to me.
‘Holly! Holly, come back!’ Martha and Dave were on the jetty. She’d thrown the ring into the reservoir but it bobbed around without validation. I threw my hands above myself and waved at her.
‘It’s OK, Martha! We’re just swimming! Look, I found him! I found Charlie!’ I turned back to see if Charlie had waited for me, but he was twice the distance away now. Still laughing.
‘Charlie! Wait!’ I called, the unease digging down again.
‘Holly!’ Martha called worriedly. Can’t she see? I’m with Charlie.
‘Charlie? Charlie?’ The unease became heavier, like lead in my chest. ‘I can’t see you. I can’t see you, Charlie!’
‘Holly?’ Martha called, but I was swimming away from her.
‘Come on, Hol,’ Charlie called, ‘catch me up!’ I’d found him but he was further away again.
‘Wait for me, Charlie, you’re too fast!’ I called, but still he swam. Why won’t he give me a chance?
Martha’s voice grew nearer.
‘Holly? Holly?’
Swim harder, Holly. You can get there.
‘Holly? Holly honey, wake up.’
Martha was gently rocking me, concern etched into her face. My heart was still thudding, not realising the trickery yet.
‘I’m awake,’ I whispered. Please go now. I could still get to him, he was still there, still within reach. I wasn’t ready to give him up yet, not ready to accept the day.
‘Are you OK, honey?’
Already I could feel him slipping. Now I’d never get him back.
I’d expected more dreams, it was coming up to that time. But not those ones. Not like the dreams that had plagued me last year.
That was when I’d stopped drinking with the girls. So that I wasn’t spending my weekends waking up after midday not only with a hangover but fewer hours to pull myself together again. It’s hard enough nursing an aching heart, an aching head helps nothing.
Don’t cry. You’ll upset Martha. Be grateful.
‘Hol? Were you having a nightmare?’ I didn’t think she would go, stationed eternally on the jetty.
In place of my self-imposed ban on girly nights, Martha instigated a non-negotiable scaled down version. For the two years since the accident, Saturday nights had been dedicated to the emotional well-being of her kid sister. She didn’t realise that staying here every week, eating with her and Rob, sleeping in their guest room—it didn’t take the edge off my loneliness as she hoped it would, it defined it.
‘Hey. No, I’m good.’ I sent her the lie with a smile. It worked and she sent one back. I preferred Martha with her dishevelled morning look. Before she perfected her makeup for the day and set her hair flawlessly in place, she was the most beautiful girl I knew I’d see all day. But it was pointless telling her. I’d heard Dad try when Mum was out of earshot. Gilding a lily, he’d called it.
Really, she didn’t need to gild anything. Martha had inherited all the good stuff, which was probably for the best as it would have been wasted on me. She had a respectable inch on my five-foot-six, that was without the heels, her eyes were more decisive as to the shade of hazel they wanted to be and she was bestowed our mother’s rich blonde waves. I, on the other hand, had taken after our lovely dad—less polished and less blonde, with that not-quite-brown, not-quite-blonde colouring that could have been either had I ever decided which way to go with it.
But despite our differences, and the things I kept hidden from her, there was no question that we were tight.
Martha was a good sister, the best even. But this staying over every Saturday night was really about her emotional well-being more than it was mine. She needed to feel that she was doing some good, and I loved her enough to go each week as a spectator in her blossoming family life. It was the least I could do for her, she lost Charlie too.
‘Rob’s making breakfast,’ she chirped. ‘He’s breaking the big guns out. Full English?’ I wasn’t a breakfast person, but Martha was hell-bent on taking care of me for the entirety of the time she was allocated each week. She was weeks away from giving birth to their first child and, happy as I was for them, I couldn’t help but think of my impending niece or nephew as a welcome distraction. Maybe then I could have breakfast-less Sunday mornings in my own home again.
Downstairs at the breakfast table Rob had spared no efforts in his quest to fatten me up. He was just shovelling the last of the scrambled egg onto an already mountainous pile when I bypassed him for the coffee pot.
‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he said, busying himself with the next bubbling saucepan. ‘Beans or tomatoes? Or both? I’m having both.’
‘You are not, you’ve got enough on your plate already,’ Martha warned him.
Rob leaned in to me and whispered, ‘She’s got that right.’ I stifled a smile while Martha scowled at him. ‘What? I’m a growing boy, I need my energy,’ he protested.
‘Rob, we aren’t going to fit in the bed if you carry on.’
Rob looked at his beautifully rotund wife and then threw me a collusive look.
‘Sorry, my love. I’ll tell you what, I’ll have half a grapefruit next Sunday morning instead. Hol will hold me to it, right, Hol?’
‘You got it.’ I grinned into my mug. Martha made good coffee. ‘Anyone else have a headache this morning?’ I asked, sitting down to survey the man-sized portion waiting for me. It smelled good, actually.
‘Only from Rob’s snoring. You two were the only ones drinking last night.’
‘Was that you snoring, Rob?’ I asked, biting into a triangle of toast. ‘I thought someone was firing up a Harley outside.’
Martha smiled over the top of her Sunday Journal.
‘Do you want some ibuprofen?’ she asked, already setting the paper down. It was pointless stopping her, she’d only fuss until I’d swallowed a few painkillers. ‘Didn’t you sleep too well last night?’
‘No, I slept fine.’ Memories of my dream made me wonder what Martha might have heard through the night while Rob snored on. Change the subject. ‘It’s been a grueller in the shop this week. I’m probably just a bit highly strung. You know what it’s like, as soon as you stop, it all piles on top of you.’ One of the reasons I kept myself busy.
‘Yes, Martha was flapping when she couldn’t get hold of you Friday night. How come you were working so late?’ Rob said as he chewed his way through a sausage. It was difficult to look at Rob without smiling. He reminded me in some ways of Dave, a little obedient maybe, but loyal to the core and utterly dependable. They were the gentle giants in my life, but whilst Martha’s tolerance flexed for her husband, it didn’t stretch to Dave. I guess Rob slobbered less. Just.
‘I had to deliver to a gentlemen’s evening, over at Hawkeswood.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Rob mumbled, a forkful of hash browns meeting its doom.
‘I use the term gentlemen loosely. Dave has better manners.’
‘Hawkeswood’s the property tycoon’s place now isn’t it, Martha?’
Martha settled back behind paper. ‘Hmm?’
‘Hawkeswood. Didn’t you do something there years ago with Parry & Fitch?’
Martha loved to talk about her work. It was a shame Parry & Fitch Interiors had to scale back, but the UK property market had taken a big hit over the last few years and most people we knew had been affected in one way or another.
‘Did