Love Always

stronger. The bank wil extend my loan and I wil have a means to live.

Someone wil give me a break.

And then I think about the diary in my bag. I frown. I nearly mention it to him, but I remember what my grandfather said. Guard it carefully.

Jay doesn’t see, he doesn’t know, how could he? He kisses me on the cheek, and I climb into the large vehicle. We’re right at the back. It is dark and it’s been raining.

‘Are we ready?’ Mike cal s in his soft, comforting voice. ‘Yes,’ Octavia and I say in chorus, and then someone thumps on the window and we both jump.

‘Nat darling, bye.’ My mother is standing in the driveway, her hands pressed against the wet windows of the car, her hair hanging in her face, peering through at us. ‘We’l speak. Keep me posted.’ She is speaking much too loudly, and I wonder if she’s drunk; she looks a bit hysterical. ‘I’m sorry.’

I have already said goodbye to her, in the sitting room. I press my hand up to the glass so it mirrors hers. ‘Bye, Mum,’ I say. Behind her, Jay comes forward and puts his arm around her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. ‘Take care, darling.’

And the car pul s away as she stands there with Jay, watching us go. I can’t see the house, it’s too dark, and I’m relieved. I realise I’m glad to be getting out of there.

There’s a silence, broken only by the ticking of Mike’s indicator as he waits to turn into the main road.

‘Is your mother OK?’ Octavia asks, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘She’s been acting strangely al day, even for her.’

I don’t like her tone and I’m not in the mood for Octavia and her ‘my family grievances’ corner. ‘It was her mother’s funeral today,’ I say. ‘I think that’s reason enough.’ And then I add, unwisely, ‘We’re not al robots, you know.’

‘Are you talking about me?’ Octavia says. She is facing forward, doesn’t look at me. ‘Do you mean my family?’

Oh, dear. I am too tired and my head’s whirring with too many thoughts to keep a hold of what I say.

‘We’re al family,’ I tel her. ‘I just mean it’s hard for her today, that’s al . We should cut her some slack.’

At this Octavia turns to me, her long nose twitching. It is dark on the quiet country road, and her face is marbled with moonlight, giving her a ghoulish appearance. I remember suddenly, I don’t know why, that she played a witch in her school play when she was twelve. Jay and I found it hilarious.

‘We’re not family,’ she says. ‘Er –’ I say. ‘We are, Octavia. Sorry about that.’

She smiles. ‘You have such weird ideas, Natasha. We may be related – our mothers are cousins, that’s al . We spend the occasional holiday together. We’re not proper family, I’m thankful to say.’

I stare at her. ‘If you’re not proper family,’ I say, ‘how come your mother’s been bossing everyone around and drafting in people to value the house before Granny’s even in the ground? If you’re not family how come she dragged you down here every year to have a lovely holiday? I don’t remember you complaining about it!’ I am laughing. She’s so stupid.

Octavia purses up her lips and sighs, but her eyes are glittering and I know, somehow, I know I’ve walked into a trap.

‘Like I say,’ she says slowly, as if I’m an idiot. ‘We are not family, Natasha. My mother is very fond of – was very fond of her aunt. She—’ She pauses. ‘She loved her. She felt Franty needed someone to look out for her, to take care of her after Cecily died. After al , no one else was. Your family certainly wasn’t.’

‘They were –’ I begin, but she holds up a hand. ‘You’re living in a dreamworld, Natasha,’ Octavia says, icily calm. ‘Your grandfather lives in his own head. He doesn’t notice half the stuff that goes on right under his nose. Your uncle pretends everything’s a big joke and waits to see what his sister tel s him to do, and as for her, as for your mother . . . Wel . Your mother’s the last person she’d ask for help.’

I think of Mum’s sad face, pressed up against the glass, of her defeated expression during our conversation about Oli, and I feel protective of her. It’s so easy to paint her as difficult, as a flake, and it’s not fine any more, especial y not today. ‘Look, Octavia,’ I say, as patiently as I can. ‘I know my mother’s not like your mother—’

‘You’re tel ing me!’ she says, with a cruel shout of mirth. ‘Just because she’s different, doesn’t mean she’s – she’s evil.’

Evil. Where have I heard that word recently? Octavia is stil smiling with that patronising look on her face and suddenly I get angry. I’m sick of her and her ‘family’, with their smug we’re-so-perfect ways, her boring bored father, her interfering uncle and her eager-beaver mother Louisa, sticking her nose in, trying to show us al up . . . ‘Just because Mum didn’t move to Tunbridge Wells,’ I say, as if it’s the most disgusting place in the world. ‘Just because she hasn’t worked in the same office her whole life, just because she doesn’t have a stupid special compartment in her sewing box for name tags, OK? It doesn’t mean she’s a bad person, Octavia.’

I’m shaking, I’m so angry. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ she says. ‘I didn’t realise, you have absolutely no idea about your mother. No idea at al !’

She stares at me, faux concern on her face. ‘Oh, Natasha.’

‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘You al right in the back there?’ Mike cal s to us.

We freeze. ‘Oh, yes!’ Octavia says quickly, smilingly, and then she turns to me, lowers her voice, and hisses, ‘ Do you really not know the truth about her? ’

Her face is right next to mine. I shake my head, trying to look unconcerned.

‘Whatever, Octavia. I’m not interested.’

Octavia’s face is pale, so close to mine. I can see her open pores, the down of hair on her cheek, smel her