Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) Read online

  ‘Kind of quiet, really. Answers questions but doesn’t ask them, you know?’

  Not remotely Sienna’s type.

  ‘Well, unless there’s a crisis, I guess,’ he added. ‘You know, with the Elaine business last night.’

  ‘Elaine?’

  ‘You didn’t hear?’

  Geoff launched into an account of a little drama that had taken place towards the end of the party. Apparently, some girl called Elaine had flown off the bucking bronco in the front garden and crashed into a giant stone statue. She wasn’t exactly sober, and got pretty hysterical about having broken a rib. There was talk of getting an ambulance, but then Jude appeared on the scene – presumably he was on his way out after we talked – and ‘had a quiet word’, as Geoff described it.

  ‘And that was it,’ he finished. ‘Elaine was up and laughing.’

  ‘So she wasn’t hurt?’

  ‘Na. She got right back on the bull. She’s bloody fearless, that girl. They all are. And desperate to prove it. You know?’

  I nodded, but I didn’t. Did ‘they’ include Sienna? What risks had she taken with these surfers? That night she went into the sea – it was so wild, so dark, it was assumed that she’d meant to die. But what if that wasn’t the motivation? What if she’d been trying to impress? To be the most fearless? What if she was just really, really stupid, not suicidal at all?

  My heart lurched at the idea. I wanted it to be true. But how could I know? There were so many gaps in my understanding. I needed to ask these surfers questions, and plenty of them. I could hardly start grilling them while we surfed, though. I needed a decent stretch of time with them in which they would be relaxed and happy to chat.

  It was like Geoff had a hotline to my thoughts:

  ‘Speaking of parties,’ he said, ‘there’s one coming up you don’t want to miss – two weeks today. Si knows the guy who owns Drake’s Island. You know, the island in the Plymouth Sound? Anyway, we’re all heading out there for a campout. You should come. It’s gonna be epic.’

  Result! ‘Thanks,’ I said quickly. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Great! Until then, come out with us again on the water. There are usually at least a few of us out here most mornings, and evenings – as you know.’

  I thought of Luke; he would disapprove, I knew, if I told him I wanted to join the others. Reckless, he’d called them. Cocky. I’d accepted he didn’t like their surfing style; had accepted he was aloof. But then, last night at the party, he’d seemed a familiar face – and a popular one. Which made me wonder why he was keeping me away from the other surfers. How far did the protective streak in him stretch? What exactly was he shielding me from? There was only one way to find out.

  I gave Geoff my sunniest smile. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you around then.’

  17: CHEZ CAVENDISH

  Hey, you. You’ve been awful quiet. Come for lunch chez Cavendish today? Will give me a chance to introduce you to my brother – been meaning to do that for a while. Joke! Delicious humble pie on the menu courtesy of Chef Luke. We’ll make it up to you for all the AWKWARD. Plus need your body (!) for dress fitting. x

  Thank heaven for straight-to-the-issue, no-messing Cara and her ability to tame the elephant in the room. I’d been back from the beach for no more than an hour when her text arrived, and while my body cried, ‘No! Collapse on the sofa,’ my heart sang, ‘Yes!’ There was no way I was going to pass up a chance to see Luke again. Well, and Cara. I texted back quickly and accepted the invitation, and then headed upstairs to shower and change.

  Come midday I was pulling into the drive of quite possibly the most striking house I had ever seen. It wasn’t huge; it wasn’t grand – but the design was stunning, like some kind of modern art museum. Flat-roofed, it was a conjunction of square shapes of differing sizes; all pale-pink walls and grey metal framing. But what drew the attention most was the windows – vast and spanning whole walls in places, so that the frontage of the house was like an ever-changing canvas reflecting the heavens above the bay. The use of glass and the symmetry of the architecture reminded me of Si’s house; these must be the signature elements of a Cavendish design.

  I sat for a moment, taking in the sight, then climbed out of the car. Wide stone steps led the way to the front door, but I’d barely cleared the first one when the door flew open and a beaming Cara appeared on the threshold. ‘You came!’ she declared in delight.

