Looking at the photograph, Audrey wondered how Edward’s parents would have coped with what happened sixteen years after that picture had been taken. The year her and Edward’s lives had changed irreparably, the ground rupturing beneath them, sucking them deep into a sinkhole from which they would never truly emerge. She wondered how his parents would have borne the grief, the anger and the shame, how it had been a blessing, really, that neither of them had lived long enough to witness it. Sometimes Audrey envied them their ignorance, envied them being spared the guilt, the confusion and the litany of unanswered questions that had plagued her all these years.
She tilted her head from side to side, trying to iron out her thoughts. She couldn’t allow herself to think about Edward today when so many different feelings were already competing for attention. And yet, for the past five months, ever since a routine mammogram had detected a lump in her breast – a lump that had led to the discovery of secondary tumours in her liver and cancer in her lymph nodes – Audrey had become preoccupied with the past. Knowing she would most likely be dead in eighteen months’ time had caused the floodgates to open on memories she had spent decades trying to forget.
She gripped the solid black finial at the end of the bed and ordered herself to stop thinking. But as she leaned forward and pulled the parcel tape from the top of the next box, she remembered sitting around the kitchen table nearly three decades before, feeling the air thicken with a tension she could neither cut through nor explain, as Jess glared at Lily and refused to tell anyone why suddenly she couldn’t bear to be in the same room as her sister.
Chapter 2
Jess
Standing in front of a small square monitor, watching actors repeat their lines for an eighth time, Jess rubbed the back of her neck where the muscles had compressed into tight knots. Halfway through his final speech, the male actor stumbled on words he’d already fluffed seven times, and Jess sensed a murmur of exasperation among the crew.
She’d known when she arrived on set at six o’clock that morning – before anyone else, as was her responsibility as senior location manager – that today would be one of those days. First day shoots on new drama shows invariably were: the cast adjusting to performing outside the rehearsal room, crews re-establishing acquaintances from previous jobs or forming new alliances. There was always a tense anticipation, like the moments before the first guests arrive at a party you’re hosting.
‘Right, let’s take it from the top again. Izzy, can we freshen up Lucia’s powder, please?’
Justin, the director, started talking to the two lead actors about commitment to the scene while the make-up artist refreshed their powder. Jess pulled her thick padded coat tighter around herself, wishing she’d had the foresight to put tights on under her jeans and thermal socks inside her trainers. The trouble with filming in listed buildings was that they were perennially cold, especially in late February. She’d warned the producer, when she’d first found this location a stone’s throw from Spitalfields Market, that she feared it was one of those buildings that would be arctic no matter how many portable heaters they installed, but he’d wanted to go ahead with it anyway.
The director’s assistant called for quiet and the cameras started rolling again before the two lead actors launched into the scene for the ninth time.
Jess sipped the sugary tea rapidly cooling inside a polystyrene cup corniced with the firm indentations of her teeth. She put the cup on the floor, undid the makeshift bun she’d wound her hair into at 5 a.m., and tied it back tightly into a ponytail, her hair protesting at the roots. Watching the monitor as the actors worked their way through the scene, she tried to quash her frustration that she was on set at all. Professionally she knew she had to be there today but that didn’t stop her wishing she wasn’t, didn’t stop her resenting the fact that she wasn’t at home helping her mum to unpack instead. Her mum had said that she understood, that she’d be fine and had lots to sort through, that she’d have Mia for company. But Jess knew how difficult it was for her to give up the house she’d lived in for forty-five years, the house which had seen all the defining moments of her mum’s adult life.
‘Excellent. That was great. Right, let’s take a fifteen-minute break before we reset downstairs. Jess – where’s Jess?’
Jess swallowed hard as she walked across the seventeenth-century mahogany floorboards into the first-floor drawing room, where Justin was sitting in a canvas-backed folding chair.
‘Jess, Sam says there’s a dodgy plug socket on the top floor where we’re filming later. Could you check it out? I’d rather not electrocute the entire crew on the first day if we can possibly help it.’
Justin laughed, and Jess fabricated a smile, mumbled a reply and trudged up the stairs, her toes beginning to numb in her trainers.
Locating the loose plug socket and covering it with black gaffer tape while cursing herself for not having spotted it sooner, she glanced back down the stairs to check that no one was on their way up before pulling her phone from her pocket and switching it on.
No messages, no emails, no missed calls.
She dialled Mia’s number, the tips of her fingers stiff with cold, five rings trilling in her ear before she heard a breathless answer.
‘Hi, Mum. What’s up?’
‘Nothing. I just wanted to check everything’s OK with you and Granny?’
‘Yep, we’re fine. I’m doing my homework and Granny’s unpacking.’
Jess pulled at a loose piece of skin at the base of her thumbnail, felt a sharp skewer of pain as she tugged it free. ‘I’m hoping we won’t wrap too late today. I’ll ask Justin if Sacha can clear up for me and then I should be home in time to give Granny a hand.’
‘Honestly, don’t worry about it. We’re totally fine. We’re fine, aren’t we, Granny? Granny says yes. Seriously, it’s not as if there’s much you can do here anyway. Granny said she’d rather unpack by herself and I’ve already made a fish pie for dinner. If you’re not home in time, Granny and I will eat, and we’ll save you some for later.’
Jess sucked at her thumb where a small speck of blood was seeping through. ‘OK, if you’re sure. Just don’t forget you’ve got that history essay to write this weekend. You don’t want to be rushing it at the last minute.’
‘I won’t, I promise. Have a good day and we’ll see you later. Love you.’
‘I love you too.’
As the call ended, Jess opened the address book on her phone and scrolled through the names, trying to find someone she might text to avoid the professional small talk downstairs. There were so many entries – school friends, university friends, former colleagues – and yet no one to whom she could send a chatty unsolicited message without it seeming strange. It was as if her address book were a directory of ghosts, a reminder of all the friendships she had allowed to lapse over the years.
She hesitated, felt temptation prickle the tips of her fingers. She watched her thumb hover over the internet icon, felt it goading her, enticing her, drawing her in.
Stop. Don’t do it. You’ll only regret it afterwards.
The voice of reason spoke clearly in Jess’s head but her hand now seemed to be working independently of common sense. She watched as she began typing in a name she had entered so many times before, and so frequently, that Google’s search engine knew precisely what she was seeking after only the third letter.
Do not click on the links. It’s not too late. You can still stop.
But it was too late. It was always too late once the seed had been sown. A moment’s boredom, a sleepless night, a frustrating day. Jess could never stop herself once the thought had occurred.
Lily Goldsmith.
The sight of her sister’s name caused a tightening of the muscles across Jess’s stomach.
Jess scrolled down the list of results, hunting for an unread article. Three pages in and every item was something she’d seen before: Lily speaking at international conferences, Lily collecting awards, Lily in receipt of yet another promotion.
Jess clicked onto the news tab, hoping it might bear more fruit. But there was nothing there that she hadn’t read before either. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or exasperated. Part of her was pleased her sister hadn’t managed to garner any more press coverage in the forty-eight hours since she’d last checked but another part of her felt cheated.