Deleted scene
Prologue
Kent, UK
May 2013
'It all started when the boy nearly drowned,' the woman says.
The man peers over his glasses at her. 'That was the first time you met Idris?'
'Yes,' the woman replies, reaching for her drink. She puts it to her mouth, her red lipstick staining the glass. There are circles under her eyes, her dark hair greying at the temples, frizzing slightly. She was beautiful once. Vibrant. But now she's weary, tired. He gets the sense she's fading away. There have been rumours of her being ill, even one on Twitter suggesting she'd died. But here she is.
She takes a sip of her gin, luxuriating in the taste like it might be her last. 'We didn't talk that day though, Idris and I,' she says, flicking some fluff from her exotically patterned skirt. 'That wasn't until later. We didn't need to. It was enough, just to be in his presence. It was enough to know the type of man he is.'
'And that is...?'
She frowns slightly. 'Hard to explain.'
'You'll have to try.'
'Yes, I know.' She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as she pinches the bridge of her nose.
'This must be difficult for you,' the man says, hoping it doesn't end up being so difficult she tells him to go. He knows what she's like. How fickle she can be. How contrary. The untruths, too. But he's not the type of person who is easily fooled. Still, he must tread carefully. It's taken so much patience to be invited here after so many months of correspondence. She'd insisted on the old-fashioned way, with letters. But then she'd always been like that with her little notepads filled to the brim with that beautiful writing of hers.
A breeze filters in through the window, lifting the collar of her red silk blouse. It flutters then falls back against her pale skin. It's obvious she rarely gets out any more. A recluse, they call her. No wonder after everything that happened. And that’s without the extra details she so tantalisingly hinted at in her letters.
He watches her. Is this it? Is she going to send him away? Is it too much for her, so frail now?
But when she opens her eyes, there's a fierceness in them that surprises the writer. 'Yes, of course it’s difficult for me. I knew it would be. But I have the stomach for it.' She leans forward, giving a very brief glimpse of her cleavage as she looks him in the eye. 'Do you have the stomach for it?'
He feels himself blush. He coughs slightly, adjusting his glasses. 'There isn't much I can't handle.'
'We'll see. You’re going to get every detail, every fact, every bit of it true.' She pauses, raising her glass to her lips again, quirking a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘You might need a whole bottle of this stuff when we're finished.'
He laughs. 'It can't be that bad.'
She takes a long sip. 'It was. But it was beautiful too.' A frown puckers the soft skin of her forehead. 'No, I need to do this. I need to grasp the memories and pin them down before they flutter away.'
As she says that, the paper shapes of birds, bats and shells hanging from the corner of her book shelf flutter in the breeze.
'That’s the best way to do it,' the man says, 'pressing those memories in-between the pages of a book.'
A smile plays on her lips. 'I like that.'
He feels a bubble of pride.
The smile disappears and her blue eyes glide towards the sea outside her window, the clutch of caves below out of sight. 'Just promise you won't tell anyone it's me?’ she asks. ‘That it'll be pitched as a work of fiction, not fact? Promise you'll stick to the three requirements I laid out in my letter?'
'Of course.'
'Fine.' She crosses her long legs and adjusts her skirt. He holds his breath in anticipation, fingers hovering over the keyboard of his laptop. 'Shall we begin?’ she says.
Want to read more? Pre-order The Lost Sister.
Kent, UK
May 2013
'It all started when the boy nearly drowned,' the woman says.
The man peers over his glasses at her. 'That was the first time you met Idris?'
'Yes,' the woman replies, reaching for her drink. She puts it to her mouth, her red lipstick staining the glass. There are circles under her eyes, her dark hair greying at the temples, frizzing slightly. She was beautiful once. Vibrant. But now she's weary, tired. He gets the sense she's fading away. There have been rumours of her being ill, even one on Twitter suggesting she'd died. But here she is.
She takes a sip of her gin, luxuriating in the taste like it might be her last. 'We didn't talk that day though, Idris and I,' she says, flicking some fluff from her exotically patterned skirt. 'That wasn't until later. We didn't need to. It was enough, just to be in his presence. It was enough to know the type of man he is.'
'And that is...?'
She frowns slightly. 'Hard to explain.'
'You'll have to try.'
'Yes, I know.' She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as she pinches the bridge of her nose.
'This must be difficult for you,' the man says, hoping it doesn't end up being so difficult she tells him to go. He knows what she's like. How fickle she can be. How contrary. The untruths, too. But he's not the type of person who is easily fooled. Still, he must tread carefully. It's taken so much patience to be invited here after so many months of correspondence. She'd insisted on the old-fashioned way, with letters. But then she'd always been like that with her little notepads filled to the brim with that beautiful writing of hers.
A breeze filters in through the window, lifting the collar of her red silk blouse. It flutters then falls back against her pale skin. It's obvious she rarely gets out any more. A recluse, they call her. No wonder after everything that happened. And that’s without the extra details she so tantalisingly hinted at in her letters.
He watches her. Is this it? Is she going to send him away? Is it too much for her, so frail now?
But when she opens her eyes, there's a fierceness in them that surprises the writer. 'Yes, of course it’s difficult for me. I knew it would be. But I have the stomach for it.' She leans forward, giving a very brief glimpse of her cleavage as she looks him in the eye. 'Do you have the stomach for it?'
He feels himself blush. He coughs slightly, adjusting his glasses. 'There isn't much I can't handle.'
'We'll see. You’re going to get every detail, every fact, every bit of it true.' She pauses, raising her glass to her lips again, quirking a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘You might need a whole bottle of this stuff when we're finished.'
He laughs. 'It can't be that bad.'
She takes a long sip. 'It was. But it was beautiful too.' A frown puckers the soft skin of her forehead. 'No, I need to do this. I need to grasp the memories and pin them down before they flutter away.'
As she says that, the paper shapes of birds, bats and shells hanging from the corner of her book shelf flutter in the breeze.
'That’s the best way to do it,' the man says, 'pressing those memories in-between the pages of a book.'
A smile plays on her lips. 'I like that.'
He feels a bubble of pride.
The smile disappears and her blue eyes glide towards the sea outside her window, the clutch of caves below out of sight. 'Just promise you won't tell anyone it's me?’ she asks. ‘That it'll be pitched as a work of fiction, not fact? Promise you'll stick to the three requirements I laid out in my letter?'
'Of course.'
'Fine.' She crosses her long legs and adjusts her skirt. He holds his breath in anticipation, fingers hovering over the keyboard of his laptop. 'Shall we begin?’ she says.
Want to read more? Pre-order The Lost Sister.