The Girl From the Sea

  ‘Mia?’

  I realise Piers is talking to me. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I asked if you were okay.’

  ‘Just trying to take it all in.’ I pick up my glass and drain the contents.

  ‘You should eat something,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not hungry. But I’ll have another glass of wine.’ I grasp the bottle, my hand shaking badly. Piers takes it from me and refills both our glasses.

  ‘I think you’re in shock,’ he says. ‘I still can’t believe you went to see them today.’

  I stare across at his tanned face, his features marred by a dark scowl.

  My brain is whirling. Images of today’s visit crowd my mind – my mum in tears, my dad’s photo, Cara’s leopard-print fingernails. Could they really be the money-grabbing people he says they are? I knock back another half-glass of wine and realise I’m drunk.

  Placing my glass back down on the table, I get to my feet and pad over to the balcony’s edge, holding onto the railing with both hands, staring out across the tranquil river. I feel the urge to laugh, or scream, or . . . something. Piers comes to join me.

  ‘You okay, babe?’

  I shrug. He puts an arm around my shoulder and kisses the side of my head. I turn and tilt my face up to his. Putting a hand to his cheek. Then, I let Piers kiss me. A soft, sweet, wine-flavoured kiss. Nothing too heavy. But I know it’s not enough. I need something more to block out the confusion in my head. So I kiss him again. Harder.

  My nerve endings tingle. It feels good to give into this. To know that I can hand myself over to him. To switch my brain off and think about nothing more than his mouth on mine, his hands sliding down my body.

  ‘Jesus, Mia, you smell so good.’

  We move into the lounge where he lifts my dress over my head. Moves his mouth down to my neck, my breasts. Somewhere, deep in my mind, I know I’m going to regret this. But for now . . . I don’t care.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. What was I thinking?

  Piers is asleep next to me, sprawled out across two-thirds of my bed, one arm flung across my waist. We slept together last night and – I’ll admit it – it was good. I enjoyed it. A lot. But it was still a mistake. I don’t know him properly. I don’t know if we’re right together. And now I’ve sullied the waters. Now he’s going to think everything is back to how it was. And it isn’t. Not by a long way.

  Morning light floods the room, the curtains undrawn. A glance at the clock shows me it’s only 6.25 am. I gently nudge Piers’ arm off my body, tensing as he stirs and murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep. I’m not ready for him to wake up yet. I need a few moments more to collect my thoughts. He shifts onto his other side and settles back down. I let out a breath.

  I think about everything he told me last night. About my family. I wish I knew how my mother really feels about me. She was certainly emotional yesterday. Maybe she regrets what happened in the past. But how can I know for sure? How can I find out? What reason would Piers have to lie about it?

  An idea comes to me. I slip carefully out of bed, so as not wake Piers, and hook a short robe off the back of my bedroom door, sliding my arms into the cool cotton and tying the sash. Then, I tiptoe out of the room and down the two flights of stairs to the office on the ground floor. I haven’t even been in this room yet. Not since the accident. But I hope I can find what I’m looking for.

  I push open the door. It’s a simple, square, white room with an oak floor. To my right, the wall is lined with bookcases. To my left sits a long, white desk and two grey office chairs. Straight ahead, wood-framed bifold doors lead out onto a pretty walled courtyard which currently sits in shade – the sun not yet high enough to reach this tiny north-facing garden.

  I cast my eyes over the room once more. A laptop sits on the desk, plugged into the mains. I head over to it, perch myself on the edge of one of the chairs and flip open the lid, watching the machine hum into life. The screensaver is a photograph of me on the river. I’m rowing. My hair is scraped back into a ponytail, the sunlight illuminating my face. I briefly wonder who took the picture. Then, I click the email icon and the photo disappears, replaced by my inbox.

  There’s a list of around a dozen unopened emails, all of which appear to be special offers and spammy-type mails from various companies. Nothing personal at all. And, even stranger, there are no emails dated from before my accident. The earliest email was sent on Monday. Could someone have deleted them? Piers?

