‘Victoria?’ came a woman’s voice, raised above the storm. The knock came again. ‘Darling, are you okay?’ Another crash of thunder made the glass in the windows judder.
‘Yes,’ she replied, her voice croaky. She cleared her throat. ‘Yes. I’m okay.’ She moved across the room, feeling the cold stone floor under her feet, and she unlocked and opened the door.
Her friend and ex-teacher, Cilla Stone, was standing in the corridor. She was in her early sixties and dressed flamboyantly in a long mink fur coat, and a black character turban. She held up an old-fashioned oil lamp, which cast a warm orange glow around her and made the fur coat shine.
‘I can’t sleep in this beastly storm. Can you?’ said Cilla. Her voice rang out in the corridor with a soft Scottish brogue that Vicky had always found so calming.
‘No,’ said Vicky, smiling weakly.
‘Come on, sweetheart, I’ll get the fire going in the living room, and we’ll have a nip of something. Ride out the storm together!’
Cilla smiled dramatically, and Vicky noted that even though it was the middle of the night, she had applied fresh scarlet lipstick. Vicky followed Cilla and the light of the glowing oil lamp down a corridor lined with bookshelves. Thunder seemed to tear and rip at the house above, and Vicky’s teeth started to chatter loudly. Cilla turned at the sound, and stopped at a large heavy wooden wardrobe. She opened the door. The lamp light shimmered across a line of fur coats hanging inside.
‘You’re frozen! Go on, grab yourself a wee fur coat… They’ve already kicked the bucket, you know. Help them fulfil their destinies, and let them warm ye up!’
Vicky was an uninvited guest, having shown up unannounced on Cilla’s doorstep early on Tuesday morning, and she didn’t feel like she could protest. Cilla grabbed a long brown mink coat off a hanger. ‘Go on. Put it on. You’ll catch your death.’
Holding her breath slightly at the smell of animal pelt, Vicky pulled the long heavy fur around her shoulders, and was suddenly glad of the warmth. She followed Cilla through into the living room, which was an Aladdin’s cave of opulent furniture and antiques. A fire glowed in the grate.
‘You feed the fire, and I’ll make us some cocoa.’
Cilla went padding away with the lamp, leaving Vicky in darkness. The curtains were open on the two large bay windows, and the storm crashed and flickered, lighting up a vast empty beach where the waves pounded the shore. Vicky felt comforted by the fur coat and the strong heat from the embers of the fire pressing against her face. She knelt in front of the wood basket, found two pieces of kindling, and leant into the heat, pushing them into the embers. A moment later the room was lit up by the flickering flames, and she placed a bigger log on top.
She sat on the floor with her back leaning against a large squashy sofa. Cilla’s house was kooky, not a word Vicky often used. It felt like a cosy haunted mansion. She huddled down in the fur coat, and was glad that she had this moment, far away from London, to draw breath and work out what to do next. The violence of the storm seemed to be abating, and in between soft rumbles, she heard the sound of the rain falling against the windows and drumming on the roof. The warmth of the fire seemed to reach out and envelop her, and she tipped her head back, feeling the strong pull of sleep. She was jolted awake by the violent image of the young woman, lying dead on her bed in a seeping lake of blood.
Cilla came back into the room with steaming mugs on a tray, and a bottle of Glenlivet whisky.
Vicky sat up and moved her legs so Cilla could pass and put the tray on the huge coffee table by the sofa. There was silence as she poured a dash of whisky into each mug, and Vicky watched Cilla’s face. She was a beautiful woman, with a smooth complexion, bright red hair and the most vibrant blue eyes which reflected the light from the fire. Curious eyes, Cilla called them, and she was adamant that her curious eyes, and her curiosity, had kept her young. Cilla, who was now retired, had been Vicky’s teacher at drama school, and they’d formed a close friendship in the six years since she’d graduated.
She handed one of the mugs to Vicky, and those curious blue eyes searched her face, concerned and interested to know why an old student had pitched up at her door before breakfast. Vicky looked away, concentrating back on the fire where the log was now burning brightly.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She took a sip, and felt the warmth of the whisky, which was winning the battle for supremacy over the sweet cocoa. She hadn’t eaten much – feeling unable to keep anything down – but she took a piece of the shortbread off the plate Cilla offered to her and bit into it. It was dry and crumbly, with a sweetness that exploded in the mouth when it dissolved.