One Silver Summer Page 15

  The policeman dropped his cigarette, stubbing it out with a steel-toe cap. He stepped forward with his hand out. Alex shook it. Wary. The man had a grip like a boxer and a face to match.

  “Sir, I’m Inspector James Harrison. Your new protection officer.”

  “Alexander. You’re very early.” Pressure in his chest.

  “Sorry about that. Palace orders.”

  “I see. How long have I got to get ready?” Feigning indifference: struggling inside.

  How would he get past him?

  “Soon as you’re ready, sir. Press are gathering at the gates.”

  “More press?” Alex choked back his dismay. “And Miss Emerson, have we sent police around to her?”

  Wherever Sass was staying in the village, there’d be reporters camped nearby. The new policeman looked at him. His gaze firm. Unbending. This was his job and he didn’t intend to lose it like his predecessor.

  “I expect so, sir, but I suggest you pack. I’m here if you need me.”

  Alex shook his head, twitchy as if someone was flicking his brain.

  “I have to do something first.”

  “That depends …” said his policeman steadily.

  “It’s private.” Spoken too quickly.

  “I think you know, sir, the importance of listening to orders.”

  “Well …” Alex spluttered, hot under the collar. “I’m telling you, there’s something I still have to do. I have to see someone … a girl.” No point in pretending. He appealed to the man behind the suit. Not happening. He might have been a prince, but he didn’t make the rules.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s like I said. We’re out of here at”—the man looked at his watch—“seven o’clock.”

  Fifteen minutes.

  Alex was screwed. It wasn’t a question of try harder; there’d be a detailed route, secured from A to Z, with every letter covered in between in case, one day, his life depended on it.

  Think! He felt the weight of the key in his pocket and turned it between his fingers. Drawing out his hand, palm up, he saw the faded ink stain. Had he time to write her a note? “Think of it as romantic,” she’d murmured, right after he kissed her the first time. He’d write to her now, if she wanted to read it …

  “Look, inspector, I’ve left something undone, something important … on the yard.”

  “No messing?” His copper scrutinized him but his face creased kindly. “Be quick, then; I’m right behind you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s all right, sir. And it’s Jim.”

  Alex legged it down to the tack room. Inside, he scrabbled around for a pen and paper, found the stump of a pencil and an old hay invoice. Hardly romantic. What did you say to the girl you’d lied to, then kissed time and again, and then blamed for something that may have been beyond her making? He started scribbling, pressing so hard that he went through the paper. Three words he needed to say.

  Alex looked up when he finished. Now all he had to do was get it to her. His eyes lit on Amy brushing Bo on the yard in the hazy sunshine. He’d ask her to take it to Sass at her uncle’s gallery. She’d do it, of course. He and Amy had been friends for a long time.

  Less than ten minutes later, Alex slumped in the back of the car, hidden behind its blacked-out windows as the muddled green lanes from Trist became B roads, then A roads that straightened out into motorways. Six long hours back to London.

  The Range Rover accelerated smoothly through the golden gates of Kensington Palace, past the crowds of tourists and the rest. As they drew up at the main house, Alex saw his father waiting in person. Unusual. He even stepped forward to open the car door, his face lined and drawn.

  “Good to see you, Alex.”

  He didn’t sound happy.

  “You too … I …” Alex was lost for words; his father was often stern, but rarely miserable.

  “No need to say anything now. Let’s get you inside.”

  He turned to Jim, who stood respectfully back.

  “Thank you, inspector.” Jim nodded. Fellowes went to follow, but his father put up his hand with a faint frown.

  “I’ll take it from here. Thank you for bringing him back in one piece.”

  They walked up to the apartment. Even in this green part of London, Alex felt the cage of the city close around him. The belch of traffic, the thump of building works, the whoop of a siren. Even the water in the fountain went around in an endless circuit.

  He was a monkey in a zoo.

  Only when he shrugged off his rucksack did he begin to relax. His father’s butler, Barrow, took the half-empty bag without a raised eyebrow. Alex often wondered what he really thought of the family he worked for.

