Forget Me Not (The Ceruleans: Book 2) (7 page)

I was curled up in an armchair by the fire, Sienna’s diary
on one arm and a box of tissues on the other, when my mobile rang. The
ringtone, American Authors’ ‘Best Day of my Life’, sounded all wrong in the
shadowy room. Loud, hopeful – an anthem from just a few weeks past but a
lifetime ago. I silenced it quickly, and then checked the caller display.

Mother
.

It had been a while since she’d called. It used to be every
day, sometimes several times. She was often drunk, then, or drugged to the
gills on tranqs, failing miserably to cope with her daughter’s death. But I
hadn’t spoken to her in weeks now. Not since the day I’d discovered she’d been
lying to me about Sienna – that she’d hidden from me the truth that my sister’s
body had never been found. There had been emails since, and texts, begging me
to understand. I hadn’t replied to any.

It was late to take a call. I should have gone to bed.
Closed eyes that were gritty from crying; drifted into dreamland.

Scarlett’s standing over my grave… she has that look on
her face.

My finger hovered over the keypad: green for
go
, red
for
go away
. My armour should have been cold, unfeeling, impenetrable
steel. But it wasn’t; right now it was a burning, molten mess. I pressed the
call-answer button.

‘Scarlett!’

‘Hi.’

‘Darling, how are you?’

‘Okay. And you?’

‘I’m good! I’m well. I went to the retreat, the one you
found for me.’

Retreat: a euphemism for posh rehab.

‘And?’

‘And I feel better. Much better. Myself again.’

‘Good.’

‘You don’t have to pretend. I know you don’t believe me.
After all this time of the drinking and the tablets and the emotional
episodes…’

‘There’s been a lot of that.’

‘I know. And I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.’

I fingered the notebook beside me. ‘You lied to me, Mother.’

‘I did. I can’t blame Hugo – I went along with the lie. I’m
sorry, Scarlett, really I am. It was wrong, I realise that now. But I never
meant to hurt you. I thought if you knew the truth… well, sometimes we lie to
the people we love to protect them, you know.’

I did know. All too well. But I wasn’t about to tell her
that.

‘Have you spoken to Hugo about it?’ she said.

‘To Father?’

‘Yes.’

‘No. I haven’t talked to him at all, and I don’t want to.
Not since he Dear Johned me.’

‘He did what?’

‘Dear Johned me. Sent me an email saying, “I’m done as your
father. All the best.” Oh, and then he put a load of money in my account this
week – a nice, juicy pay-off.’

There was a long silence, and I braced myself for Mother’s
meltdown. But all she said was, ‘I’m so sorry, Scarlett. I’m sorry he did that.
It must have been very painful for you.’

I blinked. This was a first. Where was the
‘Evil bastard!
How dare he! Oh poor me, for marrying such a heartless monster’
?

‘It stung a little,’ I said. ‘But I figure I’m – we’re –
better off without him.’

‘Yes, we most certainly are. And we have each other. I’m so
proud of you, darling. You’ve grown into such a strong young woman.’

‘Um, thanks.’

‘Did you get my birthday gift?’

I looked at the silver photo frame on the mantelpiece. In
the centre, pride of place, between one of my grandparents and one of Luke and
Cara and me at a party.

‘I did. Thank you. I… it means a lot.’

I expected her to leave it at that, but she didn’t.

‘I’ve always liked that picture,’ she said. ‘You and Sienna
in that meadow behind the house. You girls loved chasing about among the
wildflowers there. Do you remember? The daisies and the buttercups and the
forget-me-nots. I used to lean on the gate and watch you. You were so carefree,
so innocent, my little red girls.’

There was wistfulness in her voice, but so much affection
too, and not a hint of bitterness or self-pity. I didn’t trust it, this
difference in her. I decided to test it.

‘Mother, these past few weeks in rehab…’

I heard her sharp intake of breath; could feel how much she
wanted to correct me:
I was at a retreat.
But she said only, ‘Yes?’

‘Was that the first time?’

Silence. Then: ‘No, Scarlett.’

‘I remember when I was little, the paramedics took you
away…’

It was a lie. But I needed her to tell me what she had done.
What Sienna had done.

