Sweet Deception (17 page)

I ducked my head under the low, slanted ceiling, and went over to where they lay propped against the brick wall. I removed the plastic sheet, and knelt down and started to flip through the canvases. Looking through them, remembering how long I'd spent on each one, unsettled me—it was hard to imagine that one time I'd loved painting so much. I hadn't done it for so long.

It took an hour for me to go through them. When I was finished with my trip down memory lane, I went back downstairs, and curled up on the couch. But instead of switching on the TV, I opened up my sketchpad and started to draw.

“So tell me—when did you embark on your current lifestyle?”

I smiled at the psychologist's polite euphemism. “You mean when did I start drinking and screwing around?” But my blunt words didn't even elicit so much as a smile. My attempts to provoke a reaction from Margaret Milton weren't working.

She gave a brief nod. “Yes. When do you last remember trying to get your parents' approval?”

I sat back and thought about it.

I hadn't been back here since my first session a few weeks earlier. Once Dr. Milton had said that there was no point in me seeing her if it wasn't voluntary, I'd taken the easy route and not bothered coming back. But now that I was staying on at Davenport's, it seemed only fair to give it a go like Richard had wanted. After all, he'd been right about
working with Helena and Rex, so maybe he was on to something with seeing Dr. Milton. And at least if it didn't work out, I'd know that I hadn't missed out on any opportunity.

So far my second session seemed much the same as the first. We were in Dr. Milton's office, sitting across from each other in the huge leather armchairs, like last time. Dr. Milton—or Margaret, as she'd invited me to call her—looked as neat and professional as before, her legs demurely crossed, a notepad resting on her knee, and an expensive-looking fountain pen in her right hand. Every now and then she'd jot down a couple of details in her elegant handwriting. I presumed that she then typed the notes up on her computer once I'd gone—filling up the last ten minutes of our fifty-minute hour.

I'd come straight from work, and I could sense her assessing me as soon as I walked in. I knew I looked more conventional than the last time we'd met. I had on my now standard uniform of black skinny trousers and a round-neck black T-shirt, which I'd teamed with black pumps. My white-blonde hair was tied back from my face. I'd been opting for the more conventional items in my wardrobe lately. It was a clean-cut yet artistic look—more toned down than my usual Gothic Barbie style, but still true enough to me not to feel completely out of character. I glanced down at myself self-consciously. God, now I remembered why I was
so reluctant to come here—I didn't want to feel like every little thing I did was being analysed.

“So you want to know when I stopped being a good little girl,” I said, drawing myself back to the present. It wasn't something I gave much thought to these days. The way I behaved was so ingrained that it felt like I'd been this way forever. “I suppose it was the summer I turned eighteen.”

I saw the barest hint of a frown between her eyes. It was the first reaction I'd got from her, and the only sign that the answer had taken her by surprise. “So, not the year of your brother's death?”

That was the assumption everyone always made—that I'd gone off the rails because of what happened to Kit. “Actually, it was the year after he died.”

She nodded a little, and scratched a brief note on her pad, before looking back up at me. “Why don't you tell me about it? That summer, the last time you remember being your old self.”

“What about it?”

“Whatever you think seems important.”

She settled back into her armchair, a sure sign she wasn't going to give me any help or point me in the right direction of what she wanted. I scrunched up my forehead. God, this was irritating. I had a feeling she wanted something specific from me, but I had no idea what.

“Don't think about it too much,” she said, obviously
aware of my irritation. “Just say whatever comes into your head first.”

Fair enough. If she really wanted to be bored out of her mind . . .

“Well, I came home from boarding school for the summer . . .”

Seven years ago

It was mid-afternoon by the time my father drove through the gates of Claylands. The familiar crunch of gravel under the tyres of the car signalled to me that I was home. It was one of those perfect hazy summer days, when everyone seems to be out enjoying themselves. A few minutes earlier we'd passed the local cricket team on the nearby village green, and seen a newly married couple emerging from the local church to the sound of bells pealing, a shower of confetti falling over them as the photographer snapped away. I'd just finished my A-level exams, and it felt good to be getting away from all that stress and embarking on a summer of total relaxation.

I'd called ahead to tell my mother that we were nearly there, and she'd clearly been listening out for us, because seconds after we parked, she appeared on the stone steps of the front entrance, looking her usual perfect, together self, in
cream Capri trousers and a light blue linen shirt. While Dad unpacked the car, she came over to embrace me.

“Darling! Don't you look well!” She held me away from her, giving me a critical once-over. “Your skin's a lot clearer, and I think you've lost some weight.”

I knew she meant well, but somehow when she said those things it just made me feel worse about myself—had my spots been that noticeable? My puppy fat that bad? If my own mother felt the need to point these things out, that couldn't be great.

But as usual, she seemed oblivious of my insecurities. She put an arm around my shoulder as we walked into the house. “Now I'm sure you're exhausted after that long journey, so why don't you go up and rest, so you'll be ready for dinner? Your sister will be here later, and she's bringing her new boyfriend with her.”

“I didn't know she was seeing anyone.” Not that it was a surprise. My beautiful, charming older sister had always had a knack for attracting the opposite sex. “Is it someone from King's?” My sister was studying medicine at King's College, in London.

“That's right. His name's Toby. He's a medic, too. The year above her, and top of his class, apparently. Wants to be a surgeon.”

Well, of course he did. It wasn't like Kate would ever date anyone other than the best. Unlike me, she'd had several
boyfriends. I blamed it on the fact that my boarding school was single sex, although that wasn't the full story. Some of the girls would sneak out into town, and looked forward to the dances we had with the local boys' school. But I wasn't one of them. Perhaps if I'd looked like one of the beautiful girls in our year—with their long, silky hair, clear complexions and svelte bodies—then I'd have gone. But I knew instinctively there was no point for me—that boys wouldn't like my boring brown hair, spots and heavy physique. It seemed easiest to pretend I wasn't interested, either.

