Chapter Three
The problem with drinking wine on trains, Sasha discovered, was that it made everything seem like a much better idea than it probably was. Including, but not limited to, agreeing to pretend to be the girlfriend of your gay best friend for two posh weeks.
"Right," she said, settling back into her seat with a plastic cup of what Ambrose had optimistically called "perfectly drinkable" wine from the buffet car.
The train was mercifully air-conditioned, a blessed relief from the heat that had been slowly cooking Manchester all day.
"Tell me about this family of yours before I completely embarrass myself. "
Ambrose, who was already most of the way through his second cup and looking significantly more relaxed than he had during his earlier packing panic, stretched his long legs into the aisle.
"Where to start? Well, there's Victoria, obviously.
Eldest daughter, complete overachiever, works in banking and probably has her entire life planned out in color-coded spreadsheets. "
"Intimidating, then."
"Terrifying," Ambrose agreed cheerfully.
"But in a good way. She's brilliant, just…
intense. Takes everything very seriously.
You'll probably catch her on conference calls at breakfast and answering emails during dinner.
" He paused, swirling the wine in his cup.
"She's also gorgeous, if you're into the tall, dark, and glacially professional type. "
"I'm really not," Sasha lied, because she absolutely was and always had been, which was probably why her dating life was such a disaster. "What about the others?"
"Archie's the oldest and the heir, so he spends most of his time trying to prove he's responsible by bringing home wildly inappropriate women and then being surprised when father disapproves. Last month it was an American who thought you could buy the title that you wanted."
Sasha nearly choked on her wine. "Please tell me you're joking."
"I wish I were," Ambrose grinned. "Poor Cathy just stands there watching it all with this long-suffering expression."
"Cathy?"
"Gardener's daughter, works on the grounds. Lovely girl, completely in love with Archie, who's too thick to notice because he's too busy chasing after women he thinks will make a good lady of the manor." Ambrose shook his head. "It's like watching someone repeatedly walk into a glass door."
"And Sophie?"
"Fifteen, wants to be a vet, smarter than all of us put together, and currently in her mysterious teenage phase where she disappears for hours at a time. Mother's convinced she's either developing some deep artistic passion or planning world domination."
Sasha was beginning to get a clearer picture of what she was walking into. "Right. And your parents?"
"Father disappears into his greenhouse the moment he arrives and only emerges for meals and to make vaguely disapproving noises about whatever Archie's latest girlfriend has done.
Mother flutters around making sure everyone's comfortable and trying to pretend she doesn't notice that half the family is keeping secrets from the other half. "
"Which leaves Grandma."
Ambrose's expression grew slightly more serious.
"Grandmother is… formidable. Eighty-three, sharp as a tack, and has very definite opinions about how things should be done.
She's not unkind, exactly, just… traditional.
She believes in duty and proper behavior and suitable marriages.
" He looked at Sasha hopefully. "She'll love you.
You're charming and funny and exactly the sort of girl she'd want me to settle down with if I were… "
"Straight?"
"Exactly."
Sasha took another sip of wine and watched the countryside flash past outside the window.
It was beautiful, she had to admit, all rolling green hills and ancient stone walls, the sort of pastoral perfection that belonged on postcards.
"So the plan is I just… act like your girlfriend?
Hold your hand and gaze at you adoringly? "
"Something like that."
"Right. And what's our story? How did we meet? How long have we been together? What are my intentions toward you?"
"Honorable, obviously." Ambrose sniffed. "I thought we'd say we met at that house party where we actually met, which has the advantage of being true. We've been seeing each other casually for a few months but decided to make it official recently. Easy."
"And everyone else will know that we’re making this all up."
"Yes. But on the bright side, they’ll be far too well-brought-up and English to mention it. Plus, father will be thrilled that we’re catering to grandmother’s values, so there’s that."
