‘What is it, Su?’ Ava asked her, pulling back.
Susannah shook her head, eyes squeezed shut.
‘You haven’t wanted to make love for weeks. Don’t you like me any more?’ Ava said in a small voice.
Susannah opened her eyes. ‘Oh no, Ava, that’s not it.’
She had to tell her, because if she didn’t, Matthew Young would ruin her life as well as her sister’s. She turned to Ava, took her hand in hers. Felt the squeeze of encouragement.
‘I have to tell you something,’ she whispered.
Later, in the darkness of the midwinter afternoon, they went for a walk in the snow.
‘I want to kill him,’ Ava hissed as the snow fell around them.
Susannah raised her face to the sky, felt the snowflakes landing cold and wet on her cheeks. Already, she felt a little better because Ava knew. She couldn’t forget what had happened, but perhaps she could learn to live through it.
They walked hand in hand for once not caring how they might look. With Ava by her side, Susannah felt hopeful for her future for the first time since that dreadful last night on Vinalhaven.
33
Emer
30th October 2011
Emer woke to an empty bed and the smell of bacon frying. The scent hit her in the back of her throat. Made her want to gag. She’d always hated the smell of cooking meat, right from when she was a little girl. Orla had claimed Emer was born vegan.
She sat up unsteadily in Henry’s large bed, and held her head in her hands. She had a terrible hangover. Her mouth was parched, and she felt dizzy and nauseous. Details of the previous night came back to her. Oh god, how many times had they had sex? Henry’s appetite had been insatiable, and in the end, she must have just passed out from sheer exhaustion.
She slid her legs out from under the sheets and stood up, feeling very wobbly. Hunting around, she found her jeans, bra and sweater, but couldn’t find her T-shirt or knickers anywhere. She’d have to go commando.
Henry was in the kitchen, frying his bacon. He gave her a big grin and a wave as she staggered in and perched up at the breakfast bar. How come he was so cheery, when she felt like the living dead?
‘How you doing?’ he asked, pouring a glass of orange juice. ‘Hope you don’t mind I’m frying bacon. It’s my own personal hangover cure.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ She could hardly tell him not to in his own house. ‘But I thought you were vegetarian?’
‘No, flexitarian. Eat fish, too. You can’t live on Vinalhaven without eating lobster. You’ll see,’ he said, placing a plate with fried tomatoes, mushrooms and a slice of toast in front of her.
She wanted to react to his presumption. There was no way she was ever going to eat lobster, of all things. But she was just too tired to bother.
He slid in next to her at the breakfast bar and kissed the top of her head, before digging into his bacon and tomatoes.
‘Hey, last night was so special,’ he said to her, his mouth full of meat.
‘Yes,’ she murmured, not knowing what else to say. She couldn’t really remember too much about it, apart from the fact it had felt like two lost souls giving each other solace.
‘Like, so amazing,’ he continued, and then leant over and gave her a big greasy kiss. The taste of bacon on his lips made her stomach heave.
She quelled her nausea. He really was so sweet, making her breakfast.
‘I don’t feel so great,’ she said, pushing aside her mushrooms.
‘Oh, no, baby, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Henry said, his face a picture of concern. ‘Do you want to go back to bed? You could hang out here for the day?
‘No.’ She shook her head, trying to ignore the fact it felt weird he’d called her baby. ‘I have to get back. Lynsey’s leaving and Susannah needs me.’
‘Okay, you go have a rest on the couch. I’ll clean up and then we’ll get going.’
She wandered into the front room. In daylight, the views were staggering. It was a hazy fall day, the mist rising off the sea, and the sun glowing pink, illuminating the dense pine woods.
Henry’s place really was idyllic, and yet she wasn’t tempted to hide out here for the day. She was anxious about Susannah. Keen to get back before Lynsey left.
She walked over and studied Orla’s painting again. She remembered the preparations for her last exhibition. Orla had been on a high for weeks, having been told she was officially in remission. Ethan had tried to get her to calm down, worried she’d get sick again, but she’d been a frenzy of creativity. Painting non-stop, and organising a show at a gallery in the Back Bay area of Boston. Emer would come home from a night shift at the hospital, red-eyed and bleary, to find Orla still painting, having been up all night.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ Emer had warned her.
‘But this is what keeps me alive,’ Orla had announced, her face flecked by paint and her studio a cacophony of creative industry.
Sometimes, rather than going to bed, Emer had curled up on the paint-spattered couch, still in her scrubs, and fallen asleep to the sounds of Orla creating. She had found it so soothing.
Emer reached out and touched the surface of the painting now. Her sister could have put her fingertip right in this spot. It sent a shiver down Emer’s spine. Orla always signed the back of her pictures. Without thinking to ask Henry whether he minded, Emer lifted the painting off the wall and turned it over. There it was: Orla Feeney, her swirling signature in pencil. Ethan’s surname was Goldberg, but Orla had kept her own surname when she married.
Above the signature, Emer noticed the gallery receipt still taped to the back of the picture. It was hanging off, so she pressed the tape back down. As she did so, she