  Puffy-eyed and bloodshot, his father looked exhausted. Here we go. Alex expected a cold blast of disapproval, but instead his father reached out and put a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “I’m glad you’re here. This hasn’t been easy for you … for any of us. The talk of a divorce is giving the press a field day and I’m afraid you’re rather caught up in the whole sorry affair.” He murmured the last word, hung his head, and grimaced to keep his composure.

  Weirdly, Alex felt his own shoulders sag like he’d been holding up something huge. He slumped against his father. The relief at resting his aching head on his old man’s shoulder, breathing in cigar and cologne. A million miles from a girl with tangled hair who tasted of chocolate and rain.

  Sass lay curled up in bed. A crab beneath a rock. As the midday sun snuck around, she stuck her head out from under her pillow. On the floor beside her was yesterday’s Daily Sun. It wasn’t shining on her anymore.

  Jessie had come up earlier with a cup of tea and the excuse of taking Harry out, but Sass had burrowed deeper, blocking out the world. Seabirds squabbled and screeched. Boats rattled. Dogs barked. Life went on without her, everything the same, as if nothing had changed. Nothing. She hugged the untruth of that like a cramp in her stomach.

  Sometime later, when the watery sunlight began to dip, crab-girl stirred. She rolled on her stomach, put her hand down to the floor, and slid over the front page.

  Alex was holding her hand in the photo, a split-second moment captured in a click. She had just touched his hair, tousled from the salt. She remembered only the feel of his thumb and that his eyes had been so dark, and earnest. They’d been good together, hadn’t they? So why hadn’t he believed her? She’d never have told.

  Sass sat up and wrenched a strip off the newsprint. Followed it with another frustrated tear, and then a sharper rip. One piece at a time, paper petals of heartache.

  “He loves me.

  “He loves me not.

  “He loves me.”

  So many times that she soon lost count, until the last one, which floated to the floor in a draft from the open window.

  “He loves me not.”

  Sass looked in dismay at the scattered pieces about her knees. A tiny scrap lay in her lap and her heart beat faster. She pressed her finger to it and turned it over. His face looked up from the paper. “He loves me …” she whispered. She knew it inside, clamshell-tight, so it had to be true.

  A beady-eyed seagull landed on the open window and squawked. She could see right down its throat, past its mean yellow beak with a red splotch like a bloodstain. Get away! Sass clapped her hands and jumped up, and the bird took off with a noisy cry.

  Why did Alex care so much about what people thought? Wasn’t he used to it? The reporters at the gate were scary, but they were kind of doing a job. People didn’t think about gossip for long, did they? They just repeated it, or didn’t much think about it at all. It wasn’t like she was anyone special.

  Not like he was.

  Alex had said that secrets were the best and worst. What did that mean? Because if their secret was out, then the worst had happened. Couldn’t they just get back to being the best? Or was he just using this as an excuse to break up?

  She kicked off her bedding and swung her feet out of bed; tugged on
her jeans and a sweater. He was a prince. That complicated matters, but really, get over it! Nobody had died.

  Sass threw a pillow off the bed, which bumped an easel that took out a canvas, and they all went crashing to the floor. There was only one way to find out how he felt about her. If she went to the meadow, then Alex might come, and then … and then she’d know. It was time to take a deep breath and get up again.

  She opened the loft door a crack, cautious of reporters. A bunch of them were sitting on the harbor wall like gulls hoping to be fed. She closed it again and went out the back window. Outside, the sky was a purple bruise as Sass ran over the hill. Without the key, the wall needed climbing, and the ivy was slippery from yesterday’s rain. Cobwebs glistened and the thorns of a bramble rose clutched at her clothes as she made it to the other side where the meadow was the same kind of beautiful, only wetter and emptier without Bo. And yet, and yet, some magical thread still wound her in. She couldn’t stay away. Alex would come, wouldn’t he? They’d kiss and make up. And all would be right with the world.

  Amy swept the yard; Figgy had been at her all day. Do this, do that, had she done the hay nets, scrubbed the feed bowls, poo-picked the paddocks, checked on the foals? The list was endless. Muck shoveler, that was her. No wonder Alex had stopped noticing.

