of lying in a bed her body knew every inch of, Nee slept like the dead. Dark shadows had crept into the corners of her room, and when she checked her watch, more than two hours had passed. Feeling groggy, but much calmer for the rest, she donned her jeans, retrieved her case from the hallway and swapped her wrinkled top for a clean one. A quick splash of water on her face and cleaning her teeth chased any lingering drowsiness away. The smell of dinner drifted up the stairs, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation.
The door to her father’s study stood wide. Well, that’s something that’s changed in this house, at least. George’s study had always been a private sanctorum, not to be entered by little girls with grubby fingers who might cause chaos in a space dedicated to order. Feeling every inch that little girl, Nee made sure her toes didn’t cross the brass door plate which divided the pale-green hallway carpet from the navy of the study.
George bent over a large, leather-bound notebook, filling the lines with his neat script. Several textbooks lay open across the dark wood of his desk, each secured with a paperweight. The faint strains of Radio 4 drifted from a digital radio on the bookcase behind him. He glanced up in surprise at her light tap on the doorframe. ‘Oh, hello, Eirênê, I didn’t hear you come down. Feeling any better?’
She nodded. ‘Much, but you shouldn’t have left me so long. Aren’t you hungry?’
Capping his fountain pen, George glanced at the small carriage clock on the corner of his desk. ‘I didn’t realise the time. Got caught up in…’ He cast an embarrassed wave over the papers in front of him and she couldn’t help but smile. He was never not going to get caught up in his books.
She braced a hand on the doorframe and leaned forwards, trying to read the titles on a small stack of books. ‘What are you working on?’
He sat back in his chair. ‘You can come in, you know.’
‘Old habits,’ she said, taking a couple of steps inside.
‘You were always my little rule-breaker on everything but that.’ A shadow crossed his face, but he forced a smile. ‘To answer your question, I decided to try and write a children’s version of some of my favourite Greek legends. The book I found for Matthew about the origins of the constellations was a bit dry for a seven-year-old. I’m hoping to have some new stories ready for my visit at Christmas.’
Her stomach twisted at the happy expectation in his tone. Christmas had been a tightrope of hope and disappointment growing up. One of the few times their mother roused herself from her room and re-engaged with the family. Embracing the chance to be the perfect hostess, Vivian threw herself into the performance, decorating the house, planning meals and buying gifts. Nee and her sisters would receive new dresses to be worn, and for the next twelve months the mantelpiece would carry the image of a family which didn’t exist for the rest of the year.
She could still feel the flutter of excitement, the shake in her hands as she forced herself to carefully unwrap the beautiful stack of presents under the tree, trying to do everything just right to keep Vivian happy. There would always be something, though. A little hiccup, an insignificant incident most people wouldn’t think twice about. But Vivian would dwell upon it, pick it over until it overshadowed everything else. She would inevitably retire to bed, and their father would disappear into his study, leaving the three of them to watch television and try to play board games without someone there to teach them the rules.
It was only as she grew older that Nee became aware of the extent of her mother’s drinking, and the excitement of opening presents was overtaken by waiting with trepidation for the first morning sherry to be poured. She’d begun to rebel against it at twelve, becoming the catalyst which would shatter the pretence. At fifteen, she’d refused flat-out to participate, not knowing it would turn out to be the last Christmas they would all be under the same roof. A year later, Kiki and Mia were both married and making their own homes, leaving Nee caught in the spiralling tragedy of her parents’ unhappiness.
Angry. She’d been so angry with them both for as long as she could remember. Looking at George now, a grey shadow of his former self, face lined with the pain of all those years, she let it go. However bad things had been for her, how much worse must it have been for him, for him and Vivian both, to have spent thirty years tied to someone you loved, but couldn’t make happy.
She hoped this year he would find some peace, and spending time at Butterfly Cove with everyone might be just the thing to bring it to him. Just a shame she wouldn’t be there to witness it. She shook her head. Now was not the time to think about it, because then she’d start thinking about the reason why she wouldn’t be there, why she couldn’t be there. Luke. ‘Come on, Dad, let’s eat.’
Feeling stronger after the hearty stew and a decent night’s sleep, Nee decided to seize the bull by the horns and visit her mother after breakfast the next morning. George had offered to accompany her, but she couldn’t be sure of her reaction and didn’t want to risk the fragile peace they’d begun to build. She’d left him with a cup of tea in his study to continue working on the stories for Matty.
Although her father had tried to prepare her for the changes in Vivian, her first sight of the birdlike figure lost in the harsh whiteness of the bed stole Nee’s breath. Strands of wispy, almost-colourless hair straggled around her mother’s face. The knotted hanks were so far from the gleaming coiffure of her memories that she knew little of the woman she’d known remained. Making her way quietly into the room, Nee noted the potted plants and bright accessories scattered around, and felt a quiet appreciation for the owners of the home for trying to minimise the institutional feel of the place.
The bed, though, was like those found in every kind of hospital. They’d positioned it where Vivian could look out of the window to the gardens below, although whether she had any awareness of the view remained to be seen. Memories flooded her mind of all the times she’d seen her mother supine on the couch beneath the window of her bedroom at home. The picture of delicate, ethereal beauty, almost professionally weak and wan. Helplessness had always been Vivian’s stock-in-trade – a damsel in distress, unable to cope with the pressures of life. That façade had fooled many, but not Nee. She remembered too clearly the cynical glitter in her mother’s eye as she twisted poor Kiki round her little finger.
A ghost of the anger she’d nurtured for so long against her parents began to stir in her stomach. If either one of them had faced up to the basic realities of life, then it wouldn’t have been left to Mia to try and raise a baby sister when she’d been little more than a child herself. Kiki, too, had done her best for Nee, offering every ounce of love in that big heart of hers to ensure she never lacked for affection. She clasped a hand over her stomach to try and settle the beast stirring within. Sometimes it felt like she’d been angry for ever.
The tempest of emotions had served her well in the past, bringing a fire and passion to her earliest artwork that caught the attention of teachers and, later, college tutors. Feed the fire, they’d urged her, so she’d tapped the well and poured it forth into every line drawn, every handful of clay moulded. She developed a reputation for dark, brooding pieces and the juxtaposition with her sweet, elfin appearance had intrigued more than one patron. Whispers had rippled through the art world of a bold, bright new star-in-the-making and she’d been encouraged to dream big.
Her dreams had crystallised into the ultimate goal for a young sculptor – a chance to study under the tutelage of Devin Rees, the mercurial, undisputed master of their medium. Even applying for a place at the Reinhold Institute had seemed like the ultimate act of hubris, and when her submission had gone unanswered for months, Nee had shrugged it off. London was more than good enough for her, and she’d thrown herself wholeheartedly into the trendy art scene, determined to make her mark. She’d found a group of like-minded souls, and had been out celebrating a friend getting signed by an agent when
