been a stark, savage reminder that the Singer siblings were now orphans. And she would miss her father dreadfully, just as soon as she was able to accept that he was gone.
Although she had been there, seen the coffin, watched it going into the ground, it still didn’t feel real. Although usually logic-driven, she felt as if the surrounding air was filled with disbelief, clinging to her. Yes, her father was gone, but when would it feel so?
Watching the others in church and at the graveside, she felt she came up short. Yes she looked the part, the grieving oldest daughter, black designer dress, Louboutin heels, Armani jacket, but although she was carrying a Chanel clutch full of tissues, she had needed none of them. Others – friends, neighbours, the postman – had shed tears, she – his daughter – had not. Her eyes remained resolutely dry and she resented them for it. Thankfully her oversized sunglasses hid the fact. It was as if her heart felt everything but that didn’t translate to her eyes.
She felt herself stumble slightly in her heels and instinctively she reached out and grabbed the nearest arm; her brother Gus’s. Surprise flickered in his eyes, before she regained her balance and they walked across the drive to the front door. She glanced behind her to see her other brother, Freddie, and her youngest sister, Pippa, just inches behind them. The front door loomed in front of her, and for a moment she felt something akin to panic.
‘Right,’ she turned to Gus, Freddie and Pippa, ‘shall we go in?’
Harriet was the oldest; Gus – Angus – was thirty-five, Freddie was thirty-two and Pippa was the baby, about to turn thirty. Being the older sibling was a role she had taken seriously, especially after her mother died. But in adulthood, she had neglected that role; instead throwing herself into her career in London and then New York, opening up a distance between them that contained more than just miles. She told herself her siblings didn’t need her as much, and vice versa, although now, being with them, she felt guilt prodding her like a hot poker.
Harriet turned the large brass handle and pushed the door open. Of course it wasn’t locked, the house was expecting them. Meadowbrook had always been a house that seemed to own the family rather than vice versa. Her father’s dream home, it had been the only house Harriet had lived in before she left for university. But for ten years she had been living and working in New York and they had become estranged, along with the rest of her family.
When her father bought Meadowbrook it was as a wedding present for him and their mother, Victoria. Before they stepped inside it had been renovated. Money being no object, he had poured it into the house, using interior designers, the best materials; it had always been an amazing house both inside and out. Her father had updated rooms throughout their childhood as well, and Meadowbrook was such a part of him, Harriet could barely think of the house and her father as not being together. She was unsure how she would feel staying here without him. Wrong didn’t begin to cover it.
As she heard her heels echo on the chequered tiled floor, gazing as she always had as a child at the huge chandelier that commanded the impressive entrance hall, she turned and looked at her brothers and sister.
‘So, we made it. Now, shall we fortify with a drink before the hordes arrive?’ Harriet tried a smile but she feared it would be more like a scowl. She also hated how formal she sounded to her own ears. She was with her family yet it felt as if she was with strangers.
‘Good idea,’ Freddie said, breaking away and heading for their father’s study. Or what was his study, Harriet thought, wondering if she would get used to thinking of him in the past tense anytime soon.
‘Um, OK, Mark’s driving some of the villagers who didn’t have a car.’ Pippa’s eyes clouded; as the baby of the family she was probably feeling their father’s loss more keenly than the others. Pippa had always worn her heart on her sleeve, not like her older sister. For Harriet, emotions were something she tried to avoid like cheap shoes. Harriet knew she should give her a hug, but she could only manage a slightly weak pat on the arm.
‘Where’s Fleur?’ Harriet asked, having only just noticed her twelve-year-old niece’s absence.
‘Her mother felt it better to take her home. She felt going to the funeral was enough.’ Gus’s eyes strayed to his shiny black shoes. ‘She was so upset …’ His voice broke.
She knew she should offer some comfort, but she was at a loss where to start with each of them.
Freddie headed to their father’s old-fashioned drinks trolley as soon as they entered the study. It was definitely her father’s room. His personality stamped on every inch, from the huge imposing mahogany desk that had dominated the room forever – Harriet vaguely remembered when she couldn’t even see over the top – to the large wooden backed chair that she used to love spinning in until she was dizzy. The art on the wall, all landscapes – her father believed paintings should be only of landscapes, people or fruit – were achingly familiar. As were the antiques that he had carefully chosen, an old floor-to-ceiling map, a ship, a globe. Strange objects that had captivated her as a child; her father rarely travelled and he hated the sea. She glanced across at Gus, who was transfixed by the wall, and she wondered if he was thinking the same. Perhaps reliving their childhood, even just in their heads, would help them find their relationship with each other again.
‘Right, well, I think we should drink the very good stuff,’ Freddie announced in his usual dramatic way, selecting a bottle of expensive whisky.
‘I suppose I better go and see if Gwen is OK,’ Harriet said. The housekeeper kept a low profile, Harriet had barely seen her after the service.
‘Can you get ice as well, please, Harry?’ Freddie thrust an ice bucket at her.
‘I’ll get the ice, Harry can chat to Gwen,’ Gus said, sensibly, taking the bucket from her.
They walked across the large hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. The aroma of food hit them as soon as they entered. People, strangers, wearing black and white uniforms whirled around the large kitchen, unwrapping food, plating it up, polishing glasses.
‘Harriet.’ Gwen emerged from behind the crowd. ‘Are you OK, love?’ The closest thing Harriet had had to a mother figure growing up, she let Gwen hug her and Harriet was surprised by the warmth of the embrace. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been hugged like that.
Gwen had been the family housekeeper for years. She’d arrived at Meadowbrook as a young single mother, shortly after their own mother had been killed, and she had never left. She was part of the family; her father’s companion in a way, although nothing romantic had ever happened between them. Just as her father maintained their mother was the only woman he would ever love, Gwen was the same about her son Connor’s father, Thomas, who had been taken far too young by cancer.
‘I was checking you were all right, actually.’ Harriet even at nine had liked to think she didn’t need anyone to take care of her. That was the character of her childhood, the oldest of four motherless children, she took her responsibilities seriously and along the way she had somehow forgotten to let anyone take care of her.
‘And I’m on ice duty. Freddie wants to drink all Father’s expensive whisky before the guests arrive,’ Gus laughed dryly, as he shuffled from foot to foot. He was wearing a smart black suit but Harriet couldn’t help but see him as the distraught nine-year-old who begged her not to go to boarding school. To her he would always be that boy. It had broken her heart to leave them when she was eleven, but her father insisted. Boarding school would be the making of her, he said, and wouldn’t listen to her pleas to let her stay at home with her siblings. Gus had followed two years later – a different school. Her father held old-fashioned
