Читать книгу The Secrets of Castle Du Rêve: A thrilling saga of three women’s lives tangled together in a web of secrets - Hannah Emery - Страница 8

My Queen,

I’m writing to you because I don’t quite know what else to do.

You told me that you were going with Sally to take care of her aunt, but I saw Sally working in Clover’s today. I asked how her aunt was, and she said that she doesn’t have an aunt.

If it hadn’t been for Sally’s name badge then I would perhaps have doubted myself. But I know it was her, and so I know that what you told me wasn’t the truth.

I want to see you. Where are you? Why are you hiding from me? Please, stop running from me and, if you get this, write back to me. Tell me.

Yours,

H.

Isobel sits watching strands of her brittle auburn hair float to the ground like autumn leaves.

Today is a day for change.

As she stares at herself in the vast mirror, Isobel thinks of Tom and watches her lips curve into a small, excited smile. She hasn’t had her hair cut since she met him. But Tom seems to be the type of man who will notice a shorter, blunter cut. He’ll notice, and he’ll like it.

The hairdresser is intrigued by the developments in Isobel’s love life since her last haircut. She asks forthright questions about Tom as she snips into ribbons of Isobel’s hair. Isobel answers each question precisely, her words singing along with the hum of hairdryers and the clicking of straighteners. She could talk about him all day long if she had to.

They’ve been together for about a month.

He was married, but he’s been divorced for ages.

He’s a chef at an Italian restaurant in Ashwood.

He lives in a flat at the promenade end of Silenshore.

He’s older than Isobel, but that doesn’t matter for now.

It’s just as there’s a lull in conversation, as she sits in the swivelling leather chair with only her own gigantic reflection to look at, that Isobel feels a colossal wave of nausea rising through her body.

‘Fringe?’ the hairdresser asks, her scissors poised at Isobel’s pale forehead.

Isobel nods, not because she wants a fringe, but because the sickness is so all-consuming that she can’t speak and she can’t think.

This is the third time this has happened in the past week.

Isobel brings her hand up to her mouth, the black cape that the hairdresser put on her spreading like a raven’s wing and spilling her hair ends out onto the floor. She closes her eyes, tries to forget how potent the toxic smells of bleach and shampoo are. She takes a breath, and then another, and wonders for a moment if it’s passed. But then, like a momentarily still wave, the nausea roars up again, spilling from Isobel in a humiliating fountain of vomit. It spills out from her hands, through her fingers, splashing out onto the tiled floor.

The hairdresser steps back and Isobel wipes her mouth with her sleeve, then immediately regrets it.

‘I am so, so sorry,’ she says quietly, her mouth vile with acid.

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab the mop,’ the hairdresser says, clattering the scissors down next to a pile of glossy magazines.

After the hairdresser has mopped the floor and Isobel has given her the revolting cape in a crumpled, ruined ball, and she has taken off her favourite polka-dot top, sitting in her denim jacket over her bra in silent horror while the hairdresser quickly finishes the cut and talks about sickness bugs, Isobel pays and leaves the salon. She climbs the ascending cobbles shakily, looking up to where Silenshore Castle High School sprawls. It’s a grey afternoon and the golden stone of the castle is blackened by the dark sky. Isobel can see her classroom in the left turret, shrouded in half-term stillness. She’s taught English at the castle for four years now. She can’t imagine doing anything else.

Tearing her gaze away from the school, Isobel focuses on the line of shops at her side. A flash of panic sears through her as she marches into Boots, picks up what she needs and pays. When she reaches her flat, she hears her flatmate Iris calling hello, and asking what her haircut’s like. Without answering, Isobel stumbles to the bathroom, pulling the box from the Boots carrier and tearing into the packaging. Iris calls her again, but Isobel can’t shout anything back. Hot fear melts her insides as she stares at the two lines slowly appearing on the white stick in her hands.

She hears a wail and it’s only when the bathroom door opens and sees Iris’s eyes wide with panic that Isobel realises it was her own wail, and that she’s still wailing now.

‘Isobel! What’s happened?’ Iris asks. Then her eyes drop from Isobel’s face to the test she’s holding. ‘Oh God.’ She comes closer, peels the test from Isobel’s fingers and stares at it.

‘I’m going to go to Tom’s. I’ll tell him he doesn’t have to be involved. He won’t want to keep it. It’s too soon. It won’t work.’ Isobel says, her voice high and shaking.

‘You’re in shock,’ Iris says. She gives the test back to Isobel and squeezes her shoulder. ‘Come out when you’re ready. I’ll get the kettle on.’

When Isobel comes out of the bathroom, Iris is standing in their tiny kitchen, stirring two steaming mugs. She hands one to Isobel.

‘Sit down, breathe, and have this before you do anything or go anywhere.’

