‘I swear, Caitlin, the secrets of Saxby will always be safe with me.’
7 London, June 2009
Three months until the wedding
It’s been three days since I texted Caitlin about the party favours and I have a growing sense of unease. I know she is busy and likes her time to herself when she’s not working, but she didn’t need to sit on that one text all weekend. I feel ignored.
I have Immy to distract me, as she wasn’t feeling well today so has stayed off school. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her as far as I can make out. She just fancied a sneaky day off lessons. Kelly asked if we could watch her, so we said we would have her overnight. I was happy as always to oblige, mothering Immy comes easy to me. Sometimes I am overcome with annoyance at how easy it is. If I can enjoy being a stepmum to Immy, then surely I would manage as a mother to my own child. But that sneaky doubt quickly creeps back in again: am I truly good enough?
I watch Immy now, busy with my old dressing-up box that Mum brought round last time they visited. They had forgotten all about it and had only found it after having a good clear-out in the loft and had thought it would be perfect for Immy. They were right, and she loves to sit amongst it, trying on plastic pearl necklaces and glittery princess shoes. I watch her from the kitchen. I enjoy her being in the moment, no responsibilities or commitments, no issues with friends – at least not real issues just yet. I try to force myself into her mindset, to feel her oneness with the world. It lasts merely a few seconds, as I am thrust back to reality by the pinging of a message. I walk over to my phone and I am surprised to see Caitlin has finally messaged me back.
Been bit tied up this end. Do pop in this afternoon and can discuss more x
Her formality irks me but as usual I put it down to external factors. Caitlin had probably just been with an awkward client – she always has a desk-load of paperwork – or she had come off the phone from a particularly tricky conversation. I try to forget that I sent her the text three days ago.
I look at Immy playing happily. I was intending to be totally present with her today, follow her lead with games. But already I can feel my fingers itching to text Oscar. He said he could leave anytime and be home if I needed to work – he didn’t expect me to look after Immy by myself all day even though he was on site. But I had been adamant that I wanted to and had put all my work commitments to one side to be here with her. But I feel the pull towards Caitlin’s offices on the other side of town. I imagine the praise that Caitlin will offer, her relief that I have swapped the cliché candles for something a little more unique. I do need to get them signed off. I could be there in half an hour and be back to do Immy’s tea and bath.
I quickly text Oscar. I tell him a new client is in the area and I need to pop out for an hour. He replies he will be back as soon as he can, so I pop the kettle on whilst I wait – I can never guarantee getting a drink when I’m at the Miller and Anderton offices. With my tea in hand, I perch on the sofa, making myself available to Immy even though she is immersed in some role-play and hasn’t looked up at me for some time now.
As I watch her, I drift off, trying to remember when I was as small as her and how absorbed I would be with my dressing-up box and Wendy house. I’m almost staring right through her into my past when a glimpse of something in Immy’s hand yanks my attention back. A flash of white and black clutched in a tight fist, holding an object I had once clung to so many times before. I put my tea down on the table next to me and fall to my knees and crawl my way to Immy, listening to her little voice chat away to the character she has created in front of her, and closely inspect the object. It has been years since I have seen it and now my hand flexes as I reach out to grab it.
‘No! Mine!’ she says.
‘Can I just see for a moment, Immy? I’ll give it straight back.’
Immy grimaces, an over-the-top expression. The scowl doesn’t match her tone, and I know it’s just bravado – ‘only-child syndrome’ I dared to joke once, and Oscar had looked forlorn. ‘It’s not her fault she doesn’t have any siblings.’ And I had felt the force of his words.
‘If you promise.’ Immy opens her hand and I take it from her. ‘I promise,’ I say.
It’s almost as though I’ve been thrust back in time as my fingers lace themselves around the ivory structure. The muscle memory is so fierce, I could never forget the feel of such an austere object.
I am surprised to see the skeleton key still attached. I had rubbed my finger over the intricate metalwork so many times. I remember now, thinking back, the way Caitlin had told me how she was to become heir to Saxby and it had thrilled me to my core. As a twelve-year-old girl living amongst a four-hundred-year-old estate, I had been gripped by her narrative of how Ava had been written out of the will. Only now the same story disturbs me. I also remember the months after the key fell into my hands and how distraught Caitlin was.
