I sit with my legs sprawled out, unable to make sense of it.

  I wake up on the floor, feeling dehydrated and disorientated, Cecily’s drawings spread out around me. I check her watch, and stagger to my feet. My head is spinning and the room lurches under me. Bea will be back from school soon. I go into the bathroom and splash my face with water, gulping it straight from the tap. By the time I hear the front door open, I’ve managed to clear my head and I go down to say hello. Bea grins when she sees me and drops her school bag on the floor. ‘I’ll just get changed,’ she says, running upstairs to her room. Doing yoga is the last thing I feel like, but I started her on this habit, and it will do us both good.

  I pull the curtains, so I won’t be distracted by shadows at the bay window. We do forty minutes of yoga; Bea stands in tree pose better than me, keeping completely still and focused. I feel shaky, my balance gone, as if I’m ill. I’m obliged to keep putting my foot down. I’m grateful when we lie on the floor at the end. After we’ve put the mat away and I’ve opened the curtains, Gabriel arrives home.

  This has become my favourite time, I realise, as we sit together at the table talking about our days, passing each other the salt or pepper, making plans for the weekend. But this evening, I’m not hungry. The food makes me feel sick, and I finish my glass of water and pour out another.

  ‘I’ve invited Lily over this Saturday,’ Bea says. ‘Is that alright?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘It’ll be nice to meet her.’

  ‘I have an extra choir rehearsal,’ Gabriel says. ‘Cecily, I wondered if you wanted to come?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That would be great.’

  ‘We’re looking for a new soprano,’ he says. ‘If you wanted, you could give it a try?’

  ‘Me?’ I stare at him. ‘I’m not sure I could…’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to audition,’ he says. ‘It’s just for fun. You can sing in tune, and that’s really all that matters.’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ Bea says. ‘Isn’t that what you said to me about yoga? You don’t know till you’ve given it a try.’

  ‘Our daughter speaks words of wisdom,’ Gabriel says, only half suppressing his grin.

  I get up from the table on the pretext of filling the water jug. The cruellest aspect of this swap is that it’s put me at the centre of a family that doesn’t belong to me – offered me chances I couldn’t take. I blot my eyes on a tea towel. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’ve never wanted this kind of life.

  After Bea goes upstairs to do her homework, Gabriel and I carry cups of tea into the sitting room with the intention of seeing if there’s anything worth watching on television. We put the cups down on the coffee table, but before I can pick up the remote control or slump into the sofa, Gabriel has turned me by the shoulders to face him. His fingers slip down my arms, holding me. We look at each other and the question is there again in his eyes, his longing like a live creature, something leaving cover, driven by instinct and need. I can’t close myself against it. This evening I’m not strong enough to resist the expression of his wanting, his honesty. He puts out a hand and cups my cheek, and I take his fingers and touch his palm to my mouth. He lets out a sigh. Our arms are tangling around each other, my fingers in the soft fibres of his hair. His mouth is gentle against mine, exploring, and then firmer, urgent, and I sink into the kiss, the warmth and relief of it.

  I pull away, my hands on his chest, breathing heavily.

  He looks shocked. He blinks at me. ‘God. I’m sorry.’

  There’s a prickling sensation at the back of my scalp. Something moves in the periphery of my sight. A disturbance of air behind the glass. A pale shape turning away, darkened sockets where eyes should be, a fall of inky hair across a cheekbone. She’s behind the bay window. I know it before my mind can catch up, before my body can act. I spin around. The emptiness of night hangs beyond a sheen of reflection. The outside masked. But the impression of her is there, lasered across my vision.

  Pushing past Gabriel, I shout, ‘Stop!’ stumbling around the sofa, into the hall. Three strides and I’m at the front door, wrenching it open. I dash to the end of the garden path, out past the privet hedge, and I’m yelling into the dark street, ‘I know you’re there!’ I think I can see her, a shape moving out of the glow of a streetlight into shadows. ‘Come back!’ I scream. In the sky, the moon moves behind clouds.

