Chapter Four
When I reach the house, I pull up alongside Serena’s sleek Mercedes and Lil’s custom lilac Toyota hybrid. Unsurprisingly, they have both arrived before me. Chugging stoically along the motorway, watching them nimbly dip and weave around traffic and disappear into the distance had felt like a rather heavy-handed metaphor for my life.
The house, welcoming and lopsided, looks the same as it always does, apart from the mess of parked cars and the discreet security presence. I wonder if the handful of burly men with rigid posture – who are trying to blend into the bushes in the front garden like that Homer Simpson meme – are here with one of the guests, or if Mum organized them. Either way, I’m glad. At least the paparazzi won’t feel it’s an invitation with the front gate standing open.
The atmosphere is already carnivalesque, with guests spilling out the doors, drinks in hand. I reflect for a moment that aside from the fact that everyone’s draped in black, it could be one of the coven’s legendary happenings.
The mums didn’t throw a lot of parties when we were little, but every once in a while something impromptu would occur – they’d have a group of friends to stay and then a few more people would join and suddenly there was music and dancing and pale green cocktails in empty jam jars. The crowd would always be an interesting mix of artists, musicians, writers and other creative types, and that made for extremely fun parties.
The mums didn’t tolerate any really bad behaviour, and the odd joint or bit of skinny dipping in the river was the most scandalous thing we ever saw, though we were never left unsupervised so I can’t speak to what else went on behind closed doors. I can say with confidence that it wasn’t the RIPP’S LADIES’ CULT SEX-ORGY that one headline claimed.
(‘Just say orgy,’ Ava had sighed, shaking her head. ‘The word sex is redundant here.’ She tapped at the paper with one scarlet nail. ‘Remember girls: words, when used precisely, are weapons. You don’t need to slobber over them.’)
Now, I see – as I push my way through the kitchen doors – that most of the people at Carl’s funeral have taken the opportunity to get a look at the site of all those years of scandal. It makes my skin itch seeing them all here. I don’t think it is my imagination that several faces I pass display disappointment. Where, I can almost hear them wonder, are the sex dungeons and piles of Class-A drugs? I see one man examine Mum’s Orla Kiely sugar cellar hopefully, but after lifting a casual finger to his mouth his expression drops. It must be devastating to discover that Dee Monroe doesn’t sprinkle her porridge with cocaine.
The kitchen is my favourite room, right at the centre of the house. It’s massive and full of light, made up of three of the original rooms knocked together, with wonky stone walls, sanded beams on the ceiling, and a wall of French windows that open up onto the garden. There’s an ancient Aga, glass-fronted cupboards bristling with mismatched china, two large, squishy sofas, and a wide oak kitchen table which has all our initials carved into the legs, as well as the word FUK emblazoned on the underside in wonky, sloping letters added by a daring six-year-old Serena.
Hidden, badly spelled swear words aside, this room is the opposite of rock ’n’ roll. It’s the centre of our family – it’s where the six of us spent most of our time: it’s where we shared family dinners, where we did our homework, it’s where we played games on the floor, where we drooped over the sofas when we had tonsillitis while Mum fixed us steaming mugs of honey and lemon.
Speaking of Mum, here she finally is, drifting into the room shrouded in a black silk kaftan-style dress. She’s holding a bottle of champagne in one hand, which she uses to top up people’s glasses as she passes, pausing to commiserate and offer comfort.
‘Clementine!’ Her face lights up when she sees me. Dee Monroe is irresistible and even I, after so much exposure, am not immune. She looks like a pixie, full of mischief – heart-shaped face, huge grey eyes, a wide, infectious smile. She has pale, porcelain skin that burns easily, and her auburn hair is cut short, showing off her slender neck and killer bone structure. She moves like a dancer and has the husky singing voice of a French chanteuse who chain-smokes Gauloises.
When she wraps me in her arms she smells the same as she always does, of Pears soap and Diorissimo, a perfume she chose when she was eighteen because it made her feel like a character in a Jilly Cooper novel. She gives me an extra squeeze, which I know is because I finally came clean about the whole losing-my-boyfriend-and-my-job thing, and I hug her back, holding on for a long moment.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say. ‘I thought you said it was only going to be a few people?’
‘Well, darling, I suppose Carl was more loved than we realized.’ My mum looks around her, obviously pleased by the turnout.
‘I still don’t understand why you’re the one hosting his wake,’ I say in a low voice, and even I know I sound peevish.
‘You know he didn’t have any family,’ Mum blinks, her face sad. ‘It’s what he wanted, and he was a good friend to us.’
