Chapter 10 Zoe Spring 2025
Zoe
Whichever side faces up, Zoe’s pillow always feels hot and clammy.
The hours tick by, punctuated by the village church.
Two, three, four. She shouldn’t have said it.
What was she thinking? She was just so shocked that Steph hit her back.
It was like something out of a soap opera.
Zoe presses her fingertip into her eye socket, enjoying the spongy tenderness of the bruise.
Highdown Hall is silent now. From her bedroom window, she watched the last of the guests hurry away yesterday evening.
She heard Fiona’s voice calmly ordering the house back to normal.
The catering van eventually left, then the drone of the vacuum seemed to go on forever.
It would be Sara doing that, unless she’d gone home with John and their daughters.
Or maybe Steph. Steph. She sighs, touching her eye again.
Why did Steph say such terrible things about Mum?
She knew they had a strained relationship at times, but to call her a bitch at her own funeral.
It was awful. Zoe takes a deep breath. But Zoe shouldn’t have slapped her, and then said Mum was ashamed of her.
That isn’t true either. They both behaved really badly.
Mum struggled with Steph, Zoe knows that.
She hadn’t really understood Steph. Years ago, when Zoe was at sixth form, Mum thanked Zoe for being such a good teenager, an easy teenager.
Zoe laughed at the time and asked Mum what she’d expected.
All-night parties, nights in the cells and teenage pregnancies?
Mum had paled and forced a laugh and called her a silly thing.
Obviously Steph’s teenage years hadn’t been so straightforward.
Zoe lay on her bed last night waiting for one of them to come to see her.
Not Steph, obviously. But she thought maybe Sara or Fiona.
After several hours, she realised they were leaving her alone.
Maybe they blamed her? As she stands at the window staring out towards the dark woods, Zoe realises they would be right to.
Steph was drunk, emotional. She should have taken her away upstairs, not publicly confronted her and slapped her. And then she said those awful things.
She feels her eye again and yawns. She’s so tired, but just can’t sleep.
She’s desperate for the loo. She didn’t dare to show her face last night in case Steph was on the gallery.
Zoe creeps out of her room, avoiding the creaky boards, and goes into the bathroom.
She slides the lock, and looks at herself in the mirror, the moonlight highlighting the darkness of her right eye. It’s already bruising.
Downstairs, everything’s immaculate. You would never know that several hundred people crowded into these rooms yesterday, eating, drinking, smoking, fighting.
Two plates are stacked on the draining board.
They must have had supper after everyone left.
In the fridge are clingfilmed leftovers from the wake.
Zoe’s tummy rumbles and she takes out a platter, selecting the mini falafel and humous wraps.
Sitting at the kitchen table, she works her way through them, washing them down with tap water.
As she puts the platter back, the light from the fridge catches on a folded piece of paper on the table.
It’s been torn from her father’s writing pad in the library.
She unfolds it. Unfamiliar handwriting scrawls across the thick paper.
Dear all,
I’m so sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean all those things I said about Mum.
I don’t know why I said them – I found the whole day horribly stressful and drank too much to try to cope with all the people and noise.
It was overwhelming. I’m sorry I hit you, Zoe.
You were right to say those things and I think they’re true.
Mum was ashamed of me. I was always the difficult one, the one who messed things up and that’s why she sent me away. And I’ve messed things up again.
I think it’s better if I don’t stay for the interment. It will just be awkward for you all and give other people more chance to gossip. I don’t want to cause more damage than I already have.
The last few days have been some of the happiest I’ve ever had in this house. I never thought I’d say it but being here with you has been unexpectedly wonderful. You are all great people.
I’m not sure we’ll ever be together like this again. With Mum gone, it feels like the end of an era. Fiona, when you speak to the solicitor, please arrange for my share of Highdown to go to Zoe. That feels right and proper. I’ll sign anything that’s needed.
Love always,
Steph
Oh God, thinks Zoe, covering her mouth with her hand. Poor Steph. She surely can’t have left already. Zoe rushes out the back door but there’s a gap between Sara’s four-by-four and the estate’s old Land Rover where Steph’s van was. She must have waited until she’d sobered up enough to drive.
