Even at twelve, Emily knew she couldn’t let that happen. She had to get them out of there, and if not both of them, at least Rita. With that in mind, she took Rita to one side and explained about private places, about bad touching, kissing on lips, and keeping out of the way of loud-mouthed girls with a grudge.
Being a resourceful child, Emily made the best of things, believing their difficult circumstances to be no more than a transitory phase in their lives. For weeks, it was all she could think about. She realised that if they were to get out of Summerville they would have to become irresistible, unforgettable, and Emily had the brains and the bravado to make it happen.
Days before prospective parents arrived, Emily began planning and predicting possible outcomes—a banker in the making aged twelve.
There was a series of factors to consider in her master plan. Not least of all that it would take team work to accomplish it—Emily wouldn’t be able to pull it off on her own. She would smile and make intelligent conversation—she was a good girl with lots of potential—and yet, she carried with her an air of determination that grown-ups mistakenly perceived as willfulness and no one was prepared to buy into that.
The harsh reality was that she just wasn’t pretty enough and parents looking to adopt were drawn to attractive children, reflections of themselves—as they saw it; aesthetically pleasing additions to their photo shopped personas. Emily’s wild red hair and piercing green eyes, although stunning, were more feline than feminine. They just couldn’t picture her adding anything other than an exotic twist to a family album.
Emily had been passed over more times than she could count: too old, too tall, too much to take on. Knowing that made her resilient but cautious. She trusted no one and watched over Rita with the possessiveness of a mother nurturing her first born. The seven year difference between them made it possible for her to be both sister and guardian, and she took both roles very seriously.
As far as she was concerned, Rita was their ace in the hole, their one way ticket out of there—a five year old, pretty as a picture prime candidate with blond hair, blue eyes and a beaming smile Emily had her practise until her face ached.
In the privacy of the bedroom they shared, they discussed their strategy alone. “What are you going to say to the nice visitors?” Emily would ask, prompting Rita with a wide-eyed nod.
“Hello. My name’s Rita. What’s yours?”
“Good. And then?”
“I take their hand and lead them to the table away from the other girls.”
“Show me.” Emily stood, waiting to be addressed and led away.
Rita would walk over to her, reshape her face into a sweet smile and deliver her lines as they had rehearsed. “Hello. My name’s Rita. What’s yours?” She slipped her hand into Emily’s and proceeded to lead her to the small desk by the window.
Emily would pick her up and hug her. “Brilliant! You’ve got it. The other kids don’t stand a chance.”
And it was true, to some extent. They didn’t have a masterplan or a big sister to coach them on the deployment of a charm offensive or the finer points of social etiquette, but the others didn’t need to deploy themselves with intent; they were mostly solitary acquisitions, whereas Rita and Emily came as a pair, and that was a much harder sell.
Chapter Three
Emily
LIKE A MOTH IN flight, I drifted back and forth, in and out of consciousness. The light beckoned me, but the darkness felt safe and comforting; a familiar place where my emotions could be cloaked and confined.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I caught the scent of a masculine fragrance, rich and woody with a hint of spice. I heard my name being called.
“Em. Em? I’ve made tea. Take a sip while it’s hot.”
With my senses triggered, I gave in to the light; stark and snowy white, so bright it hurt my eyes. “What time is it?”
Paul handed me the steaming mug. “It’s three thirty. What time did you come to bed?”
“I don’t know. When I got back from the church, I suppose.” I sat up in bed realising I was still wearing my black dress. Thankfully, I’d removed my boots, coat and gloves. They sat in a black mound on the floor by the bed like an oil spill. I sipped the tea, relishing the comforting taste of home; breakfasts spent discussing the news and counting hazelnuts in cereal with Rita.
Rita…
Noticing my vacant expression, Paul sat on the edge of the bed. His dark eyes searching mine for clues as to my mental state. He knew I never slept in the day, seldom took a break from my nine to five routine to crawl into bed, but I’d been doing that a lot lately.
“How did it go? Did you get to hear the service?” He inspected the empty wine bottle.
I nodded. “It went as well as expected. They didn’t see me and I paid my respects, sort of…” I pushed back curls from my face. “I didn’t want to cause a scene. You know what they’re like….” I bowed my head. It was all coming back to me.
“I know.” My right hand felt warm nestling between his. He tipped his head in the direction of the bottle. “Did you drink the full bottle?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t remember.”
He slotted it under his arm. “Do you want to go back to sleep or get up? I can make you something to eat.” He took the mug from my hand. “What do you fancy?”
I shook my head. The mere thought of food made me queasy.
“You’ll have to eat something, Em, or you’ll make yourself ill.” He pushed more stray curls from my forehead. “What’s happened is tragic, but you taking to your bed and not eating doesn’t help anyone—least of all you. You’ve been like this for days and I’m worried about you.”
I forced a smile. “I know you are. I must seem like a drama queen. But, what happened is so unlike Reet. She loved life, she wouldn’t have—”
“Look! We’ve been over this a thousand times. You can’t keep beating yourself up over something your sister did or didn’t do. It’s not going to bring her back.” His one-handed fist tightened over mine. “People do unexpected things.” He shook his head. “Even people you think you know really well. It happens, Em.”
Like a desperate woman clinging to a ledge, I hung on to the thought that she would have told me if she was worried about something. I would have detected it in her voice…
Why didn’t I pick-up on it?
“But I should have known. It’s a sister’s job to know. I let her down, Paul.” I choked back tears. “I wasn’t there for her when she needed me. How can I live with myself, knowing that?”
Paul threw back the duvet. “You get up in the morning, put one foot in front of the other and get through it until the pain becomes manageable. You’re not the one who’s dead, Em. The last thing she’d want would be for you to fall apart. She’d expect more from you.”
I knew he was only trying to help, trying to shake me out of it. After all, I’d been grief-stricken for weeks; I’d stayed home, disregarded my job, and not eaten or slept properly. The nights were torturous; what with the nightmares, finding myself cocooned in sweaty sheets like larva and then having to relive the nightmare in daylight…