‘You do realize you’re in no way obligated to fulfill your promise to Ginny, don’t you my dear?’
Her attention turned to Father Joyce once more.
‘You did more than enough by being there and offering comfort in her final moments, and it was very good of you to come today.’
‘It wasn’t really; I think my reasons might be rather selfish. I was hoping by coming that I’d be able to move forward from what happened that afternoon. I haven’t been sleeping well, you see.’
‘Oh, dear, dear. Nightmares?’
‘No, I thought I might have bad dreams, but I feel like I haven’t been dreaming at all. It just takes me forever to drift off because my mind keeps replaying Ginny’s last moments over and over.’
He patted her arm. ‘It will get better. It might just take a bit of time. Do you think coming to the funeral today has helped?’
‘I don’t know Father Joyce. I really just don’t know.’
Chapter 3
Isabel poked her head out from under the duvet like a turtle stretching its neck from its shell before rubbing at her eyes; they felt puffy and gritty. It was a sure sign she’d slept heavily, oh, and the spot behind her knees was driving her mad. She reached down and scratched it, knowing it would make it worse but unable to resist the burning itch any longer. It had taken her forever to get to sleep something she was getting used to, but it didn’t help that her body clock was up the wop, and it had felt like the bed was rolling thanks to the thirty-plus hours flight home she’d stepped off yesterday.
She looked blankly around at her surroundings. Unfamiliar plush claret curtains with gold tassel tie–backs, a faux Louis-whatever-he-was chair in the corner of the room with yesterday’s clothes draped over its seat. The striped wine and gold duvet she was wrapped up in was not one she’d seen before either.
It took a few ticks for her to register that she was home in her old bedroom. Gone was the pink everything and white princess dressing table that had lived here for as long as she could remember. It was the framed artsy black and white print of Princess Diana on the wall opposite her that gave the game away. Her mum’s attempt to make her only child’s room look like the guest room she’d hankered after most of her married life. The two- up two-down where Isabel had grown up did not allow for an attic extension even if the finances had, so her daughter’s empty bedroom was the next best thing! Her parents had worked hard all their married life, and she’d never gone without a thing, but her mum had, and a guest room at long last was the silver lining in Isabel packing her bags and leaving home.
Barbara Stark or Babs as she liked to be called was a staunch royalist. Isabel had only been five when the Princess of Wales had died, but she could still recall the histrionics and her mum’s insistence on wearing black for the best part of a month. These days she was a regular commentator on Kate Middleton’s latest look, and the birth of George and Charlotte had been akin to the arrival of her own grandchildren. The breaking news of a new baby had warranted an urgent middle of the night in Australia Skype call. For her part, Isabel was grateful to the young royals. She’d sent a silent thank you to Wills and Kate for taking the pressure off her to settle down and provide her parents with a grandchild as she flitted over to the other side of the world in search of adventure.
Well, she was back now, and she’d told mum the print had to go as she dropped her pack on the bedroom floor yesterday afternoon. Her mum’s face took on the pained expression that Isabel knew meant she’d already lost the argument. She’d then insisted it was a well-known fact that to remove a photograph of royalty from one’s home was bad luck—especially a late member. Oh yes, Babs had stated knowingly, patting her freshly blow-waved hair the trip to Heathrow Airport had warranted, to do so would invoke the ancient curse of the House of Windsor.
She’d gone on to play the, and you had left home card saying that she didn’t need to invoke any curses given her age. Isabel had eyed her suspiciously. She was fairly sure she’d made the whole curse thing up, and her mum was only nudging sixty. Nevertheless, she dropped her case on the grounds of knowing it was pointless to protest. Hence the beaming Diana that was here to greet her the moment she opened her eyes.
She yawned and stretched not knowing what time it was, but the dull light peeping through the gap where the drapes didn’t quite meet signaled morning had broken. She heard the drone of the radio in the kitchen beneath and guessed her mum would be going about her morning routines before heading off to her part-time job at the Asda Superstore. If that were the case, then it would be around 8 a.m. which meant she’d slept for twelve hours solid. She wondered if her dad had already left for work. The temptation to snuggle back down to sleep tugged at her, but she fought off the urge and pulled herself upright. The sooner she got herself back into a routine the better. Her hand fluttered up to her hair. Yes, as she’d suspected her curls were matted. She probably looked, given its current colour as though she had a laurel wreath atop her head.
‘I bet you never woke up looking anything but gorgeous, and I guarantee you brushed your teeth before bed each night,’ she muttered to Princess Di. She was normally diligent on that front, but
