Forget Me Not (The Ceruleans: Book 2) (3 page)

I had to stop. I had to stop reading.

I’d intended to read Sienna’s diary in one go: today, this
morning, sitting in bed before I even got up. No more procrastinating. No more
hiding from the truth, and from Jude. But it was agonising. Her jagged
handwriting, her turn of phrase – I knew them so well, and it brought back all
the pain of losing her. It was more than that, though, so much more.

The diary was a window into her life, and it was a life I’d
known nothing about. For years – since she’d started at Willake and I’d started
at Millsbury Prep when we were eleven – my sister had cut herself off from me.
I’d never visited her school. I didn’t know ‘her’ rock. I couldn’t picture the
lake, or her room. I didn’t know who Dreary David was. I didn’t know her
favourite bands and movies. I didn’t know that the cruise ship dream mattered
so much. She’d shared something of herself with a stranger, with Jude, but not
with me.

Worse still was the scene she described in the woods, Jude’s
grande
reveal. She had written about it in her diary, but not in an
email to me. The biggest, most derailing thing to have ever happened to her,
and she didn’t think to share it with the person who loved her most in the
world: her sister.

Derailing.
It was the wrong word to describe Sienna’s
reaction. Whatever the truth was, it was devastating me. But not my sister, who
danced at the idea of being different. Not for the first time in my life, I
wished I had her strength. Her devil-may-care attitude. But I didn’t.

I hurt.

There is only so much the mind can digest at one time. As it
was, I was teetering on the edge of an abyss above which was posted a sign with
a downward arrow and the words
This way, madness
. I made a choice: I
would break down the reading over the coming week. There were four days left
until the Newquay trip. Time enough to finish the diary. In the meantime, I
would carry on as normal.

So I got up. I got dressed. I drank coffee. I took
painkillers. I hooked Chester’s lead to his collar. And I went out in search of
distraction.

*

Cara had a cunning plan. Worryingly, it involved me, lacy
lingerie and a grand piano. She told me all about it over coffee in Twycombe’s
answer to Starbucks – a tiny cafe by the promenade.

‘It won’t be sleazy at all, I promise. All you do is turn up
at Si’s, put on some outfits and drape yourself tastefully on the piano. And
other props. Two hours tops. And you’d be doing me a
huuuuuuuuuuuuuge
favour.’

‘But why me? I get that you need photos of your clothes
designs for your new website. Including the underwear line. But surely you
could find someone more… modelesque.’

Cara peered at me over the froth of her mochaccino. ‘What on
earth does modelesque mean?’

I stirred sugar into my iced latte – not much point watching
calories, given the circumstances – and tried to think of some way to explain
without offending her, or me, or womankind in general. Finally, I gave up and
plumped for an answer from the Cara school of brutal honestly. ‘Skinny and
tall, Cara. Like a model.’

She snorted. ‘No, thank you. I’ve nothing against slim
people, of course, but the clothes I design are for average women. Did you
know, in the UK most women are a size fourteen? With boobs. And a butt. And
they’re short enough that they can walk through doorframes without whapping
their heads.’

That made me laugh.       

‘You’re perfect, Scarlett,’ she said earnestly. ‘You have
curves; I design for curves. You’ve already modelled The Dress I customised for
you last month, and the shots are great – just what I want.’

I balked at her casual reference to The Dress – a stunning
red evening gown Cara had worked hard to redesign for me. It was currently
hanging forlornly at the back of my wardrobe, stained and ripped. Because I had
stupidly,
stupidly
, worn it in the sea. Given that Cara had already
taken copious pictures of me wearing The Dress, I hoped she’d got what she
needed and would never have to know what had become of it.

Oblivious to my guilt, Cara was still in persuasion mode:
‘It’s all set up: a mate of Luke has lent me his SLR camera, and Si says I can
use his swanky pad for the location. Now I just need a clothes horse for the
outfits. But I have
no
budget. And you’re the only girl I know who’d
model for free…’

‘What about you? You could do it.’

Cara rolled her eyes. ‘Funny ha ha.’

‘I wasn’t joking. Why not?’

‘Hello? A little thing called horrendously scarred legs?’

I laid my latte glass down a little too sharply on the
table; the bang made Cara flinch. ‘So what?’ I challenged. ‘You’re gorgeous. A
few scars don’t change that.’

