In a Kingdom by the Sea

‘You do realize that this has been a total waste of my leave,’ Mike said, coming down the stairs, leaving his charm on the landing.

I did not answer. I try to avoid rows. It achieves nothing; it just brings out the worst. I had watched Maman, a master class in wasted emotion.

Mike got a beer out of the fridge. ‘Do you really think your little empire would have toppled if you had spent a couple of days away with me? I don’t ask much of you.’

I turned to look at him. ‘You ask quite a lot, actually. You just don’t recognize it. For the first time in my life, Mike, I don’t like you very much. In fact, I can’t wait for you to get on a plane back to Pakistan …’

Mike looked shocked as I turned and walked out of the room. I had never challenged him on his moods before, but I had had enough. It was the only time, apart from when my parents died, that I had ever needed his support.

Mike slept in the spare room and when I woke he had already left to catch his flight. I had a sick hole in my stomach that he had left on a bad note, that we had not even said goodbye. But I was relieved he had gone.

I stop now by the green oak to stretch my legs. We have not spoken since he got back to Karachi. He sent me a short message to tell me that he was off to Abu Dhabi for an exhibition for airline software and I politely acknowledged his email.

Luckily, I am so busy that I don’t have much time to think about Mike. Work life is improving. I have persuaded my panicky French author that her book is wonderful and a joy to translate. Kate and Hugh have convinced me that I have an excellent record and one hiccup isn’t going to send the whole publishing world scurrying for translators elsewhere. Best of all, Dominique is in London delivering her wedding dress, and she is going to spend the night with me. We will have the house all to ourselves. It does not often happen and I can’t wait.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#ulink_d2165e05-b127-5312-ac25-e1bcaa63f597)

London, 2010

I stare down at a photo of Dominique’s completed wedding dress. It is stunning. Simple. No froth or flounce. Just a plain cream dress with petal-shaped sleeves and side panels containing hundreds of tiny shells sewn into the material.

‘I can’t quite believe I have done the final fitting and delivered it,’ Dominique says. ‘It’s been such a mammoth task.’

‘It must have been,’ I say, feeling emotional at my sister’s talent. ‘It’s breathtaking.’ I look down at the pretty smiling girl wearing Dominique’s creation. ‘She looks sublime in it. She must have been thrilled to bits.’

Dominique smiles. ‘Ellie was speechless. Her mother, Theresa, was not. She wanted her daughter floating down the aisle in yards of froth and tulle à la Princess Di. Then, one day, when I was doing a fitting, the poor girl burst into tears and told me all she wanted was a small wedding, in a simple dress, with close friends.

‘I promised her I’d make her a dress she loved, but one that was exotic enough to please her mother. It was all clandestine. Ellie came to Paris for secret fittings. I needed to cut the dress precisely so that it hung and moved with her. The panel of shells was a sudden inspiration …’

‘They must have taken weeks.’

‘They were a nightmare. There were six of us doing shifts in the end, wearing special white gloves and losing the will to live.’

‘What if the mother had ranted and raved and refused to pay for a dress she didn’t ask for?’

Dominique laughs. ‘I had Plan B, a frothy, emergency creation that I knew I could sell elsewhere, but when Ellie put the dress on Theresa just melted …’

I hug my sister. ‘I am so proud of you, Dom. You should be a wealthy woman with your talent.’

‘I do okay, Gabby. Compared to how life used to be I feel wealthy. I’m content as I am. I have loyal women working for me, I don’t want to expand and Theresa was so delighted she gave me a generous bonus on top of my fee in the end.’

‘Fantastic! So she should …! I’ve got a bottle of champagne somewhere …’

Dominique smiles at me, her old lovely smile. ‘No need to go overboard, darling.’

‘This is a celebration. How often do I get to see my sister like this? You hardly ever stay with me and it’s wonderful …’

Dominique stretches and sighs. ‘It’s perfect, darling, just what I need. Now, come on, your news. You said you had an awful February?’

I give her the story of author meltdown, Icelandic divorce and Emily’s bereavement.

‘Oh dear!’ she says. ‘Did you say Mike was back in February too?’

‘Yes, but it was impossible to take any time off. I had no Emily and I was bang in the middle of damage limitation. I’ve never had to let any publisher or agent down before and it’s especially mortifying when some of them are your friends …’

‘Poor you.’ Then she adds carefully, ‘Did Mike understand?’

‘No,’ I say before I can stop myself. I am still raw but I rein myself in. I can’t give Dominique an opening; it would make me feel guilty and disloyal. I pop the cork and fill our glasses. ‘To you, Dom!’

‘To a better month for you, Gabby! I’m sorry it’s been tough.’

The evening sun is sliding across the patio. I fill two bowls with crisps and nuts and we pull sweaters on and go and sit on the garden bench so Dominique can smoke. The magnolia tree is out and the faint musty scent of the waxy blooms wafts over.

I smile. In Cornwall the …

‘I miss the sea,’ Dominique says as if she can read my mind. ‘That blur of blue everywhere you turn …’

‘The hawthorn and gorse will be coming out now …’

Great frothy white bushes and low-lying yellow gorse shimmering over the cliffs and smelling of …

‘… marzipan filling the air and giving us constant hay fever …’ Dominique says and we both laugh.

‘When I’m homesick I walk the coastal path. I can remember every stile, kissing gate and muddy path from our house to Priest’s Cove …’ I tell her.

‘Forbidden Beach. That’s where I go.’

‘I wonder if the secret path down through the hawthorn tunnel is still there?’

‘Do you remember the tiny shells brought in by storms we sometimes found in the rock pools?’

‘Is that what gave you the idea for the wedding dress?’

‘Perhaps. Subconsciously. When I need inspiration I go back to the sea in my head. It gives me the illusion of space and freedom. At night a city is never still. Nothing stops. Do you remember that particular silence? Sitting in a field in an absence of anything but birdsong and the swoosh of the sea?’

‘I remember,’ I say and hear the sadness in my voice. ‘How small silence made you feel. I remember that beautiful fox as big as a Labrador and the buzzards weaving and diving over the cliffs …’

I remember the seals off the rocks and the spine-tingling howl a mother seal sometimes makes when they lose their young. I don’t say this, I can’t say this, for the howl is banging around inside me for the things Dominique and I seem never to be able to talk about. Even though Maman and Papa are dead we never address the elephant in the room: the catastrophic end of our idyllic childhood together.

The sun slides behind buildings leaving charcoal and pink clouds. We are in shadow. We shiver, pick up the glasses and bowls and go inside.

‘Mushroom omelette?’

‘Lovely.’

As Dominique prepares the salad for me I glance at her face. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail revealing an intent expression I know well. She wants to tell me something. It is a long time since we have been together like this, without Mike, without our children.

I slide two fluffy omelettes onto plates and Dominique pours more champagne.