The Path Keeper: The Indigo Chronicles, #1

Editor: Rebecca Rue

The Path Keeper

Copyright © 2019 N.J. Simmonds

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018948480

ISBN: 978-1-947727-80-9 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-947727-81-6 (Softcover)

ISBN: 978-1-947727-82-3 (Ebook)

For information, write:

BHC Press

885 Penniman #5505

Plymouth, MI 48170

Visit the publisher:

www.bhcpress.com

For Joan and Reg Simmonds,

and in memory of Peter Drake, Sr.

Until we meet again...

I am the father of my spirit

The mother of my mind.

A brother of the universe

The sister of all time.

I am the chess board master

The king, the queen, the pawn.

I am the darkest darkness

I am the brightest dawn.

I am the classic poet

Yet still the foolish clown.

I am the one who’s white and red

Look, now I’m even brown.

I am the earth, the air, the trees

I am the birds reprieved.

I am the shores of Mother Time

Where Father Neptune feeds.

I am the rich man’s burden

Afore the poor man’s prize.

I am the astral courier

Who wears the clear blue eyes.

I am the harbour of all calm

I am the raging seas.

I am the bleak, harsh loneliness

I am a refreshing breeze.

I am the tides of desert plains

The mighty mountain rock.

I am the forest foliage

Where seeds of life shall flock.

I am a gift to all mankind

I am a curse to man.

Now I’ve exposed enough to you

Come, tell me who I am.

Robert George Dew, 1977

MISTAKES DIDN’T HAPPEN in his world. Miracles did.

He knew the girl was on her way, and he would wait as long as it took. He was good at that. He shifted on the bench and arched his back as the nineteenth bus in three hours pulled away in a cloud of choking smoke. London always suffocated him. As far back as he could remember, the city had wrapped her iron fingers around his throat and brought him back to her, time and time again. He could hear the capital whispering her secrets. Old secrets filled with a relentless rhythm; a drumbeat only her people could hear as they hurried from A to B. He pitied them. They didn’t understand that every step they took left a unique footprint upon layers of history stacked beneath their city’s pulsating pavements. Neither did they care that every one of their laboured breaths had been inhaled a million times before. There was nothing new here; there never would be.

He stretched his legs. A light fluttering in his stomach was followed by a dull ache. Perhaps he was nervous. The sensation was new. It hadn’t been like this with the others; he had done his job, his call of duty, and he had been satisfied. But this girl was different; she had always been special, and she was on her way.

He continued to watch the people streaming by—constantly rushing to the next place. Didn’t they realise the present didn’t exist? That it was nothing but a monotonous treadmill pulling them along, tripping them up and dragging them into a future they hadn’t yet created? But the past was always there, waiting; it never hurried. The past was a safe place, a private space where every story lay holding all the clues and all their answers. Yet the people continued to file by him, busy, so busy, forever moving forward to the next life without a backward glance.

He squinted against the weak September sun at a bus trudging its way up the hill. This was it. The girl’s appearance would have changed, that was normal, but would she be the same? Would he recognise her? Of course he would.

The soft hiss of the bus doors opening pulled him out of his reverie, and, with the measured actions of one who had done it a thousand times before, he stood and leant against the bus stop. A man in paint-splattered trousers stepped out and turned down the hill, followed by two schoolgirls laughing and pushing each other towards the Tube station. Nobody else followed; she wasn’t there. He sighed and headed back to the bench. Then he heard her voice.

‘Bollocks! Esto es una mierda!’

A young woman was marching to the front of the bus.

‘How can you say it’s the last stop when we’re in Archway and the front of the bus says Highgate?’

She was younger than he’d expected and wore her hair differently. It was still thick and brown, but this time tousled waves tumbled down her back. He wondered what it would feel like to dip his finger into one of her curls, pull on the silky lock, and watch it bounce back into place. She pushed her outgrown fringe out of her eyes and peered into the bus driver’s window.

‘Oi!’ she shouted, banging on the glass. ‘I’m not getting off. You have to take me to the top of the hill; my bags are really bloody heavy!’

She turned her back to the glass and scowled, blowing her hair out of her eyes. The driver twisted the dial to Not In Service and kissed his teeth.

‘Look, lady, I don’t make the rules. Get off the bus or I’ll radio the police.’

