Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (10 page)

I knew what she meant. I came here myself some evenings just
to think and let out a little of the emotion I buried deep each day.

‘This was my room, you know, when I was a child. I loved it
– the view of the sea. Some of those books’ – she gestured to the bookcase – ‘I
remember from so many years ago. I understand why this place pulls you back,
why it grounds you. Once, it did that for me too. But too much has happened,
too many years have passed. Your father… well, I made my choice, and I’ve stuck
by it. But here, here it hurts. And I wonder whether it could have been
different and then, maybe, I could have saved her. I should have saved her.’

‘I think that too,’ I said quietly, ‘but I don’t see how.
She always knew her own mind. She knew we were there, that we loved her, that
we’d have done anything for her. I don’t know what happened inside her that
night. I’ve been trying to understand…’

Mother looked away from the sea then. At me. ‘Oh Scarlett, I
know you have, darling. But sometimes people do things we can
never
understand. Never. I learned that a very long time ago. You are what matters most
now. Your eighteenth birthday is just weeks away, and then you’ll be a woman!
But Scarlett’ – she grasped my hand and looked earnestly into my eyes – ‘I know
you need your space, you need to find your own way with things, but you must
know, I’m here. I’m
always
here.’

It was the biggest speech my mother had ever given me; the
most loving I’d ever known her. A fresh wave of grief washed over me then – not
just for Sienna, but for us all. For my grandparents, who were gone now. For
Father, who was shut away in his own world. And for Mother, who had the
potential to be everything I could have wished for in a mother, who cared for
me deeply, but whose lucid, loving periods were so fleeting.

I cried then, for everything I’d lost and everything I’d
never had to begin with. And afterwards, in my mother’s arms, I felt calmer,
but still I ached with loneliness, and I knew that she did too. We were two, we
were together, we were bound by blood and experience, and yet each would face
the world alone.

‘The red one. Definitely the red one. With the slutty
heels.’

From her cross-legged perch on my bed, Cara gestured to the
crimson slip of material in my hand with the imperiousness of a queen who
expected to be obeyed. I gawped back at her, appalled, clinging hard to the
black t-shirt in my other hand.

‘Seriously, Cara, I’ve seen bikini tops with more material
than this! And red’s not really my colour – I prefer black…’

‘… so you can blend into the background and hide, yeah, I
get it. Not happening on my watch. And what’s the point of a name like Scarlett
if you don’t wear red!’

In despair, I slumped down onto the bed beside her. I
couldn’t help feeling that as girly pre-party get-togethers went, this one
wasn’t going well.

First Cara had pitched up merrily in a taxi, wielding an
enormous bottle of schnapps which, she promised, tasted like heaven and would
‘take the edge off’. But when she insisted I take a swig I’d discovered it
tasted a lot more like the fuzzy peach shower gel I’d once inadvertently got in
my mouth mid-shower, and boy did it have a kick. Undeterred, Cara had barged
into the kitchen, located two pint glasses, sloshed in the leftover lemonade on
the counter, topped each up generously with the schnapps and urged me to drink
up. I didn’t have much of a taste for alcohol, and even tentative sips weren’t
going down well.

Then came the hair-styling fiasco. Cara had come armed with
an industrial-strength hairdryer, straighteners and curling tongs, and had
coaxed me into sitting at her feet while we watched naff Saturday teatime game
shows and she added ‘Adele-esque body’ to my usually straight hair. Fifteen
minutes of singed ears and a tingling scalp later, and the ‘ta da’ moment in
the mirror revealed a delighted Cara beaming over my now
enormous
barnet. She assured me it was to-die-for; I wasn’t convinced, and resolved to
find time to slip into the bathroom and comb it down a little before we left.

Finally, after a slight culinary disaster on my part that
left our oven pizza somewhat crunchy, we’d moved upstairs to change. At this
point the mystery of the enormous duffle bag that Cara had dragged in with her
was solved as a bewildering array of clothes, shoes, accessories and makeup was
dumped onto my bedroom rug in a flurry of sparkles, glitter and vivid colours.
Cara got to work putting together outfits, and dressing me like a giant doll. I
managed to stick my heels in on wearing jeans – no skirts or dresses – but it
seemed tops and footwear were very much up for discussion.

The truth was, I knew Cara was genuinely trying to help, but
I was way out of my depth. Friday-night prep had always been Sienna’s
speciality, not mine. Still, I told myself firmly as Cara pointed again at the
slinky red top, I had an agenda in going to this party, and being myself would
be no good at all. Cara had assured me that all the girls would be ‘dressy’
(she herself was wearing a tight purple strapless dress running down to her
ankles). There was nothing for it; I would have to join her.

I reached over to the nightstand, took a massive glug of the
peachy-lemonade and said brightly, ‘Red halterneck it is then.’

Cara cocked her head. ‘And the
Vogue
heels.’

