I truly believe that Millie tried her best to be a mother, it’s just that her best… well, it wasn’t great. And maybe she knew that. When her fourth book took off overnight and she left six-year-old me with my grandparents, I thought she’d be coming back, but perhaps she always knew that she wouldn’t.
I was the result of an affair she’d had with her first editor– the first person who saw potential in her writing. She called him when she found out she was pregnant, and he dropped her and their plans for her future books like a stone. I wasn’t much good to her after that.
I had a great childhood, don’t get me wrong. Nana and Grandpa were the most beautiful souls on earth, and they made me feel protected and encouraged and nurtured. I know how lucky I was to be loved by them. But it was never quite enough to stop me from feeling like I was disposable. Like I have to be valuable in some way to make people want me. Like the mere act of being me isn’t enough.
I sigh, click ‘read’ on Millie’s email without opening it, and move on to the last of Jon’s emails. It’s just a quick note– a heads up about an interview that he’s trying to set up with a couple of local business owners who are particularly invested in this weekend.
Liam and Dean, The Pier Inn, 6pm tomorrow.
I make a note of it in my phone.
Watch out for Liam, Jon’s written underneath.He’s a real piece of work. Get some dirt on him if you can, the readers will eat it up.
My stomach sinks. I’m completely out of my element here. Normally I love interviewing people– getting to know the ins and the outs of their story, learning about their lives, hearing people talk about the things that they love. But getting dirt on people isn’t my style at all. I get my kicks from building people up, not bringing them down.
Even if they deserve it.
I swallow past the knot of tension in my throat and try to focus on the bat sanctuary visit. I’ll worry about the other interview when I have to. That’s how I’m going to survive this weekend: one step at a time. And as I scan the rest of my emails and socials, I just about catch the soft click of the annexe door opening and shutting downstairs, and it makes me breathe a quiet sigh of relief.
He’s gone.
It’s almost eleven by the time I step out of the door, and though it’s a glorious day, there’s a definite nip of autumn in the air. I wrap my arms around myself and duck underneath the archway. I don’t need my coat– I’m not going far.
The door of Harker Cottage swings open about two seconds after I knock on it, and I’m almost bowled over by the warmth that floods out. An older woman stands, hands on hips, a black, lace-edged apron covering her clothes, also black, and sporting two white, floury handprints. She beams as she sees me.
‘Lucy?’ she asks, and the second I nod in response she pulls me into a hug, tight and warm. She sways lightly from foot to foot, and it reminds me of the way Nana used to hug. I force down the knot in my throat.
‘I’m Mina’s Aunt Peggy,’ she says into my hair, like there was ever any doubt. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ She smells sweet, like honey and strawberries, and when she loosens her grip on me and takes a step back, I can see smears of red in the white handprints. It’d be a little sinister if her vibe weren’t so desperately endearing. There’s genuine excitement in her voice, and it’s so warm and welcoming that it feels a little like she might be my aunt too. She whisks me inside, and I take in the interior of the cottage with a smile.
This could be Dracula’s house.
Anything which isn’t black is a deep blood red, and the few things that are neither are shiny chrome, glinting in the rays of sunlight flooding through the leaded windows. We pass a coffin-shaped grandfather clock in the hallway, a matte black cat bed, which looks to be a perfect replica of Whitby Abbey, and its occupant, a sleek void of a cat who blinks green eyes at me as I walk past.
The kitchen is more of the same, but with a little rustic wood thrown in. The dark granite worktops are covered in flour and berries. It smells delicious.
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ Peggy says, ‘I’m just doing a spot of baking.’ She gestures to the monk’s bench along one wall, and I sit, scanning this fascinating room as she talks.
‘It’s my thing,’ she continues as she gets back to work. ‘For the festival. My outfit is based on the Queen of Hearts, and I like to have a tray of real tarts to treat people to as I walk around.’ She chuckles to herself, busily rolling out a ball of pastry and cutting circles from it. ‘It’s silly, I know, but it makes me happy.’
I smile. I love her already.
‘It’s not silly,’ I say. ‘Nothing that makes you happy is.’
She turns when I say that, her face alight with pure joy, and it makes me think again of Nana, and Grandpa too. I want to smile, or cry, I’m not sure which. How could I have forgotten the feeling of family? They’ve only been gone a few years.
Peggy turns back to her tarts, scarlet hair falling in her face as she fills her pastry circles with cut strawberries. ‘Mina said you were a good egg.’ She blows out a breath. ‘Iwas so worried when we heard she was in hospital, but I think she’s going to be just fine.’
I nod, even though she’s not looking at me. ‘I spoke to her this morning. She’s still sore, but feeling better every day.’
‘Good.’ I see Peggy’s smile pull at the curve of her cheek. ‘It was good of you to take on this job for her.’
‘She’d do the same for me.’
‘You’re close.’ She blows out a breath, aimed upwards at the red hair falling in her face. ‘How do you youngsters say it? Ride or die?’
My smile widens. ‘Yeah.’
‘It’s funny,’ she says with a chuckle. ‘You look like such opposites.’