Читать книгу Secrets in the Shadows - Hannah Emery - Страница 14

Grace, 2008

Eliot is late picking Grace up.

‘I wasn’t ready anyway,’ Grace waves Eliot’s apology away with her hand, bracelets twinkling and jangling with the movement.

‘Did you book a table?’

‘No, but it’ll be quiet, it’s a weeknight.’

Eliot shrugs. ‘Okay.’

They walk from Grace’s flat into Lytham square. The grand, tree-lined houses they walk beside gradually give way to small, independent shops, much like the one Grace and Elsie have just opened. Towards the square, the gold light spilling from the restaurants and wine bars twinkles with the movement of people.

When Grace and Eliot arrive at the new tapas restaurant, a troubled middle-aged waiter with a faint smear of sweat on his forehead greets them at the door. ‘Name?’

‘Oh, we didn’t book. Do you have a table for two?’ Grace asks.

‘You didn’t book? Not a chance. We’ve got an opening special, and it’s gone down a storm. You’ll be waiting hours,’ the waiter sneers, apparently cheered a little by his bad news. ‘Should’ve booked,’ he smirks, as Grace and Eliot turn to shuffle out of the door.

‘Sorry. I didn’t think. Shall we go somewhere else for a few drinks and see if they have room for us in a bit?’ Grace suggests.

‘Can do. Look, Grace, I feel guilty about not having Elsie with us. She’s my girlfriend … your sister. She should be here with us.’

Grace looks down to the cobbles, feeling sick. ‘You’re right. Phone her.’

As Eliot wanders away, shoes crunching on the ground, phone to his ear, Grace wonders what it would have been like if she had told Elsie the truth in the first place. If she had told Elsie her secret, then Eliot wouldn’t be phoning Elsie now. Grace wouldn’t be wearing a heavy necklace of resentment around her neck. And Elsie, most probably, would have met someone else.

But then, Grace reminds herself, Elsie would never have forgiven her. That’s why she could never tell her.

‘She’s not coming,’ Eliot says abruptly as he walks back towards Grace. ‘She’s still angry.’

Grace sighs. ‘Come on. Let’s get a drink.’

As they queue at the bar, jostled by people who are ordering pints, Grace remembers when she first met Eliot.

‘Shakespeare is a genius,’ Eliot had been insisting in the student union. A few of Grace’s friends from her English degree were having drinks there, and Eliot, who was studying some English modules as part of his Drama course, had joined them. ‘Imagine writing something now that people still care about and can still relate to hundreds of years in the future!’

‘But his writing doesn’t make any sense!’ Grace had cried before swigging from her alcopop bottle. Elsie was working on a presentation with a group of people from her course that night so wasn’t there. Grace had been tense to start with; it felt strange to be without her twin. Since they had started at university, they had been inseparable. They had chosen mostly the same modules, and at every social event, Elsie sat next to Grace, a silent observer. For the first half hour of the evening, Grace had found herself turning to her side on more than one occasion to try to bring her sister into the conversation, surprised to see an empty seat. But now, feeling light-headed from her Bacardi Breezers, and in the full swing of conversation, she realised with a sticky sensation of guilt that she was enjoying being alone with these people.

‘Of course it makes sense. Love, death, murder, friendship! What more is there?’

It was as Eliot threw out these words, carelessly as though he had better things to do, that Grace’s head had suddenly split with pain and an image of a wedding had flown into her mind. It was her own wedding. People threw confetti that was carried away by the wind. Grace wore a heavy wedding dress with lace daisies stitched onto the sleeves. And Eliot stood by her side, wearing a suit, his hair a little longer, his stubbled jaw a little wider.

Grace had paused, her heart shuddering. She had her mother’s gift to see into the future. This was a vision. Although it was the first premonition Grace had ever had, she knew exactly what it was, and she knew exactly what it meant.

‘I bet Shakespeare didn’t even write half of the plays he is famous for,’ Grace said, after taking a few minutes to pull herself together. Her heart hadn’t slowed yet, and she placed a hand on her chest to try and steady it.

Eliot threw his head back and laughed: a deep, throaty laugh that somehow managed to imply that he was sure of himself, affluent and popular.

‘I can’t believe you’re throwing that in! Nobody has ever proved that theory. Everybody knows it’s a load of bollocks.’

Grace shrugged, feeling a little fluttery and nervous, like a moth trapped under a glass.

‘I’m not going to defend the theory, because I haven’t done my research. Yet,’ she smirked. ‘But when I have, I’ll be in touch.’

The group of friends she was with went to a house party after that. Grace went with them and drank primary-coloured strong drinks that she hadn’t even known to exist before that night. She saw Eliot a couple of times. Once, in the kitchen, she dared herself to go up to him and kiss his cheek. She edged towards him slowly, through shards of conversation and a net of cigarette smoke. She caught his eye. He had green eyes, like a cat. She smiled. He smiled back, his face fractured by people moving around in front of him. Somebody called his name. He turned. And the moment was gone.