Sasha wasn't entirely convinced, but the wine was making everything seem more manageable. "And what am I supposed to say I do for work? Somehow I don't think 'recently fired waitress with no prospects' is going to impress your grandmother."
"You're between positions," Ambrose said firmly. "Exploring your options."
"Right. Between positions." Sasha raised her plastic cup in a mock toast. "Here's to creative interpretations of unemployment."
They drank to that, and to the increasingly ridiculous nature of their situation, and to the fact that the train was finally starting to feel bearably cool after the heat of the day.
"If we’ve timed things right," Ambrose said, checking his phone, "we should get in just in time for dinner."
"Perfect," said Sasha, who was starving. She glanced out the window and frowned. The landscape looked different, somehow. Less… Cornwall-ish. More Yorkshire, if she had to guess. "Ambrose."
"Mmm?"
"Where exactly are we supposed to be going?"
"Bodmin," he said without looking up from his phone. "Change at Bodmin for the branch line to the coast."
Sasha felt a cold knot of dread forming in her stomach that had nothing to do with the wine. "And where does this train go?"
"What do you mean? It goes to…" Ambrose finally looked up, following her gaze out the window, and his face went very pale. "Oh. Oh, hells bells."
"Please tell me we're not on the wrong train."
"We're not on the wrong train," Ambrose said automatically, then immediately contradicted himself. "Except we absolutely are. This is the Edinburgh service."
They stared at each other in horror as the full implications sank in. The train continued its inexorable journey north, carrying them further and further away from their destination with every passing minute.
"How did this happen?" Sasha demanded.
"I don't know! I bought the tickets online, I checked the departure time, I…" Ambrose frantically pulled up his phone, scrolling through emails and booking confirmations. "Oh."
"What?"
"Platform twelve instead of platform two." He showed her the screen with the expression of a man watching his own execution. "I misread the platform number. We've been sitting on the wrong train for two hours."
"You're joking."
"I wish." Ambrose slumped back in his seat, looking like his world was ending. "We're going to be so late."
???
By the time Victoria's taxi pulled up the circular drive, the evening shadows were already stretching across the manicured lawns, and the heat of the day was finally beginning to ease into something merely stifling rather than murderous.
She could see lights glowing warmly in the windows of the house, and even from here she could hear the distant sound of conversation drifting from the terrace.
Davies appeared as if by magic to collect her luggage, looking exactly as he had for the past twenty years: impeccably pressed, diplomatically neutral, and somehow managing to convey volumes with the slightest elevation of an eyebrow.
"Good evening, Miss Victoria. I trust the journey was comfortable?"
"Lovely, thank you," she lied smoothly, climbing out of the taxi with her laptop bag clutched firmly in one hand. "How is everyone?"
"Oh, you know how it is when the family gathers," Davies said, loading her suitcase with practiced efficiency. "Your father has claimed sanctuary in his greenhouse, your mother is orchestrating seating arrangements, and Master Archie has brought another… companion."
Victoria caught the delicate pause and translated accordingly. "I see. Anyone I should be warned about?"
"A young lady with very strong opinions about lighting and camera angles," Davies said, which Victoria interpreted as Davies-speak for "brace yourself."
The house was exactly as it always was: cool marble floors, fresh flowers, and that particular smell of old dust and lavender polish. Her mother appeared in the entrance hall before Victoria had even set down her bag, arms outstretched and face glowing with maternal delight.
"Darling! You look wonderful, though perhaps a touch pale. Are you getting enough sun in London?"
Victoria submitted to being embraced and fussed over, breathing in her mother's familiar perfume and feeling, for a moment, like she was fifteen again and the biggest worry in her life was whether she'd remembered to pack enough books.
"I'm fine, Mother. Just busy with work."
"You're always busy with work. Come on, let's get you settled.
Dinner's in twenty minutes, and I should probably prepare you for what you're walking into.
" Lady Charlotte linked her arm through Victoria's as they climbed the familiar staircase.