  I gave her an odd look. ‘Well, yes, I said I would. And you’ve just been on the hands-free giving me directions…’

  ‘And you found us!’

  ‘Yes, clearly.’

  But nothing was going to dent Cara’s euphoria. As I reached the doorway she pulled me into a tight hug and whispered in my ear, ‘Thanks for last night.’

  I hugged her back, surprised, then whispered back, ‘No need to thank me. I didn’t do anything.’

  She let me go, looked furtively over her shoulder and then grabbed my hand to pull me inside. I barely had time to register a vast hallway filled with the mouth-watering aroma of roasting meat before I was thrust into a room. It was large and light, with a bookcase crammed with novels, a futon on the back wall and a treadmill lined up to face out of the floor-to-ceiling window which gave a sweeping view of the cove.

  Cara closed the door behind her and led me to perch on the futon. Her grin was infectious, and I found the corners of my mouth twitching, though I had no clue what we were meant to be so happy about.

  ‘You clever, clever thing, you,’ she said. ‘Luke! You’ve bewitched him, I think. I woke up this morning furious with him, of course, and all ready for round two. But nada! Niet! Rien! He’s had a think, he says, and decided he can’t wrap me up in cotton wool forever. So long as I promise to do a heap of boring stuff like let him know where I’m going when I’m out and be back before midnight and all that blah, blah, blah, he says he won’t give me grief. I can see Kyle!’

  Now I was really smiling – for Cara, of course, but also because this apparent melting of Luke’s prickly protectiveness gave me hope that he may be prepared to see me as an equal rather than some kid.

  ‘So I called Kyle first thing – and get this: we’re going out tonight. Proper date! Pictures at five – we’re seeing that new vampire film; he loves vamps – and then tea out in town.’

  ‘Cara, that’s great.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Now come on! I’ll give you the tour of downstairs.’

  Apparently, our confidential chat was over, for with that she pulled me to the door, flung it open, towed me out into the hallway and proceeded to lead me around the ground floor.

  ‘That was the guest-room-stroke-gym. This is the living room. Dining room here…’

  In each room wooden floors and white-washed walls were offset by bold artworks and sturdy oak furniture that created a powerful and dynamic statement; but diluting the effect was the smattering of magazines, books, clothing and ceramic mugs scattered all around. The overall look was an appealing blend of modern design and homely Cavendish clutter.

  ‘… and finally, the kitchen.’

  There was only one feature of this room that drew my eyes: Luke, standing at the stove and stirring a pan. He paused as we entered and his face broke into a hesitant smile.

  ‘Morning,’ he said.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  The question in his eyes was evident: Are we okay? I widened my smile, and his shoulders relaxed.

  ‘Sit!’ commanded Cara, gesturing to a large wooden table in the middle of the room.

  I did as I was told, sliding onto the bench on the side facing Luke, and Cara took a seat opposite me. Luke turned back to his simmering pan, and I took a moment to check out my surroundings. The design here was perfectly aligned with that in other areas of the house, with striking glossy-red wall units and jet-black counters and appliances. Most of the back wall comprised bi-folding doors which had been flung open, and the effect was a blending of indoor and outdoor so that the landscaped garden felt part of the
room.

  ‘This place is amazing,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cara. ‘Dad designed it. Mum did the interior and the garden. The rows they had over the tiny details – you remember, Luke?’

  He turned and smiled in agreement; a sad smile.

  Cara launched into a long explanation of the largely compatible but sometimes contradictory design schools to which her parents had subscribed. I tried to focus, but the sight of Luke moving about across the room, stirring a pan here, reaching for a plate there, was mesmerising.

  His ‘Grub’s up!’ announcement snapped me back to the moment. Across the table, Cara was grinning at me again, an eyebrow raised.

  The plate Luke put down in front of me was loaded with herb-crusted roast chicken, miniature potatoes stuffed with some kind of gooey cheese, and a medley of colourful vegetables fanned out in perfect symmetry. It looked more like art than food and it smelled divine.

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Wow indeed,’ said Cara, mouth already full. ‘Luke’s cooking’s legendary.’

