Forget Me Not (The Ceruleans: Book 2) Page 7

  My finger hovered over the keypad: green for go, red for go away. My armour should have been cold, unfeeling, impenetrable steel. But it wasn’t; right now it was a burning, molten mess. I pressed the call-answer button.

  ‘Scarlett!’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Darling, how are you?’

  ‘Okay. And you?’

  ‘I’m good! I’m well. I went to the retreat, the one you found for me.’

  Retreat: a euphemism for posh rehab.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I feel better. Much better. Myself again.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You don’t have to pretend. I know you don’t believe me. After all this time of the drinking and the tablets and the emotional episodes…’

  ‘There’s been a lot of that.’

  ‘I know. And I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.’

  I fingered the notebook beside me. ‘You lied to me, Mother.’

  ‘I did. I can’t blame Hugo – I went along with the lie. I’m sorry, Scarlett, really I am. It was wrong, I realise that now. But I never meant to hurt you. I thought if you knew the truth… well, sometimes we lie to the people we love to protect them, you know.’

  I did know. All too well. But I wasn’t about to tell her that.

  ‘Have you spoken to Hugo about it?’ she said.

  ‘To Father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. I haven’t talked to him at all, and I don’t want to. Not since he Dear Johned me.’

  ‘He did what?’

  ‘Dear Johned me. Sent me an email saying, “I’m done as your father. All the best.” Oh, and then he put a load of money in my account this week – a nice, juicy pay-off.’

  There was a long silence, and I braced myself for Mother’s meltdown. But all she said was, ‘I’m so sorry, Scarlett. I’m sorry he did that. It must have been very painful for you.’

  I blinked. This was a first. Where was the ‘Evil bastard! How dare he! Oh poor me, for marrying such a heartless monster’?

  ‘It stung a little,’ I said. ‘But I figure I’m – we’re – better off without him.’

  ‘Yes, we most certainly are. And we have each other. I’m so proud of you, darling. You’ve grown into such a strong young woman.’

  ‘Um, thanks.’

  ‘Did you get my birthday gift?’

  I looked at the silver photo frame on the mantelpiece. In the centre, pride of place, between one of my grandparents and one of Luke and Cara and me at a party.

  ‘I did. Thank you. I… it means a lot.’

  I expected her to leave it at that, but she didn’t.

  ‘I’ve always liked that picture,’ she said. ‘You and Sienna in that meadow behind the house. You girls loved chasing about among the wildflowers there. Do you remember? The daisies and the buttercups and the forget-me-nots. I used to lean on the gate and watch you. You were so carefree, so innocent, my little red girls.’

  There was wistfulness in her voice, but so much affection too, and not a hint of bitterness or self-pity. I didn’t trust it, this difference in her. I decided to test it.

  ‘Mother, these past few weeks in rehab…’

  I heard her sharp intake of breath; could feel how much she wanted to correct me: I was at a retreat. But she said only, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Was that the first time?’

  Silence. Then: ‘No, Scarlett.’

  ‘I remember when I was little, the paramedics took you away…’

  It was a lie. But I needed her to tell me what she had done. What Sienna had done.

  ‘Oh, Scarlett,’ she said. ‘You remember that? I was… sad. Very, very sad. I didn’t handle the sadness well. The doctor had me on a cocktail of tablets. Antidepressants. Sleeping pills. I drank too much. It made me unwell. I made me unwell. They told me, afterwards, that you and your sister found me. In my room. Oh God – no child should see that. It was Sienna who called for help. I knew she remembered; she never forgave me for it. But you were so small, only four. I had no idea you’d been carrying that around with you since.’

  Had I? Nothing she said, nothing Sienna wrote, stirred a memory. But weeks ago, something had happened that made me wonder how much of the fear and horror was in me still, buried deep. When I’d gone to see my mother and found the house shut up and deserted, I’d been quick to panic, to imagine that she’d followed in Sienna’s footsteps. Suicide.

  ‘It was an accident,’ she said. ‘I was stupid, but I didn’t mean to overdose.’