She shot him a dark look, shrugged on her backpack, and grabbed a large bin bag in each hand. She half carried, half dragged them to the exit and stumbled down the steps as the closing doors folded shut. She kicked the heaviest bag down the last step and sent dozens of books tumbling in a flurry of pages to the pavement.

‘Hijo de puta!’ she shouted as he pulled away, leaving her squatting on the floor, inspecting the torn plastic bag.

She looked up in the direction of the bus shelter.

‘Excuse me. Yeah, you, can you give me a hand?’

The girl was talking to him; he was the only one there. What was he going to say to her after all this time? His stomach clenched again as he raised the hood of his grey hoodie and grasped the frayed cuffs in his fists. It felt good to hold on to something.

‘Oh, hi,’ she said as he squatted beside her. She picked up two books and looked at him again. ‘Sorry, I thought I recognised you. Do we know each other?’

‘Not yet.’

She hesitated then turned her attention back to her ripped bag, her olive skin failing to hide her blushes. Together they stacked the crumpled paperbacks into two neat columns on the side of the road.

She stood up and wiped her hands on her jeans. ‘Thanks,’ she said, eyes fixed on the books at their feet. When he didn’t respond, she rushed in to fill the silence. ‘I’m Ella by the way.’

So that was what she called herself. He let her name hang in the air, feeling it form behind his closed lips, his tongue flicking against the roof of his mouth. Ella. Ella. It was close enough.

She kicked the curb with the toe of her boot, waiting for him to introduce himself too, but he didn’t. He was there to listen not speak.

‘These aren’t all mine,’ she said, pointing at the books with her foot. ‘The librarian at uni…I’m at RCU. Royal City University? It’s in central London. Anyway, the librarian mentioned she had loads of books she didn’t need anymore, and I offered to take them to my local charity shop as the bus stops right outside. Except for today, of course. Prick!’

She jerked her thumb at the stationary bus on the opposite side of the road, her hands flying up in a hopeless gesture and flopping back against her thighs with a smack. The flickering sign above their heads displayed the minutes until the next bus. She glanced at it and screwed up her face.

‘Twenty minutes? What’s the matter with this bullshit city?’

She kicked the torn bin bag and he watched it blow down the road. He envied its freedom.

‘This is bollocks. I might as well leave these books here,’ she said. ‘I can’t be arsed anymore; the bags are all ripped. Mierda!’

While Ella moved the books out of the gutter with her foot, he took the opportunity to look at her. Really look—at her thick lashes that framed her dark brown eyes, the tiny freckle on her cheek, the curl of hair above her ear that kept coming loose no matter how many times she tucked it away. He wanted to remember every detail.

‘I’m heading for Highgate too,’ he said, nodding at a long, black holdall under the bus stop bench. ‘Put the books in my bag. It’ll be quicker to walk.’ She thought about it, then shrugged a ‘why not.’

They walked side by side in silence, the bag slung over his shoulder which he shifted occasionally as the sharp book corners dug into his back. His neck strained with each step and small beads of perspiration ran down his temples. He pretended not to notice when she looked at him, although every one of her glances scorched his skin. She may have found him familiar, initially, but she would never remember who he was.

‘Was that Spanish you were speaking?’ he asked after they had been walking for a few minutes.

‘Yeah, sorry, it just slips out when I’m a bit, um…stressed.’ Ella rubbed her finger along her ragged thumbnail then filed it across her teeth. ‘I’m Spanish,’ she continued. ‘Well, half. My dad’s Spanish. Never met him, the waste of space. My mum’s English.’ She turned to him but he didn’t respond. ‘I’ve only lived in London a few months. I was brought up in Spain, in the south. We moved to England after Mum married Richard Fantz.’ She slowed down. ‘You not heard of him? He owns a bunch of hotels.’

He kept his pace and Ella quickened hers to catch up.

‘OK, well, he’s beyond loaded, and now my mum’s turned into a real airhead. Would have followed him to Mars if he’d asked her. I have no idea why I’m telling you this. Anyway, she’s a selfish cow. I liked it in Spain. I could see the sea from my bedroom and it was always sunny. You can’t be pissed off when it’s sunny.’

‘Why didn’t you stay and go to university in Spain?’ he asked.

A shadow passed over her face, and he wished he hadn’t said anything.

