And then suddenly I do notice them, and everything makes dreadful, shocking sense.
Chapter 41
Caz
‘Could you pass me my cufflinks?’ Andy says, fiddling with his shirt sleeves.
I hand them to him. ‘I take it the whole family is going to be there?’
‘Of course.’ He tweaks his tie in the mirror. ‘That’s not going to be a problem, is it?’
‘Not for me.’
I leave him to finish dressing and go out onto the deck, leaning on the railing and gazing across the vast, empty stretch of beach in front of me. A warm breeze lifts my hair as the tide washes over the rocks below, and I’m briefly soothed by the susurration of the waves on the honey-coloured shingle. The rest of the Roberts family is staying up in the main hotel, but for some reason Celia has put the two of us down here at the separate Beach House, in the most breathtaking accommodation of all. Nestled into Burgh Island’s rock face, the villa has stunning panoramic sea views, and absolute privacy. I couldn’t have chosen a location to suit my purposes better myself. To paraphrase Ridley Scott’s famous Alien tagline: At the beach, no one can hear you scream.
Andy finally emerges onto the balcony, looking suave and debonair in his black tie. The real monsters aren’t seamy, sleazy oddballs with lank hair and dead eyes who lurk in back alleys and dark corners. They’re pleasant family men who live among you, handsome and charming, the last people you’d ever suspect.
‘Ready?’ he asks.
I smile. ‘Looking forward to it.’
But it’s all I can do not to flinch when he takes my bare arm. The touch of his hand on my skin makes me want to vomit. Another few hours, I tell myself. It will all be over in a few hours.
Oddly, for such an important decision, I don’t remember actually making it. There was no internal debate, no moral dilemma. A lorry hurtles towards your child, and you fling yourself unthinkingly in its path. A bottle is thrown at you, and you duck. There’s no thought, no weighing up of options. Your survival instinct kicks in, whether you want it to or not. Stop him yourself, my mother said. The part of me that is Kit’s mother and Andy’s wife recoils in horror from what has to be done, but the other part of me, the darkest, most honest side, feels only recognition at its inevitability: yes, of course. This is how my story ends, how my story has always ended. I didn’t stop my father, but I can stop Andy.
We walk up the cliff path to the hotel, and I feel oddly weightless and detached, as if I am watching myself from a distance. There is Caz, in her long grey silk column of a gown, arm in arm with her handsome husband in his black tie and gold cufflinks. Here comes their gorgeous little boy, running across the grass towards them, his russet-haired half-brother whooping in his wake, the two of them joyously brandishing plastic seaside windmills. Look at Caz bend down, exclaiming over her son’s toy. Look at her husband scoop a child up beneath each arm, whirling them around before placing them, laughing and stumbling, back on the ground. The perfect, photogenic, modern blended family.
Stepbrother, I correct mentally. I’ve no idea who Tolly’s biological father really is, but it certainly isn’t Andy.
‘Mummy!’ Kit cries, thrusting the windmill at me. ‘Look what Gree gave me!’
‘How lovely, sweetheart. Have you and Tolly been having fun?’
‘He let me play with his mini-drone!’ my son exclaims. ‘You can make it fly in the air with just your hand! And he says I can play with his robot puppy later. Can I have a robot puppy, Mummy?’
‘We’ll see,’ I say noncommittally.
‘Can Kit stay in my room tonight?’ Tolly asks.
I smile at the little boy and ruffle his thick curls. Such gorgeous hair; I wonder if he gets it from his father. ‘Of course, if Mummy doesn’t mind.’
Louise is standing in the doorway to the Palm Court, a carefree smile pinned to her face for Andy’s benefit. She’s clearly made a serious effort with her appearance this weekend. She’s had a new haircut, a razor-sharp reverse bob, which makes her fair hair look much thicker, and takes years off her. I detect Min Roberts’ hand behind both the hair and the stunning scarlet dress she’s wearing. Louise never usually wears colour. Her go-to palette favours drab greys and boring neutral sludge shades, what Celia would no doubt call ‘taupe’ and ‘bone’ and ‘ecru’, but which the rest of the world knows as beige. I shoot Andy a sideways glance, and see his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
She steps out onto the terrace as we reach her. Andy goes to kiss her cheek, but for some reason, Louise subtly pretends not to notice and evades him.
My eyes narrow. What does she know, this woman who was married to my husband for more than a decade? Does she have any idea what he’s done to her daughter? I would say it’s not possible, no woman would knowingly let this happen to her child, but of course I know from bitter experience that isn’t true.
‘How are you settling in down at the Beach House?’ Louise asks me as we watch the two boys chase each other around the lawn. ‘It’s such a lovely room. I know it’s a bit of a walk up to the main hotel, but so worth it, don’t you think?’
I’m not about to admit this to Louise, but actually, I don’t think I’ve ever stayed anywhere this beautiful. According to the leaflet in our room, Agatha Christie wrote and set two of her novels at the Burgh Island Hotel. (‘It’s pronounced “Bear” Island, dear,’ Celia told me scathingly, when I called to confirm we’d be coming). When the books were turned into movies, they were filmed on location; I remember Hercule Poirot crossing the beach at low tide on the sea tractor. The romance of the image stayed with me, but I never dreamed I’d ever stay here. Sometimes I forget just how far I’ve come in the last ten years.
‘Where’s Bella?’ Andy asks, clicking his fingers to summon a waiter out onto the terrace. Normally I hate it when he behaves like that, but tonight, it barely registers. ‘She is joining us for dinner, isn’t she?’
‘She’s gone down to the cove to meet her friend off the sea tractor,’ Louise says.
‘I thought it was just family tonight?’ Andy says irritably.
Louise shrugs. ‘Bella wanted some moral support. Kit and Tolly have each other, and it’s a bit boring for her on her own, so Mum said it was OK for her to have her friend come early.’
His jaw tightens. ‘Which friend?’
Louise is distracted by the waiter hovering discreetly at her elbow, waiting to take our order. ‘We’ll have drinks inside,’ she says with patrician authority. ‘My mother hates sitting outside in the summer.’
We follow her into the hotel. I can’t help a slight gasp as we enter, taken aback by the exquisite beauty of the high, domed Art Deco glass ceiling above our heads. ‘I know, isn’t it wonderful?’ Louise laughs, as if the credit for its breath-snatching loveliness belongs entirely to her.
There’s the sound of chatter and laughter from the hotel reception. Moments later, Celia and Brian Roberts come into the Palm Court, followed by Bella and Taylor. I sense Andy stiffen beside me. Celia’s always made him oddly nervous. I suspect he’s afraid she’ll see right through his cufflinks and handmade shoes and pretentious middle-class veneer to the working-class boy beneath.