  It was Thursday and he’d gone back to London, his tail between his legs. She reached for the note in her pocket, the one that he’d asked her to give to that girl, Saskia. Not Plum but the “mystery mermaid” all over the Internet. Amy squirmed; she hadn’t peeked, and it was almost killing her. She knew it wasn’t hers, but if she handed it over now after waiting, like, hours, how would that look? Maybe she could say she hadn’t been able to get away, which was sort of true. Amy glanced down at the smudged boy scrawl. Say that she couldn’t make out the address: Sass c/o Chapel Gallery. Clear as day. It wasn’t fair. Nobody had seen or heard of the girl before now. In the paper, her face was hidden, but Amy had seen it when she got back from that ride on Bo. Amy’s heart hardened. Poor horse was tired out. Saskia’s hair had been dripping wet, and her T-shirt had gone see-through. Bad as that dress hanging open. The girl was famous now, or the back of her head was. She didn’t think that Alex had it in him to cheat on Plum. Or even in some small way on her: Amy Smith, the girl who, once upon a time, he’d wanted. She knew because she’d seen him blush enough times.

  Alex had stood in front of her with the note in his hand when she was the one who knew how much he hated it in London, how his face changed every time he got on Dancer after being stuck at school. She understood because she hated school too. Not that hers was posh like his. Hers was a dump and she wasn’t going back.

  Saskia Laura Emerson. Not even pretty. Yeah, okay, nice legs, big eyes, but if Alex wanted ordinary, he could have had her. Samey Amy who’d always be there for him, and loved Dancer and Bo like they were her own. She scrunched the note tighter in her pocket. She wouldn’t pass it on. Not yet. It wasn’t the end of the world. Was it?

  One good thing. Plum was stewed. Sweet as custard and just as dumb.

  Sass shook out the rug that she’d brought from the loft and sat at the edge: waiting, fidgeting, wishing that Alex would come. She shifted position; she’d been there forever already and her legs were pins and needles. Her stomach rumbled. She’d brought a bag of potato chips to share, like this was some picnic, but the bag had split, and blown four ways to the wind. Nachos unhappiness. A chilly dampness was soaking through the seat of her pants.

  Where was he? She’d so believed that he’d come.

  She waited for maybe another hour, then stood up. Her legs felt oddly weak. He wasn’t coming, not today. He’d get word to her if he wanted. She walked down to the creek and threw a pebble in the water which glinted darkly in the twilight.

  “Come on, Alex,” she murmured, slipping a little in the mud: even a message in a bottle would do it.

  Sass began to walk back, shivering in the drizzle as she trailed the wet throw behind her. What had she expected? That he’d be waiting for her with his arms out? She’d felt so sure it was just a huge misunderstanding, that he’d realize and come. But then Alex wasn’t like other boys. She’d been a fool to think they could make it work. Even if photographers hadn’t found them, she was hardly the type of girl who belonged with him. After all, it was his face that was everywhere. Words written about her were soon forgotten; a photo of him was worth a thousand of those.

  Sass returned to an empty cottage. David and Jessie had an opening at the gallery. On the fridge in the kitchen was a note with her name on. She didn’t know who squeaked louder, her or Harry, when she stepped on him in her rush to reach it. Please let it be from Alex.

  Fish pie inside. Thirty minutes, 200 C. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Back soon. Big hug. J & D x

  Sass stuffed the dish in the oven and sat down. A thumbed copy of the Daily Sun lay across the table. She reached over and picked it up.

  PRINCESS OF SMILES STEPS OUT. Sources close to the palace have revealed that the divorce of the Prince and Princess of Wales will be announced tomorrow. Silencing her critics, HRH Seraphina, Princess of Wales, stepped out at a gala for one of her favorite British charities: Prison Relief. The princess looked “stunning” in a demure, floor-length crepe de chine dress by Chloe Taylor-Warnes, an upcoming British designer. A spokesperson confirmed that the tiny seed pearls around her collar and cuffs were hand-embroidered by a sewing group of talented inmates at Wormwood Scrubs. Cressida Slater reporting.