  I could hear raw agony in her voice. In my mind I saw Sienna running into a furious ocean. She hadn’t mentioned our mother once in her diary. How much of the staging of her suicide was calculated to hurt the woman she’d never forgiven for nearly, so nearly, leaving us?

  Mother said, ‘I don’t expect you to just believe me, Scarlett. That something has changed. That I’m myself again, at last. It will take time, I know, for you to trust me.’

  But I have no time, I thought, and that hurt. Everything hurt.

  ‘I know you want your space,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to crowd you. But perhaps you’ll come and see me one day, when you’re ready? And we can talk. There are things I want to tell you, things I should have told you long ago. I’d like to now. I’d like to start over.’

  On the mantelpiece, my sister watched me from a photo frame. Beside her, so did my grandfather and grandmother. Family loyalty, Sienna had written.

  ‘Okay,’ I whispered.

  ‘Okay? Good! Wonderful!’

  There was a brief silence. Then:

  ‘So, what’s new with you?’ Subtext: Shall we have a stab at a normal conversation, Scarlett?

  ‘Nothing much.’ Subtext: I’d rather not.

  ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that boy, Luke, are you still seeing him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And are you –?’

  ‘I have to go now. It’s late. I’m tired.’

  ‘I understand. It was so good to talk to you. Thank you – thank you for answering.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Love you, Scarlett.’

  ‘Love you too, Mother.’

  ‘Just one thing, before you go. The memory, from when you were small. When I was unwell. You have to know, Scarlett, that what your sister did – I would never… I will never leave you.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, and I hung up. Because I knew what she was trying to say, and I couldn’t hear it. It was the most solemn promise she could make me, and I couldn’t join her in that pact.

  The diary on the chair arm waited expectantly. ‘Tomorrow,’ I told it. Then I went up to bed, and dreamed of overdosing on tequila and sleeping tablets.

  15: SERVIAM

  Jude caught me talking with Daniel. Jesus H. was he mad. The way he carried on, you’d think Daniel was the Antichrist and I was some pigs-swill-for-brains innocent just ripe for corrupting. Daniel was all ‘Free will, Jude – back off’, and I thought Jude was going to rip him apart. He didn’t, though. Got to give him credit for self-control. But then, after Daniel left, Jude was all up in my face, trying to ban me from talking to Daniel again. You can imagine how I took that.

  ~

  Passed out on the kitchen floor today. Lost a big chunk of afternoon. I’ve doubled the dose of the tablets the A&E doc gave me.

  ~

  Called Jude and he came over. We shared a batch of brownies. Kinda mean of me not to tell him beforehand that there was more hash in them than cocoa. Still, it calmed things down between us. We didn’t even talk about Daniel. Mostly, we talked about The End. What’ll happen.

  ‘Afterwards, you’ll wake up home,’ he said. ‘Cerulea. My home. Your home.’

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way about a place before.

  ~

  Could have sworn I saw Shrek walking down Plymouth High Street today. I was with Big Ben, and he ribbed me mercilessly about losing my mind.

  Too many brownies yesterday. Maybe.
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  ~

  I try not to think too much, because it hurts, but this ‘healing some people but not others’ business was niggling at me. So I asked Jude to explain again. He talked about instinct – just knowing on some level who he should heal and who he shouldn’t. Should/shouldn’t? Of course I was going to challenge those words.

  ‘Says who?’ I demanded.

  ‘God, I guess,’ he said.

  I told him exactly what I thought of religion. He took it pretty well. I don’t know what he believes, but he clearly thinks that something bigger than us exists, something that gives us the light and the knowledge of how to use it.

  He translated the tattoo on his arm: Serviam. ‘I will serve.’ It means different things to different Ceruleans, he said, and some are devoutly religious. But to him, it’s a reminder to serve the light – which means respecting its boundaries. He knows, instinctively, when to heal. He knows, instinctively, when not to heal.

  He gave me an example – a car crash some years back. A mother and father in the front. A teenage boy and girl in the back. He got there before the emergency services. He got there soon after it happened. Everyone was unconscious. He had to work quickly.

  The parents in the front were in a bad way, bleeding out. It was their time; he knew it. He left them be.