‘Oh, Scarlett,’ she said. ‘You remember that? I was… sad.
Very, very sad. I didn’t handle the sadness well. The doctor had me on a
cocktail of tablets. Antidepressants. Sleeping pills. I drank too much. It made
me unwell.
I
made me unwell. They told me, afterwards, that you and your
sister found me. In my room. Oh God – no child should see that. It was Sienna
who called for help. I knew she remembered; she never forgave me for it. But you
were so small, only four. I had no idea you’d been carrying that around with
you since.’

Had I? Nothing she said, nothing Sienna wrote, stirred a
memory. But weeks ago, something had happened that made me wonder how much of
the fear and horror was in me still, buried deep. When I’d gone to see my
mother and found the house shut up and deserted, I’d been quick to panic, to
imagine that she’d followed in Sienna’s footsteps. Suicide.

‘It was an accident,’ she said. ‘I was stupid, but I didn’t
mean to overdose.’

I could hear raw agony in her voice. In my mind I saw Sienna
running into a furious ocean. She hadn’t mentioned our mother once in her
diary. How much of the staging of her suicide was calculated to hurt the woman
she’d never forgiven for nearly, so nearly, leaving us?

Mother said, ‘I don’t expect you to just believe me,
Scarlett. That something has changed. That I’m myself again, at last. It will
take time, I know, for you to trust me.’

But I have no time,
I thought, and that hurt.
Everything hurt.

‘I know you want your space,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to
crowd you. But perhaps you’ll come and see me one day, when you’re ready? And
we can talk. There are things I want to tell you, things I should have told you
long ago. I’d like to now. I’d like to start over.’

On the mantelpiece, my sister watched me from a photo frame.
Beside her, so did my grandfather and grandmother.
Family loyalty,
Sienna had written.

‘Okay,’ I whispered.

‘Okay? Good! Wonderful!’

There was a brief silence. Then:

‘So, what’s new with you?’ Subtext:
Shall we have a stab
at a normal conversation, Scarlett?

‘Nothing much.’
Subtext: I’d rather not.

‘Are you well?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that boy, Luke, are you still seeing him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And are you –?’

‘I have to go now. It’s late. I’m tired.’

‘I understand. It was so good to talk to you. Thank you –
thank you for answering.’

‘Okay.’

‘Love you, Scarlett.’

‘Love you too, Mother.’

‘Just one thing, before you go. The memory, from when you
were small. When I was unwell. You have to know, Scarlett, that what your
sister did – I would never…
I will never leave you.
’

‘I know,’ I said, and I hung up. Because I knew what she was
trying to say, and I couldn’t hear it. It was the most solemn promise she could
make me, and I couldn’t join her in that pact.

The diary on the chair arm waited expectantly. ‘Tomorrow,’ I
told it. Then I went up to bed, and dreamed of overdosing on tequila and
sleeping tablets.

Jude caught me talking with Daniel. Jesus H. was he mad.
The way he carried on, you’d think Daniel was the Antichrist and I was some
pigs-swill-for-brains innocent just ripe for corrupting. Daniel was all ‘Free
will, Jude – back off’, and I thought Jude was going to rip him apart. He
didn’t, though. Got to give him credit for self-control. But then, after Daniel
left, Jude was all up in my face, trying to ban me from talking to Daniel
again. You can imagine how I took that.

~

Passed out on the kitchen floor today. Lost a big chunk
of afternoon. I’ve doubled the dose of the tablets the A&E doc gave me.

~

Called Jude and he came over. We shared a batch of
brownies. Kinda mean of me not to tell him beforehand that there was more hash
in them than cocoa. Still, it calmed things down between us. We didn’t even
talk about Daniel. Mostly, we talked about The End. What’ll happen.

‘Afterwards, you’ll wake up home,’ he said. ‘Cerulea. My
home. Your home.’

I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way about a place
before.

~

Could have sworn I saw Shrek walking down Plymouth High
Street today. I was with Big Ben, and he ribbed me mercilessly about losing my
mind.

Too many brownies yesterday. Maybe.

~

I try not to think too much, because it hurts, but this
‘healing some people but not others’ business was niggling at me. So I asked
Jude to explain again. He talked about instinct – just knowing on some level
who he should heal and who he shouldn’t. Should/shouldn’t? Of course I was
going to challenge
those
words.

‘Says who?’ I demanded.

‘God, I guess,’ he said.

I told him exactly what I thought of religion. He took it
pretty well. I don’t know what he believes, but he clearly thinks that
something bigger than us exists, something that gives us the light and the
knowledge of how to use it.

