Nemesis (6 page)

“You let Phil into your study?
Into your apartment?
What were you thinking?”

“I’m thinking he’s a very kind man,” she said evenly. “He carried that heavy box all the way up from the lobby. He didn’t have to do that.”

“I expect he wanted to ingratiate himself with a famous author,” Simon said. “You can’t invite strangers into your home like that, Natalie. Anything could have happened.”

And they both knew to which ‘anything’ he was referring.

She took a deep breath. “Simon, I know you only want to protect me, but perhaps we need to get a few things straight? If I want to wear short skirts, I shall. If I want to invite the staff into my apartment, I shall. If I want to order new china without your approval, I shall. If you want to check it over, go ahead. Unpack it all if it’s bothering you that much. It has to be washed before I can put it away and right now I’m too busy. So if you want to go to the theatre, let’s stop talking about it and go.”

She took a sideways step around him and through the front door; which slammed, leaving her on the other side of it.
A calculated risk or certain disaster?
She jabbed the call button on the lift. Any other man could have fallen over the damned box and not realised its significance. Simon, damn him, saw everything.

Far below she heard machinery whirr as the lift began its ascent. The illuminated numbers above her head counted up from G. She was tapping her foot on the tiled floor, faster and faster, without even realising she was doing it.

Where was Simon? Unpacking the box? It was what she would have done. What would he say when he saw her book? Despite her protestations to Charles, anyone who knew her well would be able to work out that she’d based the story on her sister’s murder. The similarities were there if one looked hard
enough,
and switching water lilies with bluebells was no disguise at all. Her publishers had even asked her to sign a disclaimer, ensuring she took all responsibility should anyone instigate legal action.

Obviously Simon would have to read the book sometime, as he’d read all her other books up to date. Preferably he’d read it when she was not around to face his lecture about how stupid he thought she was.

Oh God, why had she left him alone with that box?

She glanced back at the door to her apartment. It remained resolutely shut. Damn, she’d better go back inside and face him.

Natalie had just opened her bag, with the intention of retrieving her keys, when she heard her apartment door softly open and close; followed by the light, bouncy tread of someone wearing trainers. She let her bag drop to her side and pressed the lift call button once again, trying to keep her breathing even. From the corner of her eye, she could see Simon - a smudge of grey against the white painted walls - but she didn’t take her eyes from those illuminated numbers.

The silence stretched out.

“I can’t believe you let Phil into your study,” he muttered.

She felt some of the tension leave her.
“Why not?
If you took the trouble to talk to him, you’d realise he’s a nice guy.”

“You never let people into your study.”

Why couldn’t he let it go? “Sure I do.”

“You don’t. You’re quite eccentric about it. And as for all those Monet paintings, it’s like a veritable shrine to your sister. Phil must have thought you were nuts.”

Apparently he was not the only one.

The lift arrived. Natalie stepped inside; hardly bothering to check he was with her before pressing the ‘G’. “You make me out to be some kind of obsessive,” she said lightly.

She hadn’t expected him to laugh but she hoped he might smile. She wasn’t prepared for his hand shooting between the closing doors and holding them apart
long
enough for him to step back into the lobby.

She stared at him in astonishment. “Where are you going?”

“I’m taking the stairs,” he threw back at her. “I can’t deal with you when you’re in this kind of mood. I’ll go to this play on my own.”

“But
- ”

“There’s no point arguing, you’ve made it clear you’re not interested in seeing it. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“But I’m going to London tomorrow!”

“Then we shall talk the day after that,” he said firmly, and strode off in the direction of the stairs.

The lift doors began to close. Infuriated at not having the last word, Natalie stuck her hand in front of one and pushed it back. “Maybe I don’t want to talk!” she called after him.

Slowly he turned. “What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded. “Everything I say is wrong.”

“You’re talking to me in the exact same way you talk to your students.”

“Sometimes you act like one!”

“We’re always going out. Parties, pubs,
the
cinema - occasionally I’d like to stay in.”