Guilt churns in my stomach. ‘I’m sorry,’ I reply. ‘You’re right. I just hate seeing all these people in the house, but of course it was the right thing to do. It was a lovely service.’
Mum puts an understanding hand on my arm, but accepts the change of subject. ‘It was, wasn’t it?’ she says. ‘Although I think there was some sort of commotion at the back near the start. I didn’t catch what was happening, did you?’
I shake my head innocently. ‘No, no, I didn’t notice anything.’
‘There you are!’ I see Serena and Lil pushing their way through the crowd. Mum embraces both of them.
‘It’s a fucking scrum in here,’ Serena huffs.
‘Love the veil,’ Mum says, stroking the lace that hangs around Lil’s shoulders.
‘Where are Petty and Ava?’ I ask, scanning the room.
‘I think they’re through in the sitting room with your father,’ Mum says, and I try to keep the sour lemon wince from my face. ‘Let’s go and say hello. They’re all dying to see you.’ She lifts a hand to her mouth. ‘Oops! Unintended funeral humour.’
We decide to cut around the side of the house rather than fight our way through the crowds, and so it doesn’t take too long to find the rest of our parents.
Predictably, the room is heaving, with everyone crowded around them while pretending not to gawp openly. There are plenty of celebrities at the wake, not that I recognize many of them (Carl had worked very successfully in the music industry for over forty years after all), but the sight of Ripp, Ava and Petty sipping champagne together is admittedly a compelling one.
I catch the eye of one man trying to take a sneaky picture with his phone and scowl. He drops the device in his pocket like it has scalded him. My shoulders are so tense I have to force them down from around my ears. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.
The furniture has all been pushed to the side of the room and people cluster in groups. Ripp’s hand is round Petty’s waist and she smiles up at him good-naturedly. Petty – short for Petunia – is the sweetest person on the planet, and she’s never had a bad word to say about Ripp. She was only seventeen when she had Lil – Ripp was almost forty, so I’m really not kidding when I tell you he’s the worst – and she always says she grew up in this house too. She works as a costume designer for various theatre companies, and is a talented artist. With her long blonde hair and blue eyes, she and Lil pretty much look like twins, though Petty doesn’t have a musical bone in her body.
Ava on the other hand is looking at Ripp the way she always does, with a slightly dazed sense of what was I thinking? I stifle a laugh at the exasperation in her eyes, the arms folded across her chest. Ava looks like a supermodel – almost six foot tall, rich brown skin, ink-dark hair pulled into a smooth chignon, a wide, sulky mouth. She was in law school when she had Serena, and she’s a top human rights lawyer now. Many better men have trembled beneath her flinty glare, but if Ripp picks up on the fact she doesn’t like him much, he’s not showing it. Then again, he always has been oblivious to subtlety.
‘There are my girls!’ he booms now, delighted to see us, and uncaring about the heads that turn in our direction, the interest from the crowd more shameless now that he seems to be inviting it. I have a sudden flashback to the time I was seven and we stopped at a motorway services. Ripp swanned in and yelled, ‘Good morning, Watford Gap!’ like he thought he was Robin Williams, then did an impromptu autograph signing. I got knocked down by the enthusiastic crowd and hid under a display of microwaveable burgers.
My father didn’t notice until we were back in the car and my knees were bleeding. Carl cleaned up the blood with a handkerchief and slipped me a cherry drop while Ripp was on the phone with his girlfriend of the week.
Serena kisses him on the cheek. ‘Hi, Dad,’ she says.
‘So sorry about Uncle Carl,’ Lil adds, giving him a quick hug.
‘Ripp,’ I say with a cool nod. I keep out of his immediate reach, positioning myself beside Ava, who pulls me into a warm hug instead.
‘Clemmie,’ she murmurs in my ear. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too,’ I say, returning the hug. With my life swerving so spectacularly off the rails it’s been a while since I’ve managed to drag myself home. I know that the mums want me to move back, stop wasting money I don’t have on rent, let them fuss over me, but I’m thirty-two years old. It feels like coming home would be the final admission of defeat and I can’t bring myself to do that yet. I am choosing to see this as a positive – it’s possible that there is some fight left in me after all. A teeny, tiny drop anyway.
‘It’s been a while since I saw you, Clementine,’ Ripp says. ‘You’re looking more and more like your mother every day.’
‘Really?’ I shrug. ‘Must be the hair colour. I don’t see it myself.’
‘My most beautiful wife.’ Ripp ignores my cold tone and focuses his sparkle on my mother, who grins.
‘Ripp, I was your only wife,’ she says.