‘I was going to. The plan was to live with Juliana and study in Malaga. You know, keep my life as normal as possible.’ She noted his look of incomprehension. ‘Juliana was my grandmother, the closest thing I had to family. She raised my mum and came to Spain when I was born. She died six months ago. I could hardly leave my mum; she was in bits.’ Ella sniffed and cleared her throat. ‘I wanted to go travelling, but I had a huge fight about it with my mum. She made this big deal about how she never got the chance to get a degree so I had to and that I could go abroad any time. As if I was going to be stupid enough to get knocked up on my first holiday like she did. So here I am.’

The landscape softened as Archway melted into Highgate. They passed a church with two green domes and a large, stained-glass window, and stopped to catch their breath outside the gated entrance to a park. Highgate Village was just visible at the crest of the hill. He dropped his bag and rolled his shoulders, looking at the cutesy shops with little signs swinging above their doorways.

‘Posh,’ he remarked, nodding at the row of town houses sporting glossy wrought iron fences, flowers at the windows, and stone steps leading to pillar-box-red and racing-green front doors. ‘You got one?’

‘Nah, mine’s bigger.’

His grin made her giggle. He closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him. Her laugh hadn’t changed. It gave him hope.

‘The house isn’t mine, of course,’ Ella said. ‘It’s my stepdad’s. It’s nice though, right in the middle of Highgate Village but hidden. It’s like you’re driving down a little side street, then there’s a small turning—no one would know there was anything there—then there’s these huge gates. It’s like the TARDIS, you’d never think a big house like that would fit there, you know? Anyway, they sweetened me up and gave me a massive room. It’s OK, I guess.’

He peered over her shoulder. ‘Is that the shop?’

Across the road was a blue doorway crowded with overstuffed bin bags seeping discarded clothes and shoes onto the pavement. She nodded and they walked over. The ‘closed’ sign was partly hidden by the mountain of debris. He crouched and placed the books one by one on the step. Ella picked up his bag and shook it, the books flying into the doorway and narrowly missing his head. She read each one aloud as they slithered to the floor.

‘Of Mice and Men, The Great Gatsby, Paradise Lost. Gives you flashbacks of English Lit classes, eh?’ she said.

‘I don’t know, I haven’t read them.’

‘What? Not even Dickens or Shakespeare? You’re joking! Here.’ She handed him a small paperback in shades of red and yellow. ‘1984, Orwell. It’s about a guy who lives in a world where the people in control are complete dictators and he can’t do anything about it. Story of my life. Keep it.’ She gave him a wry smile and looked at her watch. ‘Speaking of tyrants, I better go. My mum flew back from Italy today and she’ll be hounding me soon.’

He put the book in his empty bag. ‘Where shall I meet you to return it?’

Ella raised her eyebrows and he pretended not to notice, scolding himself for being overly familiar.

‘Oh, don’t worry about it. Just sling it in the doorway when you’re finished,’ she replied.

She took a breath as if to say something else but was interrupted by her phone ringing. She glanced at it and pressed the red button.

‘My mum,’ she said.

‘You don’t like her, do you?’

‘Not really.’ She sighed, leant against the wall of the shop, and put her phone in her pocket. He stood back up. Her eyes were narrowed, clearly wondering if she could trust him—if only she knew the things he was capable of. ‘OK, it’s like this… What kind of woman decides to marry an old widower—who, by the way, already has a son and happens to be minted, then insists he adopts her daughter as part of the deal? No biggie, but I was sixteen years old, for God’s sake, and he has a son, so it’s not like he needed another kid. So three years ago, I was made to change my whole identity—my birth certificate, my passport, they even had to rename me at school. My mum said Richard’s surname would make my life easier. Yeah, right!’

Silence. ‘His surname’s Fantz, she added, eyebrows raised.

She waited expectantly, but he still didn’t react. She sighed.

‘Hello! My name is Ella. Ella Fantz. I’ve spent the last three years being called Dumbo and hearing trumpeting noises every time I walk into a classroom. So yeah, that’s the kind of mum I have.’

Was she expecting him to laugh? The silence hung thick between them. Ella picked at the pink skin of her thumb, pulling at a hangnail until it bled.

‘What’s your real name, Ella? The one you were christened with?’ he asked, though he already knew.

She blew out a puff of air.