He translated the tattoo on his arm:
Serviam
. ‘I
will serve.’ It means different things to different Ceruleans, he said, and
some are devoutly religious. But to him, it’s a reminder to serve the light –
which means respecting its boundaries. He knows, instinctively, when to heal.
He knows, instinctively, when not to heal.

He gave me an example – a car crash some years back. A
mother and father in the front. A teenage boy and girl in the back. He got
there before the emergency services. He got there soon after it happened.
Everyone was unconscious. He had to work quickly.

The parents in the front were in a bad way, bleeding out.
It was their time; he knew it. He left them be.

The girl in the back was stirring. Her legs were crushed,
but she would survive. He wanted to heal her – her legs – but he knew he wasn’t
meant to. He left her be.

The boy in the back had been hit in the face by a shard
of glass. It was embedded deep and he was dying fast. It wasn’t his time. Jude
knew it wasn’t his time. So he pulled out the glass and he touched his hands to
the wound. When he woke up, the boy had nothing more than a broken arm and a
cut on his nose.

It was Luke. Of course it was Luke – the boy in the back of
the car, the boy Jude had saved.

All this time, he’d said nothing. He knew Luke couldn’t
stand him, thought only bad of him. But he said nothing. And me – he knew I was
furious with him for not saving Sienna. He could have just told me: ‘I couldn’t
save her. But I did save Luke. And not just that night on the beach.’ But he
said nothing. He didn’t fight his corner, pushing against my anger and trying
to convince me that he was the good guy. He just gave me Sienna’s diary and
waited quietly for her to tell me. There was something noble about it.

I was beginning to see that there was a lot more to Jude
than met the eye. The thought of going with him, of leaving behind all I’d ever
known, was still deeply frightening. But right down, beneath the fear and the
anger and the grief, a new feeling was stirring.

*

Si’s house was down on the beachside – a modern
architect-designed pad painted so white that even an overcast afternoon like
this one couldn’t dent its exuberance. Cara met me at the front door and
dragged me inside, into the living room. Her face was brick-red and she looked
about ready to combust with excitement.

‘You’re here! Luke dropped me! With all the outfits! And
props! And the camera! He’s picking us up later! Si’s gone out! He left
cocktail ingredients! And grapes! Big black ones!’

Chester, who had followed us inside, was so impressed by the
tone of his friend’s declarations that he ramped up from excited to euphoric,
expressed through a tail-chasing frenzy.

‘Chester, sit!’ I commanded. ‘And Cara, breathe!’

Chester threw himself into his sit with such gusto that he
slid several feet across the polished wood floor.

Cara collapsed onto a wide green sofa with a breathless,
‘Sorry.’

I threw Chester a squeezy rubber bone to gnash on and joined
Cara on the sofa. Across from us, a chair was buried under piles of clothing
and shoes and – was that a feather boa? I gulped.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Cara was peering at me. ‘You look a bit
peaky.’

‘Didn’t sleep well.’

‘Something on your mind?’

Death – death – death.

‘Nope.’

‘Hmm. Good job I have all the makeup under the sun to cover
up those dark circles.’

‘Okay, where do we start?’

‘With a woo-woo.’

I shot upright. ‘Holy cow, Cara! You said this was a
tasteful shoot! I’m not getting
that
out.’

Cara’s shrieking laugh was deafening. I thought perhaps
she’d perforated my eardrum.

‘You wally! A woo-woo. Cocktail. Vodka, cranberry juice,
peach schnapps.’

‘Ah.’ I relaxed back into the sofa. ‘Well, that sounds a
little less risqué. But leave the alcohol out of mine.’

‘Oh, come on, Blake, that’s no fun.’

‘I’m off the booze. I promised Luke.’

‘What’s Luke got to do with it?’

‘Slight incident with some tequila.’

‘You? Smashed? When?’

‘Si’s boat party. After you left. I made a total idiot of
myself. Conga. Declaration of love for Harry Potter and Sir Francis Drake.
Passed out. Luke had to put me to bed.’

‘Scarlett, you dark horse, you! He said nothing to me.’

‘What can I say? He’s a gent.’

Cara leaned over and gave me a hard look. ‘What other
secrets have you got lurking in there?’