  Gabriel is behind me, his hand closing around my arm. ‘Cecily, what are you doing? Who are you shouting at?’

  ‘Nobody. I thought… I thought I saw someone…’ I’m not wearing shoes. The ground is damp from a recent shower, the bottoms of my socks soggy.

  ‘Darling, come inside.’ He guides me back into the house, walking me into the kitchen. I’m shivering. ‘Sit down,’ he says, and I obey. He kneels at my feet, peeling off my socks. ‘You’re cold. Maybe you should have a bath,’ he says. ‘It’ll warm you up. I can make you a fresh cup of tea.’

  My teeth chatter. I try to stop them, pushing my hand against my mouth.

  He’s looking at me with concern. Another unspoken question fixed there. A different question, about the state of my mind.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m fine. Really. Just… a bit on edge.’

  ‘Did the kiss upset you?’ He’s still crouching at my feet. ‘I don’t want you to worry about us,’ he says softly. ‘We can take this slow. I’m not expecting anything. Not until you’re ready.’

  He stands and holds out his hand to help me out of the chair. ‘I love you, Cecily,’ he says simply. We stand facing each other, and I pull my fingers from his grip, shaking my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I repeat. ‘I’ll go and have that bath.’

  I force myself to walk away. He’s not mine.

  But she doesn’t deserve him.

  29

  CECILY

  Being in love had not been good for my grades. I’d lost focus, despite Gabriel reminding me to finish my essays, despite his offers to help me study. My mind had given up its grasp on work. I hadn’t understood the power of sex, how the longing for it stayed with me while I walked about campus and sat in lectures. I felt a constant yearning low in my belly, a tug of desire between my thighs. I wanted him while I stood in line for a sandwich in the canteen, while I brushed my teeth in the bathroom of the dingy flat I shared with three final-year students. I couldn’t wait to be in Gabriel’s bed, in his little flat in Exeter, where I was the centre of his gaze, the object of his desire. With the sound of seagulls screaming outside the window, I gave myself up to tenderness. He reshaped me with his touch, made me part of his world, erased my loneliness. I felt almost whole again.

  I unwrapped the second pregnancy test, praying the first had been faulty. Sitting on the loo, I squeezed out some drops of urine, catching them on the little stick. I remained on the seat with it in my hands watching the small aperture. Two blue lines appeared.

  I stood up with difficulty, legs numb from sitting, the imprint of the loo seat stinging the backs of my thighs as I threw the stick in the bin and pulled up my knickers. I placed my hands over my belly. An alien was growing deep inside me. I tried to imagine what this thing looked like – a cluster of cells, smaller than my little fingernail – I was hazy about the exact proportions. I didn’t feel any different, but I understood with a clench of fear, that in Daddy’s eyes, I’d be a monster. Unmarried and pregnant made me a whore, a slut, a fallen woman. He would despise me. Mummy would pity me. The thought of him knowing made me tumble onto my knees in front of the loo, bringing up the remains of my breakfast in a sour splatter.

  I waited in the cold for Gabriel to finish a tutorial. As soon as he appeared through the door, I got up from my seat on a nearby wall and approached him. He was obviously mid-conversation with a student and looked startled when he saw me striding purposefully towards him. He moved away from the boy at his side, glancing furtively around. For a flickering second his obvious fear made me hate him. I was sick of pretending I hardly knew him when we met in public, sick of lying to my flatmates about where I spent half my nights.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked in a low voice, careful not to touch me.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ I said, unable to contain it for even a moment.

  He took a sharp breath and clutched my arm. Holding me close to his side, we walked swiftly away from the crowd of students, winding through the campus towards the playing fields. It was midday and bleakly cold. There was nobody playing a match, and we huddled together out of the wind behind the changing rooms.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, his forehead wrinkled. ‘These things can be wrong…’

  ‘I’ve done two tests. My period is weeks late.’ My anxiety wiped out any embarrassment.

  He looked down at his blunt hands, and I could tell that he was considering what to say. He cleared his throat and looked at me. ‘What do you want to do, Cecily?’

