Bella’s thumb gently stroked the back of her hand. Somehow their faces seemed closer. She could feel Bella’s minty breath against her cheek. Then she felt the brush of her lips – tentative, exploratory at first – and then fuller, melting against her own.
Bella’s lips were exquisitely soft and full. Robyn had kissed lots of boys. That was not what kisses were supposed to be like. They were harder, urgent. Bella’s mouth was cushiony and sweet; she wanted to sink into it.
Beneath the duvet, Robyn felt her hand being drawn down the length of Bella’s body, trailing over the soft skin of her stomach, being guided lower still.
She blinked, trying to free the memory, but the sparks of it burned, red-hot.
‘We both remember,’ Bella said.
63
Bella
Every detail was vivid in Bella’s mind: their fingers entwining as they kissed; the smooth warmth of Robyn’s thighs sliding against hers; the faint chlorine smell that still lingered on her neck; the press of her knees into the crook of Robyn’s as they’d fallen asleep, curled together.
What she also remembered was waking in the morning, alone. She’d pulled the duvet close to her chin, waiting for Robyn to return with a cup of tea and packet of biscuits – their usual post-sleepover pick-me-up – yet the bedroom door never opened.
Eventually, Bella had slunk downstairs, barefoot, wearing the previous night’s dress, the gold fabric feeling cheap and glitzy in the unforgiving morning light.
Robyn was sitting at the kitchen table, flanked by her parents. Her face was washed clean, hair brushed straight, eyes shadowed. ‘Hey,’ Robyn said, without meeting Bella’s eye.
‘Good morning, Bella,’ Robyn’s father welcomed. ‘We hear you took Robyn to A&E last night. Thank you very much.’
‘It’s fine,’ Bella said, trying to rearrange the too-low neckline of her dress. She made fists of her hands, the red nail polish feeling garish in their quiet, grief-filled home. She had the unnerving sensation that she’d walked into a funeral service wearing fancy dress. She glanced at Robyn for reassurance, but her gaze was lowered to the kitchen table.
‘Quite the bump on the head Robyn had,’ her mother said, something sharp in her tone.
‘It was,’ Bella agreed. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’ She crossed the kitchen, about to take a seat at the table – but Robyn stood.
‘Exhausted. I could use a bit more sleep. You okay getting home?’
‘Oh. Sure. I need to head back. I’ve got the car, so …’ Bella didn’t have any belongings with her, so she simply gathered her shoes and car keys, and moved into the hallway.
Robyn opened the front door, eyes still lowered.
Barefoot on the front step, faux-leather heels dangling from her hand, Bella asked, ‘You okay?’
Robyn touched a hand to her head. ‘Turns out alcohol plus a concussion aren’t a great mix. Can barely remember a thing.’
Bella’s face flamed. ‘Right.’
A long, awkward silence followed.
‘I guess I better go then,’ Bella said.
‘Sure. See you,’ Robyn had said, gaze trailing to the ground in front of her feet.
Humiliation stung Bella’s cheeks as she hurried across the cul de sac in her glittering dress. She slung her shoes on the passenger seat, stabbed the key into the ignition, then stalled the car twice. Finally, she roared away with a screeching, over-revved gear change. Stereo volume dialled to max, the bellow of music drowned the smack of her palm as she slammed it into the steering wheel.
Now, standing on the beach, she faced Robyn. ‘I remember everything about that night – and I know you do, too.’
In the darkness, Robyn held her gaze.
What was it she wanted: an apology? An admission? Or simply an acknowledgement that it’d happened at all?
‘I’m so sorry,’ Robyn said eventually, before dropping her head, skirting Bella, then disappearing into the shadows.
64
Eleanor
Laughter and wood smoke curled into the night as Eleanor slipped away from the beach fire.
They’d tried, the others. Fen listening as she talked about Sam. Robyn always checking she had a drink and asking her opinion on the playlist. Lexi making space for her by the beach fire, wanting to chat. But Eleanor couldn’t pretend any longer. She was exhausted by it all – the smiling, the talking, the saying one thing but thinking something entirely different.
She wrapped the bottle of vodka within a blanket and placed it in the foot of the rowing boat. Shielded by darkness, she dragged the boat towards the shoreline, keeping her distance from the fire. She hoped no one would notice, asking why she was going out rowing alone, at night. What would she say? That she couldn’t bear to be in her own skin a moment longer? That she’d survived three nights of the hen weekend, watching one woman glowing at their centre, and couldn’t do it anymore?