stopped for lunch at a cafe overlooking the sea. We ate our bacon and egg sandwiches looking out at the sunlit waves crashing onto the shore. After lunch I bought us both ice creams and we strolled along the beach, collecting seashells and pebbles.

‘This’ll look good on the side table,’ Mirabel said, picking up a piece of driftwood from where it lay half-hidden on the sand.

‘It’s perfect. Let’s take it.’

‘It’s nice to get out here, get some fresh air, isn’t it?’

‘Really nice, I said, pushing back a few strands of my hair, damp with the sea air, that had blown in my face.’

‘Are you missing him a lot?’ Mirabel asked, her green eyes fixed on me.

‘Jack?’

She nodded.

‘Yes. But sometimes even people who care about each other need some time apart.’

*

When we got back to the house, we arranged our finds in the newly decorated spare room.

‘Well, I think we’re almost done,’ I said to Mirabel, hanging a picture on the white wall.

Mirabel’s eyes moved across the room and a smile spread over her face. She looked from the pictures on the wall – seaside scenes, beach huts and piers – to the blue and white cushions I’d sewn strewn on top of the new pale blue bedspread. The cushions had a small boat print on them, and matched the curtains I’d hung up at the window.

Two of the blue glass bottles I’d picked up at the antique shop in town were on the sill, with a Japanese anemone in each. A desk, with distressed white paint, was in the corner, with Mirabel’s driftwood find next to my sewing machine. A basket full of fabrics sat just underneath.

‘So, would you be happy to stay in here tonight, do you think?’

Mirabel smiled at me, her eyes bright. ‘I suppose so. It’ll do.’

On the Mood Board

White walls, bright and airy entrance to the house, large mirror facing door to enhance feeling of space, framed prints on walls. Classic books on a small shelf. Large vase filled with cornflowers

Tuesday, 29 October

I sat down in the kitchen and had breakfast, the conversation I’d had with Mirabel about Mum and Dad running through my head. I’d assumed at first that what she’d told me couldn’t be true – but as I thought about it, the pieces fell into place. I’d never before questioned what Dad told me, but if he’d really left me and Mum, let us both down, then he had reason enough to lie to me. After all these
years, and me supposedly an adult, I’d been punishing my mum. When she told me she was in love I’d still, somehow, thought she didn’t deserve that happiness. Hurt can make you blind to the truth, I suppose. But things were starting to look clearer now.