He flung out his arms, exasperated. “And do what?”

“I don’t know … Talk, watch TV … have sex
… ”
When
was
the last time they’d had sex?

Simon, damn him, was looking at his watch. “I’m going to be late,” he said. “Are you coming, or not?”

“Not,” she said. “If you don’t want to stay with me, maybe I’ll call Alicia and see if she wants to come over.”

“Fine,” he said. “You do that.”

While she was well aware Simon did not like Alicia, there was a distinctly malicious gleam in his eyes.

“What are you not telling me?” she asked him.

“I think it’s more what Alicia is not telling you.”

“Simon!”

“Her mother is reopening Hurst Castle to the public.”

“
What
?”

“And the garden is being completely restored - including the lily ponds.”

It was as though her ribcage tightened, making it hard to breathe. “She can’t do that!”

8

Fifteen Years Previously

When Natalie had finally walked out of the Lodge, carrying a bulging suitcase in one hand and Sarah’s old typewriter in the other, she’d hoped to never see it again. She was headed for student life and destined for greater things. This would be her one opportunity to do something with her life and get away from everything that held her back.
The past.

Strange how things turn out.

Her father’s accident happened a week after Sarah’s death. His car had gone over a cliff and fallen fifty feet onto a sandy beach. If he’d hit rock he’d never have survived; the car would have blown up and taken him with it. Instead the soft sand acted as a cushion, leaving him paralysed and with serious head injuries, but alive. This, as everyone had said at the time, was the important thing.

With her father incapacitated, Natalie thought she and her mother would have to find somewhere else to live. Instead, she came home from school one day and found Sir Henry Vyne sitting in the kitchen, talking closely with her mother and drinking coffee from her father’s favourite mug.

For a man in his fifties he was still striking in appearance, having the red hair and pale-blue eyes typical of all the Vyne family. He was also very tall, a fact Natalie appreciated when, ever the gentleman, he got to his feet as she entered the kitchen.

“Little Natalie,” he smiled.

If he added ‘My how you’ve grown’ to that sentence, she’d walk right out of the kitchen and probably the house too. She doubted her mother would object. The way Magda was currently looking daggers at
her,
it appeared she’d interrupted something important.
But what?

Uncertainly she flicked her gaze between the two, recalling how close Magda had been sitting to him, how he had been sprawled in the chair as though he owned the place (which he did) and how her mother was back in her immaculate mask of make-up for the first time in days, if not weeks.

Oh God, surely it couldn’t be?

Sir Henry and
her
mother
?

“How are you coping, sweetheart?”
Sir Henry patted Natalie on the shoulder, leaving his hand resting there quite casually while he smiled benevolently at her.

“OK,” she muttered.

He was so close she could smell the faint mustiness of the castle upon his clothes and the tobacco on his breath. She could see a pulled thread in the tweed coat he wore and the hint of ginger stubble on his chin. She wanted to pull away from him, to tell him to keep his old man hands to himself, but one glance at her mother’s grim expression and she thought better of it.

Was Sir Henry going to be her new step-father? Would that mean she’d live at the castle? No one in Calahurst would be able to look down their noses at her again.

“I do hope you’re being a good girl for your mother?” he said.

She eyed him askance. What did he expect her to reply? That she’d been getting drunk every night and shagging her way around Calahurst? Biting hard on her tongue, she kept her eyes to the floor and her smart-arse comments to herself - and doubtless appeared to be the dozy teen he thought she was.

Sir Henry conceded defeat, patted her shoulder once again, and returned his attention to her mother. “That’s agreed then, Maggie? Things can carry on, to the same arrangement as before. Whatever you may have heard from Cla - er, to the contrary, the Lodge is yours for as long as you want it.”

He paused, as though expecting Magda to make some comment, or at least thank him. When neither was forthcoming, he took his coat from the back of the chair, winked at Natalie and left through the back door. Before the door closed, a blast of cold air sent a swarm of dead leaves swirling into the kitchen.