  The girl in the back was stirring. Her legs were crushed, but she would survive. He wanted to heal her – her legs – but he knew he wasn’t meant to. He left her be.

  The boy in the back had been hit in the face by a shard of glass. It was embedded deep and he was dying fast. It wasn’t his time. Jude knew it wasn’t his time. So he pulled out the glass and he touched his hands to the wound. When he woke up, the boy had nothing more than a broken arm and a cut on his nose.

  16: HOPE

  It was Luke. Of course it was Luke – the boy in the back of the car, the boy Jude had saved.

  All this time, he’d said nothing. He knew Luke couldn’t stand him, thought only bad of him. But he said nothing. And me – he knew I was furious with him for not saving Sienna. He could have just told me: ‘I couldn’t save her. But I did save Luke. And not just that night on the beach.’ But he said nothing. He didn’t fight his corner, pushing against my anger and trying to convince me that he was the good guy. He just gave me Sienna’s diary and waited quietly for her to tell me. There was something noble about it.

  I was beginning to see that there was a lot more to Jude than met the eye. The thought of going with him, of leaving behind all I’d ever known, was still deeply frightening. But right down, beneath the fear and the anger and the grief, a new feeling was stirring.

  *

  Si’s house was down on the beachside – a modern architect-designed pad painted so white that even an overcast afternoon like this one couldn’t dent its exuberance. Cara met me at the front door and dragged me inside, into the living room. Her face was brick-red and she looked about ready to combust with excitement.

  ‘You’re here! Luke dropped me! With all the outfits! And props! And the camera! He’s picking us up later! Si’s gone out! He left cocktail ingredients! And grapes! Big black ones!’

  Chester, who had followed us inside, was so impressed by the tone of his friend’s declarations that he ramped up from excited to euphoric, expressed through a tail-chasing frenzy.

  ‘Chester, sit!’ I commanded. ‘And Cara, breathe!’

  Chester threw himself into his sit with such gusto that he slid several feet across the polished wood floor.

  Cara collapsed onto a wide green sofa with a breathless, ‘Sorry.’

  I threw Chester a squeezy rubber bone to gnash on and joined Cara on the sofa. Across from us, a chair was buried under piles of clothing and shoes and – was that a feather boa? I gulped.

  ‘Hey, you okay?’ Cara was peering at me. ‘You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘Didn’t sleep well.’

  ‘Something on your mind?’

  Death – death – death.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Hmm. Good job I have all the makeup under the sun to cover up those dark circles.’

  ‘Okay, where do we start?’

  ‘With a woo-woo.’

  I shot upright. ‘Holy cow, Cara! You said this was a tasteful shoot! I’m not getting that out.’

  Cara’s shrieking laugh was deafening. I thought perhaps she’d perforated my eardrum.

  ‘You wally! A woo-woo. Cocktail. Vodka, cranberry juice, peach schnapps.’

  ‘Ah.’ I relaxed back into the sofa. ‘Well, that sounds a little less risqué. But leave the alcohol out of mine.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Blake, that’s no fun.’

  ‘I’m off the booze. I promised Luke.’

  ‘What’s Luke got to do with it?’

  ‘Slight incident with some tequila.’

  ‘You? Smashed? When?’

  ‘Si’s boat party. After you left. I made a total idiot of myself. Conga. Declaration of love for Harry Potter and Sir Francis Drake. Passed out. Luke had to put me to bed.’

  ‘Scarlett, you dark horse, you! He said nothing to me.’

  ‘What can I say? He’s a gent.’

  Cara leaned over and gave me a hard look. ‘What other secrets have you got lurking in there?’

  ‘None,’ I said. ‘Well, except the one about having paranormal powers. You know, like a character in one of your books...’

  ‘Scarlett, you’d make a terrible vampire. You’re far too nice.’

  I laughed, too loud. She gave me an odd look.

  ‘Maybe you had better stay off the strong stuff,’ she said. Then: ‘Hang on – does the “no drink” rule apply to the Newquay trip this weekend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bummer.’ She pushed herself up to stand. Painfully. Awkwardly.

  I kept my face neutral, but it was an effort.

  Jude was there. He saw her legs were crushed. He didn’t heal her.