‘There was just no getting over you,’ he sighs, pulling her hand to his lips.
That seems in rather poor taste seeing as he fathered children with two of the other women standing there, and he’s probably being circled by no less than seven ex-girlfriends, but Petty and Ava are used to his theatrics and no one reacts. I always think it’s strange in these situations, how everyone else seems content to let Ripp be Ripp, while I want to fling a drink in his smug face.
‘As I recall, you got over me by getting under a vast number of women,’ Mum says. ‘They just had the good sense not to marry you.’
Ripp’s smile only widens.
‘Let’s go and get out of our coats and have a real drink,’ Serena says, putting her hand on my arm.
‘Good idea,’ I reply, happy to let myself be dragged back towards the wide stone entrance hall where a bar has been set up, complete with bartender.
I unbutton my coat and hand it to Serena. Her mouth drops open.
‘Fuck, Clemmie! Good for you,’ she says, taking in my outfit.
‘Woah!’ Lil agrees. ‘Len who?’
I tug at my dress. ‘Don’t even start,’ I say. ‘It’s my only black dress and I have obviously put on some weight since I last wore it.’
‘Yeah, in the boob area,’ Lil says gesturing to the low cut of my dress where there is, I have to admit, a good bit of cleavage on display. ‘Oh my God, do you think we, like, reawakened all our old spells the other night?’
I laugh. ‘What, you mean my boobs are just going to keep growing exponentially because of the magic wish I made when we were twelve?’
‘Smothered to death by her own boobs.’ Serena shakes her head. ‘What a way to go.’
‘I think all of me has just got a bit bigger, and the boobs are part of that.’
‘Well, you look super-hot and it suits you,’ Lil replies, her eyes taking in the otherwise quite demure black dress. It’s simple, short-sleeved, scoop-necked with a flared skirt that hits somewhere below my knee.
I would agree with that. I’m probably somewhere between a size 16 and 18, and while I obsessed over my weight as a teen, these days I’m quite happy with the soft, dimpled body I see in the mirror. I guess that’s one of the gifts of good therapy.
‘Now where are those drinks?’ I say as Serena stuffs all of our coats inside the cupboard that still houses things like our childhood wellies and several broken tennis rackets (Lil is a surprisingly sore loser with a real John McEnroe streak).
We make our way to the bar and the bartender flashes us a smile. He’s extremely good-looking – floppy blonde hair, soulful blue eyes, maybe late twenties. ‘What’ll it be?’ he asks.
‘Got any tequila?’ Serena lifts a brow.
The man shakes his head regretfully. ‘Sorry, ladies, I’ve got champagne, wine, beer, gin, vodka or whiskey.’
‘I don’t suppose the mums were expecting people to do shots at a funeral,’ I say.
‘That was their mistake.’ Serena grabs the bottle of Patrón from her bag and hands it to the bartender like it’s a precious newborn. ‘Hide that in the fridge back there for me, will you? But give us three glasses with some ice first, please.’
He’s more than happy to do so, especially because passing Lil her glass means their fingers can brush lingeringly. Lil’s cheeks pink, and so do his.
‘I’m Henry,’ he chokes out.
‘Lil,’ my sister manages, and they look at each other as though there should be a halo of tiny blue cartoon birds circling both their heads.
‘And I’m Serena and this is Clemmie,’ Serena cuts in, oblivious to all the delicate romantic vibes buzzing in the air. ‘You guard that tequila with your life, Henry. If these old soaks get wind of it, it’ll be a massacre.’
‘You can count on me,’ Henry says gamely, pouring three extremely large shots of tequila into our glasses before hiding the bottle at the back of the small fridge behind him.
‘Right.’ Serena takes a fortifying sip. ‘Should we go and see what the parents are up to?’
‘Do we have to?’ I whine.
‘Would you rather make small talk with a load of people in the music business?’ she asks slyly.
I remain mutinously silent.
‘Didn’t think so.’ Serena sails forward. ‘Come on, Lil,’ she calls over her shoulder.
Lil and Henry are just standing, silently smiling at each other.
‘Lil?’ I shake her by the arm.
She turns to me, her pupils so wide she looks as if she’s been taking hallucinogens. She makes a noise that sounds like, ‘Waaa?’
I stifle a laugh. ‘We’re going back through.’
‘Oh… yeah… right…’ she says, visibly collecting herself. ‘See you later, Henry.’
‘See you later, Lil,’ Henry whispers, and my sister melts like he’s just quoted Shakespeare.