  Sitting down beside me with his plate, he looked shy, almost, as he said, ‘Just eat what you like. I always make too much.’

  I took a mouthful. My taste buds fainted. ‘This,’ I said, ‘is the best food I’ve eaten in weeks.’

  ‘What do you cook for yourself?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Cook?’

  ‘You know, that thing you do in a kitchen that turns raw ingredients into a meal?’

  ‘Er, I don’t know that cook quite describes what I do in a kitchen. But I’m great at cheese sandwiches.’

  Cara snorted. ‘So when you say this is the best food you’ve had in weeks, it’s not exactly high praise of Luke’s culinary skill!’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘I’ll have you know my cheese sarnies are pretty hard to beat. But this roast does. Just about.’

  ‘If your sandwiches are that good, I’d like to try one sometime,’ said Luke. His tone was joking, but his eyes were serious – was he testing the water about us spending time together away from the beach?

  ‘For you, I may even break out the stinky cheese,’ I said coyly.

  He grinned.

  I grinned.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Great.’

  We made short work of the meal, and as we ate we chatted easily together – all tension from the night before forgotten. Cara filled us in on her latest eBay project: a line of customised t-shirts featuring vintage lace. Luke related his latest man-and-van adventure transporting a flirty parrot, and made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on a carrot. I commented on the vast art print on the kitchen wall, yellow with a puff of blue and strong black lines and dots; I was sure I recognised it from somewhere. It was a Miró, Luke explained; ‘The Gold of the Azure’. I remembered it now – I’d seen it during a city break to Barcelona with Mother and Father and Sienna a couple of years ago, at the Joan Miró Foundation. I asked whether they had seen the original there, but Luke shook his head and Cara added, ‘For the past few years we haven’t been further than Cornwall.’

  After lunch, Cara pressed me to head upstairs to her room. I told her I’d meet her up there after helping Luke to wash up. Cara melted away and, ignoring Luke’s protests, I grabbed a cloth and got stuck into the dishes. It took to the very last saucepan for Luke to ask the question I was hoping to hear:

  ‘So…’ He looked up from the plate he was wiping with a dishtowel and met my expectant gaze. ‘I was wondering… would you like to go out sometime? I mean, on a… er… Well, just me and you.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I said softly.

  He grinned.

  I grinned.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Shall we sort the plan in the week?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow for a lesson?’

  Luke’s brows pulled together. ‘I was thinking maybe we’re beyond lessons now. It doesn’t feel right, somehow – you can hold your own out there. But I still want to surf with you.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Great.’

  ‘Great.’

  He grinned.

  I grinned.

  Realising that someone needed to put a stop to the grinning/great loop we were in, I changed the subject:

  ‘Can you give me a hand? I’ve got some stuff for Cara in the boot of my car.’

  Luke was only too happy to help – a good job too, because I’d struggled enough pulling the two large trunks down the stairs and into my car at the cottage; getting them upstairs was a feat too far.

  ‘What’s in them?’ Luke asked as he hefted the second trunk into the hallway.

  ‘Clothes for Cara. I found them in the attic at the cottage. I meant to tell her about them yesterday…’

  The attic had been the last part of the house to explore for some vestige of Sienna’s stay, but I couldn’t find the key anywhere, so earlier this week I’d had no choice but to call Mother – unwittingly precipitating a total meltdown for my out-of-the-blue call. Once I’d assured her a good dozen times that I was fine, she finally calmed down enough to tell me the location of the key. Subsequently, I’d spent an afternoon rummaging about among the accumulated clutter from my grandparents’ long occupancy of the cottage. Eventually, I’d had to concede defeat – if Sienna had left anything up there, she’d buried it deep. I did, however, find two large trunks full of old clothes that looked well passed their fashion deadline; Nanna’s from her courting days, I assumed. Some of the fabrics were unusual, and it crossed my mind that Cara may like to look through and salvage anything that was usable for her business.

  ‘If these are full of clothes, Cara’ll be a pig in mud going through them,’ said Luke as he led the way up the stairs and into Cara’s room.