‘None,’ I said. ‘Well, except the one about having
paranormal powers. You know, like a character in one of your books...’

‘Scarlett, you’d make a terrible vampire. You’re far too
nice
.’

I laughed, too loud. She gave me an odd look.

‘Maybe you
had
better stay off the strong stuff,’ she
said. Then: ‘Hang on – does the “no drink” rule apply to the Newquay trip this
weekend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bummer.’ She pushed herself up to stand. Painfully.
Awkwardly.

I kept my face neutral, but it was an effort.

Jude was there. He saw her legs were crushed. He didn’t
heal her.

‘Ah well, mocktail woo-woos all round it is then,’ she said.
‘No vodka. Oh, and no schnapps. So that’s…’

‘Cranberry juice.’

‘Oh.’ Cara looked a little crestfallen.

‘But we can put it in a cocktail glass, though, right? And
float grapes in it.’

Her eyes lit up. ‘I like your style, Blake.’

*

Two hours and three glasses of not-quite-woo-woo later, I
was suffering from fashion fatigue.

On Cara’s command, I’d changed from jeans to skirt to dress
to dungarees to jeggings to pantsuit to trouser suit to dress to shorts to mini
to midi to maxi. I’d rocked stilettos and boots and boas and beads and tiaras
and wigs and hats. I’d ‘worked it’ with a parasol, a fan, a handbag, a chair, a
baby grand piano and an Old English Sheepdog wearing a doggie tux. I’d smiled,
I’d frowned, I’d pouted, I’d winked, I’d grinned, I’d glowered. I’d bent, I’d
stretched, I’d sat, I’d stood, I’d lain, I’d twirled, I’d swung, I’d straddled.

Cara, meanwhile, had clicked away frantically like David
Bailey on speed.

Now we were onto the final outfit, and a burlesque theme,
which for some reason called for me to wobble precariously at the top of a
rickety wooden ladder and pose with Si’s kitsch black chandelier. The red
basque was suffocating, the black shortie pants were itching, the hold-up
stockings were refusing to hold up and the red patent peep-toe platforms were
pinching.

‘That’s it, hold it, smile – smile, Scarlett!’

‘Seriously, Cara, I need a break. I’m seeing flashbulbs
here.’

‘Just a few more. Reach your arm out! Look sexy!’

I forced a smile.

Of course, Luke picked that exact moment to turn up.

‘Hey…
oh
.’

He froze in the doorway.

‘Hi, Luke,’ called Cara, still snapping away. ‘Nearly
there.’

Luke just stood there, staring at me, and he mouthed a
silent,
Wow!
I wanted to grin back, but the flashing lights were
seriously bothering me now.

‘Cara, the flash…’

‘One more. Can you stretch your leg out behind you?’

‘Cara…’

‘C’mon.’

‘I can’t.’

‘C’mon, I just need one more shot with the basque stretched
out.’

Oh God, the lights. My head, my head was killing me. I
closed my eyes. Still the lights flashed. I gripped the ladder tightly and
leaned my head on my hands.

‘Ooooo, that’s an interesting pose.’

‘Scarlett?’

Hurried footsteps.

‘Cara, stop it! Look at her – something’s wrong.’

Hands on my hips.

‘Just hold on. I’ve got you.’

A flashback – hanging from the cliff, my hands in Jude’s;
those same words. I tried to breathe through the pain but it hurt, it hurt.

‘Scarlett? What is it?’

‘Hold on...’

A shift in my head – the pain eased up.

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Just got a bit blinded by the bulb.’

‘Sorry, Scarlett,’ Cara called from behind. ‘I was a bit
gung-ho.’

Luke’s hands were still on my hips. Realisation hit: he had
an eyeful of black ruffled derriere. Forcing in a deep breath, I opened my
eyes. Better. I started climbing down.

‘Okay, Luke, you can let go.’

He held on.

I reached the bottom rung. ‘Luke! Will you let go of my
arse!’

‘Sorry!’

I turned around to face him. His eyes were wide. ‘Are you
okay?’

‘’Course I am,’ I said brightly.

Suddenly, Cara was at my side, tugging at me.

‘Hey!’ I tried to fend her off. ‘What is it with you two and
grabbing me today?’

‘Scarlett,’ she hissed. ‘Basque.’

I looked down. Talk about cleavage. I dropped my hands at
once and let her readjust. Meanwhile Luke bent down and busied himself petting
a comatose Chester. Bless him for that.

