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‘Hideous,’ Nathaniel said, with an audible shudder. He paused, then asked, ‘Did you really not get one?’
‘Nope.’ I ran my hand over the cover of Going Home. Apparently, I wasn’t. Isabelle knew every minute detail of party etiquette, and obeyed it all, when it suited her. If she’d wanted me there, I’d have received an invitation. The fact that I hadn’t – or even any notice that the party was happening at all – told me exactly how welcome I’d be.
‘Well, that’s stupid,’ Nathaniel said. ‘You should have done. Consider this call your invite.’
I gave a small laugh. ‘I’m not sure that’s quite how it works.’
‘It is now. It’s my party too, isn’t it?’
‘Not really.’ I was pretty sure that, in Isabelle’s head, the man she married was entirely incidental to the party she was throwing to celebrate that aforementioned marriage.
‘Then I’m reclaiming it. And you’re invited.’ There was a rustle of paper on the other end of the line, and I leapt on the noise as a way to change the subject.
‘What are you working on?’ I asked, trying to be interested in his answer. It had to be better than thinking about how my own grandmother didn’t want me there for a family party.
‘I’ve been thinking about the nature of truth in fiction,’ he replied, instantly distracted, as I’d known he would be.
‘Truth in fiction?’ I echoed, topping up my coffee. That sounded like a fairly epic procrastination exercise. I wondered what Nathaniel was supposed to be writing that required such distraction; he never liked to talk much about his works in progress until they were shiny and published and winning awards.
‘Are all stories just reflections of ourselves? Are even the fictions we write based on the truths of our own lives?’ I tried and failed to come up with a satisfactory response to what I hoped was a rhetorical question. ‘Take your work at the paper,’ Nathaniel went on, apparently not noticing that I hadn’t responded. ‘How much do your own life and your life experiences colour the reports you write?’
Since most of what I wrote for the Perth Herald was based entirely on press releases, and my main concern was getting them all in on time, probably not a lot. But, on the other hand, I didn’t want Nathaniel thinking that I wasn’t properly investing in my artistic side, so I said, ‘Probably more than I know,’ in what I hoped was a thoughtful voice.
‘Exactly my point! So, the conclusion I’ve reached is that it is only through knowing ourselves, understanding our true selves, that we can hope to create anything meaningful in fiction.’
‘That’s…interesting.’ Did I have any more bread left for toast, I wondered? Not getting invited to a family party definitely deserved self-pity toast.
‘So, you agree, then?’
‘Absolutely.’ Maybe even chocolate spread.
‘Perfect! We can discuss it more when you visit this summer. For the Golden Wedding Party.’
I froze, halfway through putting more bread in the toaster. ‘I can’t come, Nathaniel. Not if I’m not wanted there.’
‘I want you there,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure the others do too, even if they don’t know it yet. And you wouldn’t let an old man down now, would you? Leave him to face all his wife’s acquaintances while wearing white tails and a bow tie? I’ll probably even have to make a speech…’
‘I’m fairly sure you can cope with a party with your friends without me,’ I said drily. ‘Besides, you love making speeches. You’ll survive.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t heard what I’ve got to say in this one, yet. Really, Kia. You don’t want to miss it. Trust me.’
There was something in his voice, a hint of mischief and possible magic, something I’d missed so much over the last two years, that it tugged at my heart to hear it again, trying to lead me home.
I wanted to be there. I wanted to go home, more than anything.
And so I said, ‘Okay. I’ll come.’ Even though my brain was screaming that it was a terrible idea. Sometimes you have to let your heart win.
Nathaniel whooped. ‘Fantastic! Send me your train times. It’s August 24th. See you there!’
And with that, he hung up, leaving me wondering what on earth I might have to wear to a garden party thrown by Isabelle, not to mention the rest of the weekend.
After all, Rosewood was another world, a throwback to a time that had passed before Nathaniel and Isabelle even bought the house. We always dressed for dinner at Rosewood, and had pre-dinner drinks on the terrace if the sun shone. Rosewood didn’t have Wi-Fi, or video games, and Isabelle had even hidden the telly in the middle room, down the darkest downstairs corridor. Rosewood had stories, and mystery, and ghosts, and champagne…and my family, who hadn’t invited me home for the Golden Wedding.