Zoe glances at the Land Rover. The nearside tyre is completely flat, she’s been meaning to do something about it for ages.
There’s no way she can follow Steph. And she wouldn’t have a clue how to drive Sara’s posh car.
The kitchen clock says five thirty. It’s too early to wake the others. What a mess.
Zoe goes back upstairs slowly, pausing at where she slapped Steph and Steph then punched her.
Their mother would have been so ashamed of them behaving like kids, fighting in the hall.
And in front of everyone. The early morning light seeps through the gap in her curtains and she pulls them tight, sliding between the bed covers and turning the pillow over.
She knows sleep won’t come. She’ll just lie here until it’s seven and then she’ll wake Fiona and Sara. Fiona will know what to do. She always does.
It’s all her fault, she thinks.
It’s bright daylight by the time she wakes, groggy with interrupted sleep. Zoe sits up with a start. She stares at the alarm clock. Ten o’clock. Ten! How could she have fallen asleep for so long?
She must speak to Fiona, talk about what to do next.
But when she goes downstairs, having hurriedly pulled on an old pair of dungarees, there’s no one around.
She goes back up and checks their bedrooms, but the beds have been made, the curtains drawn.
Downstairs, she sees two empty mugs on the drainer.
At the back door, she realises Sara’s car has gone.
They must have gone to find Steph. Thank God.
There’s a note on the kitchen table but it’s only Steph’s original note.
She sinks into the kitchen chair. Why didn’t they wake her, or at least leave a note?
She goes into the hall, waits for the signal on her phone to kick in, but there’s no message.
She paces the hall waiting for something to happen but it’s all quiet.
The grandfather clock goes through its quarter-hour routine.
It’s the first time she’s been in her house on her own for months and months.
Above her the DeProse ancestors watch her, just as they watched her and Steph fighting yesterday.
She can sense their disapproval. Sorry, Mum.
She thought she’d talk to Mum all the time after she died, have proper conversations, but she hasn’t felt her presence at all.
She sighs. Maybe she’ll come when everyone has gone home.
She goes out on to the drive but there’s no one there, no sign of anyone.
It’s like she’s the last person in the world.
She sits on the bench and something digs into her thigh.
The keys to the oast house. She could move back in there now that Mum’s gone.
But there was something rather wonderful about the four of them in the house together.
Until she messed it up. Looking at the small ornate key makes her think of the other key.
The mystery key, which still hasn’t turned up.
Kai. Kylie and Kai. Who are they? And who took the key?
It must be one of her sisters, it couldn’t have been anyone else.
She needs to be doing something. She walks around the back of the house past the walled garden and looks at the locks on the three old barns, but she knows the Kai key would never fit them.
Then she walks across the lawn to the summer house, but the lock there is far too small.
By the herb garden is the garden shed and the greenhouse but it doesn’t look like it would fit either of those.
She knows it won’t fit the oast house. She listens out for cars but there’s just birdsong.
If she sees a potential lock, she can’t even try the key out.
She walks up to the cottages, slightly out of breath by the time she reaches them. Mrs Crawford is planting herbs in pots in her front garden.
‘Hello, Zoe,’ she says, standing up and brushing her apron. ‘That was a very beautiful service yesterday. Very traditional, just like your mum would have wanted.’
Zoe nods. ‘Thank you.’ If Mrs Crawford witnessed the fight, she doesn’t say anything. Zoe looks at the front door of the cottage but even from this distance she can see that the key would be far too large for the slim lock. All the cottage doors are the same, so the key can’t be for any of them.
Mrs Crawford puts her hands in her skirt pockets.
‘There’s no rush on this, but I wondered if you’d got my email.
The shower hasn’t been working for a while.
The electricity arced in the bathroom again and set fire to the shower switch.
We haven’t been able to use it since. Could you get the same man back again?
I don’t mind contacting him. I know you’re busy . . .’
She has a vague memory of an email. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Zoe says, examining her hands. ‘It’s been such a difficult time.’
‘I understand. Are you happy for me to contact the electrician again?’
‘Of course,’ Zoe muttered.