  I check the Sent folder and the Trash folder, but there’s nothing in them either. Maybe I have another email account? I go back to the desktop page, but there are no other email icons. Strange. I shift back in my seat and think for a moment.

  A silver two-draw filing cabinet sits under the desk to my left. I reach down, slide open the top drawer and scan the hanging files, my fingers hovering over them. It seems I’m quite an orderly person. Everything is clearly labelled in alphabetical order. I lift out a file entitled Bank Account (Current) and lay it open on the desk. There, meticulously filed in chronological order, are my bank statements.

  Piers was right. I’m loaded. It’s quite something to see that many zeros sitting in an account with my name printed across the top. He said I inherited the money three years ago. I wish I’d thought to ask him exactly when I’d received it. Never mind, it won’t take me long to check.

  I flip back through several statements and see that three-and-a-half years ago my bank account was overdrawn. It went into credit in April of that year when I received a tax rebate for £643.29. I stayed in credit for precisely two days, and then it went back into the red.

  My finances were in the same sorry state right up until June of that year. And then – bingo. I received a deposit on June 25th for the amount of £8,430,560.02. No more going overdrawn for me. What must I have thought when I heard the news? Was I sad about my dad dying? Or excited about the money?

  I check through my subsequent bank transactions. I was spending an obscene amount of money on clothing, jewellery and shoes. Then, at the end of July, I transferred two lump sums – one to my mum and one to my sister. Fifty grand each.

  Fifty grand is a hell of a lot of money. But, considering I’d recently inherited eight million, it seems insulting to have given my family so little. Piers must be right – they must have behaved badly towards me. I can see no other reason why I would have been so mean. I scroll forwards again. I gave Cara another £50k in September. Then, in the same month, I transferred just under twenty grand to a car dealership. In October, I transferred out just over seven hundred thousand pounds to a solicitor. I’m guessing that must have been for my house. I jot down the name of the solicitor on a pad on my desk.

  I look through the next two years’ transactions where my spending appears to be a little less extravagant, apart from a few meals out and several eye-wateringly expensive holidays. Until, I come to this March, where I paid £25,000 to a business called JB Properties, followed by another payment of £345,000 to the same account.

  Who is JB Properties? And what did I spend all that money on?

  I think I can probably guess.

  ‘What are you doing down here?’

  Piers’ voice makes me jump out of my skin. I close the file, then I turn towards him with an overly bright smile that I instantly tone down a notch.

  ‘It’s not even seven o’clock yet,’ he says with a yawn. He’s wearing nothing but boxers, and his hair’s dishevelled. He walks over to me, bends down, brushes my hair back with his hand and kisses my neck. I let him kiss me on the mouth before pulling away. I can’t make the same mistake as I did last night. I have to stop this before it goes any further.

  ‘What’s JB Properties?’ I ask.

  He straightens up and narrows his eyes. ‘It’s a bit early for work isn’t it? Why don’t you come back to bed? I’ll make you breakfast.’

  ‘I can’t go back to bed now. I’m too awake.’

  ‘
Breakfast then,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, okay. But you still haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘JB is our company,’ Piers says.

  ‘We have a company?’

  ‘Yes. I told you about it already.’

  ‘I know I lost my memory before the accident, but I think I’d remember if you told me we owned a company together.’

  Piers sits on the other chair and runs his fingers through his hair. ‘God, Mia, it’s too early to be talking business. Can I at least get a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘Let’s go upstairs and have a cuppa, and you can tell me all about our business.’

  ‘Fine.’ He stands and leads the way back upstairs.

  I wonder why he never mentioned the company before now.

  Once upstairs, he busies himself making coffee, while I boil the kettle for a cup of herbal tea. We don’t speak until we have our mugs in hand and I lead the way over to the sofas. I curl up on the corner of one, tucking my legs beneath me. Piers sits opposite, looking defensive.