  I stared at him. Did he really think I had a choice? ‘I can’t get rid of it, if that’s what you mean.’ I shoved my hands in my pockets so he wouldn’t see them tremble. ‘We… we need to get married. If I have this baby as a single mother, my father will never talk to me again.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’ he said gently. ‘You’re very young… to be tied down.’

  I snapped my head up. ‘You mean you don’t want to be tied down.’ Nerves jangled. ‘Is this your way of telling me you won’t marry me?’

  His face widened in shock. ‘No,’ he caught one of my hands and held it tightly. ‘No, of course not. I’m just saying that it’s a lot of responsibility to have a kid, and…’

  I snatched my hand away, frustrated. ‘I told you when we met that I was Catholic. Weren’t you listening?’

  ‘I hadn’t factored in this situation,’ he said, rubbing his forehead. ‘Your religion didn’t seem to make any difference to us – to how we were together.’

  ‘Well, it does now.’ Panic scrawled through me, tangling into knots of terror. Daddy might disinherit me – if he could pretend his other children never existed, he could easily do the same to me. A gust of air snapped around the corner, slapping my cheeks, whipping my hair back. I shivered as I visualised Hawksmoor without me, the house expunged of any trace of me.

  ‘We’ll get married,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  Relief was like a plug being pulled. Fear drained away, taking all my strength with it and I slumped against him. His arms went around me, and I pressed my face into the sturdy, familiar warmth of his chest, the nap of his jacket. He kissed the top of my head.

  ‘You’ll have to convert,’ I murmured. ‘You’ll have to convert to Catholicism.’

  With a muffled exclamation, he moved me away, gripping me above my elbows. ‘I’m an atheist,’ he told me. ‘I can’t become a Catholic or join any other religion. I’d be lying if I agreed to be converted.’

  ‘For me?’ I pleaded. ‘Couldn’t you just go through the motions, for me?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll support your choice of religion, but I won’t join it.’

  Why had I never asked him about converting before? Had I known deep down that he wouldn’t do it, and so avoided the confrontation? Or had I simply felt that there was plenty of time to discuss it in the future? The real problem, I knew, was that I hadn’t been thinking at all. But I should have checked. As soon as we slept together, I should have asked the question.

  I began to bite my fingernails. He closed his hands around them stopping me. ‘You’ve just managed to kick that habit,’ he said quietly. ‘Look, I can’t pretend that this is ideal timing, and I know this must feel frightening, but we’ll get through it, Cecily. I’m not going to desert you now.’

  Tears stung my eyes. ‘I’ve trapped you, haven’t I?’

  ‘We’re in this together. Look, we used protection. But it’s never 100 per cent safe. I knew that. I took the risk too.’ He pulled me close, ‘I love you, Cecily. I would have asked you to marry me anyway. This has just speeded things up.’

  Dear Daddy and Mummy,

  I have some exciting news. I’m going to be married! He’s a tutor here at the university. Dr Gabriel Greenwood. A history academic, with brilliant ideas. I know he’ll go far. He makes me very happy. I know it’s sudden, and I’m sorry not to talk to you about it or introduce you to him, but we’ve decided to get married soon, without any fuss. But of course, it would mean so much if you could both attend the ceremony.

  Daddy wrote back with one line asking if Gabriel was Catholic. I sent a return letter to say that he wasn’t yet, implying that he might convert in the future.

  Dear Cecily,

  Your mother and I will not be attending your wedding. You are marrying outside the faith, and without my permission. The fact that your prospective husband hasn’t had the decency to ask me for your hand is unforgivable, as is the fact that he is one of your tutors, a position of trust that he has clearly broken.

  My first instinct was to report him to the university, and you have your mother to thank for the fact that I have agreed not to pursue the matter.

  You have always been a disappointment, Cecily. But with this marriage you exceed my worst predictions for you.

  I cried in my room, the letter crushed in my fist. I’d made a mistake. I could see how I’d been seduced by love, by the relief of belonging to someone, and how it had thrown me off course. I shivered when I realised that my love affair could cost me Hawksmoor and Daddy.