  This was clearly a creative’s domain – each surface was strewn with fabrics of every colour and texture imaginable. A feather boa was wrapped around the curtain rail. A stretch of shimmery green gauze was draped across the wardrobe door. Strings of beads were looped around the bedstead. Mismatching hooks had been screwed haphazardly into three walls and from these hung garments of varying styles; some complete, some half-finished. Only the back wall, above the bed, was fashion-free. There, framed black-and-white prints were arranged artfully.

  ‘Pig in mud’ turned out to be an apt metaphor given the squeals emanating from Cara the moment she opened the first trunk.

  ‘Velvet! Silk! Brocade! Challis! Charmeuse! Liquid lamé!’

  Luke rolled his eyes. ‘Right, I’ll leave you girls to it. I’ll take a plate down to Bert. See you later.’ He gave me a lingering smile and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Once Cara had come down from her vintage clothes high she ordered me out of my jeans and t-shirt and into The Dress. As it slipped gently over my head it felt silky against my skin, and I tried to get a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror across the room, but Cara tsked and turned the mirror away, saying I would ‘ruin the big reveal’. She knelt at my feet and started fiddling with the hemline.

  ‘So,’ she said through a mouthful of pins. ‘You and Luke.’

  I looked down at her worriedly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know Luke was your brother. And, well…’

  ‘You like him.’

  ‘I do.’

  She smiled up at me. ‘Then I’m happy for you. And Luke. It’s about time he had some fun – he’s way too serious, working all hours to keep us in this place.’ She gestured at the room around.

  I felt a stab of shame. Of course, with their parents gone Luke must be responsible for the house, and for Cara. That was a lot of weight on his shoulders.

  My eyes strayed toward the photos on the wall. Each featured the same four people – Cara and Luke at various ages, and a man with Luke’s eyes and a woman with Cara’s smile.

  ‘How long has it been just the two of you?’ I asked.

  ‘Since last summer. After the accident – after Mum and Dad – Gramps and Grannie came to live here with us. But Gramps d
ied last May – he had a heart attack at his bowling club – and then Grannie went downhill fast. We tried to keep her home with us, but she kept going off. It was terrifying – we found her wandering around in the lanes once, and up on the cliff path another time. So she went into the home, and since then it’s been just us.’

  ‘So Luke’s in charge?’

  Cara snorted. ‘He likes to think so.’ Then she sighed and added, ‘No, to be fair, he is. With our grandparents gone, social services got involved. I could’ve ended up in a foster home or something. But Luke was eighteen by then, and he did the paperwork to become my legal guardian. And to keep us in this house he’s been juggling man-and-vanning and pub cooking.’

  ‘And teaching people to surf.’

  ‘Teaching you to surf.’

  ‘Just me? But he’s a qualified instructor.’

  ‘Is that what he told you? Interesting…’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because it’s a porkie pie. You’re the only one he’s ever taught.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don’t be mad at him, Scarlett. Just think: he must have really liked you from day one to have told that little white lie.’

  ‘You think he really likes me?’

  ‘I know he does.’

  She grinned at me, and then went back to pinning the hem on The Dress. I looked at the pictures on the wall again, of a young Luke, a Luke with all the world at his feet. In one picture he and his mother were in the kitchen downstairs, be-aproned and hard at work icing a cake.

  ‘So Luke wants his own restaurant someday,’ I said. ‘I’d eat there – his food is divine.’

  ‘He told you that? Funny; I thought he’d given up on that dream. Once, it was all he ever talked about. He was all set to go to Ashburton Cookery School – do you know it?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘It’s a famous culinary school down the road from here on Dartmoor. He’s wanted to be a chef since he was a little boy; he gets it from Mum – she was an amazing cook. But after they died – he was sixteen then – it became a struggle living here just on Gramps’ pension. Mum and Dad left some money, but it soon got swallowed up. No money for Ashburton. So Luke quit school and went straight out and got the job in the pub. He saved up, and once he got his driving licence the next year, he bought the van and started advertising for that too.’