‘Right, like that’s any better. My real name is Arabella Imaculada Santiago de los Rios. Honestly, what was my mum on when she came up with that! She reckons she hardly knew my dad, doesn’t even have a photo of him, yet she gives me his surname and a middle name after the Virgin Mary. Can you believe it? She’s not even religious.’ She pulled her coat tighter around her. ‘Oh, and get this, she said she never even liked the name Arabella. So why name me it in the first place? The woman’s nuts.’

‘I like Arabella.’

‘Whatever.’

He laughed lightly. It felt good to enjoy himself for once. She was a lot more fiery than he was expecting. It amused him, but it didn’t surprise him. After all, she was different every time he saw her. It was clear that he also intrigued her. She kept glancing up at him through her outgrown fringe when she didn’t think he was looking. Was he making her nervous? The thought thrilled him. Either way, he wouldn’t allow himself to get close to her—he could never do that. He wasn’t going to stay.

‘Your surname is Santiago de los Rios. Rios means Rivers, doesn’t it? Restless, yet beautiful. It suits you.’ He smiled. ‘It was nice to meet you, Rivers.’

He nodded and turned to go.

‘Wait!’

She reached for his arm, which flexed under her touch.

‘Thanks for your help… What’s your name? Wow, I’m so rude. I’ve been, like, half an hour telling you my life story and I haven’t even asked your name.’

He liked the way she used her hands when she spoke, each word illustrated by a twist of a wrist or a flutter of fingers. He wanted to take her hand, feel her fingers intertwine with his.

He dropped his empty bag on the pavement and lowered his hood. She wanted his name. There was no harm in telling her, or at least a variation of it. She would never make the connection. Running a hand through his damp hair, he scanned her face for that flicker of recognition again. Nothing.

Ella was looking up at him expectantly. He held out his hand and she shook it, flinching at his touch. He’d felt it too, but it was too late. Could this time be different?

‘Nice to meet you, Rivers,’ he said. ‘I’m Zac.’

ELLA’S ARM HUMMED from Zac’s touch. Weird. She rubbed it as she watched his retreating figure merge into the bustle of the high street and disappear.

Tying back her hair, she swept her fringe out of her face and took a deep breath.

Could she be any more socially awkward? Why the hell had she blurted out all of her business to a complete stranger? It was fine to do that back in Spain, everyone spoke to everyone there, but this was London. That guy could have been a serial murderer, and there she was walking alongside him like a naïve idiot.

She’d been flustered, that’s what it was. It was bad enough after the issues with the bus and the books and her mum calling, but then he’d kept looking at her with those eyes of his.

She shuddered. Had he noticed her staring? She had been trying to see if he was wearing contact lenses. His eyes were unreal, bright blue turning to lilac when the sun hit them. Some girls would have had the balls to ask for his number—it’s not every day a hot guy randomly talks to you—but he didn’t seem interested, not in that way. Anyway, it was too late now. He was gone.

• • • • •

Her gilt-edged gates gave a ceremonious buzz as she placed her thumb on the security system. It hadn’t sunk in yet that this palace was where she lived—she still got a thrill that she didn’t need a key to enter.

Nothing about her new home was subtle. The landscape artist had made a miraculous job of shielding the house from view by importing tall cypress trees to surround the perimeter, creating privacy while still letting in the light. She loved those slender, pointy trees; they conjured up images of Tuscany, a place she had always felt a spiritual connection to even though she had never been to Italy. The Fantz family had two gardeners who ensured the lawns were green year-round and not a leaf was out of place, yet most of the time, Ella was the only person who got to admire their hard work.

The marble fountain at the front of the house was switched on, signaling somebody was home. It was the height of pretentiousness, not to mention a waste of water and money. So were the decorative white columns flanking the double wooden doors whose gold studs the poor cleaner had to polish every week. None of that occurred to her parents though. As long as their house reflected their status, it was all that mattered.

It was rare for Ella to enter via the front door—she only did it when she knew someone would be home to greet her, which wasn’t very often. She normally entered through the back as it led directly to her bedroom, where she spent most of her evenings watching TV or reading. Life was one big party.

