Colm reached out and took her hand. It was cold, he noticed as he squeezed it. ‘You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Helen,’ he said gently.
She shook her head and squeezed his hand back before she released it. ‘I want to,’ she whispered, her voice low but firm. ‘I need to. I’ve not talked about it properly to anyone since it happened, really.’
In a few, concise words – a journalist always kept to the facts, after all, the who, what, where, when, and why ‒ she told him about the ride home, David driving down the rain-slicked streets, the looming headlights of the lorry, the head-on collision, the implosion of glass as the windshield shattered.
‘David was killed instantly. I was thrown from the car; I was lucky to survive. Lucky,’ she added, her words bitter. ‘That’s what they told me later, the doctors. ‘Mrs Thomas, we’re so sorry, you’ve lost the baby and your husband is dead, but you’re so very lucky to be alive.’’ She looked at him. ‘I didn’t see it that way. I still don’t. In the space of a few seconds, I lost everything that mattered to me.’
Colm didn’t answer as she wept; instead, he reached out and took her hand and squeezed it once again. But the gesture, in its simplicity, comforted her in a way that all the words, sympathy cards, and elaborate floral bouquets she’d received never had.
‘I always wanted to be a writer,’ she said as she took the tissues he offered and blew her nose. ‘Of great novels, of course. But I ended up writing for the red tops instead. I’m a tabloid writer. A hack.’ She glanced over at Colm. ‘You don’t have any fags, do you?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke, sorry.’
‘Shame...I could really do with one right now.’ She sighed and rested her forehead against the window, watching as her breath fogged the glass. ‘I was resigned to life as a paparazzo, staking out coffee shops and lurking in airport lounges in hopes of scoring an interview or a photo of Gwyneth or Madonna or Dominic, smoking too many fags, and waiting – for the interview that’d be my ticket out of hackdom, for a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
‘For a long time I felt dead inside. I still do. But I can function. I can eat, and sleep, and carry on a conversation, just like this ‒ but inside, I’ve nothing left. It was my fault, Colm.’ She looked at him with an anguished expression. ‘I insisted we go to that fucking Christmas party. If I hadn’t, the accident would never have happened, and David would still be alive. How do I live with that? How?’ And she began to weep again.
‘Listen to me, Helen,’ Colm said, his voice low but firm. ‘You can’t blame yourself. Would’ve, might’ve, could’ve...they’re useless words. It happened, and that’s unfortunate. It’s fucking sad, and I’m truly sorry you had to go through it. But it isn’t your fault. You were only doing what you thought was best for the man you loved.’
They drove back to the castle in silence. Words had become unnecessary between them. As she gazed out the window at the snow-covered fields, Helen was glad she’d ended up at Draemar, grateful for Colm’s silent but reassuring presence.
As the castle loomed into view, she leant forward. ‘Oh, look. We have a visitor.’
Colm glanced up and saw a battered grey Volvo estate car parked in the curve of the drive.
‘Do you recognize it?’ Helen asked.
‘I do.’ He drew the truck to a stop behind the Volvo and opened his door, but offered nothing further.
‘Well, tell me, then – whose is it?’ she demanded.
Before he could answer, the front door swung open, and a tall woman in a grey Chanel twinset and pearls fixed them both with a gimlet eye.
‘Young man,’ she said in imperious, Scottish-accented tones, ‘kindly remove that truck from the drive and park it elsewhere. There’s a service entrance behind the kitchen for that express purpose. And use the servants’ entrance when you come inside.’
Helen flicked a glance at Colm, half expecting him to give the woman a piece of his mind; but he only tightened his jaw, nodded curtly, and said, ‘I’ll take care of it straight away, Lady Campbell,’ and turned and got back in the truck.
With a slam of the door, he was off, leaving Helen alone to face the Chanel-clad gorgon awaiting her on the doorstep.
‘And who might you be?’ the woman asked. Although her tone was polite, her glance as it raked briefly over Helen’s trousers, boots, and puffa jacket clearly indicated that she found the outfit wanting. She refrained from remarking on Helen’s red, puffy eyes.
‘Helen Thomas,’ she said as she made her way up the front steps and held out her hand. ‘I’m here at Tarquin and Wren’s invitation.’
‘Indeed?’ She reached out, and her fingers as they clasped Helen’s were long and knotty, but her grip was surprisingly firm. ‘Then I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Evelyn Campbell, Archibald’s mother. Come in, Miss Thomas.’
As Helen preceded the woman inside, a dun-coloured Labrador lumbered into sight, its tail wagging. She bent down to pat his head. ‘What a lovely dog! Is he yours?’
‘Yes. I take him everywhere I go. He’s my constant companion now that my husband’s gone.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Archie.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘It causes a wee bit of confusion round here whenever I call him.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Grandmama!’
Helen looked up to see Caitlin bounding down the stairs, Coco trotting behind her. The moment the two dogs spotted one another they set up a chorus of barking and growling.
‘Oh, do be quiet, Coco,’ Caitlin admonished as she picked the tiny dog up and lifted her, still growling, to her chest. ‘It’s only Archie.’ She leant forward and gave her grandmother a dutiful peck on the cheek. ‘When did you get back, Gram? I thought you were still in Edinburgh.’
‘I finished my shopping and visited all of my friends...or what’s left of them. It’s most depressing to hold visits with one’s friends in a churchyard.’ She glanced at Helen, then back at her granddaughter. ‘I’d like a word with you, Caitlin Morag, if you please.’
Caitlin’s face fell. ‘Now? Only, I’m about to go for a walk outside with Jeremy...’
‘Your walk,’ Lady Campbell said firmly as Jeremy came down the stairs, ‘and your young man, can wait.’ She turned to Helen. ‘You’ll excuse us, I hope, Miss Thomas?’
‘Of course,’ Helen assured her. ‘I’ve work to be doing, at any rate. It was lovely to meet you, Lady Campbell.’
‘And you, my dear.’
‘Jeremy,’ Caitlin said as she turned to him, ‘will you be a lamb and wait outside for me? I need a quick word with Grandmama. I’ll be out soon, I promise.’
He
