Hidden Hours Read online

  Eleanor watches as they wolf down their breakfast in the morning and brush their teeth, and she comes home just as they begin a strict evening schedule of homework, food, bath and bed. She seeks them out to remind herself what it’s like to see the world as exciting and extraordinary, and they look for her too – probably because she lets them bounce on her bed or watch TV in her room, things that are strictly forbidden on the lower floors. All the light, pure energy in the house comes from these two girls. Without them, Eleanor doubts she would have stayed.

  As Eleanor exits the Tube station and begins the short walk to her uncle’s house, she wonders how she is going to explain the events of the past twenty-four hours. Perhaps she shouldn’t tell him. It’s not that she doesn’t like her uncle, but in the past few weeks it has become obvious that the tag of ‘family’ cannot hide the fact they are strangers, and it has been much harder than she’d hoped to get to know him.

  Until a few months ago she had hardly been aware of the existence of her mother’s brother and the extended London family. One evening, as she had been discussing her travel plans with her mother, Gillian had suddenly said, ‘I suppose you should have Ian’s number, in case of emergency.’

  At that point Eleanor hadn’t known much more about Ian than he was seven years younger than her mother, and that the siblings had never been particularly close. ‘I was a geeky girl and he was a rough and tumble boy,’ Gillian had explained. ‘When our parents split up, I went with Mum and he stayed with Dad. It seemed natural at the time, but I’m sorry now that I didn’t know him more as he grew up. By the time he’d reached his twenties, your father and I had moved here.’ She’d shrugged. ‘But at least we’ve stayed in touch. He’s done well for himself too, I gather. His wife Susan is a few years older than him – she runs a publishing house, and he’s a freelance architect. They both sound very successful, don’t they?’ There and then she had produced an address book, and by the end of the evening they had Googled her uncle and aunt and viewed the impressive Harborne Grove townhouse via Streetview.

  Still, Eleanor hadn’t expected to end up living there, but then her mum had taken matters into her own hands and made a phone call. To both Eleanor and Gillian’s surprise, Ian had been so enthusiastic about the prospect of Eleanor’s visit that she’d found herself taking him up on the offer to stay ‘until she finds her feet’. A few weeks later he picked her up from Heathrow and drove her to her temporary new home.

  It suited Eleanor, because while she longed for adventure, she was nervous too, not that she would admit that to her mother. She had expected Gillian to be pleased with this arrangement, since she could sense her mother fretting every time she mentioned hostels and bar work. However, Gillian had been quiet on the subject, until the night before Eleanor left, when she had suddenly said, ‘I don’t know Ian and his family all that well, so don’t feel obliged to stay there any longer than you want to.’

  Which left Eleanor feeling both curious and concerned, but as it turned out Ian had been great to begin with. He was a youthful-looking 37, with thick dark hair and glasses, just a smattering of grey hair visible around his temples. He dressed in casual trousers and open-necked shirts, and his friendly manner made him easy to warm to. He had immediately guessed that Eleanor needed a job, and organised an interview with Caroline. Before she knew it, Eleanor had a temporary PA position at Parker & Lane because Nathan Lane’s assistant was suffering from horrific morning sickness. This was better paid than the kind of work she’d been anticipating, but now that all the practical matters have been attended to, her relationship with Uncle Ian seems to have stalled, closing down into courtesies. Either that or she is asked to watch the children while her uncle heads out for a while. This has happened so often that she now has a sneaking suspicion he has co-opted her as a live-in babysitter without her consent. Yes, Ian asks her now and again how she is doing, but it is always a distracted enquiry, while he is busy with the girls or on his way out the door. He asks at times when the only thing that will suffice is a simple, ‘Fine, thank you.’ She understands that he is busy – aside from his family commitments he is a sought-after freelance architect – but still, she can’t help but hope for more.

  And then there is Susan.

