‘She’s fine, Caroline. Try not to worry. This holiday is all about you, and she needs to know that. Let her get on with it.’
Ruth’s eyes drifted towards the open door. She stepped towards it, about to shut out the evening, when she spotted the girl in black – Lark – outside with the tall man in his fifties.
‘But I’m not hungry, Dad,’ she was saying, shoulders hunched, hands in the pockets of a knee-length black coat. Her anger was tangible. ‘I don’t even want to be here. It’s stupid. Mum’s dying, and we need to stop pretending we’re a happy family, because we’re not; we haven’t been for ages, and we never will be again. It’s pathetic.’
He placed his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘We’re making new memories, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘I promise you’ll be glad we did. This is where your mum wants to be – here with us all. Please give her that.’ Despite the strength in his words, there was something in his tone that told Ruth he was struggling too. That he was finding this as difficult as his daughter.
‘Fine!’ Lark pushed away from him, and barged through the conservatory door. She whisked past Ruth, and thumped down in one of the dining chairs some distance from her mum and Jackson, and pulled out her phone.
The older man followed her in, threw Ruth a half-hearted smile, and closed the door behind him.
‘And the bloody signal is erratic as hell,’ Lark said, banging her phone down on the table, and glaring up at the ceiling.
Ruth looked away pretending she hadn’t heard. What did the girl expect? They were miles from anywhere. The signal was always unreliable. She looked at her watch, still three more guests to arrive before she could serve dinner.
Once the man was seated, she padded towards the table, and pulled a notepad from her cardigan pocket. But before she could speak, the conservatory door opened once more, and the woman in her early twenties with silky black hair, and smooth olive skin, pushed in the young man in a wheelchair. She sped across the parquet flooring, making a noise like a car engine, and leaving a trail of floral perfume in her wake. ‘We’re here,’ she said with a giggle. ‘Let the fun begin.’ She was American. Vivacious. Beautiful.
‘Good evening,’ Ruth said over her shoulder, her smile frozen. ‘I’m Ruth … the owner.’
‘Hey, I’m Maddie, and this is Thomas.’
Ah, the carer and the son.
Maddie moved a chair from the table, scraping the legs across the floor, and pushed the wheelchair into the space. Thomas looked up at Maddie, adoration in his brown eyes. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘You are most welcome, kind sir,’ Maddie said in a fake cockney accent, curtsying, before sitting down in the seat next to him.
Before Ruth could open her mouth, a woman of around thirty with red wavy hair to her shoulders, and a padded grass-green jacket, and jeans, opened the door and stepped in.
‘Amelia,’ Caroline said, fluttering her fingers. She patted the chair next to her. ‘Come and sit down, darling.’
‘You look nice, Mum,’ Amelia said heading towards Caroline. She kissed her mother’s cheek, and sat down beside her, unzipping her jacket, her eyes darting around the conservatory.
Caroline did look better than she had earlier, Ruth thought, with more colour in her cheeks, and a bobbed chestnut-brown wig that suited her.
‘Can I get anyone a wee drink?’ Ruth said. ‘Tap water is included; anything else is extra.’
‘A large white wine,’ Amelia said without looking at the menu.
‘A small glass for me, please,’ Maddie said.
‘Orange juice,’ Thomas said, and Ruth found her mind wandering. Had he been in a wheelchair since birth? She would need to find that out.
She moved her eyes to Jackson. ‘Lager,’ he said, smiling at her. He was far too handsome – it shouldn’t be allowed. ‘And a mineral water for Caroline,’ he added, as Caroline opened her mouth to speak and closed it again.
‘Nothing for me,’ Lark said, throwing down the menu. The lass couldn’t have been more than seventeen. All that black eyeliner and bright red lipstick was far too brazen, but there was no escaping her beauty – so like Kyla.
‘I’ll have a lager too, please, love,’ the older man said.
Ruth disappeared to the small bar area, and as she poured drinks, she picked up on the awkwardness behind her – the silences. This family were deeply troubled. This could get interesting.
Everyone but Lark began talking, and Ruth handed round the drinks, before making her way to the kitchen, returning five minutes later with Finn to hand out a silver platter of roast pork, and a tray of roast potatoes.
‘I’m veggie,’ Lark said brusquely.
‘I know, love, don’t worry.’ Ruth blew her damp fringe from her forehead, as she put down the serving dishes. ‘I’ve made you a quiche, love.’
‘Christ sake, I hate bloody quiche.’
‘Mum’s doing her best,’ Finn said, glaring at the girl.
Ruth touched his arm. ‘It’s fine, Finn.’ And making eye contact with Lark she said, with a smile, ‘You will enjoy my quiche, I promise.’
Once her guests were tucking in, and the room was awash with clanking cutlery and low chatter, Ruth looked at her son, who was leaning against the counter, staring at his phone. She hoped he wasn’t messaging that wife of his. She wasn’t good for him. But then she wouldn’t be back. Ruth had sent her away when she came looking for him a few weeks back. She’d had an affair – cheated on her son. She no longer deserved him.
‘By the way, everyone,’ she said to her guests, who all looked up. ‘This is my son, Finn.’
He looked up from his phone. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Great to meet you all.’
The lass with the red hair – Amelia – caught his eye, and they exchanged