Isobel stays standing and takes a gulp. It’s way too hot. Scalding pain sears through her. She spits it out into the cluttered kitchen sink, but it’s too late: the inside of her mouth feels burnt and raw. She slams the cup down on the worktop, the boiling liquid sloshing over the rim onto her hand, making an ugly red patch on her skin.

‘I’m going to see Tom,’ she says. She pulls off her denim jacket and grabs a t-shirt from where it’s been drying on the radiator near the front door. It’s one of Iris’s, one that she sleeps in. But her own polka dot top is still stuffed in her bag, covered in vomit. She should take it out of her bag, get changed into something that at least belongs to her and wait for her tea to cool down. She should phone Tom to check that he’s in and she should sit down and think about how to deal with this logically. But she can’t.

She swings open the door, yells goodbye to Iris and is gone.

It starts to rain almost as soon as Isobel steps out onto the street. The rain in Silenshore always tastes of salt: bitter and sharp. It runs down her face, into her mouth as she rushes forwards.

‘This can’t be happening’, she says to herself. A passerby looks at her cautiously from the other side of the road, because it obviously isn’t normal to talk to yourself and Isobel usually knows this and manages to stop herself doing it. But not today.

‘No, no, no.’ Her words are lost as she walks closer to the crashing sea. She looks out to the beach and sees sand and rocks darkened by the black skies. Her head throbs. It’s too cold to just be wearing a t-shirt and the wind bites at her skin. How can it be almost winter already? When Isobel first met Tom just over a month ago, it was a cloudless September day, bright with the heat of late summer. Silenshore Castle High School was hosting the first-ever summer fair in its own grounds. Isobel was in charge of a second-hand bookstall, her shoulders burning fluorescent pink in the sun. The day smelt of dry, hot paperbacks and coins dampened by moist hands; of barbecued beef burgers and sausages that were being served to the meandering crowds by the school chef. It was as Isobel was rearranging the curling books on her stall that she felt a shadow descend on her. A customer, she thought idly, or a colleague. But then she lifted her eyes and saw Tom.

‘Any recommendations?’ he asked, gesturing towards the pile of titles that was spread across the foldout table.

His cool green eyes were almost translucent in the sun and his smile was wide and white. His face was exquisite. Isobel suddenly felt dizzy. She clutched the edge of the table, hoping he wouldn’t notice the effect he was having on her.

‘What kind of thing are you looking for?’

The man put his hand up to mask his face from the sun as he spoke. ‘Something a bit different, I think.’

‘Well, there’s a good pile of mysteries here. A book of fairy tales, though that’s probably not your style. Or there’s this one, a crime thriller? That might be the most manly of the bunch.’

‘I’m gratified that you think that’s what would suit me,’ the man said, his arm still poised crookedly over his head. His hair was dark, flecked at the sides with the kind of grey that made a man more distinguished and attractive. He was older than Isobel, but not too old. Definitely not too old.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Isobel said, bending and taking out a paper bag from the pile under the table. ‘If you promise not to tell anyone, I’ll give it to you for free.’

She felt a thrill run through her at the flirtation she heard in her voice. Freebies because the customer was a gorgeous older man had not been something they’d talked about in the endless staff meetings about the fair. She imagined telling Iris, both of them hooting with laughter.

‘Okay,’ the man said after a minute. ‘How about this? I’ll take it as a review copy. And then once I’ve read it, I’ll take you out for dinner and tell you what I thought.’

Isobel scribbled her number down on the inside cover, her hands trembling slightly, and then handed him the book in a blue paper bag.

‘I’m Tom,’ he said, holding out his hand for her to shake. His was cool, in spite of the roaring heat. As she gazed at his face, she wondered for a frightening moment if he might be the father of one of her pupils. She did some quick calculations. Could be possible.

‘I’m Isobel Blythe. I teach English. Do you know one of the pupils here, or…’ her words drifted off as Tom shook his head.

‘No. I don’t know the school at all. I just find the castle fascinating. I’ve always wanted to visit and have a look around, but never had the opportunity. I saw a poster advertising the fair today and thought I’d wander up.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ Isobel smiled, relieved.

‘Me too,’ said Tom. And as Isobel watched him wrap the bag tightly around the book and place it in his back pocket, her world shifted. The day was simple and incredible, bright with heat and possibility.

And now, it is almost winter and everything is different.

She stands on Tom’s doorstep, blinking back rain and tears and takes a deep, shaking breath. Perhaps he’s not in. Perhaps she’ll need to go to Ashwood and see if he’s working, because she can’t remember if he said he was. She turns away from the door to his flat, but then he’s there with her, taking her hands in his and asking what’s wrong, asking her why she’s crying.

She says the words but she can’t tell if he’s taken them in, because he stands still and stares at her and doesn’t seem to respond.

‘I’m pregnant, Tom,’ she says again. Panic shoots through her, erupting like a firework in the pit of her stomach.

He pales, swallows. ‘Come in.’