Page 49 of The Bridesmaid
‘That’s the best part,’ Ophelia beams, beckoning us towards a set of floor-length velvet drapes. She reaches up high with her little arms, and pulls a golden cord with effort, lifting aside the heavy fabric in one movement.
‘Ta-da!’ Ophelia throws out a hand.
Revealed is a full-length portrait of my great aunt, Lady Margaret Kensington, in a high-necked dress. She is severe-faced and unsmiling, with washed-out eyes. Her dark hair is separated by a razor-sharp central part, giving her the appearance of wearing a black skull cap. Three similarly serious schoolgirls, in heavy gray pinafore dresses, are arranged at the front. Behind them are some jaunty fat palm trees and sea on the horizon.
We all recognize it. A replica of this portrait was hung in our headmistress’s office at our New York boarding school. Painted in waving letters over the tropical sky are the words:
Our Trinity: Discipline, Self Restraint, Godliness.
Silky takes an audible breath, eyes wide, hand at her chest.
‘Isn’t ithilarious?’ says Ophelia, oblivious to Silky’s near ‘It’sa little in-joke, for all us girls who went to Kensington Manor School,’ Ophelia’s eyes are hard and bright, like she’s proving something to herself. ‘Our boarding school motto began out here with your Great Aunt Margaret.’
Silky’s eyes are flitting around the room like a hunted animal. Petra also has something beneath her glacial expression that I’ve never seen before. She’s uncomfortable too, I realize – she’s just better at hiding it.
‘Remember how the headmistress would tell us tortured saint stories?’ says Silky. ‘That stuff in chapel wasnotsuitable for little kids.’
‘All the saints being burned alive and stuff?’ says Ophelia, picking up the sudden silence. ‘That was X-rated. For sure.’
‘What kind of school,’ says Silky, ‘appoints a headmistress who loves scaring little girls half to death with stories of torture and sadism?’
There’s a pause. She’s broken the code. Everyone keeps it light. Makes a joke of it. She’s acting victim. We want to be survivors.
‘You always were such a fuckingbaby, Silky,’ shoots Petra. ‘Always whining and wetting your pants. Why don’t you get over it andgrow up?’
It’s delivered with such savagery that I physically flinch. Part of me wants to step in. Try to take issue with Petra’s surprising attack, or at least reassure Silky, whose chest is heaving so fast, she looks on the brink of physical collapse.
But it’s like we’re all stuck. Trapped in a past version of ourselves that keeps playing out. The frightened schoolgirls. Something is happening to Ophelia that is hard to understand. Her eyes are bulging, a flush is creeping beneath her freckled skin. Georgia simply looks tired.
Suddenly I’m furious with Silky. Why does she keep doing this to us? Why does she keep taking us back there?
It’s Georgia who breaks the tension. ‘It’s cake tasting next,’ she says, checking her slim gold watch, and eyeing my face with concern. ‘No time to look inside the new bar now.’
The strained atmosphere shifts, and I notice Petra breathe a small sigh of relief.
‘I’d better go find Holly,’ adds Georgia. ‘She’s been way longer than twenty minutes.’
‘Let’s … take a few minutes free time, touch up make-up,’ I suggest, feeling suddenly exhausted. ‘Look around. Not you, Silks,’ I add, thinking I need to read her the riot act on digging up the past.
As the others drift away, Silky stands alone, her gaze vacant and fixed on some far-off point.
I close my eyes, placing my hand on my chest.
‘I am safe,’ I whisper. ‘I am loved. I am safe, I am loved.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
HOLLY
In the lava caves, I begin reading the names on the log, carefully. Assessing each one.
‘I think they’re all Colombian names,’ I say. ‘Spanish-sounding.’ I stop reading. One entry stands out.
‘Violet Locard,’ I breathe. ‘OK. I think we’re in the right place,’ I tell Fitzwilliam. ‘Look at this name.’ I point. ‘Locard.’ I twist around to share the joke with Fitzwilliam, but he looks confused.
‘Locard is a reference to Edmund Locard, the famous forensic scientist,’ I explain. ‘Every contact leaves a trace.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
