Love Always: A sweeping summer read full of dark family secrets from the Sunday Times bestselling author

‘Hello?’ someone calls from upstairs. ‘Hello? I think your grandfather needs help.’ I push open the swinging kitchen door. An old lady is standing at the top of the stairs, peering out of the dark. ‘I just came up here to use the lavatory and I heard him . . . he’s calling for someone.’

I see Louisa breaking away from her husband and Guy and hurrying towards the hall. I step out.

‘I’ll go,’ I say suddenly, watching my mother’s face. I can hear Arvind’s voice, growing louder.

‘Someone needs to come up here!’ he is squeaking. ‘Immediately!’

‘Thanks,’ I say to the old lady, who is waiting at the bend in the staircase. ‘See you later, Mum,’ I say, and I run up the stairs, my hands running along the smooth, dark wood of the banisters.

‘I do hope he’s all right,’ the old lady says, looking anxiously towards the closed bedroom door. I push it open and go in.

Chapter Nine

‘Hello, Natasha,’ Arvind says. He is sitting up in bed, small as a child, bald as a baby, his hands wrinkled and lying on the crisp white sheets. The wheelchair is parked neatly in the corner; a metal stand is next to the bed. They don’t go with the room, these metal hospital items. They don’t match.

I love this room, perhaps more than any other in the house. But here on this dark February evening the heavy brocade curtains are drawn, and it is gloomy, with only the light from a lamp on Arvind’s side of the bed. On Granny’s side the sheets are smooth, and the bedside table is empty except for a blue plastic beaker; there’s still water in it. I wonder how long it would take for it to evaporate all away.

‘What’s up, Arvind?’ I say. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I was bored,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to sleep. I wanted to put some music on, but I was prevented by your well-meaning relative.’ He nods. His teeth are on the side, in a jar. His voice is muffled.

‘Music?’ I say, trying not to smile. ‘I like Charles Trenet, so does your grandmother. When is a better time than at her funeral to play a compact disc of Charles Trenet? But that is not important.’ He taps the sheets with his fingers. They are etiolated and dry, dead twigs scraping the smooth linen. His mind is working away though, looking at me. He screws up his face. ‘Sit down.’

I sit down on the edge of the bed. ‘Do you know what the collective noun for rooks is?’ Arvind asks.

‘What?’ I say.

‘The collective noun for rooks. It has been annoying me. All day.’

‘No idea, sorry,’ I say. ‘A rookery?’

‘No.’ He glares at me in annoyance. ‘I would ask your grandmother. She would know.’

‘She would,’ I say. I glance at him. ‘It is sad,’ my grandfather says. His hands work away at the sheet. He stares up at the ceiling. ‘So, how is the atmosphere downstairs? I must admit I was not sorry to have to retire. I was finding it rather exhausting.’

‘Most people have gone,’ I say. ‘But there’s still a hard-core group left.’

‘Your grandmother was a very popular woman,’ Arvind says. ‘She had a lot of admirers. The house used to be full of them. Long time ago.’

I say, trying to keep my voice light, ‘Well, you may find a couple of them sleeping on the sofas tomorrow morning.’

He smiles. ‘Then it will be just like the old days, except they are all greyer and not that much wiser. Are you staying tonight?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I have to get back. I have a meeting with the bank. They want their money back.’

‘Oh? Why is that?’

‘Well, I’m going out of business.’

I don’t know why I tell Arvind this. Perhaps because he is not easily spooked and I know he won’t start wringing his hands or sighing.

‘I am sorry to hear that.’ He nods, as if acknowledging the situation. ‘Again. Why?’

‘I’ve been stupid, basically,’ I say. ‘Listened to people when I should have just done my own thing.’

‘But perhaps it will give you back some freedom.’

‘Freedom?’

‘The ties that bind can often strangle you,’ Arvind says, as if we were chatting about the weather. ‘It is true, in my long experience. How is Oli?’

‘Well—’ It is my turn to start smoothing the duvet down with my fingers. ‘That’s another thing, too. I’ve left him. Or he’s left me. I think it’s over.’

Arvind’s eyes widen a little, and he nods again. ‘That is more bad news.’

I put one hand under my chin. ‘Sorry. I’m not doing very well at the moment.’ My throat hurts from trying not to cry. ‘I’m sort of glad Granny doesn’t know. She was . . . well – she wouldn’t have screwed everything up like this.’

Arvind says slowly, ‘Your grandmother wasn’t perfect, you know. Everyone thought she was, but she wasn’t. She found things . . . hard. Like her daughter has. Like you.’ He gazes at the curtains, as if looking through them, out to sea, to the horizon beyond. ‘You’re all more alike than you think, you know. “The sins of the fathers shall be revisited upon the children.”’

I can’t really see what he’s talking about: Mum looks like Granny, but apart from that two more different people you couldn’t imagine. Granny, hard-working, charming, interested and interesting, beautiful and talented, and my mother – well, she’s some of those things I suppose, but she’s never really found her own niche, her own place, the way her brother has. Granny was sure of her place in the world. Wasn’t she?

A thick, velvety silence covers the room. I can hear faint noises from downstairs. A door slams, some murmured voices, the sound of crockery clattering against something. I wonder what time it is now. I don’t want to leave, but I know I will have to, and soon. Arvind is watching me, as if I am a curious specimen.

He opens his mouth to speak, slowly. ‘You look just like her,’ he says. ‘Did you know that?’

‘Like Granny?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘No. Like Cecily. You look just like Cecily.’

‘That’s funny – Louisa just said that,’ I say. ‘Really?’ A memory from long ago begins to stir within me.

‘Oh, yes.’ Arvind scratches the side of his chin with two thin fingers. ‘I thought you understood. That’s why.’

‘That’s why what?’

‘That’s why your grandmother, she sometimes found it hard to be with you. She was so proud of you. Said you had her blood running in your veins. She loved your work, loved it. But she found it very hard, at times. Because, you see, you are like twins.’

‘I – I didn’t know that,’ I say, tears springing into my eyes. ‘It’s not your fault.’ He wiggles his toes under the duvet, watching them dispassionately. I watch them too. ‘But you did look very like her. Perhaps her skin was darker, so was her hair, but the face – the face is the same . . .’ He gives a deep, shuddering sigh, almost too big for someone so tiny, and his voice cracks. ‘Cecily. Cecily Kapoor. We don’t talk about you, do we? We never do.’

He is nodding, and then he mutters something to himself. ‘What did you say?’ I ask. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. Here. Wait.’

Suddenly, like an old crab, he shuffles over and pulls open the top drawer of his bedside table. He is surprisingly agile.

‘It’s right.’ He leans forward and takes something out. ‘What’s right?’

Arvind moves back to his side of the bed again. I move forward, to plump up his pillow, but he shakes his head impatiently. His face is alive, his dark eyes dancing. ‘Have this. It was your grandmother’s. She wanted you to have it. I think you should take it now.’

Like a magician, he opens his fist with a flourish. I peer down. It is the ring Granny always wore, twisted diamond and pale gold flowers on a thin band, Arvind’s family ring, the one his father sent over for his son’s new bride all those years ago. I know it so well, but it is still startling to see it here, on my grandfather’s palm and not on Granny’s finger.