  Eleanor has been wary of her aunt ever since her first night in Harborne Grove, when she had trailed downstairs after Ian in her pyjamas to meet Susan, and realised from his silent, stiff walk that something was wrong. When they had reached the kitchen, they found Susan sitting on a high stool at the long island bench, reading The Financial Times, a cup of tea next to her. Ian had stepped aside so Eleanor was in view. ‘Susan,’ he’d said. ‘I’d like you to meet Eleanor, my niece.’

  Despite having seen photos online, Eleanor was still unprepared for the formidable presence of her aunt. Susan’s black hair was swept back into a perfect bun, her nails gleamed with a deep red polish, and she wore a thick woollen designer suit. Eleanor did a quick mental comparison. Her own hair was only a few shades lighter, and sat well past her shoulder blades, but she only ever tucked it behind her ears. She thought her nails looked good if they weren’t bitten, and felt overdressed in anything other than jeans and T-shirts. She felt instantly inferior beneath her aunt’s assessing gaze.

  As she’d walked forward to shake Susan’s proffered hand, she had glanced back at her uncle. She wasn’t prepared for the barely concealed antipathy in his eyes, or the challenge returned in Susan’s stare. They were all stuck in the moment, with Eleanor looking between them, until she tried to release the tension with a smile and an upbeat hello. Susan had given her a tight smile in return, then leaned on the counter, sipping her tea, openly appraising Eleanor without another word, while Eleanor sat miserably on the stool opposite, longing to escape back to the lovely little loft room. She had considered numerous threads of conversation, but they’d all knotted on her tongue before she could get them out. ‘You have a lovely house,’ she’d begun eventually. Hesitantly, she had looked at her uncle for support, but he just watched them both, standing by the window, saying nothing.

  ‘Thank you,’ Susan had replied, her lips twitching again as though attempting appreciation. ‘Ian,’ she’d added without turning, ‘remember it’s housekeeping tomorrow, won’t you.’ Then she’d risen, newspaper in hand. ‘I’m exhausted, it’s been a long day. Enjoy your stay with us, Eleanor,’ she’d said, and then she was gone with a swish of fabric, her heels loud on the polished floor.

  Eleanor had rather hoped that once Susan was out of the room her uncle would explain what was going on, but when he spoke it was to say, ‘You’ve arrived at rather a difficult time for us, Eleanor, but you are very welcome.’ He gazed at a point beyond her, and she saw him sigh. ‘Do you mind if I go to bed? I hope you don’t think I’m being rude.’

  ‘Of course,’ she had smiled. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Once back under her warm, weighty covers, Eleanor had been unable to sleep. It was obvious she had entered some kind of war zone, but nothing was clear enough to make sense of yet. It seemed that if she wanted to stay, she would have to find out where the land mines in this household were laid, and how she might negotiate them. If, as she suspected, there was a battle going on between her aunt and uncle, then she was firmly on Ian’s side.

  However, in the time that has passed since, there has not been a need to draw battle lines. Susan has so many evening commitments she is hardly home, and Eleanor rarely sees her at work. Her uncle bears the responsibility of getting the girls to and from school and all their activities, otherwise he’s locked away in his study, or dashing out too. Eleanor has gleaned from her cousins that there used to be a nanny, but she left a few months ago and hasn’t been replaced. Neither girl knows why.

  On Eleanor’s walk from the Tube station to the house, she has been lost in these reflections. As she opens the door, she immediately notices how quiet the house appears. Her uncle’s office door is closed, and she tiptoes towards the stairs, not wanting to dist
urb him.

  ‘Eleanor? Is that you?’

  His voice sounds gravelly and rough. Moments later he appears at the kitchen door. His eyes are bloodshot and all colour has leached from his face.

  He stops speaking, seeming to take in her dishevelled appearance, studying her expression as he comes closer. ‘Have you heard?’ he asks, a catch in his voice. ‘About Arabella Lane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ian staggers over to the stairs and sits down. ‘Susan just called me. I can’t believe it. We have known her for years – we’ve spent so much time together, and the girls adore her. I . . . I just . . . I just . . . ’ He interlinks his fingers over the back of his neck, dipping his head towards his knees. He stays like that for a few moments, breathing deeply, and then jumps up and rushes towards the kitchen. Eleanor can hear him vomiting in the sink.