  I sat up, scrubbing at my eyes. I’d work extra hard to win Daddy back, to get him to accept my marriage and my husband. I would restore his faith in me; after all, our love for Hawksmoor still united us.

  I wasn’t ready to be a mother, and I didn’t think I ever would be. I shouldn’t have got pregnant. There was a darkness inside me. I was afraid for my unborn child, curled up inside the womb of someone like me – I was sure the poor thing would be consumed with nightmares before they even took a breath of air.

  The baby began to make itself known to me. I started to experience morning sickness, and the name made me laugh, because the metallic taste in my mouth and my unsettled tummy lasted all day. I sat my finals feeling awful, nauseous and tired, swallowing down bile as I leant over my papers.

  I got a Third, and Bea was born seven months later in Exeter hospital. I gazed into the wizened, puckered face of my small daughter with a mix of amazement and fear. A grandson might have swayed my father, I thought.

  30

  CECILY

  Hollyhocks Cottage is in darkness, curtains closed behind blank windows, as if the house itself is shutting me out. I imagine my child dreaming in her bed, beneath her poster of Courtney Love, hair spread on the pillow, drool dampening a patch of cotton under her mouth. It hurts not to be with her, and it’s strange to think that she doesn’t miss me, that she doesn’t know I’m standing here, alone in the damp night. Sukie watches me from under the shadow of the privet hedge with unblinking eyes. Her feline gaze doesn’t judge me for prowling the streets when most people are asleep behind locked doors. ‘Puss, puss,’ I whisper, clicking my tongue. She ignores me, putting her nose in the air.

  It’s nearly midnight. I’m not expecting Gabriel or Alice to peer out of their windows, but I feel exposed under the streetlight. I walk on, turning my collar up against a dirty drizzle, my feet stumbling over the kerb as I cross between parked cars. The tarmac swings under me, a woozy see-saw motion, and I clutch my bag tighter, concentrating hard on putting one foot in front of the other. Walking in a not-quite straight line, I head uphill towards the castle ruins.

  How easily she’s stolen my family. They don’t belong to her. Alice is only here because of me. She threw her future away and now I’ve let her take over my life. I thought she could help me, but I should never have agreed to the swap.

  When I saw that she’d moved the sofa and table, it upset me, but I’d resisted putting them back where they belonged, and I’ve left her weird food in my fridge. I don’t want her to know I’ve been there, in the house, or that I go there still. But when I saw the plants in the living room, I had to act fast. She couldn’t bring living things into my house. She must know that I can’t be trusted to look after them. Things die on my watch, even when I don’t want them to.

  It’s past closing time, and The Royal Oak only do lock-ins on Saturdays. But I have a bottle of vodka in my bag. Drinking alone at the castle gatehouse isn’t so bad. I have the foxes and owls for company. I like being high up. Below, the lit-up town takes on a festive sparkle, the navy sky above steeped in a sodium glow. Most of the time, I have the place to myself, unless I take a man with me, letting him fuck me as he pinions me between him and the cold wall, the back of my skull banging rhythmically against stone, the point of a belt buckle digging into my stomach. There are different ways of achieving oblivion.

  It might be the next morning, or several mornings later, that I enter the Sacred Heart. Time jumps and slides, playing games with me, stealing hours, and then catapulting me forward into a new day with no warning. All I know is that my head pounds and my mouth is parched. I slip into a pew and kneel, clasping my hands at my forehead. The calm of the church seeps into my tight muscles, and the sensation is like cool milk running through the avenues of my body.

  Forgive my weakness, Jesus. But I have been sorely tested.

  I sneak a glance towards the stained-glass window, wondering if the forgiving light of the Lord will shine on me, if the Virgin herself will whisper encouraging words in my ear. But all I hear is earthly murmuring and the rustle of feet moving down the aisle, people shifting on their knees in other pews.

  I clasp my fingers tighter. Forgive me for what I am about to do. I know it’s a sin. The worst one. Give me the strength to carry out my task. I have been too afraid. But it must be done, or I will never be free. I will pay whatever penance you ask of me.