‘Oh Catie, don’t …’ said Camilla.
‘Cate, please …’ echoed Venetia, watching her leave the room.
‘Let her go,’ mumbled Oswald with a casual wave of the hand.
Camilla began to rise to follow her sister, but froze at the sound of her father’s palm banging the tabletop. ‘What did I just say?’
Camilla and Oswald’s eyes locked.
Nicholas Charlesworth looked around the room and began quickly talking about the fishing. ‘Think it’ll be a good year, Oswald?’
‘Always a good year in these waters,’ replied Oswald, his eyes still on Camilla.
‘Thought we’d return the hospitality next month if you’re up for it,’ continued Nicholas. ‘Got tickets for Così Fan Tutte at the ROH.’
Concerned about Cate, but keen to diffuse the tension, Venetia seized her opportunity to change the subject. ‘Speaking of opera,’ she began tentatively, clearing her throat, ‘Did I tell you, Daddy, I’m in the middle of a commission for Maria Dante?’
Nicholas Charlesworth noticeably perked up and Philip Watchorn whistled.
‘The singer? Not exactly Pavarotti, is she?’ said Oswald moodily.
Philip playfully chided his friend, hitting him with the end of the napkin. ‘Don’t be so uncharitable, Oswald. Maria Dante is as good as Callas. Better looking, too. What’s she like, Venetia? Feisty young bird, I should imagine.’
‘Quite. You should hear her speaking to the builders.’
‘Where’s the property?’ asked Jennifer. She was always eager to collect information for her social database.
‘Three-storey stucco in Onslow Square. Needless to say she wants a very theatrical look for the house. All blood-reds and purples. Awful. I’m sure she wants Dracula’s castle.’
‘That’s the wops for you,’ said Oswald.
‘Actually,’ said Venetia, turning to Philip, ‘she was thinking of arranging a musical event for sometime before she flies to the Verona festival in July. She would perform, of course, possibly get some friends of hers on the bill – Lesley Garrett, maybe even Dame Kiri – and the proceeds would go to charity.’
‘What about a venue?’ asked Philip, quickly grasping that such an event would be a wonderfully original occasion to invite clients to. ‘She’ll be lucky to get a slot at the Barbican or Royal Festival at this late stage, won’t she?’
Venetia took a deep breath, her hands shaking slightly under the table. She knew Huntsford would be perfect as a venue, but she was also aware of her father’s distaste of commercial ventures. ‘I actually suggested Huntsford to her,’ said Venetia, avoiding her father’s eyes. ‘It’s so beautiful here in early summer, and the proximity to London is perfect.’ She paused. ‘It would be a hotter ticket than Glyndebourne.’
Oswald leaned forward in his chair. ‘Under no circumstances am I allowing anything like that to occur at Huntsford,’ he said, glaring at his daughter. ‘Unlike your bloody sisters, who can’t seem to keep out of the newspapers, I value the privacy of this family.’
‘We could do it for the Royal Marsden,’ chimed Jennifer Watchorn, always eager to join a charitable committee.
‘Balls to charity,’ boomed Oswald, ‘it will ruin the lawns. There’ll be bloody Japs everywhere with their sushi picnics. Christ, I suppose you intend making the orchard a car park?’
‘Give it some thought, Oz,’ said Philip, taking a cigar from the wooden casket Collins was passing round. ‘I thought you were supposed to be a patron of the arts,’ he said teasingly.
‘Yes, well. Not at the bloody expense of my property,’ he said, pouring a glass of port.
Just then there was the sound of raised voices from the hallway followed by a loud crash. ‘What the hell?’ Oswald quickly strode to the far end of the room and pulled the doors open. Sprawled on the floor, dressed in a pair of white jeans and a green kaftan, was Serena, half buried under a suit of armour. She looked up at her father with a chastened expression, her huge aquamarine eyes pinched and rimmed with red. Then she burst out laughing.
‘Serena, what the hell’s going on?’ boomed Oswald as the rest of the guests gathered behind him in the doorway.
Serena slowly picked herself up, trying vainly to regain her poise, staggering against the heavy oak doorway like a music-hall drunk.
‘Hello, everybody,’ she slurred, waving a half-empty champagne bottle. ‘Guess what? I’m home.’
Ten-year-old Cate Balcon clutched the tow-rope anxiously and threw a nervous smile to her sisters who were standing on the jetty behind her. Her bent legs wobbled as she bobbed in the chilly water, waiting for the engine to growl to life. She squinted, the glare of the Côte d’Azur sun bouncing off the sea as she looked to her father sitting in the boat in front of her. She hadn’t wanted to water-ski. She wasn’t a strong swimmer, so the open sea scared her, but if there was one thing that frightened her more, it was her father.
‘Are you ready?’ he shouted, turning from the wheel to salute her as the hum of the motor grew louder and louder. She nodded, her knees shaking as the boat roared away. Concentrate. Straighten legs. Pull up. A breeze slapped against her navy blue swimsuit as she stood shakily on the water. They were going fast now. Waves splashed onto her legs and the pine trees that flanked the shore blurred into the granite rock of the Cap Ferrat coastline behind them. But she was up; she was water-skiing.
Cate glanced at the jetty to smile proudly towards her sisters. Suddenly her right knee buckled. Too fast. Too fast, Daddy. She screamed out, but the growl of the motor swallowed it up. Her small body flipped over, her face smacking the water as she was pulled violently forward. Stop, Daddy, please, stop, but the boat carried on faster and faster. She gripped tighter onto the rope, determined not to let go, but her body sank lower and lower into the sea and water rushed into her eyes. Help me. Please, she croaked between gasps for air. Finally the engine fell quiet. The boat turned in a horseshoe around her, the rope falling slack, and then there he was, her father. Cate coughed violently, spewing up curves of salty water. A tanned, hairy hand came over the side of the boat, but its grip was hard and angry, leaving deep red welts on her shoulder.
‘You can never do anything right, can you?’
A gentle knock on the bedroom door woke Cate up from her sleep.
‘Can I come in?’
Cate rubbed her eyes as Venetia came into her room, a tiny space in the castle turret that was still decked out in chintz and lilac from when she called Huntsford home. Her sister perched on the eiderdown and Cate had a rush of déjàvu. It was a familiar scene with the Balcon girls – one sister creeping in to comfort another in the night, or sneaking away to the rickety old boathouse down by the lake to escape the shouting, the mocking, the disapproval. The boathouse had been the only port in their storm; Venetia, as the eldest sister, would take it upon herself to bring out rations of sweets and fizzy drinks and comfort to whoever was bearing the brunt of their father’s anger. Although Oswald deliberately sent them to different boarding schools to quash the bond, their closeness had survived into adulthood, and the Balcon girls still turned to each other in times of trouble – they were the only ones who really understood.
‘You’re crying.’
‘In my sleep, I think,’ said Cate, wiping the dampness from her cheek.
She