‘Are we done?’

Cara nodded. ‘You want to get dressed?’

‘Do one-legged ducks swim in circles?’

‘Huh?’

‘It’s a figure of speech, sis,’ explained Luke as I
clip-clopped my way over to my clothes laid over the sofa arm. ‘It means yes.’

‘But why? What sick scientist found that out?’

I left them arguing and slipped out to the downstairs toilet
to change. I got a start when I saw my reflection in the mirror – red lips,
rouged cheeks, hair up, so much skin on display. I stripped off and splashed
water on my face again and again until the makeup was gone, before covering up
in my usual clothes – dull and dreary after Cara’s finery, but infinitely more
comfortable. Then I gave the pale, tired-looking girl in the mirror the
talking-to she deserved:

‘That was close. Too close. You might’ve lost it up that
ladder. Can’t let them see you’re ill. Pull it together, girl.’

There was a light knock on the door. ‘Scarlett? You okay?’

‘Fine,’ I called, collecting up Cara’s clothes.

‘Who are you talking to?’

‘Myself.’

‘First sign of madness that.’

‘I know.’

I swung open the door. Luke was leaning on the doorframe.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘You look beautiful.’

‘Now? I just washed off all the makeup. ’

He leaned down and nuzzled my neck and murmured in my ear.
‘Now.’ Then he stood up and smiled down at me. ‘Don’t get me wrong, you in
those’ – he pointed to the underwear in my arms – ‘smokin’ hot. But I prefer
you like this, looking like you.’

I lifted to tippy-toes and planted a kiss on his lips.
‘Thank you.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

I was finding it hard not to stare at the silver scar across
his nose and imagine a shard of glass imbedded there. Abruptly, I pulled him to
me and squeezed him hard.

‘Hey,’ he said when I released him, ‘what was that for?’

‘Just because.’

Because you’re here, with me, and not lying in the earth
next to your parents.

He ran a hand down my arm, sending tingles through me. Then
his hand stilled. He bent down and pushed up the t-shirt sleeve over my left
bicep and scrutinised the skin. Then he switched and checked the other arm.

Uh-oh.

‘Scarlett – your arm. I don’t understand. Where’s the huge
scab? From the brick that fell?’

I stepped back and stared up at him.

‘Scarlett?’

‘Mother!’ I announced. ‘She sent me some sample she had of a
miracle scar-diminishing cream. Brand new. Not even on the market yet.’ I
looked at my arm, where the wound should have been. ‘Not bad, eh? The manufacturers
will make a mint out of it.’

He stared at me, and I had the uneasy feeling, as I often
did with him, that he could see right through me. But then his eyes lit up.

‘Could you get more?’ he said. ‘For Cara – her legs?’

Oh man.
I’d dug a hole for myself now.

I thought furiously.

Of course I’d considered healing Cara. I’d thought of it
every single time I’d seen her since I’d discovered I had the light – every
time she staggered, every time she winced in pain, every time she smoothed down
a long skirt chosen specifically to hide the scars.

It wasn’t the cost to myself that held me back. For there
would be a cost, of course. Jude had said I’d nearly died healing Luke, and
Sienna had been explicit in her diary:
‘use the light, die sooner’.
All
I wanted was every minute I could have on this earth, but I would give up
precious time for Cara, to give her the life she deserved.

Nor was it what Sienna described in her diary as ‘instinct’.
Jude may believe that he wasn’t meant to heal Cara, but a devotion to
Serviam
wouldn’t hold me back.

No, it was the exposure that was a problem. Pretty hard to
heal someone of painful, disabled, scarred legs without her noticing, and what
logical explanation could explain it away…

Mother’s mysterious miracle cream! I’d inadvertently found a
solution.

I beamed at Luke. ‘Yes! I’ll get more cream! I’ll get more
cream sent today!’

He whooped and swept me up and I laughed as he spun us
around.

Chester came running, and Cara followed as fast as she could
manage in his wake, turning into the hallway just in time to see Chester take
Luke and me down with an exuberant, slobbery flying hug.

‘What is it? What did I miss?’ she demanded of the pile of
limbs and fur and barks and squeals on the hallway floor.

‘Hope, Cara,’ said Luke, hauling a wriggling Chester off me.
‘But you won’t be missing it any longer.’