The Bridesmaid
Nina Manning
For Hannah, the right friend at the right time.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
Book Club Questions
More from Nina Manning
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
1 Saxby House, Dorset, Now
The sultry heat is unusual for the British summer, even more so on the south-western coast where one would expect a cool Dorset sea breeze to offer some respite. She hasn’t felt the oppression of a long, hot summer since she herself was a child. Lying in the vast, airless master suite, she can feel it penetrating the room in the day and swaddling her like a thick blanket during the night, delivering sleep easily but bringing with it dreams of psychedelic colours, enigmatic images and voices echoing from the past. She finds she will often drift off in the middle of the day, trying to decipher who is whom from the cacophony of yelps and screams she hears coming through the prodigious bay window she keeps wide open day and night. The children seem to be thriving, running barefoot across the smouldering, cracked dusty tracks that lead up to the house, clinging to the elastic branches of the redwood, or exploring the growing wildflower meadow under the strict authority of Renata, their au pair, not to disturb the butterflies. She can often hear Renata immersing herself in the games to the point where she reverts back to a child herself, grunting and braying and spurring the children into such a hullabaloo she was never sure who was getting the most pleasure. But no matter how far she opens the great window, it makes little difference to the air, which remains stagnant and dense.
It has been a particularly bad day for her, and so she continues the habit of dragging up painful memories, clutching the letter to her chest.
She is sat up in bed, the thin cotton sheet twisted and snakelike at her feet, the pillows plump and thick behind her back and neck when the small familiar knock comes. She swiftly pushes the letter under her pillow. ‘Come, darling.’ Her voice is hollow and craggy.
The door opens an inch, and a small nose appears. She pats the sheets next to her and seven-year-old Lauren tentatively comes forward and climbs onto the bed. She takes Lauren’s small hand in hers and examines the dirt amongst the grooves of her palm and under her nails. ‘Make sure you give these a good scrub before lunch.’ Lauren nods. She keeps hold of the little girl’s hand and lets her head fall back against the pillow again, her long greying locks cascade over her shoulders and across her chest; she feels too weak to pin them up. She had always kept her hair so short and never with a speck of grey. ‘And ask Renata to help if you struggle.’ She closes her eyes, but she can sense the nod that follows, then a tight squeeze of her hand, forcing her to jolt her eyes open. Lauren is smiling back up at her as she looks down, and she takes a moment to drink the little girl in: her sunshine-strawberry-blonde hair, tussled from a morning’s play; a few new freckles have arrived on the bridge of her nose from the last few days spent outdoors. She often allows her mind to toy with the prospect of ‘what if’; a highly torturous game and one she only indulges in when she is feeling particularly lonesome or sorry for herself. Which was what she had been feeling all morning. Somehow, she needs to find a way to push it all away. She should feel more gratitude towards her situation, she knows, because, of course, from an outsider’s perspective, it all appears a perfect dream. The idyllic setting of the grand country estate, the children’s au pair and Ameel, the cook, downstairs with a name so apt it amuses the children every time they see him. Yet no matter how much space there is, how many rare and beautiful plants there are to discover and marvel over, and no matter how much confectionery and sweet delicacies are available to distract the children, it doesn’t take away the sheer panic that stays high in her chest night and day. For some things, as much as they are in the past, still haven’t been laid to rest. She knows what she needs to do, she just needs to summon the strength to do it. Lauren leans over, disturbing her memories, and gives her a kiss on her cheek. As she watches her leave the room, she can feel the cold tingle on her skin from where Lauren’s lips have just been. She allows a few moments to pass. Once she is sure she won’t be disturbed again, she pulls out the letter from under her pillow. It is yellowing around the edges and the fine writing paper is almost translucent. But she doesn’t need to re-read it to know the words that are on there. She knows them verbatim; they have been haunting her for over a decade. She knows it is time.
2 Saxby House, Dorset, August 1990
I arrived back at the cottage, my heart thumping in my mouth. The brown shoe box was clutched to my chest and I looked up at the cloudless inky blanket of sky, an infinite scattering of stars in every direction. An owl hooted loudly behind me. I was used to the sounds of the wild now, but tonight I jumped like a little girl, no longer feeling like the tenacious teenager I was.
I would soon be missed, my parents no doubt on the prowl, looking for me. Already indistinct voices approached from the main house: it was them. I needed to get back before my parents saw
