the raindrops so they looked like a shower of diamonds. It took a while for Benedict’s eyes to adjust, and he rubbed them with his fists.
She stood with her back to him. Her dress was wet and clung to her legs. Droplets hung from the hem.
The skin on Benedict’s forearms tingled with anticipation. ‘Estelle…’ he said.
She turned. ‘I thought you were never going to answer.’
Benedict felt recognition glimmer inside him. He took in the shape of her chin, the jump of her nose, the raindrops glittering in her hair. He stared until he felt like he was in a trance.
He knew her face.
But it wasn’t his wife.
visualisation, dynamism, vibrancy
Benedict wondered who the girl was. He seemed to know her from somewhere. She barely reached his shoulder in height and her wet, dark dress clung to her knees, so they poked through the cotton like knobbles of tree bark. Her legs were bare and she wore battered tan leather cowboy boots. Her arms hung by her sides, in a denim jacket at least two sizes too big for her, and the sleeves covered her fingertips. With her ears poking out through her long, damp hair, her face had an impish quality. Eyebrows, bushy and set too high and angled on her forehead, gave her an air of surprise. Dangling from the end of one sleeve was a small white drawstring bag, the type you get when you buy jewellery in a posh shop.
The outside light clicked off and they both stood in darkness.
‘I thought no one was home.’ Her voice was deeper and slower than Benedict expected. She had an American accent. ‘Where were you?’
‘Um, I was in bed, asleep.’
‘You’re wearing a suit jacket.’
‘I know.’ He wondered why she was questioning him, as if she knew him.
‘Benedict Stone?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Gemma.’ She offered her hand in a karate-chop move.
It was slim and wet, and Benedict’s brain ticked as he shook it. Gemma. Did he know a Gemma?
Estelle used to tell him that she’d bumped into so-and-so in the village, who went to school with such-a-person, who was married to thingamajig. He would smile and nod and not have a clue who she was talking about. Gemma? He couldn’t place her.
‘I’m Gemma Stone.’
Gemma? Gemma Stone? Gemma…Stone.
‘Your niece,’ she said sharply.
‘You’re Charlie’s daughter?’ He gasped. Now that he looked, she had the same nose and chin as his brother. ‘Is he here?’
‘No.’
‘You’re alone?’
‘Yes.’
She stuck out a foot and shook it. ‘And I’m very wet. Are you going to invite me in?’
Benedict took a few seconds to peel his hand away from the doorframe. He shook his head with confusion. ‘Um… yes.’
Gemma bent down and picked up a small, saggy rucksack that lay at her feet and slung it over her shoulder. ‘I’ll follow you, Uncle Ben.’
‘It’s Benedict, actually.’ He headed into the house and Gemma followed. Her boots squelched and left wet oval-shaped footprints on the floorboards. ‘This is the kitchen.’ Words swam in his head. ‘Can I, er, get you anything?’
‘I got a sandwich at the airport.’ She stuck her head around the door. ‘It smells musty in there. And it’s dark.’
‘I’ll switch a light on.’
‘Yeah.’
Benedict squinted as the kitchen light seemed twice as bright as usual. ‘About Charlie…?’ he tried again. How long was it since his brother walked out on him, to go and live in America? Eighteen years?
Benedict still pictured Charlie as a young boy. He’d brought his brother up, since their parents were killed in an accident when Charlie was ten and Benedict was eighteen. He sometimes reached up and touched the underside of his chin, positive that he could still feel the tickle of his brother’s copper hair tucked there.
Gemma stretched out her arms and gave a noisy yawn. ‘I’m so tired after travelling,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to bed and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?’
‘Bed?’ Benedict repeated. ‘You’re staying the night?’
But she was already making her own way up the stairs.
Benedict stared up at the ceiling as the floorboards creaked in his bedroom, Charlie’s old room and then Estelle’s studio. What the hell should he do? Should he follow her up, or try to sleep on the sofa? Should he offer her a change of clothes?
He rubbed his neck and went upstairs anyway, trying to climb them as noisily as he could, so she could hear him approaching.
When he reached the landing, he heard clattering inside the bathroom. Something fell and skittered around in the sink. The toilet flushed, water gushed and the plughole gurgled. There was a bang and Gemma said, ‘Crap.’
Benedict cleared his throat loudly. ‘Ahem.’
Gemma opened the bathroom door by a few inches and pressed her forehead against the doorframe. ‘Before you ask me anything else,’ she said, sighing. ‘I have mental and physical exhaustion.’
‘I just want to know… Well, is your dad okay? Where is your mother?’ Questions bolted around his head like piglets let loose on a farm.
Gemma switched off the bathroom light and pulled the door shut behind her. She carried her clothes in a clump and she wore a pair of Estelle’s pyjamas. They were white with large pink roses and the sight made Benedict feel light-headed. The pyjamas should have his wife inside them, not a stranger.
‘I’m going to take this room.’ Gemma jerked her thumb towards Estelle’s studio.
‘Er, okay,’ Benedict said, too taken aback to add anything else.
His niece dropped her pile of clothes on the floor and pushed her soggy rucksack and boots against the wall with one foot. Leaving the door open, she peeled back the covers and clambered into bed. ‘Thanks, Uncle Ben,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’
When Benedict woke the next day it was 7.30 a.m. and his mouth was as dry as a sand dune. He lay for a while and shielded his eyes with his hand against the mustardy light that sliced around the curtains. At first, the morning felt like every other lonely one since Estelle left, too still and silent. But then Gemma murmured in her sleep, and the strange noise made the roots of his hair stiffen.