  ‘You know, Mia, I don’t like the way you just spoke to me down there. Like you were accusing me of something. Just to be clear, I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Sorry if it came out like that,’ I say. ‘I was just surprised, that’s all. I saw this big chunk of money paid out to JB Properties and I wondered what it was all about.’

  ‘That money was for a flat. We bought a flat in Southbourne.’ He takes a sip of his coffee. ‘I told you about the property developing business.’

  ‘You told me you were a property developer, Piers. But you never said we’d bought a flat together.’

  ‘It was actually your idea,’ he says. ‘You decided you wanted to invest your inheritance in property. We both thought it would be a good idea to tart up a few run-down sea-front apartments and rent them out or sell them on. The Southbourne flat is the first one we’ve bought. I’ve got my eye on a few others.’

  ‘That does sound like a good idea,’ I say. ‘I just wondered why you never mentioned it before.’

  ‘I didn’t want to overload you, babe. You’ve been through a lot. Thought it was better to tell you everything gradually.’

  ‘Okay.’ I suppose that makes sense. ‘So, we own the company jointly. Does that mean you put half the money in?’

  He flushed. ‘No. You put the money up. I put the hard work in. That’s the deal.’

  That doesn’t sound like a very good deal to me, I muse. ‘And what’s my role in it?’

  ‘Role?’

  ‘What do I do? It’s half my company, so I must do something. Day-to-day stuff?’

  ‘No. I do all the work, I told you, babe. You just relax and take it easy. There’s no need for you to get your hands dirty.’

  All this new information is making my head whirl. It sounds a little shady to me. But I guess if I was in love with the guy, why shouldn’t we have gone into business together? Some couples do that, don’t they? They live together, work together.

  ‘We’ll have to go over everything again,’ I say. ‘I want to see the contract and how it all works.’

  ‘Of course,’ Piers says. ‘You’ll see it’s all legit. And it all makes good business sense.’

  I give Piers a weak smile. I’m not so sure about that. Not with me putting up all the money. And, now, all this is making me question what he told me about my family yesterday. I’ll have to go and visit them again. I want them to be on my side. To love me. To want what’s best for me, and not be drawn by the money. And if there is bad blood between us, maybe we can start again. We can fix it. I don’t need all my millions. Maybe I can buy them each a house . . .

  I suddenly feel panicky again. Panicky and helpless. Trapped. Constantly reliant on other people to let me know what’s been going on. I sip my tea, keeping my eyes down. I could kick myself for sleeping with Piers last night. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. I drank too much wine too quickly and it went to my head. I’m such an idiot. And yet, I should be happy shouldn’t I? Here I am in this picture postcard town, in my beautiful house with my gorgeous boyfriend and a ton of money, living this seemingly great life. But it doesn’t feel like it’s my life. I feel like an impostor.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As I press the buzzer, I think about how weird it feels to be back at my mum’s place so soon. When I left here yesterday, I thought it would be ages before I returned. My mum sounded pleased to hear from me when I called her earlier. Told me that, of course, I could come. That I was welcome anytime and I didn’t have to call ahead. She said she’d give me a key. That it was my home, too. I wonder if I’ve ever invited her to visit me in Christchurch. Somehow I doubt it.

  Piers and I have been on rocky ground since I quizzed him over our business partnership this morning. I could tell he was having a hard time trying to keep his cool. Then, once I’d finished asking him about everything, he tried to kiss me again. To get me back into bed. It’s my own stupid fault for encouraging him in the first place. I fobbed him off by saying I needed to come back to London today. I probably shouldn’t have told him my plans, but the words just slipped out.

  I told him I needed to get things sorted out. That I needed to find out exactly what had gone on between me, my mum and my sister. Piers said he was only looking out for me, that I didn’t remember just how much I hated them. That coming back to London would upset me. That it would be a terrible mistake.

