Chapter Eighteen
The Lake District is breathtakingly beautiful, just as I had always imagined it would be. Off the tourist tracks, long majestic vistas of dark lakes nestle between slopes scattered with rocky outcrops and thick with trees. We spend a gloriously happy week in a cottage overlooking the gloomy water. Windermere is the perfect winter honeymoon location. Stunning scenery, quiet and isolated, yet with plenty of pretty restaurants and cafés open for when we can’t be bothered to cook for ourselves. It isn’t too cold either, despite being so close to Christmas. Chilly and often icy, yes. But nothing too extreme, thank goodness.
It snows on the third and fourth day, but not heavily. Just enough to dust the hilltops with white, and ice the village pavements, leaving them slippery underfoot.
We sleep late most days, our limbs tangled together under warm sheets. Then we put on thick layers of clothing and hiking boots, and walk out, hand in hand, to explore the lake and picturesque village. When the weather’s too bad for walking, we stay in beside the cosy flicker of an open fire, such a lovely contrast to the storage heaters in our flat.
We watch films in the long evenings, and feed each other marshmallows dipped in chocolate fondue, sometimes making leisurely love on the rug or in the bedroom with its huge bed and decadent black satin sheets.
We have been locked in our own little heaven for six days and nights now. Locked in and ecstatic about it, deaf to the demands of our lives back in the city.
‘How did your mum find this place?’ Dominic asks, staring out over dark waters on our last day there. ‘I mean, it’s fantastic, but . . . Jesus, these hills, these lakes. It’s like something out of a film.’
As we watch, a few errant snowflakes spin out of the looming grey sky, threatening more bad weather on the way. Luckily, we’ll be on the train back to London first thing in the morning, so there’s little danger of getting snowed in now. But the increasing chill in the air is unmistakeable.
I shiver. ‘Someone recommended it to her, I think.’
‘By someone, you mean . . .’
‘Probably a diplomat.’ I smile at his wry shake of the head. ‘What?’
‘What kind of family have I married into?’
I lean against him, wearing only his T-shirt and a pair of fluffy slippers. It’s a little cold for such a skimpy outfit, but we only recently got out of bed after another lovemaking session, and the open fire he’s kindled should soon warm the small cottage.
‘I could ask the same of you,’ I say.
Dominic keeps staring out at the chilly weather, but I can feel his stillness. ‘Now what’s that supposed to mean?’ he says.
‘Well, you said some of your relatives would be at the wedding. But I only met your aunt and uncle for about five minutes, and I barely caught a glimpse of your cousins . . .’
‘They left early,’ he says, an odd note in his voice. ‘I told you they couldn’t stay long.’
Have I hurt his feelings?
Dominic lost his mum and dad in a house fire, some terrible accident while he was in his first year at university, and I feel awkward sometimes that mine are both still alive. Which is crazy, of course. But it’s hard not to wonder how he feels about his family, especially when he has so few relatives and I have . . . well, not that many. But more than him.
‘Hey, sorry.’ I snake my arms about his waist, and stand on tiptoe to kiss his throat. He looks down at me, and again there’s that hurt look on his face. ‘I was only teasing. And your aunt was lovely.’
His smile is grudging. ‘Yeah, Aunty Grace . . . she’s a laugh. Always my favourite aunt when I was a kid.’
‘So you do have other aunts.’
‘I’m not in touch with that side of the family anymore. Not since my parents died.’ There’s a wistful note in his voice. ‘You’re lucky, you know. Being so close to your mum and dad.’
‘Too close sometimes,’ I mutter.
He turns away, putting a couple of fresh logs on the hearth and poking the embers with a fire iron. We’ve had a relaxed last day together so far, drifting from the bed to the lunch table and back to bed without much conversation, neither of us willing to upset the easy dynamic between us. But there’s something we still need to discuss, regardless.
I sit on the large white sofa and pull my slippered feet up beneath me, trying to get warm. ‘We haven’t talked about Jasmine yet.’
I don’t recognise my voice, it sounds so thin and breathless.
He straightens, but does not look at me. There’s a slight flush in his cheeks, as though bending too close to the fire has overheated him.
