Seb offered to help me find somewhere else, but even without the secret Debt Swamp and disastrous credit rating, I couldn’t afford a place of my own in Brighton, and without a steady income, no one was going to offer me a house share.
I could hardly complain – Seb had let me stay rent free for three years.
I could, however, secretly cry in the shower about how, just when I dared to think I might have a normal life, it had all gone wrong again.
Then I’d remember that someone would never have a normal life again, partly thanks to me, and I’d cry even harder before stuffing it all away deep down inside my sullied heart where it belonged.
And now, here I sat, surrounded by three bin bags and one tatty rucksack, waiting for my dad to come and take me home.
* * *
It took five hours to get to Houghton, nestled on the edge of Sherwood Forest in Nottinghamshire. It would have been four, except Dad insisted he needed to stop off at a supermarket to get some ‘bits and bobs’, and while we were there decided I might as well pick up some essentials, which of course he then ended up paying for. My dad, like my mum, was about a whisker away from perfect.
Warm and thoughtful, unfailingly supportive since accidentally-on-purpose getting pregnant at eighteen, they’d refused to see us as anything less than wonderful. Now forty-six, with faces starting to bear the creases of love, laughter and a daughter who’d caused them countless sleepless nights, they’d been delighted that with Seb I might have found the happy ending they’d always believed was right around the corner.
Keeping up the pretence that I was now a healthy, functioning, financially stable adult would be exhausting, but at least I’d had plenty of practice.
2
Isaac called Dad’s phone just as we stopped at the end of a winding lane that branched off Houghton’s modest Main Street.
It was clear from Dad’s responses that it wasn’t great news. As his frown deepened, I took the opportunity to have a good look at my new home.
The cottage was larger than I’d expected. Variously sized windows were dotted in seemingly random positions, including a tiny one tucked under the eaves near to a wonky chimney. Brambles dangled over the fence like neighbours eager for a gossip, and the flowerbeds were full of weeds. The word that sprang to mind as I took in a broken weathervane, wasramshackle. It was the last place I’d expect my brother to call home, but it looked like the perfect place for his twin sister, as did the location. Having passed a row of terraces and a couple of swish new builds, this was the last dwelling before the village gave way to miles of open countryside.
It was nearly nine, and the sun had disappeared behind the treetops, casting the red bricks in shadow. The late April air carried the faint promise of summertime, and I’d forgotten how quiet it was on the edge of the forest. Apart from Dad’s one-sided phone conversation, the only sounds were the birds’ evensong, and the distant hubbub of youths playing football at the recreation ground. Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I absorbed the stillness and sent up a prayer that against all odds, I might find some peace here.
‘There’s a leak in the Barn kitchen,’ Dad informed me, once he’d hung up. ‘Isaac’s not sure where it’s coming from so could do with a hand. He’s got a wedding tomorrow.’
One February, just over three and half years ago, in a stroke of bizarre luck, a reality TV star who’d grown up in Houghton and once worked part time for my parents had got married in the local church. Struggling to find a reception venue she liked nearby, Mum had offered the newly refurbished Barn. Mum and Dad extended their bank loan and quickly converted an out-building into a honeymoon suite. They hired a local joiner to construct a bar out of an oak tree felled in a recent storm, and bought a dance floor.
The Robin Hood themed wedding was a huge hit on the reality show, prompting a flood of enquiries that convinced Isaac to resign from his job as an accountant and create Robin Hood’s Barn Weddings. With the day centre running Monday to Thursdays, that left Fridays to set up and Saturdays for celebrations. In the strange world of popularity culture, the limited availability only added to the appeal, and after hiring a creative director, Isaac charged a small fortune for people hoping to emulate the celebrity wedding, while offering a bargain rate to any Houghton locals throwing a party. The substantial profits were then used to help fund the day centre.
I could see by Dad’s tense expression that he was torn between staying to help me settle in and rushing to the Barn. ‘Just drop the bags at the door and I’ll sort myself out. I’m an expert at moving house,’ I said, heaving two bin bags out of the boot.
Dad swung my rucksack onto his shoulder and grabbed the shopping bags. ‘If you’re sure?’
‘Of course! Oh – do I need to come with you to get Isaac’s key?’
Dad smiled. ‘You’ve been living in cities too long. If neither of the others are there to let you in, the key’s under the squirrel.’
‘Original.’ It was only once the bags were all on the doorstep and Dad had enfolded me in his arms, repeating for the trillionth time how happy he was to have me back before hurrying off, that I processed what he’d said.
The others?
Shouldn’t that have beenother? As in, Arthur?
Was there someone else here that Isaac hadn’t bothered to tell me about?
I gave a tentative tap on the door, and when no one answered, I quickly found the key inside a hollow plastic squirrel squatting under a bush, then took a moment to breathe in and remind myself how grateful I was to be here, and stepped inside.
Flicking a light on revealed a corridor containing a bike and a mini mountain of men’s shoes. Stairs headed up on one side, but ignoring those, I grabbed the shopping bags and went to the open door at the end of the hallway, through which I could spy cupboards.
In here I discovered a large kitchen-diner, so I dumped the bags on the table and took a moment to look around before fetching the rest.
My trepidation grew as I took in the room. The dark-blue kitchen units and chrome appliances seemed clean enough, as I’d expect from Isaac, although the worktops were bare apart from a kettle and a toaster, so I hoped there were some cooking utensils hidden away somewhere. What threw me were the sticky notes. They were all over the place, including the cabinets, enormous fridge and the back door, in a variety of colours and written on in blocky black letters.
I felt another prickle of unease as I read the notes nearest to me:
