Chapter 20: Control the Narrative

Will used to live in a quaint two-bedroom cottage perched on the cliffs to the east of Westmouth, but he moved to a modern four-bedroom barn conversion in Chapel Kendall—the same village where Chloë lived—about a year after his girlfriend and daughter moved in with him. I suppose the little cottage was fine for a single man in his forties, but it felt far too cramped once two women moved in.

I drove to Chloë’s to collect Carly, left the car on the road outside her house, and we set off on the half-mile walk to the other side of the village.

It was a cold night—very cold. Colder than it had been for a long time, and the sky was thick with heavy clouds. I thought it might rain before we reached Will’s, even though it would only take us about ten minutes at most, so I took my large golf umbrella from the boot of the car. I’d been given it during my work experience there over the summer, and it sported the logo of Will’s law firm.

I was wrong. It didn’t rain.

It started to snow.

I quickly put up the umbrella, and we huddled together underneath it as we walked.

“We hardly ever had snow growing up,” Carly said. “I’ve seen it more often since I moved to Nashville, but never like this. There’s so much of it so quickly. I’m glad I’m wearing my boots.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You’re always wearing your boots.”

She grinned. “Not always. Just usually. You really should get a pair. They’re so comfy.”

“Just not ones with a high heel like yours.”

“No, not ones with a high heel.”

The snow was coming down heavily now, which reduced visibility. The ground was getting slippery beneath our feet, too. I’m glad I wasn’t driving in it.

“I hope the car doesn’t get snowed in or the roads get too dangerous to drive home.”

Carly pouted and looked at me with big, soulful eyes. “Would it be so bad if you had to spend the night with me?”

I smiled at her. “Of course not, but I do have an exam in the morning, and if I can’t get home tonight, I doubt I’ll make it to campus in the morning either.”

The snow was unrelenting, but there was hardly any wind to blow it under the umbrella and into our faces, so we didn’t get covered in it. It was actually quite enjoyable walking with Carly huddled under the brolly, especially as we had to take such care as the footpath became increasingly treacherous. It ended up taking us closer to fifteen minutes to get to Will’s.

Hayloft Barn sat on a large plot at the northern edge of the village, backing onto the very farmland that produced the crops that used to be stored in the barn. It featured a timber frame with limestone walls and was, as Will told me, over three hundred years old but had been derelict for over fifty years until a small development company purchased it for renovation as part of the wider Kendell Farm development, adding a slate roof, an upper floor, and enough windows to transform it from a cold, dark structure into a warm, welcoming family home filled with light. The barn measured about fifty feet in length and twenty feet wide, with the longer side facing the road. The entrance was located on the right-hand side, approximately two-thirds of the barn’s length, also facing the road. We walked up the driveway to the door and rang the bell.

“Paul! Come in. It’s, like, so good to see you!”

I’d first met Sophie, Will’s daughter, when she was a short, skinny thirteen-year-old. She used to live with her mother in London but moved to Westmouth to live with her father after some issue at her school or something. Will never gave me the details—I mean, why would he?—but it was clear he wasn’t happy with the school, especially considering how much he paid for her to attend. Instead, Will and his ex-wife sent her to Westmouth Grammar—the fee-paying school that Clarissa (and probably Emily) would have gone to if her father hadn’t been so adamant she attend Micester High.

Sophie was now sixteen—just a couple of months shy of seventeen—and was in the second term of her A Levels after, as Will told me last summer, an excellent set of GCSE results.

“I got my money’s worth,” he’d said at the time.

At thirteen, she was just like many girls that age—skinny, gangly, and not quite in complete control of limbs that seemed to be a bit longer today than yesterday. At almost seventeen, she was a stunning young woman who, had she been just a couple of years closer to my age and not the daughter of someone who was like a father to me in many ways, could easily have been described as just my type.

I stood aside so that Carly could enter the hallway and get out of the snow first.

“Oh! My! God!” Sophie practically screamed. “You’re, like, Kayla Valentine! Dad told me you were bringing your girlfriend, Paul, but he didn’t say your girlfriend was Kayla Valentine! This is, like, so lit! Wait until the girls hear about this. They’ll be proper jel! Can I get a selfie with you, ‘cause, like, they just so won’t believe me. You’re so lit. And your albums are, like, epic! I listened to them both after you, went to number one, because, like, why wouldn’t I? And they are, like, so different from ‘Woman’s Work.’ They’re, like, country music or whatever, but I never knew country music was so epic. It’s like every song is a little story or something. It’s, like, so phat! I just love ‘Hold Me Back!’ It’s like you’re singing about my life or something. It’s so lit!”

Sophie liked to talk—a lot.

“Kayla,” I said, deliberately using her pop-star name, “This is Sophie.” I’d stepped into the house, closed the umbrella and shut the door behind me.

Carly glanced sideways at me, smirked and winked, I assume in acknowledgement of me using her stage name—something we’d talked about on the way over after what Harry said to me during our meeting lodged itself in my brain. Then she held her arms open and said, “Nice to meet you, Sophie.”

Sophie dashed forward to hug my girlfriend.

“At least let the poor girl get in the house properly,” Will said from the doorway just to our left, which led to the enormous, open-plan lounge, dining room and kitchen. There were two doors off the hallway to the right, leading to the downstairs bathroom and a small lounge that Will always called “The Snug.”

“Come and have a seat,” he said, gesturing for us to follow him through the door. I’ll get you a drink. What would you like?”

“Oh, whatever you have, I really don’t mind,” Kayla said.

“I’ll open a bottle of wine, then. We have some Gewürztraminer from our trip to Alsace in the summer. That should go well with the Thai chicken curry that Amy’s prepared,” Will said as he followed us into the open plan room.

The room was enormous, occupying about two-thirds of the ground floor. At the far end was the lounge area, which featured three sofas—one with three seats and two with two seats—arranged in a “U” shape around a fireplace with a massive television mounted on the wall above it. An oblong, glass-top coffee table was positioned in the centre of the arrangement.

Between the door we’d entered through and the lounge area was the dining area, featuring a large dining table spacious enough to comfortably seat ten—four along each side and one at each end. This part of the room was the full height of the building, and huge glass doors opened onto the expansive garden behind the house. I imagined that with those doors open during the hot summer months, it must have been a truly pleasant space. Not that it isn’t pleasant now. There were lights in the garden, creating an almost animated Christmas card scene as snow fell and settled on the lawn and the trees at the garden’s edge.