  Now I’m here, I’m starting to think maybe he’s right. My nerves have started up – a herd of elephant-sized butterflies are stampeding around in my stomach. Added to that, it’s the most uncomfortably sticky day. The hottest yet. The London air is thick and heavy – like breathing in treacle. At least back in Christchurch there’s a breeze off the river. I debate whether or not I should just turn around, get back on the train and go home again. I’m not sure if I have the mental energy for this encounter.

  No. I strengthen my resolve, I don’t care how nervous I am, or how hot it is. I know I have to confront my mother and Cara. I have to know for sure. See if they’ll confirm what Piers told me. It’s not a conversation that should take place over the phone.

  ‘That you, Mia?’ My mum’s voice comes over the intercom.

  ‘Hi, yes, it’s me.’

  The door buzzes and I make my way inside and down the corridor. My mum’s there in the doorway, like last time.

  ‘Hi, love!’ she calls. She pulls me into a hug which I awkwardly return. ‘Come on in then. It’s lovely to have you back so soon.’

  Cara is stretched out on the sofa, dressed minimally in cotton shorts and a bikini top. ‘Can’t keep away, can you.’ She looks up and grins.

  ‘Hi, Cara.’

  ‘Do you want tea?’ my mum asks.

  ‘Water would be good.’

  ‘Glad you said that,’ my mum replies. ‘Even I can’t drink tea today. It’s baking. The thought of boiling the kettle . . .’

  ‘Yeah, the train was terrible,’ I reply. ‘Sweltering.’

  ‘Cara? You want some water, love?’

  ‘No, I’ll have a can of Coke.’

  My mum nods and goes into the kitchen. Now that I’m here, it all seems so surreal. I want there to be a reasonable explanation for Piers’ revelation. I want it all to have been a stupid misunderstanding. My mum comes back with the drinks and sits down, shoving Cara along a bit. Cara tuts, takes her Coke and sits up, crossing her legs. She opens the can and takes several deep gulps. I take a seat opposite them on the other sofa.

  ‘It’s so good to see you again, Mia,’ my mum says taking a tiny sip of her water and putting her glass down on a coaster. ‘Do you want to do anything special today? We could go into town if you like? See some sights, do a bit of shopping. What do you think?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I reply. I may as well launch right into it. No point sidestepping the issue. ‘But the reason I’ve come . . . I really wanted to talk to you both.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ my mum replies.

  Th
ey glance at each other and then back at me.

  ‘What was it you wanted to talk about, sweetheart? Do you want to hear some more stories about when you were a little girl?’

  ‘That would be nice. Maybe later. No, I really wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Go on,’ my mum says.

  Cara drains her drink and puts the empty can on the floor. I feel her eyes boring into mine, but I’m focusing on my mum. It’s somehow easier to look at her than at Cara.

  ‘Before Friday,’ I say. ‘When was the last time we saw each other?’

  My mum’s expression changes from one of expectant interest to something else I can’t define. It’s a look of sadness, anger and . . . embarrassment. I risk a glance at Cara. She has a look of sarcastic indignance, one eyebrow raised, her lip curled into a mocking sneer.

  ‘Well,’ Cara says. ‘You probably already know the answer to that, don’t you. Seeing as how you asked the question in the first place.’ Her voice is tight and accusing.

  I’ve opened the can of worms, so I’d better deal with it. ‘I haven’t come here for an argument,’ I say. ‘I just want to know what happened between us. How we fell out so badly.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ my sister says bluntly. ‘You were a bitch.’

  ‘Cara!’ my mum says, slapping my sister gently on the leg. ‘Mia says she doesn’t want an argument.’

  ‘So,’ I continue, refusing to be drawn, ‘is it true that before this week we hadn’t seen each other for three years?’

  ‘Yes,’ my mum replies. ‘It’s true. Oh, Mia, it’s been awful.’ Tears begin to drip down her cheeks.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Cara says to me with a curl of her lip. ‘Every time you show your face, you make mum cry.’ She puts her arm around our mother’s shoulders.