That's why I couldn't get excited about meeting another one of Kate's boyfriends. I knew the drill by now. The guys she brought home never showed any interest in her mousey little sister.

“I'm going to put him in the room next to Kit's.” My mother's voice maintained its normal tone as she said my dead brother's name. It was only the over-brightness of her eyes that let me know it was a strain for her to talk about him.

She'd given herself precisely two weeks to mourn my brother's death. Then, once the funeral was over, it was back to business as usual for her. She resumed her normal routine, and urged us all to do the same. Keeping busy was the best way to deal with things, she'd always said. Friends of the family would often talk about how well she'd dealt with Kit's death—although I sensed that secretly they thought
she was a little cold and robotic.

To be honest, even I'd found her lack of outward mourning a hard thing to process. I knew how much she'd adored my brother, her eldest child and only son. I couldn't understand how she'd whipped herself back into shape so soon afterwards. I'd once asked her, a month or so after the funeral, why she didn't cry more. She'd frowned, as though she couldn't quite understand why I was asking such a question.

“What's crying going to accomplish?” she'd said, after a moment. “If it would bring him back, I would cry and scream and rip my own hair out. But he's dead. He's gone. No amount of regret or mourning will ever change that.”

That logical approach was typical of my mother.

“Richard can't make it, unfortunately,” she said now, as we reached my room. “He's working so hard. Every time I talk to him he's calling from work.” My mother said that last part with undisguised pride. She valued hard work more than anything. And now that Kit was gone, she channelled everything into Richard, her dead son's best friend. I couldn't help feeling a pang of resentment. My sister and Richard were the type of people who would always effortlessly achieve academically and professionally, which were areas that my mother valued. Unfortunately I was not built that way.

I felt a little better as we went into my bedroom. It was
just as I remembered it—the cream walls and carpet, with the pale pink curtains and linens. There was something so comforting about coming home—that feeling of familiarity and belonging.

I sat down on the edge of my bed, as my mother hovered in the doorway.

“So, did you think any more about having someone to stay this summer?”

My shoulders sagged. It seemed all her pet jibes were coming out today. She hated the fact that I was a loner, and was always making me feel bad for not having a gang of friends to stay at the house—which is what Kate used to do when she was at school.

“I told you before, Mum. Northridge isn't that kind of place.”

My boarding school was very small and cosy, with only two hundred pupils. My parents had originally wanted to send me to the same school as my sister, but the year that I was meant to apply, my prep school head had told them that it was a bad idea—I wasn't academic enough to handle the competitive intellectual environment. She'd suggested Northridge would suit me better.

It was one of those Enid Blyton–style boarding schools, where everyone is
jolly
nice. It was all girls, and most of the other pupils had been sent from overseas. That meant it was hard to keep in touch during the holidays, and there was
always a sense that they wouldn't be staying in England for good. The upshot was that while I got on with everyone at school, I didn't have any close friends. I kept telling my mother that, but somehow she still thought it was my fault.

She pursed her lips now. “That's such a shame. I just hope you'll fit in a bit more at university.” She came over to smooth the hair from my face. “After all, you have such a lovely little personality.”

And with that parting blow, she left.

*  *  *

Just before seven, I heard a car pulling along the gravel driveway. A moment later, my mother called out, “Kate's here!”

I ran downstairs to greet my sister and her new boyfriend. I was just in time to see them pull up in what I assumed was her boyfriend's car, a silver Audi TT—a nice ride for a student, and a sure sign that his family were pretty well-off. As usual, my sister looked clear-eyed and fresh-faced, her dark brown hair falling impeccably around her shoulders. Given that they'd driven with the top down, how hadn't her hair got blown around? My mousey brown curls would have been a ball of frizz by now.

She got out of the car and ran over to me, all coltish limbs and shiny, swishing hair, making me feel even more self-conscious of my thick, lumbering frame.

“Hello there, Mouse,” she said, using the nickname she
and my brother had been calling me since we were children. “You look well.”

My parents emerged then, and as she greeted them, I turned my attention to her boyfriend, Toby. He was gorgeous, of course. I wouldn't have expected anything less from my sister. He was blond, blue-eyed and tanned, another preppy golden boy, like Richard, wearing chinos and a light blue polo shirt. But unlike Richard, who was dark and serious, Toby seemed more at ease as he took their bags from the boot and strolled over.

Kate quickly introduced him to our parents, and then he turned his attention to me. “So, you must be Charlotte?” He grinned down at me, his cheeks dimpling as he flashed a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. I felt my stomach flutter a little. “Lovely to meet you.”

Before I could say anything, he bent to kiss me on both cheeks, greeting me in what seemed then like a very grown-up, sophisticated way. I felt my face heating up, and looked away before anyone noticed.

“Well.” My mother beamed at Kate and Toby. “Let's get you two settled, and then we'll sit down for dinner.”

I followed everyone through, my eyes moving to Toby. I could still feel where his lips had brushed my skin. I sighed deeply, wistfully. Kate had all the luck.

*  *  *

Dinner was served on the patio. Because of my mother's love of her garden, she liked to eat outside whenever she could. My childhood memories often revolved around family meals, sitting and talking for hours as the sunlight faded, our laughter and chatter filling the warm night air.

The meal passed easily enough. My mother dominated the conversation as usual. She wanted to hear all about Kate's course, and Toby's plans to become a surgeon, and then spent a long time telling him about her job. My father interjected with his own comments now and again, but I said little, content to just listen to the conversation flowing around me.

It was only once the main course was finished, that Toby turned to me. “So, which are you going to be, Charlotte? A doctor or a lawyer?”