Thanks, bun x
My writing buddies from the Chat Chalet and beyond for all their encouragement, enthusiasm and support as I put pen to paper (or fingers to the keyboard) for the first time. Roxy, Tracy, Kayleigh, Scott, Nathan and Amie – thank you for helping me believe I could do this.
The lovely team at HQ Digital who have been so warm and welcoming from the very first email. Charlotte, Rayha, Hannah and everyone else who is part of this very special team – you keep making me cry very happy tears.
To the other HQ Digital authors, both old hands and newbies like myself, thank you for making me feel so very welcome. It’s a privilege to part of the HQ family with you.
And of course, to you, the reader. Thank you for taking a chance and picking up this book. I hope you enjoy your first (and hopefully not last!) visit to Butterfly Cove.
This one is for my mum.
October 2014
‘And the winner of the 2014 Martindale Prize for Best New Artist is…’
Daniel Fitzwilliams lounged back in his chair and took another sip from the never-emptying glass of champagne. His bow tie hung loose around his neck, and the first two buttons of his wing-collar shirt had been unfastened since just after the main course had been served. The room temperature hovered somewhere around the fifth circle of hell and he wondered how much longer he would have to endure the fake smiles and shoulder pats from strangers passing his table.
The MC made a big performance of rustling the large silver envelope in his hand. ‘Get on with it, mate,’ Daniel muttered. His agent, Nigel, gave him a smile and gulped at the contents of his own glass. His nomination had been a huge surprise and no-one expected him to win, Daniel least of all.
‘Well, well.’ The MC adjusted his glasses and peered at the card he’d finally wrestled free. ‘I am delighted to announce that the winner of the Martindale Prize is Fitz, for his series “Interactions”.’
A roar of noise from the rest of his tablemates covered the choking sounds of Nigel inhaling half a glass of champagne. Daniel’s own glass slipped from his limp fingers and rolled harmlessly under the table. ‘Bugger me.’
‘Go on, mate. Get up there!’ His best friend, Aaron, rounded the table and tugged Daniel to his feet. ‘I told you, I bloody told you, but you wouldn’t believe me.’
Daniel wove his way through the other tables towards the stage, accepting handshakes and kisses from all sides. Will Spector, the bookies’ favourite and the art crowd’s latest darling, raised a glass in toast and Daniel nodded to acknowledge his gracious gesture. Flashbulbs popped from all sides as he mounted the stairs to shake hands with the MC. He raised the sinuous glass trophy and blinked out at the clapping, cheering crowd of his peers.
The great and the good were out in force. The Martindale attracted a lot of press coverage and the red-carpet winners and losers would be paraded across the inside pages for people to gawk at over their morning cereal. His mum had always loved to see the celebrities in their posh frocks. He just wished she’d survived long enough to see her boy come good. Daniel swallowed around the lump in his throat. Fuck cancer. Dad had at least made it to Daniel’s first exhibition, before his heart failed and he’d followed his beloved Nancy to the grave.
Daniel adjusted the microphone in front of him and waited for the cheers to subside. The biggest night of his life, and he’d never felt lonelier.
***
Mia Sutherland resisted the urge to check her watch and tried to focus on the flickering television screen. The latest episode of The Watcher would normally have no trouble in holding her attention—it was her and Jamie’s new favourite show. She glanced at the empty space on the sofa beside her. Even with the filthy weather outside, he should have been home before now. Winter had hit earlier than usual and she’d found herself turning the lights on mid-afternoon to try and dispel the gloom caused by the raging storm outside.
The ad break flashed upon the screen and she popped into the kitchen to give the pot of stew a quick stir. She’d given up waiting, and eaten her portion at eight-thirty, but there was plenty left for Jamie. He always said she cooked for an army rather than just the two of them.
A rattle of sleet struck the kitchen window and Mia peered through the Venetian blind covering it; he’d be glad of a hot meal after being stuck in the traffic for so long. A quick tap of the wooden spoon against the side of the pot, and then she slipped the cast-iron lid back on. The pot was part of the Le Creuset set Jamie’s parents had given them as a wedding gift and the matching pans hung from a wooden rack above the centre of the kitchen worktop. She slid the pot back into the oven and adjusted the temperature down a notch.
Ding-dong.
At last! Mia hurried down the hall to the front door and tugged it open with a laugh. ‘Did you forget your keys—’ A shiver of fear ran down her back at the sight of the stern-looking policemen standing on the step. Rain dripped from the brims of their caps and darkened the shoulders of their waterproof jackets.
‘Mrs Sutherland?’
No, no, no, no. Mia looked away from the sympathetic expressions and into the darkness beyond them for the familiar flash of Jamie’s headlights turning onto their small driveway.
‘Perhaps we could come in, Mrs Sutherland?’ The younger of the pair spoke this time.
Go away. Go away. She’d seen this scene played out enough on the television to know what was coming next. ‘Please, come in.’ Her voice sounded strange, high-pitched and brittle to her ears. She stepped back to let the two men enter. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
The younger officer took off his cap and shrugged out of his jacket. ‘Why don’t you point me in the direction of the kettle and you and Sergeant Stone can make yourselves comfortable in the front room?’
Mia stared at the Sergeant’s grim-set features. What a horrible job he has, poor man. ‘Yes, of course. Come on through.’
She stared at the skin forming on the surface of her now-cold tea. She hadn’t dared to lift the cup for fear they would see how badly she was shaking. ‘Is there someone you’d like us to call?’ PC Taylor asked, startling her. The way he phrased the question made her wonder how many times he’d asked before she’d heard him. I’d like you to call my husband.
Mia bit her lip against the pointless words, and ran through a quick inventory in her head. Her parents would be useless; it was too far past cocktail hour for her mother to be coherent and her dad didn’t do emotions well at the best of times.
Her middle sister, Kiki, had enough on her hands with the new baby and Matty determined to live up to every horror story ever told about the terrible twos. Had it only been last week she and Jamie had babysat Matty because the baby had been sick? An image of Jamie holding their sleeping nephew in his lap rose unbidden and she shook her head sharply to dispel it. She couldn’t think about things like that. Not right then.
The youngest of her siblings, Nee, was neck-deep in her final year at art school in London. Too young and too far away to be shouldering the burden of her eldest sister’s grief.
