Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (read book txt) 📗

towards the kitchen. That’s when the velvet dress catches my eye again. I only see it for a moment. It must be Rachel, heading down to the cellar, following somebody. I can’t see who, and in a split second they are both gone.

I stare after them. Who was that? Was it a guy? Was it Charlie? The two of them have been together most of the night. What the hell are they planning on doing in the cellar? I feel my body stiffening. I can imagine what Charlie might want to do in a cellar. He likes enclosed spaces. Places that are cool and dark. Come on, Katie. Too stupid. Don’t think about it. Don’t.

In the kitchen, I find a dirty glass on the sideboard and rinse it to pour myself a glass of water. A large one. Then when I’ve finished it, I pour myself more wine, stumble back to my spot at the end of the garden. It’s nice out here. I light another of my cigarettes – where did they come from? No matter, no matter. I sit on the grass and watch the fire. After a while it starts to swim in front of me, as if it is burning under water.

A figure emerges from the smoke and darkness. Charlie. He is grinning. I frown, take another drag, determined not to let a smile show on my face, hating the way my heart lifts up in my chest at the thought that he has come to find me.

‘All right?’ he says cheerfully. He passes me a beer.

‘I brought wine. Thanks.’

He shrugs, puts the beer on the grass, twisting it into the earth so that it stands up.

I glance over at Charlie’s clothes. He is covered in dust. My stomach twists. So that was him, going down into the cellar with Rachel.

‘You’re a mess,’ I tell him. I brush the dust off his leg. I can hear the slur in my speech, feel the clumsiness of my movements.

He looks down at his clothes, then back up at me. ‘You’re wearing a dress.’ He grins again.

I smile without meaning to, look away. ‘I do that occasionally.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he says, ‘I’ve been down to the cellar. Wanted to see the Grand Designs.’

He doesn’t mention Rachel. I feel a tightening in my heart. I want to ask but stop myself.

‘How’s it looking down there?’

‘Like a load of wet concrete. They only laid the foundation today. Too wet for me to even write my name in. Can I have a drag?’

I roll my eyes, but pass him the cigarette. He takes it, his fingers brushing against mine. I close my eyes. I long to put my face against his chest.

‘I can’t understand why they’re doing it,’ he says.

I turn to look at him. His voice is different now. Does he sound upset?

He takes a drag. ‘Dad always said the house was perfect. That it didn’t need a thing. I always thought Helen thought that too.’

‘Helen didn’t talk to you? Before they went ahead with the work?’

He shakes his head, takes another drag of the cigarette.

‘No,’ he says. ‘She didn’t.’

The fire crackles in front of us. I study his face in the flames, but I can’t make out the expression on his face. I have never asked him how he feels about the terms of the will. I got the impression it was pretty simple in the end – that Rory would get the family firm, that Helen would get the family home, and that Charlie would get everything else, a sort of cash equivalent. I have sometimes wondered whether he got the raw end of the deal. But for all his faults, Charlie has never been bothered about money.

‘Rachel seems nice,’ I say carefully.

He frowns, looks at me, head tilted to one side.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean she seems nice.’ I pull my jacket around myself. ‘I saw you talking to her, that’s all.’

Charlie stubs the cigarette out on the tree at the back of the garden.

‘I see.’

‘Oh, do you?’

‘Yes.’

We sit in silence for a moment. Charlie cranes his neck, trying to catch my eye.

‘Oi.’ He is laughing at me. ‘Come here, will you? I’m cold.’

‘No, you’re not,’ I say, shrugging his hand off my shoulder. ‘There’s a great big fire right in front of us.’

‘I am. I’m freezing.’ He slips his fingers in between mine. Pulls me towards him, forces me to meet his eye. Then he kisses me on the mouth. Despite myself, I smile in the darkness.

SERENA

When I walk into the kitchen, Helen is leaning over the sink, gripping its porcelain edge, her face dropped down between her arms.

‘Helen?’

She turns round. A stripe of sweat glistens across her forehead; her eyes sit in deep blue-grey hollows. She looks hot and cold at once; flustered, haunted. When her eyes focus on mine, I realise her pupils are dilated. It is as if she takes a moment to register that it is me.

‘Serena.’ She sounds relieved. ‘I didn’t see you.’

She pulls a shaking wrist up to her face, wipes her nose with her cardigan cuff.

‘Are you all right? You’ve got a bit of tree in your hair.’

I reach out to twist the twig out of the stray hairs on the top of her head. It is extraordinary, Helen’s hair. Such a vivid red. Russet, I think you would call it. Helen looks up gratefully.

‘I was in the garden. I thought I saw Monty near the fire. I was trying to bring him inside but …’ A look of confusion crosses her face, briefly, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. ‘I think I disturbed someone. Or rather, two people. Down at the bottom, in the … at the back.’

I cringe, smile sympathetically. I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Between the fire and the emptying of Helen’s parents’ old spirits cabinet, the party has taken on something of a bacchanalian air. The garden is foggy with bonfire smoke and the smell of weed, the dining and