  She wants to be anywhere but here. It’s unbearable. She’s itching and burning like maggots are burrowing into her skin. Should she go and comfort him? Their relationship isn’t ready for this. How could it be? But just standing here seems awkward and cold.

  She has dealt with too much for one morning. She has almost forgotten that she had so little sleep last night, but now her eyes are fizzing and her head is starting to swim. She takes one last look towards the kitchen and then bolts up the stairs. She needs to lie down; she has to try to sleep, to find some respite. Her world is beginning to unravel, pulling at the threads that bind the husk of her nine-year-old self, exposing the cruel edges of all that the years have failed to smother.

  5

  the dream

  Susan has left the press waiting. She needs the all-clear from the family before she can comment, and she also needs to gather her strength. Meanwhile, Caroline is still sobbing, and her PA Priscilla is busy organising a room for the police officers who will be here within the hour to interview everyone. In this lull before the storm, Susan has fled to her private bathroom and locked the door. Priscilla knows she’s there, but is wisely leaving her alone for a little longer to grieve. Inside the cubicle, Susan burns with rage.

  Eleanor is barely aware of her uncle on the phone downstairs, his voice full of fury and emotion. Nor does she hear the two light pairs of footsteps running through the house, ignoring their father’s room as soon as they see Eleanor’s coat on the stand by the front door. Her mind is elsewhere, busy searching through her memories for the key that might help her unlock whatever it is she has forgotten. She is back on The Atlantic, sitting opposite Arabella, and this time Arabella is leaning forward, so close that Eleanor can smell the alcohol on her warm breath, and her hair and skin are dripping wet as her eyes widen and she whispers, ‘Help me, Eleanor. You have to help me.’

  Eleanor sits up with a start, gulping air, trying to reorientate herself into the starkness of her designer white guest room and not the dimly lit interior of The Atlantic.

  What was that? The dream image liquifies, swirling with memories of the night before – they are coalescing as she desperately tries to separate them before they merge and distort.

  That wasn’t a memory, was it? She wouldn’t have forgotten that. She has just imagined it. But why are her thoughts pricking at her, urging her to re-examine her recollections, to flesh out the detail? She tries to think back again, but now it’s impossible. The last thing she remembers is Arabella slapping Nathan. The second half of the night is either blurry or missing, and that in itself is terrifying. What might have happened to her in those gaps? What might she have done?

  She lies down again, pushing away her fears. The day is growing dark already. She checks the clock. It’s not even four in the afternoon yet – she doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to these short days with their dull light. She feels the lightest of pressures on the back of her hand, as though something is urging her to return to the moment, and she jumps again, snatching her arm away, holding it close to her, rubbing her fingers, reassuring herself that all is well.

  She used to feel these strange sensations all the time. Hyper-sensitivity, the doctor had called it, compounded by the anxiety that had plagued her teenage years. She had simply taken the meds he gave her, accepted the treatments they offered, spoken as little as possible. She never told him she thought it might be a familiar ghost, reminding her he was there, that he hadn’t forgotten her, that he never would.

  However, this presence had felt so much quieter in the past few years. She had begun to hope things were changing. But is he back now? Or is this a new sensation – a new ghost? Will she be haunted by Arabella’s death too?

  This thought is so confronting that of course she tries to refuse it admittance, but it performs a trick of osmosis, permeating every part of her before she can block its way. She shivers, hating being alone, hardly daring to look around the room in case there are shadows being cast by something other than the furniture. She squeezes her eyes shut and replays the evening again. She tries to fill in more of the night, but the harder she chases the memories, the faster they run, until everything is dark and empty. The void is terrifying.

  For fuck’s sake, Eleanor, she tells herself, whatever happened last night, it’s not your fault.

  And yet.

  She sits up and reaches for her bag. Perhaps this morning has all been an unreal nightmare. Perhaps there is no sapphire and diamond ring in her bag, and she has just woken up and the day is yet to start. Perhaps Arabella is walking into the lobby of Parker & Lane holding her coffee right now, and giving Alfred a friendly wave.