  So she was old news; that was good, though it still went on for Alex, his life spread out every day. Sass put a hand to her chest, feeling the familiar tug at her heart; at least her mom was safe in here. She’d never have fitted in his world anyway. Stupid to expect him to even show up. She was the girl you took for dim sum on the Lower East Side, not to a palace banquet.

  Sass glanced back at the paper. Just how many photos of the royal family were out there? If you stuck them all on a wall, would you fill a palace? Her thoughts strayed up the stairs to the old snapshot she’d seen in David and Jess’s bedroom. The one of the young soldier who’d looked so like her. Who was he? Suddenly Sass wanted to know, even if he was another dead face to put to the family name.

  In the upstairs bedroom, the sprig of lilac had gone, replaced by a rose in a teacup. Full blown, it was losing its bloom, but its fragrance still filled the untidy space. Sass put on a bedside lamp to help her to see better, and there, leaning against a pile of paperbacks, dusted in a powder of light, was the photo.

  Sass picked it up and peered at it more closely. Looking at it again, she could see quite clearly that it wasn’t a group of young soldiers at all but an aircrew. Who else would wear life vests over thick leather jackets? And that shadowy thing behind them had to be the metal wing of a plane? She squinted at the face of the young man again. He still looked like her, or was it the other way around? At least she hadn’t imagined it. Was his name on the back?

  The catches on the leather frame were tight-closed and lightly rusted. Sass took out a nail file and pried them open. It took some force, but the frame sprang apart undamaged, and a flattened roll of silver ribbon tumbled out. How odd and beautiful, and a little sad? She held up the frayed end of the silver coil and let it unfurl, watching it twist and spin in the air.

  Returning to the photo, Sass saw that it had slipped out and floated under the bed. She got on her hands and knees to retrieve it from a heap of dust balls. In faded blue ink on the back, someone had written a name, a date, and a place. Jack, Cornwall ’43.

  “I see you’ve met Grandpa?”

  David stood in the doorway. Sass hadn’t heard him come in.

  She looked up, full of questions that only he, the last man standing in her family, could possibly answer.

  “I had a … grandpa, here in Cornwall?”

  “A great-grandpa. Not so unlikely, when you think about it.”

  “I don’t understand; he was American?”

  “He was, but
it was during the war. Jack Rigby was stationed here, along with thousands of others, mostly infantry. GIs. He was different: an officer pilot, bomber aircrew. He’s one of the reasons that I came here. I wanted to find out about him, or to see where he died.”

  David chewed his lip as if there was more he could have added.

  “My great-grandpa died, over here?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m afraid so. His plane crashed in the sea, somewhere over the Channel. The crew never made it back from Germany.” David shrugged. “Most didn’t.”

  Sass swallowed, her eyes swimming with unexpected tears that she tried to blink back.

  “His name’s different from ours.”

  “That’s easy. His daughter. My grandmother. Your great-grandmother. Changed her name when she married.”

  “And do you think this was hers too?” Sass held up the ribbon, which quivered in her fingers. David took it from her, smoothing the band of silk with his thumb. It was obvious he hadn’t seen it before.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “It was hidden in the back of the photo frame.”

  “I never knew. I guess it must have meant something to him. Some kind of memento. He was very young, no more than nineteen, and newly married with a baby on the way. Shotgun wedding to my grandmother, apparently.” David smiled softly. “They threw caution to the wind when war was declared. From what I heard, it was a brief and unhappy marriage. They weren’t at all suited.”

  A wave of emotion tipped Sass off balance. She rocked on her feet and David caught her shoulders.

  Too much, too much. She didn’t want to hear any more. Couldn’t something she touched go right?

  The days rolled by. No note from Alex. No message in a bottle. No signal fire from a cliff top. No sound of midnight hooves or lantern light in a tower. No sail, black or white. Just a steady drizzle that marked each passing hour. Even the cluster of hardcore photographers had gone now, pried from their rocks. In that respect, the weather had been kind.