My car is still parked in the car park of the bridal shop, so after much protestation, I manage to get Caitlin to start walking the few hundred metres back.
Half an hour later, we arrive at Caitlin’s six-bedroom Knightsbridge townhouse, a Grade II listed family house that she had picked up for a cool fourteen million several years ago. Having spent so many years living at Saxby, I am used to such splendour, but it doesn’t detract from the fact that Caitlin lives in a beautiful house. The self-contained staff flat next door with its own entrance, built for a live-in nanny, still stands empty. I wonder if Caitlin and Chuck will ever have any children.
Caitlin, who is barely able to stay upright, tries to fish her keys out of her bag. I take the bag from her and let us in. We are greeted by a flustered Rosalie, Caitlin’s Filipino maid, who works long hours in Caitlin’s already perfectly immaculate house. At Saxby, the décor was old and there was always the reminder that several children came to stay many times throughout the year. Here in Caitlin’s own home, the sofas never appear sat in, the kitchens are spotless; it’s like staying in a grand hotel. Even Rosalie wears a traditional black-and-white uniform like a hotel maid. Whenever I am here, I try to use the same energy I used when I was at Saxby: to feel the wealth and success enough that I can manifest it into my own life. I often wonder how things might have been different for me if I were the one with all the money. Would I be the one who was about to become Mrs Charles Everly-Beckwith?
There is no sign of Chuck; they are still splitting their time between his flat and here. I believe Chuck is intending on officially moving in after the wedding. And I’m glad it’s just me here; I haven’t spent any time with both Caitlin and Chuck together for many months.
I take Caitlin by the arm and steer her towards the closest kitchen. Rosalie looks on in bewilderment, repeating, ‘Miss Anderton,’ over and over. I assure her Caitlin’s fine and get her to the kitchen on the ground floor where I settle her on the chaise longue and go over to the pristine, sparkling kitchenette and flick on the kettle. I make a strong coffee and place it on the small table next to the Caitlin who is almost passed out; I think for a moment I can hear her snoring, but as I lean in closer, I realise she is not. I lean in even closer to make sure I’m not imagining it. And sure enough, I can hear Caitlin muttering. She had done it for two or three years when we were kids, before suddenly stopping. I had never heard her do it again, until now. Back then, I had never managed to get close enough to Caitlin when her murmurings began, but here I am able to get a better sense of what it was she saying, even if it were just the occasional word.
Caitlin’s mouth is moving, and occasionally I can make out a selection of words: ‘Tried… left me alone… come back… see you.’ And then her mouth stops moving, her breath deepens, and I realise she is asleep.
16 Saxby House, Dorset, April 1989
I was so glad to see some colour in the garden again. Before we moved to Saxby, I had never seen such an array of technicolour. Once winter came to Saxby, and the colours faded and the trees were bare, I missed them terribly. I had seen the white flowers that bordered the ground, which we were assured was wild garlic, but I had largely ignored them until Dad told me and Mum to get out there and start picking. Josephine gave Mum a recipe book for foraging called Wild Food For Free, and we were going to make a wild garlic salad with a wild garlic dressing for supper. It was nothing like Mum had ever made before, but Dad said she should be embracing country living. I wasn’t sure, but I said I would give it a go, even though I would have quite liked pizza and chips.
It was the Easter holidays, and I had just turned thirteen. Finally, I was a teenager. I knew Caitlin would be arriving later today and would be jealous that I had become a teenager before her. I hadn’t seen her since New Year. Easter, summer, and Christmas were the longest holidays at her private school, and during the half-term in February, she went skiing, and in the summer half-term she visited her other granny in Belgium. I was excited to see her again, as this was the longest period we had gone without seeing each other. Enough time had lapsed since the New Year’s Eve drama, although I still thought about that evening, but not nearly as much as I had during the weeks after it happened.
Caitlin and I had written to one another throughout the winter months, and Dad said we were like a pair of wartime lovers. Mum had given him a wide-eyed look and Dad pulled his mouth down in return; I wasn’t sure what either of their expressions meant.
Caitlin’s letters were full of hope, excitement and promises. I wished she would bring with her the Caitlin in her letters. I thought that maybe this would be the Easter we would settle into the friendship that we were meant to have.
I tried to ignore the other feelings that crept in, trying to overtake the joy, which was the emotion I wanted to feel about our friendship. After all, we were just two young girls, who shared passions and ideas and games, although some of which were occasionally at my expense. Mum said because Caitlin went to a private school, where there were