‘Jasmine?’
‘I know you spoke to her at the wedding.’
He nods, giving nothing away. ‘Yeah, she texted me the next morning, said she’d been indiscreet. Too much beer.’
‘Indiscreet?’
‘I asked her not to get into it with you.’
I wait for him to explain. But Dominic says nothing more, carefully replacing the fire iron on its stand.
‘So?’
His gaze meets mine at last, curiously hard. ‘So?’ he echoes me.
‘She told me about the postcard.’
‘A fake,’ he says dismissively. ‘I knew it would upset you. Perhaps even ruin the honeymoon. That’s why I didn’t say anything. Jasmine knew it too, otherwise she would have contacted your family as soon as it arrived. The fact that she didn’t is pretty much self-explanatory.’
‘But why would someone do that? Send her a fake postcard from . . . from my sister?’
I can’t bring myself to say her name out loud. Even thinking it is hard. As if naming my dead sister might give her the power to be alive again.
Which is ridiculous.
Rachel.
Her name has been a secret darkness at the heart of our honeymoon. I don’t want that darkness to persist into our marriage, too. I’d rather spend a peaceful last evening here with my husband. Maybe play some Scrabble or a game of chess. Or watch another film. Or perhaps make love again.
I have to exorcise her though, whatever the cost.
‘Some people are like that,’ he says. ‘They thrive on hurting other people. On sowing the seeds of unhappiness in relationships. Especially marriages.’
‘You think someone is trying to break up our marriage?’
He shrugs.
‘Someone who doesn’t want the two of us to be together,’ I say slowly, trying to work it out. ‘And who knows exactly which buttons to press. So it has to be someone who knows me well. And who knows about Rachel. Maybe someone who knows more than I do about her death.’ I stare at the flickering fire, half mesmerised by the flames. ‘After all, I was a kid when it happened, and my parents wanted to protect me. That’s why they never discussed it afterwards, I guess.’
I frown, thinking about the eyeball in the snow globe, and my ruined wedding dress, and now Jasmine’s postcard. There’s a pattern here. A vile, twisted pattern of hostility and attack. But I can’t see what it means.
‘Well, it’s a nice theory,’ I continue, a little unnerved by Dominic’s silence. ‘But who the hell ticks all those boxes? I don’t know anyone who’s so bothered about us getting married that they’d go to all this bloody trouble.’ I pause in my little rant, looking up at him. ‘Do you?’
Dominic’s expression is grim, yet he says nothing. He stands and opens a wooden chest, taking out a soft tartan blanket, which he shakes and drapes around my shoulders. Physical comfort instead of words. Perhaps I prefer it. Right now, the fact that he’s here for me should matter more than what he says. Or doesn’t say.
‘Thanks.’ My voice is husky. I pat the sofa, which suddenly feels very big. ‘Join me?’
Dominic hesitates, then sits next to me. The sofa gives slightly under his weight and I slump towards him, not very gracefully. The T-shirt rides up, revealing my bare thighs. I see his gaze flicker across them, slowly moving higher. His hand finds my shoulder, then caresses my collarbone, the curve of my throat, his fingers trailing across my cheek.
‘You think too much,’ he tells me softly.
‘Better than too little.’
‘Not when you’re on your honeymoon.’
‘Shit, sorry.’ I bite my lip at the quiet accusation in his voice. I’m not sure how I got there, but I’m on the verge of tears. ‘I’m ruining our honeymoon, aren’t I? We were having such a peaceful time up here, hiding away from everything, and now . . .’ I suck in a deep breath. ‘Rachel always finds a way to spoil things.’
‘Forget Rachel,’ he says, almost angry.
Shaken, I meet his gaze.
‘I don’t want you to think about her again, you hear me?’ he continues. ‘Rachel is dead and gone. She can’t hurt you anymore.’
God, I want to believe him. To forget about my sister. To dismiss all the things that have been happening lately. It would make everything so much easier if I could just shut her out of my head.
I close my eyes as he kisses me.
Rachel is dead and gone. She can’t hurt you anymore.
So who sent that postcard?