Maybe, if I could find the right costume, the right clothes to blend in, no one would think to ask what I was doing there in the first place.
Chapter One
‘We’ll take it,’ I said, making Bella laugh as she looked up at the imposing house.
‘You can’t just buy it! We haven’t even stepped inside yet.’
I pulled her close against my side. ‘I don’t need to. This is it. This is home.’
Biding Time, by Nathaniel Drury (1967)
Two long years away, and the first person I saw upon my return to Rosewood was the ghost. Even if I didn’t quite realise it at the time.
I’ll admit, I was preoccupied. I hadn’t planned on going home so soon, not until Nathaniel called and insisted, and the temptation was too great to resist. Oh, I’d assumed I’d go back eventually, for a visit, at least. But two years away didn’t seem like enough. Two Christmases, two birthdays, two anniversaries; Ellie couldn’t possibly have forgiven me so soon.
This was a mistake. Which is why I was loitering in the Rose Garden instead of going inside.
The walled Rose Garden is one of my favourite spots at Rosewood, especially at midsummer, when it’s overflowing with flowers. As children, Ellie and I would mix up buckets of perfume from the petals: pungent flower water we’d sell to charitable passers-by at the end of the driveway. This year, however, it seemed that someone else had got there first.
Almost all the yellow rose bushes had been decapitated, leaving only stalks, leaves and thorns. As I blinked at the empty spaces where the flowers should be, I thought for a moment that I saw someone standing across the flower bed – a girl, younger than me, with long dark hair and pale features. The summer sun shone through her skin, lighting her up from the inside, like a creature from one of my grandfather’s more fantastical stories, only existing between one second and the next. Because when I opened my eyes, I was alone again, standing outside the house that was supposed to be my home, wondering if I’d be welcomed or dismissed.
Wasn’t that Rosewood all over? A place out of time, more fiction than real it seemed sometimes. Like Nathaniel had pulled the house itself from the pages of one of his books, complete with secrets and mysteries – even the paranormal.
Before I could fully process what I’d seen, my grandmother’s voice echoed out from the terrace, imperious and impatient, just as I remembered. Isabelle Drury was the mistress of Rosewood, and she never forgot it, not for a moment. It was more than a home to her; it was he
r kingdom, and she ruled it – and us, her willing subjects.
‘We’ll need more of the eucalyptus. You can go and tell her.’
There was no response, and I found myself waiting, breath stuck in my chest, all thoughts of the strange girl forgotten. I wanted to hear another familiar voice, there, in the buzzing summer air, with its insects and pollen and freshly cut grass, rather than over a too-clear phone line. I wanted to feel like I was really home again.
I hadn’t intended to come back to Rosewood so soon. But now that I was here, I couldn’t imagine how I’d stayed away so long.
‘And don’t forget the etched vase,’ my grandmother’s voice rang out again. I smoothed down my hopelessly creased pale linen skirt and stepped out of the Rose Garden. Time to face the music.
Isabelle had moved back inside, and whichever family member she’d been ordering about had obviously rushed off to fulfil her demands; haste was always a good idea when dealing with my grandmother’s requests. The terrace was deserted again.
‘In and out,’ I muttered to myself as I retrieved my suitcase. ‘Minimum casualties.’ That was the plan. This was a tester weekend. If it wasn’t dreadful beyond all measure, maybe I could come back again for Christmas. Start finding a place here again. Maybe even find forgiveness, eventually.
But first I had to make it through the weekend.
I climbed the few steps to the glass-panelled doors that led from the terrace into the house, pushing down the hope beating in my chest. It was all so familiar, as if at any moment Ellie, aged seven and a half, could come running out carrying dolls for a tea party, Isabelle following with the second-best china tea set. At least, until I passed through the empty drawing room and reached the cool shade of the hallway.
The tiled floor of the wide entrance hall was covered in buckets, vases, stands, and what appeared to be chicken wire. Bright yellow roses and dark green foliage were stuffed and stacked into any and all containers; loose leaves and petals littered the ground. And in the middle of it all sat Isabelle, head bent over a small crystal vase filled with two blooms and a few sprigs of lavender, sunlight from the windows either side of the front door shining silver on her hair.