She frowned. ‘What’s up with you?’

‘Nothing. I just don’t think you should put yourself down.’

‘I’m not. I’m being realistic. Scars are repulsive.’

‘No, Cara, they’re not. Not if you have the depth to realise
what they mean: that the person went through pain and came out the other side.
They’re a badge of courage.’

‘O-kay,’ she said slowly. ‘Now it’s official.’

‘What is?’

‘You’re acting strange.’

I’d gone too far. Shown too much emotion. Too much of the
girl under the mask.

‘I just don’t want to steal your thunder, Thor,’ I said
lightly.

Her eyes lit up. ‘
Thor!
What a movie. What a Marvel.
Chris Hemsworth!’ Strangeness forgotten, she took a long, dreamy sip of her
drink.

‘Mmm,’ I said in agreement, though I hadn’t a clue what she
was talking about; I’d been referring to the Norse warrior god. ‘So the photo
shoot. You’ll bring your thunder?’

‘Behind the camera, yep. Aside from any other reason, it’s
poor form for the designer to be the model, you know. Not professional.’

I sighed. ‘Okay. You win. I’ll do it.’

‘Hooray!’ Cara reached over the table to hug me. ‘You won’t
regret it! It’ll be a blast!’

‘When do you want me?’

‘Thursday suit you?’

‘Fine. It’s not like I have much else to do.’ I took a gulp
of my drink.

‘Speaking of… What are your plans? Now that your summer
stay’s extended and you’re deferring uni to stick around here with us?’

The question sent lightning through my head. I gasped and
grabbed at it.

‘What is it? Oh, flash headache. Serves you right for
downing iced coffee.’

The ice in my latte had long since melted, actually, and it
was lukewarm.

‘So, this year…?’

‘I haven’t really thought about what to do.’

‘Really?’ Cara looked surprised. ‘I thought you’d have a
plan. You’ve always seemed like someone who has a plan.’

I’d come to Twycombe with a plan – determined,
single-minded. The plan had been simple: to find out why my sister had taken
her life. I knew that now, and a whole lot more besides. Now, there was no
plan. Nothing ahead. Just a vast, empty void.

I shifted uncomfortably on my chair. ‘I don’t know. I just
want to spend as much time as I can here, with you guys.’

There was no sign of Cara’s signature dimples now as she
surveyed me across the table. ‘What is it?’ she said seriously. ‘You can tell
me, you know. Whatever it is.’

‘There’s nothing to tell. I’m footloose and fancy free and
looking forward to winter in the cove.’

My wan smile didn’t fool her. ‘You’re lying. Something’s
wrong. Why do you keep it all in, Scarlett? I want to help – let me help.’

I fiddled with a sugar packet silently. I couldn’t bear to
lie again, to tell her I was fine when she knew damn well I was not.

‘It’s not… you’re not
down
, are you? You’re not
thinking… like Sienna…’

‘No! Of course not!’

‘Phew! I could do without losing my best friend on top of
everything else.’

I stared at her with dawning horror. Oh God, I may not be
about to kill myself as Sienna had, but what Jude had said…

I was going to leave her.

I was going to
die
.

‘Scarlett?’

Standing abruptly, I grabbed my bag. ‘Thanks for the coffee.
I need to get back now – get Chester fed and settled. I’ll see you Thursday?’

Startled, she nodded.

‘Great! Later!’

And before she could say another word I swept out of the
cafe.

I went to see
The Bewitching Hour
at the cinema
last night, even though I usually hate that paranormal stuff. I grinned through
the whole film. At the end, Katie said, ‘What’s up with you wiggling your hands
about all evening – you got some urge to be witchy or something?’ Ha! If only
she knew!

~

Happy birthday me. The usual:

Gift voucher from Katie & Co.

Gift voucher from Father.

Gift voucher from Mother.

Gift voucher from Scarlett.

Only Jude got me something real. Okay, it’s a bit random,
a chunk of crystal stuff. But it’s the thought that counts, right? And he’d
thought about it. The blue: it’s the colour of the light. OUR light.

He came to the birthday party Katie threw me in the
common room. He drank a beer from the case Sarah smuggled in. He ate some cake.
Then his phone went, and he whispered in my ear that he had to go.

‘Hot date?’ I asked him.

‘Horrifically hot,’ he said.

And he walked out the door.

~

It was all over the news this morning: an explosion at a
nearby factory last night. A dozen workers pulled out by firefighters. But none
of them seriously injured. ‘Miraculous’ was the word the reporters were using.

I got detention in two classes for not focusing. I kept
remembering Jude’s face last night, when he said, ‘Horrifically hot.’ It was
fierce, almost. Like a guy steeling himself to do something dangerous?

~

Jude was there. I asked him straight, and he told me. He
was at the fire. He healed the worst of the injuries. That’s all he would tell
me, though I asked him plenty. He was very serious about it all, until I said
to him:

‘I thought you were a sorcerer.’

He fell about laughing then and said, ‘What, like Harry
Potter?’

Actually, I’d been thinking a young, broody Merlin, but I
wasn’t going to admit that.

I said, ‘I get it now: you’re some kind of angel.’

That word sobered him up. He didn’t like it at all. He told
me he’s not an angel – we’re not angels. And not only because we don’t rock
halos and feathery wings. I got the impression he didn’t think he was good
enough to call himself that. If so, he has a point: in what world would a girl
like me, with my heart, be an angel?

I asked the right word to describe us. He told me:
Cerulean.

That was earlier. Now he’s gone, I’ve been thinking: I
want to go with him next time. To the factory or wherever it’s all kicking off.
I want to be in the thick of it, taking risks, being kick-ass. That’s a real
life. This one – algebra, hockey sticks, chapel on a Sunday – it’s never been
me.

I was never meant to be just ordinary.

~

Home for Christmas. Bloody miserable here, as always, on
my own. Father hasn’t even bothered to come back – on a ‘business’ trip in the
Seychelles. The usual from Mother – nag, slug of wine, self-pity, nag, slug of
wine, self-pity. I can’t really blame Scarlett for holing up in her room.
Though I can think of a zillion better things to do than study. Actually, no, I
can’t. This place is boring, boring, boring.

You know what? It’s more than boring. It’s suffocating.

Hollythwaite isn’t a home, it’s a mausoleum. We’re all
dead. Dead in ourselves and dead to each other. The only hope of survival is to
break away from here. Away from being a Blake.

~

Back at school for one day, and it’s going to be my last.

I’m leaving.

I’m doing it.

Screw school. Screw family. I’m eighteen now, old enough
to make my own choices. And I choose freedom.

I’ve been thinking it for ages – since Jude, since the
woods and the rabbit. But two weeks at Hollythwaite was the last straw. There
has to be more to life than sitting at a dining table laid out with an
untouched Christmas feast, pulling paper crackers with a drunken parent and a silent
sister.

I’m going to Twycombe. I’ll use the cottage – it’s just
been standing there, empty, since Grandad and Nanna passed.

Jude came over earlier, and I told him. He didn’t try to
talk me out of it. Maybe he didn’t want to. Or maybe he just knows me well
enough by now to realise I don’t let anything, or anyone, stand in my way. He
says he’ll meet me there, at the cove. He’s going to teach me to surf. Better
yet, he’s going to teach me how to use the light.

I felt lousy enough that afternoon to do a Mother – I took
to my bed. I tried to doze, but every time I closed my eyes my mind tortured me
with two images: my name scrawled in my sister’s diary and Cara’s face as I
fled the cafe.

The first angered me. Our sisterly connection laid out in
ink amounted to just a few words in pages of handwriting. Surely I deserved
more than that? I was nothing more than a passing reference, and what she wrote
of me – it was unfair. Yes, I sent her a gift voucher for her birthday. But it
wasn’t unthoughtful, impersonal; it was for West End theatre tickets. For two.
Because I’d hoped we would go together. And as for Christmas, what else could I
have been but silent over Christmas lunch, with Sienna and Mother so caught up
in yet another row? And I hadn’t locked myself away to study all of the holiday
– I’d built a snowman, I’d gone sales shopping, I’d ice-skated at Somerset
House, all with Sienna. We’d had fun, I thought. But clearly she’d seen that
time with me as ‘boring, boring, boring’. And she’d meant me to read those
words – hadn’t Jude said she’d wanted me to have her diary? It was typical
Sienna: no conversation, no chance to defend myself, just her side of a story
delivered as fact but riddled with fiction. The row we’d have when I saw her
again…

When I saw her again.