Ella crossed the hallway and winced. She hated walking through the echoing house alone. Her mother had made the mistake of not carpeting the ground floor. It looked impressive, but the clip-clopping of heels against the shiny tiles put Ella on edge and made the place appear cold and impersonal. It felt like a grand hotel, although considering Richard’s profession, that wasn’t surprising.

Her mother’s shrill cry bounced off the stark walls before Ella had time to shut the door behind her.

‘Darling, you’re home; I’ve been ringing you all afternoon!’

Felicity Fantz didn’t walk; she glided, her golden mane swishing in time with her hips. Her feline eyes were always dark and smoky with heavy lashes that gave her a sleepy, satisfied expression.

‘Richard, quick; I think Ella is actually smiling. Honestly, darling, are you feeling OK?’

She laughed at her own joke and gave her daughter a light kiss on each cheek, resting her manicured fingers on Ella’s shoulders. Today she was wearing a black jacket over tight jeans and skyscraper heels. Had Ella looked anything like her mother, people would have thought they were sisters. Except when they entered a room together, nobody noticed the petite, dark-haired girl.

‘Seriously, sweetie, you are definitely flushed. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you met a nice young man. Oh, look! She’s hiding a smile! Come on, tell Mummy.’

Ella shrugged off her jacket, draped it over the banister, and kicked off her trainers. Ignoring her mother, she headed for the kitchen and threw her backpack on the counter.

Richard replaced the phone into the receiver and beamed at Ella, loosening his tie and giving her a hug. She’d liked her stepfather from the moment she’d met him, even if he was old enough to be her grandfather. It was obvious how much he adored her mother and, most importantly, he always took Ella’s side.

Since the death of his first wife, when his son Sebastian was just a toddler, Richard had been linked to countless models but had never remarried. Within two weeks of meeting Felicity, he’d proposed and announced to the world he’d found ‘the one,’ a story her mother had never tired of telling over the last three years.

‘What’s all the commotion?’ he asked. ‘Have you got yourself a beau, Ella?’

‘God, can’t I just be in a good mood?’ Ella bypassed him and walked to the kitchen. ‘Don’t worry, my life is still pathetic. No need to get excited. I’ve just had an interesting journey home, that’s all.’

How did her mum always know when she was crushing on someone? She thought of Zac and the curl of his lip when he smiled, how his hand had felt in hers and the way he’d stared at her until she’d teetered on the edge of discomfort. This was ridiculous; she needed to get out more. She felt her cheeks grow warm when she remembered asking if she knew him—bloody idiot! London was a huge place, and she knew no one, so why would she know him? And why was her heart still racing?

Her mother sauntered over and pressed her hand to her daughter’s cheek. ‘If I’d known bus journeys could be that exciting, I would have ditched the chauffeur.’

Richard gave a deep, throaty laugh and wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist, reducing her to a fit of giggles as he kissed her neck.

Ella screwed up her nose and turned away. ‘Get a hotel room, for God’s sake. It’s not like you’re short of them,’ she said, making them laugh harder.

‘Darling, guess what we’re having for dinner?’ Felicity sing-songed.

‘You’ve cooked?’

‘No silly, of course not. Richard’s new sushi chef is over from Tokyo and has compiled an amazing menu for the New Year’s Eve restaurant opening, so we are sampling it tonight. Scrummy! Oh, and talking of Asia, Sebastian called from Cambodia this afternoon. The hospital build is coming on wonderfully; he thinks he might get a mention in Time magazine. He sends his love, by the way; your brother always asks after you.’

‘That piece of shit is not my brother!’

Wow. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud, let alone shout. It had been over a year since she’d last seen Sebastian, Richard’s angelic son. A doctor and Mr Sexiest Millionaire of the Year as voted by Cosmo. Mr Charming. Mr Complete and Utter Bastard. He was miles away and still managing to fuck up her day.

‘There’s no need for that, young lady. Sebastian welcomed you as a sister from the day we got married, and all you have done…’ Felicity stopped and frowned. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Making a sandwich.’

‘I just told you we’re having dinner, darling.’ Felicity plucked the mayonnaise out of Ella’s hand. ‘Don’t be a piggy.’

Ella snatched it back and squeezed it onto four slices of bread.

‘No, you said we are having sushi in two hours. It’s hardly a banquet. Anyway, I’m hungry now. What’s your problem?’