I eyed the red sandals – yes,
those
red sandals,
which somehow Cara had unearthed from the back of the wardrobe; it was if she
had a sixth sense for style. I’d never been able to fathom how Mother wore such
heels day in, day out. This pair seemed more strap than shoe and had heels
vicious-looking enough to take out a would-be mugger.

‘Sure. It’s not like we’re walking far, right?’

Cara clapped delightedly. ‘My work is done. You
shall
go to the ball. But hey – remember that we need to leave by midnight or I turn
into a pumpkin. Yes, really.’

*

When the taxi dropped us off at nine that evening in the
village square, I didn’t need to ask Cara which house was Si’s. There was only
one home on the waterfront lit up and thrumming with a dance beat, with a
huddle of revellers hooting and shouting in the front garden around some kind
of huge inflatable. The other houses were dark and silent. Given that Si’s
parties were legendary and pretty regular occurrences, I figured his neighbours
either went out on nights like this or joined the fun.

Sliding her arm through mine, Cara led the way. Given the
heels, for once I was just as much holding on to Cara for support as she was
me. I gripped her arm tightly, suddenly overwhelmingly nervous.

‘Are you
sure
Si’s okay with me coming?’ I asked
again.

She laughed. ‘Si’s always okay. With everything. He’s that
kind of bloke.’

Still, I felt queasy at the thought of casually strolling
into a house full of strangers. I didn’t know these people, and they didn’t
know me. But they did know
of
me, I reminded myself. Because they’d
known Sienna. Once, this had been her, coming to her first Twycombe party,
dressed up to the nines. How would she have handled it? I heard her voice in my
mind, confident and sassy:
Head up, shoulders back, chest out, take no
prisoners.
I smiled. As strategies went, it wasn’t a bad one.

‘C’mon, missus,’ said Cara, tugging me onwards. ‘It’ll be
fab, I promise. They’re a nice bunch.’

And with that she pulled me through Si’s front garden – past
what I now saw was a bucking bronco ride, on which a chubby bloke was holding
on for dear life to calls of ‘Off! Off!’ – and into the house.

The place was humming with people – some I recognised from
my evenings on the water, but many were strangers. There were guys and girls
chatting and laughing and flirting all over the place, leaning against walls,
sitting cross-legged on cushions, perched on the stairs, on sofas, on coffee
tables, on each other. Most had a drink in their hand; some were smoking; all
looked happy and animated. There was a mix of ages, from mid-teens to early
twenties, I guessed. The guys were mainly dressed down, but the girls were more
glam, without a pair of trainers in sight, and I felt a flood of gratitude for
Cara and her makeover.

The house itself was spectacular – minimal and modern and
stylish. Stark white walls and porcelain-tiled floors were the perfect backdrop
for designer furniture in bold colours – a vast leather corner sofa in lime
green; a chaise longue in yellow; several neon polypropylene seats bent from a
single sheet of plastic. Scattered between items of furniture were bizarre,
attention-grabbing artworks. A huge green sculpture by the wall-inset fire drew
my eye; I studied it for a few long moments before Cara whispered in my ear:

‘Looks like a giant mouldy willy, doesn’t it? But apparently
it’s worth thousands. Si’s parents are seriously minted. This is one of their
summer places. Si lives here all year now, though. He’s at Plymouth Uni.’

As Cara chatted away, pulling me through the enormous living
room, a few people looked up and smiled and nodded to her. We were heading, I
saw, towards the doors at the back, through which the party was spilling out
into the rear garden and onto the beach. But before we could step outside Cara
guided me to the left where, adjoined to the living room in an L-shape, was an
impressive kitchen – all polished black surfaces and stainless steel. We’d
barely moved into the space when a lanky guy leapt across the island unit,
grabbed Cara and leaned her back for a long, lingering kiss. I stood by
awkwardly.

‘Kyle! This is Scarlett,’ said Cara at last when she came up
for air. ‘Scarlett, Kyle.’

‘Good to meet you, Scarlett,’ said Kyle. He was our age,
with intricate swirls shaved into his buzz cut and a wide, crooked smile.

‘Likewise,’ I said.

‘And I’m Si,’ said a velvety voice from behind, and I turned
to see a tall, well-built black guy with chocolate eyes and a crazy-big afro.
He was a little older – twenty, I’d guess – and his dress sense was zany:
silvery trousers and a purple-striped shirt, open at the throat.

He reached for my hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘
Enchanté
,’
he said, eyes dancing.

‘Smooth,’ scoffed Cara as, blushing, I said hello.

Si, it turned out, was the consummate host. Within minutes
Cara and I were sitting on tall bar stools set against the kitchen island,
fruity cocktails before us, and laughing at Si’s stream of funny patter. As
each new person floated into the kitchen, to grab a drink from the well-stocked
fridge or a snack from the spread of nibbles laid out on a side counter, Si was
careful to introduce me. Though I saw the odd flicker in an eye that indicated
recognition of my name, the reception was decidedly friendly. Soon – with the
drink warming my belly and the realisation that, far from gawking at me or
giving me the cold shoulder, the other partygoers were being welcoming – I
relaxed and began to enjoy myself.