  ‘Ah well, mocktail woo-woos all round it is then,’ she said. ‘No vodka. Oh, and no schnapps. So that’s…’

  ‘Cranberry juice.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cara looked a little crestfallen.

  ‘But we can put it in a cocktail glass, though, right? And float grapes in it.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘I like your style, Blake.’

  *

  Two hours and three glasses of not-quite-woo-woo later, I was suffering from fashion fatigue.

  On Cara’s command, I’d changed from jeans to skirt to dress to dungarees to jeggings to pantsuit to trouser suit to dress to shorts to mini to midi to maxi. I’d rocked stilettos and boots and boas and beads and tiaras and wigs and hats. I’d ‘worked it’ with a parasol, a fan, a handbag, a chair, a baby grand piano and an Old English Sheepdog wearing a doggie tux. I’d smiled, I’d frowned, I’d pouted, I’d winked, I’d grinned, I’d glowered. I’d bent, I’d stretched, I’d sat, I’d stood, I’d lain, I’d twirled, I’d swung, I’d straddled.

  Cara, meanwhile, had clicked away frantically like David Bailey on speed.

  Now we were onto the final outfit, and a burlesque theme, which for some reason called for me to wobble precariously at the top of a rickety wooden ladder and pose with Si’s kitsch black chandelier. The red basque was suffocating, the black shortie pants were itching, the hold-up stockings were refusing to hold up and the red patent peep-toe platforms were pinching.

  ‘That’s it, hold it, smile – smile, Scarlett!’

  ‘Seriously, Cara, I need a break. I’m seeing flashbulbs here.’

  ‘Just a few more. Reach your arm out! Look sexy!’

  I forced a smile.

  Of course, Luke picked that exact moment to turn up.

  ‘Hey… oh.’

  He froze in the doorway.

  ‘Hi, Luke,’ called Cara, still snapping away. ‘Nearly there.’

  Luke just stood there, staring at me, and he mouthed a silent, Wow! I wanted to grin back, but the flashing lights were seriously bothering me now.

  ‘Cara, the flash…
’

  ‘One more. Can you stretch your leg out behind you?’

  ‘Cara…’

  ‘C’mon.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘C’mon, I just need one more shot with the basque stretched out.’

  Oh God, the lights. My head, my head was killing me. I closed my eyes. Still the lights flashed. I gripped the ladder tightly and leaned my head on my hands.

  ‘Ooooo, that’s an interesting pose.’

  ‘Scarlett?’

  Hurried footsteps.

  ‘Cara, stop it! Look at her – something’s wrong.’

  Hands on my hips.

  ‘Just hold on. I’ve got you.’

  A flashback – hanging from the cliff, my hands in Jude’s; those same words. I tried to breathe through the pain but it hurt, it hurt.

  ‘Scarlett? What is it?’

  ‘Hold on...’

  A shift in my head – the pain eased up.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Just got a bit blinded by the bulb.’

  ‘Sorry, Scarlett,’ Cara called from behind. ‘I was a bit gung-ho.’

  Luke’s hands were still on my hips. Realisation hit: he had an eyeful of black ruffled derriere. Forcing in a deep breath, I opened my eyes. Better. I started climbing down.

  ‘Okay, Luke, you can let go.’

  He held on.

  I reached the bottom rung. ‘Luke! Will you let go of my arse!’

  ‘Sorry!’

  I turned around to face him. His eyes were wide. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘’Course I am,’ I said brightly.

  Suddenly, Cara was at my side, tugging at me.

  ‘Hey!’ I tried to fend her off. ‘What is it with you two and grabbing me today?’

  ‘Scarlett,’ she hissed. ‘Basque.’

  I looked down. Talk about cleavage. I dropped my hands at once and let her readjust. Meanwhile Luke bent down and busied himself petting a comatose Chester. Bless him for that.

  ‘Are we done?’

  Cara nodded. ‘You want to get dressed?’

  ‘Do one-legged ducks swim in circles?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It’s a figure of speech, sis,’ explained Luke as I clip-clopped my way over to my clothes laid over the sofa arm. ‘It means yes.’

  ‘But why? What sick scientist found that out?’