  Eleanor unzips her purse. The ring nestles inside, its brilliance dulled in that tiny cavern. She touches the cold metal, feels the rebuke.

  You have to help me.

  If Arabella had really said that, then it looks like Eleanor has failed already.

  The door bursts open and Savannah runs into the room, her silky black ponytail bouncing as her little elfin face lights up. ‘You’re home!’ she says, crawling onto the bed and cuddling in to Eleanor. Eleanor quickly pushes her bag underneath her pillow, grateful that the intrusion sweeps all the spectres back to the shadows. She tries to relax as she holds onto Savannah. How she loves this unselfconscious seven-year-old who will fling open a shut door without a thought, so assured is she of a warm greeting. Where has she got such spontaneity, with a mother like Susan?

  Eleanor looks across to the door and sees that Naeve is skulking there, her black-rimmed glasses disproportionately large for her petite face. What happens to some of these kids between the ages of seven and thirteen that they lose all spontaneity and replace it with edginess? Is it inevitable – or do they meet one too many accusing glances, harsh words, looks-behind-the-back, or exasperated sighs during this time, and begin to register that the adult world is a big crock of two-faced shit? All those adolescents who walk around looking grumpy and disappointed while everyone takes the piss out of their mood swings. It was a hard thing to realise life wasn’t really tooth fairies and Santa Claus but tax returns and piles of washing. Even harder, Eleanor thinks with a pang of sorrow as she shifts to make space for her cousin, when life explodes before your eyes and you realise some things can never be restored.

  ‘Come on in, Naeve,’ Eleanor says, ‘there’s always a space for you.’ She holds out her other arm, but Naeve rejects that and perches on the edge of the bed instead, pulling the clips out of her wavy brown hair and flattening the frizz with her fingers.

  ‘What have you two been up to today?’ Eleanor asks, trying to tune into their responses, even though Arabella’s wide eyes are never far from the forefront of her mind. Help me. ‘Where’s your dad?’ Eleanor adds, as the girls settle themselves next to her and Naeve flicks on the TV and hunts through channels.

  ‘His office door was closed,’ Savannah says.

  As Eleanor watches Savannah, she becomes aware of the television getting louder and louder, a reporter’s voice intruding into the room. Next to her, Naeve is holding the remote up high, working the volume control.

  ‘. . . No one from the publ
ishing house has so far commented on today’s events, but we do know that a body – believed to be that of Arabella Lane, the marketing director here at Parker & Lane, and daughter of popular Conservative MP Dickon Blythe – was found in the River Thames this morning . . .’

  Eleanor looks sharply across, to see that Naeve has gone white. No one moves.

  ‘Oh no, Naeve, I didn’t realise . . . Did you know Arabella?’

  Savannah is staring between the two of them. ‘Did they just say that Arabella is dead?’ Her bottom lip quivers.

  It’s as though Savannah’s voice brings Naeve back to her surroundings. ‘Dad!’ she yells, rushing out the room, her voice trailing her as she hurries through the house. ‘Dad!’

  ‘Shit.’ Eleanor jumps off the bed and races after her, aware that Savannah is snuffling at her heels. They all gallop down two flights of stairs, and as Naeve reaches the bottom, Ian opens the door to his study. He looks as ashen as his daughter, and puffy-eyed. Naeve stops when she sees him – this ghostly apparition of her father must all but confirm her fears. ‘The TV reporter just said that Arabella is dead.’

  Ian looks at Eleanor as though she had murdered Arabella herself. ‘How could you let them find out like that?’ he hisses.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Eleanor shoots back. ‘It was on the news as soon as Naeve turned the television on.’

  Naeve scowls at her, as Eleanor struggles to stay composed.

  Savannah is behind them, her noisy sobs shaking the whole of her little body. Eleanor turns to cuddle her but Ian races up the stairs and grabs her. ‘Naeve, Savvie, come in here with me,’ he says, and they all disappear into his study, the door slamming behind them, shutting Eleanor out.