I was deep in conversation with a guy called Geoff, a
carpenter from Plymouth who was also fairly new to surfing, when I realised
that the seat next to me was vacant. I felt a moment’s panic at Cara’s
desertion, then figured I couldn’t cling to her side all night. I chatted to
Geoff for a while longer, until he excused himself to find the bathroom. Left
alone, I found my eyes drawn to the lights through the window, and I decided to
check out the party outside. A little air would clear my head, which was fuzzy
with schnapps and cocktails.

The air was surprisingly cool as I stepped out onto the
decking and I shivered in my thin top. I stood for a moment and took in the
scene. A decked veranda, filled with people sitting on patio furniture, spanned
the length of the house and stepped down onto a lawn where a few drunken lads
were larking about, rugby-tackling each other and playing keep-away with one
poor bloke’s glasses. In the far easterly corner, beneath the shade of a tall
tree, a sizeable summerhouse was the setting for a gaggle of teens playing a
rowdy game of Twister. Beyond, on the beach that was visible through a wide,
glass-panelled barrier, a game of football was underway by the light of the
moon and, some way off, a lonely campfire.

I’d never been part of something like this before, and I had
a rush of feeling that was hard to describe. Rather than being a little
detached from life, as I usually was, on the sidelines, I was in the thick of
it all. Alive, that was it, I felt
alive
. But also a little overwhelmed.
I’d become used to the quiet of the cottage, and my head throbbed with the
shouts of ‘Right foot RED!’ and ‘Referee!’ and the bass thrumming from Si’s
sound system. The campfire was deserted, and its warmth and light called to me.
I’d sit by it for a while and watch the footballers, I decided, before plunging
back into the throng inside.

I stepped down, off the decking, and walked across the
grass, through the open gate and onto the beach. At once, my heels sank into
the gritty sand, making walking impossible. I crouched down, balancing
precariously, and undid the tiny silver buckles that secured the straps, then
slipped the sandals off. My cramped, aching feet sang with joy at being flat
once more, and against soothing, cool sand. I turned up my jeans, and set out
across the sand. Out here the air was cooler still, and I wished Cara had been
a little less scathing of my idea to wear a cardie over the skimpy top. She was
convinced I had a ‘cardie habit’ that she was heaven-sent to cure me of.

The heat from the fire drew me in, but as I got closer I
made out a shadowy figure on the seaward side. I was sure the campfire had been
abandoned. I stopped, hesitated, wondered what to do. I could hardly go and sit
with a complete stranger, but my trajectory toward the fire had been obvious,
and to turn back now would seem rude. In the end, the decision was made for me.

‘Fancy meeting you here,’ called a voice.

When I didn’t move a face appeared around the edge of the
fire.

‘Remember me?’

It was him. The guy from the churchyard.

What to do? I could hardly turn and walk away. Last time I’d
seen him I’d run from him without explanation – no doubt he already thought I
was a head case. And hadn’t I been hoping, just a little, that I’d see him at
the party? Hadn’t I been wondering about him ever since the graveyard? Hadn’t I
been stealing glances at him whenever I saw him in the water?

I looked back at Si’s house; it was quite some distance
away. I turned to the boy. He was smiling. He seemed nice enough, and he
intrigued me, so why was some instinct in me screaming? I shivered, and he saw
and said:

‘Toasty warm over here. Sit, if you like.’ He patted the
sand beside him.

Oh, what the hell,
I decided at last. I was here to
mingle, after all. I took the last few steps and sat – not quite as close as
the patch he’d indicated, but at a friendly distance, I thought. He was right;
it was fiercely hot this close to the fire, and I could see why he’d discarded
his jacket on the ground. I eyed a tattoo visible on the inside of his forearm.
A word, but I couldn’t make it out.

He turned his body to face me, shifting closer as he did so,
and fixed me with eyes that were a fathomless black in the firelight.

‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re surfing now.’

‘Yeah.’ It came out as a nervous croak. I swallowed and said
with more confidence, ‘Yeah, I’m surfing.’

‘You like it?’

‘I love it. I’m not great at it, though.’

‘That takes time. But from what I’ve seen, you’re a
natural.’

So he
had
been watching. I smiled wryly. ‘I don’t
think you could call me that. My first day out there, I was in the water more
than on the board.’

‘It’s the getting back on each time you fall off that
counts.’

I nodded and there was a lull in the conversation. I cast
about for something else to say, anything. The boy seemed to feel no need to
fill the silence; he merely watched me. His scrutiny made me nervous. His
presence
made me nervous. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was that unsettled me.