My dead sister.

Unthinkable thoughts that led me straight back to the cafe.
To Cara’s flippant comment:
‘I could do without losing my best friend.’

I so badly wanted to tell Luke and Cara what was going on.
To keep them in the dark was lying by omission, and I hated that. But how could
I tell them? Jude hadn’t told me specifically that the existence of the
Ceruleans was to be kept a secret, but surely it was implicit in all he’d done
and said. And even if I could tell them, why would they believe me? Blue light?
Miraculous healing? Bert’s spirit passing over? Death coming for me? They’d
probably have me committed.

I ached for my friend and the boy I’d grown to love. They’d
lost so much, and it seemed so wrong that they would lose me too. Should I pull
back from them, distance myself, so the blow, when it came, was less painful?
Or was that just another betrayal; did I owe it to them, in fact, to make the
moments that remained count?

Every part of me wanted to protect them. And to do that, I
knew I would have to bury the truth – even as I learned it. So although I was
in pain, I didn’t reach out to my best friend or my boyfriend. I hid in my bed,
beneath my grandmother’s patchwork quilt, and I tried very hard not to think or
feel.

It was Chester who got me up in the end. He trotted into the
room with his lead in his mouth, dropped it on the floor and gave me a hopeful
woof
.
It was the first spark of the old Chester I’d seen since Bert had passed.

‘Chester!’ I gestured to him to get up on the bed with me.
‘Come here, boy.’

He took me at my word, but after a brief dog–girl hug it
became apparent that lying about wasn’t on the agenda. Head down, he gave me an
almighty nudge. I slid right off the bed and landed in a tangle of bedclothes
on the floor.

‘Hey!’

But the eyes that peeked over the edge of the bed pleaded
with me,
Enough with the lying about being gloomy. Walkies.

I smiled at him. ‘Oh, okay, you win – we’ll go to the
beach.’

That earned me a rib-crushing embrace from eighty pounds of
beast and a sloppy lick on the face.

‘All right, all right. Give me a minute.’

I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and texted Luke:

Taking Chester to the beach for a surf. Can you join us?
xx

He was working this afternoon, helping some students move house
with his van. But he’d been unsure when he’d finish, and since late afternoon
was our usual time to surf, it was worth a shot seeing whether he was done. As
I waited for a reply I scraped my hair up into a ponytail and swapped pyjamas
for a bikini, jeans and a t-shirt (long-sleeved to hide the ugly scab on my
arm).

My phone chirped.

Sorry, stuck in a sofa-versus-front-door saga. We’ve been
at it an hour and it’s wedged tight. Come over tonight and I’ll cook? Eight? xx
PS – Chester’s surfing?!

I grinned and tapped out a quick reply:

No worries. See you later. xx PS – Ha ha.

‘Just me and you, Chester,’ I told the dog.

Downstairs I shoved my feet into battered old Adidas and
grabbed my surf kit bag and board. Then we were off, striding – or in Chester’s
case scampering – down from the house to the cliff path and along towards the
beach. The sky was clear, the breeze was up, the sea below was calm but not too
calm. It was a good day to be alive.

Down in the bay, I gave Chester a good run around for twenty
minutes. Then I pulled on my wetsuit and called him to me.

‘Sit.
Sit.
Good boy. Now, Chester, you
stay here
while I go in the water.’

He tilted his head to one side.

‘You. Stay. Here,’ I repeated in my best sergeant-major
voice.

He whined.

From behind my back I produced a packet of doggie drops:
Chester would do
anything
for doggie drops. My furry friend barked
joyously, and I let him have a drop. He wolfed it down and sat back
expectantly.

‘Stay here,’ I told him.

I took a few steps away, down to the water. Chester stayed
where he was, watching me.

‘Good dog!’ I said, and returned to give him a drop. ‘Now,
stay.’

I repeated the process several times, until I could get all
the way to the waterline without him moving a muscle. Then I tucked the dog
treats into my kit bag, gave him a final ‘Stay’ and headed into the water with
my board.

I checked behind me as I waded in and Chester was where I’d
left him. By the time I was on the board and paddling out into the cove, he’d
collapsed to his stomach on the towel I’d laid out for him – his favourite
position for a kip.