When we return to the sitting room it’s to find Ripp centre stage – he’s telling a raucous story that involves him and Carl and a stripper they picked up in Las Vegas, and everyone around him is laughing. I know this story because I remember seeing the paparazzi photos of my father stumbling out of a club with his arm around a topless woman. It was the same week he didn’t turn up to my thirteenth birthday party.
‘Why don’t you give us a little tune, Ripp?’ someone calls. ‘Something for Carl?’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ I mutter under my breath.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,’ Ripp says with a bashful wave of his hand, though his eyes drift towards the piano in the corner of the room.
‘Yes, yes, go on!’ more people start joining in.
‘Dee?’ Ripp says, looking at my mum, and there’s a frisson of excitement, something electric that zaps through the crowd.
Mum rolls her eyes good-naturedly. ‘I don’t think so, Ripp.’
‘You know Carl would have loved it,’ Ripp wheedles. ‘He was always on at us to sing together.’
‘That’s true, Dee,’ Petty puts in.
Mum blinks, and I think there are tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, all right,’ she says. ‘For Carl.’
With that, she makes her way to the piano, Ripp loping along behind. When she sits down in front of the keyboard, she doesn’t hesitate, just lifts her hands and brings them down, a crash of chords as she starts singing ‘Girl From the North Country’. Her voice is still beautiful: warm honey spilling through the room. Ripp joins in with her and, say what you like about the man, he can really sing. Their voices blend perfectly; something magic is happening and everyone here knows it. There’s a collective holding of breath, a stillness.
‘This was Carl’s favourite song,’ Petty whispers, her cheeks already wet with tears. ‘God, she’s wonderful.’
My hands are curled into fists, as I look at my mum, at Ripp. I see the flash of someone taking a photo. Finally, I pull myself away, take a step backwards, then another, and another, until I’m out of the crowd.
Until I back right into someone. Their hands come up to my arms to steady me, and even before I turn around I know who it’s going to be. Perhaps it’s the smell of his aftershave – he was always a little too heavy-handed with the stuff and it seems that habit hasn’t altered – or perhaps it’s the deep, apocalyptic sense of dread that tips me off, but either way, I know.
Slowly I turn around. ‘Hello, Sam,’ I say, and I’m relieved to hear that my voice at least is steady, even if the rest of me feels like I’m on a boat adrift in choppy waters.
‘Oh, my darlin’ Clementine!’ He twangs the words in a faux-cowboy impression and if I didn’t already viscerally hate that song with every fibre of my being then this moment would have done the trick. The man who almost broke me grins down with a lazy, lop-sided smile. It is a smile that once set butterflies loose in my stomach, a smile that made me feel giddy. Now there’s just a dull feeling of nausea, that swooping sense of falling from a great height.
Of course he’s here, in my house, today. It’s as if that bloody spell has summoned him.
Sam Turner – the original victim of the curse, the boy who broke my heart at seventeen – is actually pretty famous now. He’s still good-looking, with his long, sandy hair, and tall, rangy body, but he’s more polished than the scruffy young guy I remember. I’ve seen pictures of him, but have managed to avoid meeting him in the flesh for almost fifteen years. It wasn’t hard – we don’t exactly move in the same circles.
‘You’re looking good,’ he says, giving me a not-so-subtle once-over. ‘But then you always were gorgeous.’ The smile grows, his blue eyes crinkle at the corners, tiny lines that weren’t there the last time I saw him.
Over the years I have imagined this – meeting Sam again. Sometimes I imagine screaming at him, punching him right in the nose. Other times I imagine demonstrating an icy poise as he grovels in front of me. In none of my imaginings did I picture him acting as though nothing ever happened. I never thought that I would simply stand, frozen, heart pounding as he smirked and made small talk.
He leans casually against the wall, drink in hand. ‘So how have you been? What have you been up to? You’re a teacher, right? I was hoping I’d run into you. Your dad wasn’t sure if you were coming or not.’
Something short-circuits in my brain. Even now, in this moment, I’m dimly aware that I’ll regret running away. I can’t do anything but gape at Sam, can’t even begin to sift through the wild range of emotions that the sight of him, and the words coming out of his mouth, have set churning inside me. He’s here, in my house. He’s been talking to Ripp about me. Ripp is here too.
‘I have to go,’ I manage to choke out, and then I shoulder past him, through to the hallway.
There is only one thing for it now.
‘Henry,’ I say grimly, marching over to him. ‘I’m going to need that tequila.’
Without a word he hands me the bottle and I snatch it, running upstairs and down the hall until I reach my bedroom door. I burst through, ready to throw myself face down on the bed.
‘Hello,’ a voice says. ‘Are you okay?’