High Tide by Veronica Henry Read Free Book Online Page A

the sun seemed to have shed its warmth on rising, taking longer to heat up. The air smelled different: sharper and sweeter and smoky, and breathing it in brought a sense of change; of new horizons. Gone was the fevered heat of summer. The calmness of autumn was here.
    Vanessa relished the quiet, because tonight the house would be bursting at the seams – twelve guests had been the last count reported to her by Mary Mac, who was in charge of the organisation. No one had bothered talking to Vanessa about arrangements, even though she was presumably the head of the house now. They all went through Mary, Spencer’s housekeeper and right-hand woman since long before Vanessa had appeared on the scene. Not that Vanessa minded. She was used to it, and Mary Mac was her greatest ally. Vanessa thought she would have long gone mad if it wasn’t for Mary’s common sense and kindness. And she was the one who would get her through the next twenty-four hours. Since the day Vanessa had been swept down to Pennfleet House by Spencer all those years ago, Mary Mac had done everything to make her feel welcome and looked after from that day onwards.
    Consequently, Vanessa had turned to Mary as soon as she heard about Spencer’s massive stroke. They had hugged each other, chastened with shock, unable to believe that the forceful personality who had dominated their lives for so long was gone. The house already felt like a shell, as if it had lost its purpose, like a ship without a captain.
    ‘Come on,’ Mary said eventually. ‘We can’t fall apart. We’ve got things to do.’
    It was Mary’s emotional support Vanessa couldn’t manage without. Never mind that she ran the house like clockwork – Vanessa didn’t much care about gleaming surfaces and freshly ironed sheets and full freezers. She could do all that for herself – not as well, of course, but then Vanessa didn’t have Spencer’s exacting standards. Not that he had ever found that out, because she’d never had to lift a finger.
    Lucky, some would say.
    Vanessa refilled her coffee cup and stirred in some of the cream she had found in the fridge. It was probably for the pavlova which was going to follow the chicken casserole, also waiting in the fridge, ready to feed the hordes tonight. Spencer’s ex-wife Karina and his children Daniella and Aiden, his brother, his two best friends and their wives. His business partner and his PA. His coterie. His entourage. None of whom ever paid Vanessa much attention. They viewed her as a mild irritation, someone who didn’t quite fit into their picture of how things should be.
    She imagined them all getting ready to set off on the journey down to Cornwall, donning crisp white shirts and sombre suits; demure dresses in black silk or linen. Most of the women would wear hats. It would be a fashion fest; a competition as to who could look the most chicly grief-stricken.
    Vanessa knew she should make an effort. Three days earlier, she’d driven to a boutique in the next town to find a suitable outfit. She laughed at the memory of the assistant who had asked her, ‘Is it for something special?’
    ‘It’s for my husband’s funeral,’ she’d said, and the girl had looked horrified, not at all sure what to say: she’d backed away behind the till and busied herself with some paperwork. Vanessa hadn’t found anything in the end, because it was all summer stock: wafty whites and turquoises which didn’t seem suitable. Spencer wasn’t the sort of man who would want people to wear bright colours to his funeral. He would expect black.
    Then she realised she didn’t have to do what Spencer expected any more.
    Yet she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. She didn’t want any of his family looking at her askance. Or Karina. She’d had enough of that over the years. Sometimes she felt like a curiosity he’d brought back from a zoo: something to be wondered over and petted then put back into its cage. The glorified shop girl, posh but