On such a summery afternoon, I wasn’t the only wave
worshipper hoping to catch some decent waves. I counted nine other surfers out
this afternoon, and I knew them all – they were part of the Twycombe tribe who
came to this isolated cove for the decent surf and the plentiful, prodigious
parties.

As I got close I returned their calls of greeting with the
customary ‘Hey’. There was Geoff, Liam, Andy, Duvali, Big Ben, Lucy, Jeanne and
Sally – and Si, the undisputed king of us all, because he was the kind of bloke
you couldn’t help but like.

‘Ms Blake!’ he said when I reached him. ‘How goes it?’

‘Good!’ I sat up on the board and checked the beach. Chester
was prone on the towel. ‘I’m good thanks. You?’

‘I’m always good, Scarlett. So long as I’m somewhere near a
beach and a beer. A bloke of simple pleasures, eh?’

‘I feel the same way about the beach and cake.’

‘Ah, cake. I’d certainly choose it over death.’ Si laughed.
‘Don’t look so alarmed! It’s a classic Eddie Izzard stand-up joke about Church
extremism. You must have tea and cake with the vicar or you DIE! “Cake or
death?” they ask you. “Cake or death?”’

‘Er, cake…?’

‘That’s right! Choose cake: choose life!’

‘O-kay.’

Si was wonderful – style and charisma and sociability
incarnate, and the driving force for all the party action. But I had to admit,
I found him just a little intimidating.

‘So, you all set for Newquay this weekend?’

‘Yep.’

‘Three-day party?’

‘Yep.’

‘Surfing in Fistral?’

‘Yep.’

‘Forty-foot waves?’

‘Er…’

He broke into another laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Scarlett – we’ll
look out for you.’

A shout from behind drew my attention and I turned to see
Duvali pointing at the beach.

‘Doggy paddle!’ he hollered at me.

I twisted round.

‘CHESTER!’

The blasted dog was in the water, swimming furiously to get
out to me. I paddled back to him as quickly as I could. We met close enough to
the shore that I could drop off the board to stand on the sea floor.

‘Bad boy!’ I chided, grabbing him by the collar.

He woofed and put one paw on the board.

‘No, mate. Dogs don’t surf.’

‘Actually, they do.’

I turned. Fellow surfer Geoff had come up behind us.

‘They’re known as surf-
furs
– dogs that surf. There
are competitions in the States. You can get mini life jackets for them.’

‘Wow! I’m guessing those are little dogs, though. Not beasts
like Chester here.’

‘I don’t know, I’ve seen YouTube clips of pretty big dogs –
Labs and German Shepherds.’

I looked at Chester. ‘You want up? Go on then.’

It took all my strength to heft him onto the board, and he
promptly slid off the other side. But he swam back around to me and put his paw
up to try again, so I boosted him up and held him in place.

‘There,’ I said. ‘Happy now?’

He gave me a lick and I got a waft of doggy breath that was
suspiciously sweet. I looked at the beach. From here, I could see my kit bag
lying on its side, contents strewn all over the towel.

‘Chester. Did you get into the drops?’

He gave me a doggy grin. Then he sprang into an explosive
jump that sent a spray of water into my face.

‘That dog,’ said Geoff, ‘has the spirit of a surfer.’

‘And the grace of a wrecking ball.’

But I was smiling. If Chester could shake off the oppressive
veil of grief and embrace the exhilaration of the bellyflop, then so could I.

*

Later, when Chester and I were all beached out – me from
surfing, he from fetching a stick Geoff threw for him on the beach – we made
our way back along the cliff path to the cottage. With the gloomy silence of
the afternoon far behind me now, I chattered away to Chester as I walked, and
he, still buoyant and boisterous, bounded excitedly in front, beside, behind,
between my legs.

‘Mind, Chester. You’ll trip me. Stay back, okay? Now, how do
you feel about surfing, boy? Shall we teach you, hey? Chester the surfing
sheepdog. You’ll be legend–’

It happened so fast: one moment I was walking on the path,
the next I felt a shove on my hip.

And I was crashing down onto the seaward side of the path.

And I was slipping over the fringe of grass at the edge.

And I was desperately scrabbling for a handhold.

And I was thinking,
Not yet – not like this – not now!

And I was falling off the cliff.