"Archie's brought someone called Tiffany who keeps asking if we have better WiFi in the dining room and whether the family portraits would make good 'content. '"
"Content?"
"For her social media channels, apparently. She's some sort of… influencer? Is that the right word? She has very strong opinions about our 'aesthetic' and has been photographing everything since she arrived."
Victoria's childhood bedroom was exactly as she'd left it at Christmas: perfectly pressed linens, her favorite books arranged on the bedside table, and the windows thrown open in a futile attempt to create a cross-breeze.
She set her laptop bag on the dressing table and began unpacking with methodical efficiency.
"And how is everyone else?" she asked, hanging her dresses in the wardrobe.
"Your father disappeared into his greenhouse the moment we arrived and has been communing with his orchids ever since.
Sophie's being mysterious, as usual. Disappearing for hours and being evasive when I ask what she's been up to.
I suspect she's found some project to occupy herself with.
" Her mother perched on the edge of the bed, watching Victoria arrange her toiletries.
"Your grandmother is in fine form, making observations about everything from modern manners to the decline of proper conversation. "
"And Ambrose? You mentioned he was bringing someone?"
"So he says." Lady Charlotte sighed.
Victoria paused in her unpacking. A girlfriend. Ambrose was up to something. She wondered just what it was.
"How are things at work, darling?" her mother asked, and Victoria felt the familiar clench of anxiety in her stomach. "You have been sounding rather stressed."
"Just busy. You know how it is in banking. Always some crisis or other to manage." The lie came easily, polished smooth from repetition. "Nothing I can't handle."
"I do worry that you work too hard. When was the last time you took a proper holiday? Or went on a date, for that matter?"
Victoria made noncommittal sounds while folding her clothes.
A crash from somewhere downstairs interrupted her mother's gentle interrogation, followed by what sounded like someone apologizing profusely about "the lighting being all wrong."
"I'd better go and see what's happened," Lady Charlotte said with a sigh. "Tiffany wanted to take some photos in the morning room, and I suspect she may have rearranged the furniture. Again."
Victoria was left alone with her unpacking and her rapidly spiraling thoughts.
Through her open window, she could see her father's greenhouse in the distance, a small beacon of sanity in what was clearly shaping up to be a chaotic family gathering.
She envied him his retreat, his ability to disappear into his plants and ignore the rest of the world.
Her phone buzzed: her mother, calling from downstairs.
"Darling, I'm afraid there's been a slight change of plans. Ambrose has just called, he and his friend have been delayed. Train trouble, apparently. They won't arrive until quite late, possibly not until after ten."
Victoria felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. She was rather curious about what her brother might be up to. "Is everything alright?"
"Oh, you know what the trains are like in this heat. I'm sure they'll sort it out. But it does mean we'll have dinner without them. Are you ready to come down? Your grandmother is particularly eager to hear about your promotion."
Victoria's stomach dropped. "My what?"
"The promotion you mentioned when we spoke last month? Senior Vice President, wasn't it?"
Victoria closed her eyes, remembering the conversation. She'd been so confident then, so sure that her career trajectory was safely upward. The promotion had seemed inevitable, a natural next step in her carefully planned ascent.
"Right. Yes, of course."
Victoria ended the call and sat on the edge of her bed.
She'd been performing the role of perfect daughter for thirty-one years. She could manage another few hours.
Through her window, she could hear Archie's voice drifting up from the terrace, along with higher-pitched laughter that must belong to the infamous Tiffany. The evening air was still thick with heat, heavy with the promise of another scorching day tomorrow.
She sighed. Tomorrow, when Ambrose arrived with his mysterious girlfriend, things would probably get even more complicated.
But tonight, she just had to get through dinner, and then she could retreat to her room and pretend, for a few hours, that she was still the successful daughter everyone expected her to be.
The sound of her grandmother's voice carried up the stairs, holding forth on something with the sort of crisp authority that had been intimidating people for decades, and Victoria took a deep breath and went down to play her part.