Natalie took his place at the kitchen table, and tried not to think about how the seat was still warm. “Does that mean we’re staying, Mum?
Rent free?”

Magda said nothing, although her cold blue gaze remained fixed upon her daughter, almost as though seeing her for the first time. Her beautiful face could have been sculptured from stone. Although she cradled a coffee mug in her hands, she did not appear to have drunk from it; the milk was puckering into skin on top. She was wearing one of Sarah’s tight pink sweaters, with bootcut jeans and high heels; clothes that were far too young for her, even though her figure was still a perfect size 8.

Thoroughly creeped out by the way her mother was still staring at her, Natalie tried again. “Will Sir Henry keep Dad’s job open?”

She knew this to be a stupid question as soon as she asked it. Her father was lying in a hospital, barely breathing unaided. How the hell could he continue to work as a gardener? Even if he did regain consciousness, the doctor said he would remain in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He would need constant care; and if they were not going to do it, they would have to pay someone else. This, when her mother failed to answer, led her to ask her second question - with more urgency.

“Mum, what are we going to do about money?”

Magda said nothing. Was she even listening?

“Mum!”

As though in slow-motion, the mug slid from Magda’s fingers. Before Natalie could react, it had crashed onto the table, splashing coffee everywhere. She hardly had time to grab a tea towel from the draining board to soak up the mess when Magda forced her chair back from the table and slammed both hands onto the table.

“Who gives a
fuck
about money?”

It was the violence in her mother’s voice which shocked Natalie most. Instinctively she cringed away, clutching the dripping tea towel to her chest, expecting Magda to follow up these words with a blow, as John would have done. Instead Magda looked her up and down, almost as though she was seeing a stranger. Then she yanked open the kitchen door and was gone.

Natalie ran to the window, hoping to see which way her mother had taken. Rain lashed the glass but she caught a glimpse of her mother running up the garden path before she faded to an indistinct blur. There was an orchard at the end of the garden, the branches of the ancient trees swaying in the storm like skeletal fingers. Beyond the orchard was a little-used path that led directly to Hurst Castle. Was that where Magda was headed? Was she running after Sir Henry?

Natalie was too anxious to calculate possible scenarios. To distract herself, she set about cleaning up the mess and cooking dinner. Concentrating on completing each small task seemed to be the only way to keep herself together. There was also the hope this would win her favour with her mother.

It had been a perfectly reasonable question to ask. What
were
they going to do about money? Her mother was a housewife and had no job, no income of her own. With her father incapacitated, and presumably uninsured, where was the money going to come from? Sarah was dead and her father as good as.

It was all very well to daydream about her mother marrying Sir Henry, but he was already married to Clare. Would he get a divorce, or would he expect Magda to just be his mistress? Where did that leave John - apart from flat on his back in a hospital bed, completely oblivious that some other man was making a move on his wife?

Natalie sighed. Perhaps Magda didn’t care for Sir Henry as much as he cared for her - although she’d never appeared to care much for John either. But if Sir Henry was offering marriage, or even just money, Magda should grab it with both hands. How else were they going to survive without a regular income? Someone had to be practical about these things. Why couldn’t her mother see that?

If her mother returned that evening, Natalie didn’t hear her. The following morning Magda was back in the kitchen, as immaculately and unsuitably dressed as ever, in a red floral dress and high heels, sweeping the floor, filling the washing machine and doing the rest of the chores as though the past week had never happened. Natalie made no comment, deciding it was easier to go with the flow.

This was how they got through the next three years.

Sarah was never mentioned. All her belongings were packed neatly into boxes, along with the many photographs that had been scattered around the house. For a few months the boxes remained heaped in her old bedroom, gathering a grey film of dust. Then one day they simply vanished. It was as though Sarah had never existed.

Magda got a job at the local beauty salon, and then another at a local wine bar. Regardless of her frosty demeanour, she seemed to have no trouble attracting new admirers, which was perhaps why Sir Henry, despite agreeing to let them live at the Lodge rent-free, never visited again.