She knew exactly what her mother’s problem was. Since Ella had arrived in England ten weeks ago, there had been a photographer outside her house every day. The media were intent on making her London’s new ‘it girl,’ the smart, pretty girl that completed the perfect Fantz family, and her PR Director mother had assigned herself as her agent. Ella had already been coerced into an interview with The Sunday Telegraph and a shoot for Elle magazine. It was humiliating. Some days she wondered whether her mother paid those eager men in black to point their cameras at her every time she stepped out the door. With interest in the new addition to the Fantz dynasty mounting, there was no way Felicity was going to run the risk of any magazine blaring out a ‘Herd of Ella Fantz’ headline about her daughter, so what she ate and when had become a constant source of contention between them.

Ella rolled her eyes and piled on an extra layer of Gouda cheese for good measure. She may not have inherited Felicity’s long legs or blonde hair, but Ella was quite happy with the way she looked—even though she was as averse to exercise as Felicity was to flat shoes.

‘Do you have to put cheese on everything?’ Felicity said. ‘Honestly, darling, you have an obsession. It’s full of fat.’

‘Let her be, Flic,’ Richard said. ‘She’s a young lady. What’s a little sandwich in the big scheme of things?’

Richard smiled indulgently, and Ella gave him a grateful look. She grabbed her towering creation and stomped across the kitchen flagstones.

‘Don’t leave that plate in your bedroom, darling,’ her mother called after her. ‘Ylva cleaned in there today and told me she found six bowls under your bed. Six! I was mortified! And please don’t wear those jeans again. You have plenty of clothes; those make your bottom look huge, sweetie.’

Ella counted in her head, promising that if she could get to her bedroom before she reached twenty, she wouldn’t scream. It hadn’t always been this bad. Before England, before Richard, her mum had been normal. On Ella’s sixteenth birthday, it had all changed.

• • • • •

It had been one of Spain’s hottest summers. The streets were empty in the day, the town coming to life once the sun had set and everyone could breathe again. Ella hadn’t wanted a big fuss, but her mother had other ideas. She’d said there was no point living in the most fashionable place on the coast if they weren’t going to enjoy the lifestyle.

Stepping into the white marble foyer of Marbella’s newest and most prestigious hotel, La Estrella Blanca, Ella and her mother attempted to blend in with the other guests invited to the grand opening. Ella had never seen a hotel like it. Felicity smiled and nodded at a lady she knew from the press and a gaggle of snobby charity organisers. She accepted a glass of champagne from the waiter, and they followed the rest of the guests to the back of the hotel. Outside was every bit as magnificent as the entrance. The infinity pool appeared to cascade over the cliff edge and straight into the sea. Large marquees furnished with white sofas had been erected on the lawn. They sat beneath a chandelier that speckled their bodies with tiny diamonds.

Felicity fanned herself with her hotel brochure and smiled at Ella.

‘Can you imagine staying here, sweet pea?’

Ella couldn’t. ‘Thanks for letting me come, Mum; my friends are going to be so jealous.’

Her mother worked for a local newspaper—part journalist, part ad sales. It was low paid and low interest and most of the stories she covered were about expats or abandoned animals, but she got the occasional perk, like tonight’s launch party.

‘This place is magical!’ Felicity said, staring at the ocean. ‘Imagine what it would be like to be here with a man who adores you, walking hand in hand along that path. See the one that leads to those steps? He’d lead you down to the beach, holding your hand as you made your way to the bay. You’d lie on one of the big double beds and draw the curtains around you. I bet if you had enough money, the hotel would let you have that beach to yourself all night. They would make you a romantic picnic with lobster and champagne, and you could look at the stars and feel like you were the only people in the world.’

‘Don’t break out into song just yet, Cinderella,’ Ella said, laughing. ‘Honestly, Mum, after all the shit my dad gave you, I can’t believe you still think one day your prince will come.’

Felicity drained her glass in one go but kept it clasped in her hand, staring out to sea.

‘Ella, I know I don’t talk about your father often, but there are things in this world we will never understand. Things beyond our control. What is meant to be is written in the stars and I have grown to accept it.’

Her mum liked to speak in riddles, but she never complained or spoke badly of others. It infuriated Ella. After Felicity was left pregnant at nineteen and then disowned by her parents, Ella figured her mother had more than enough people to slag off. Felicity, though, remained tight-lipped about her childhood. The little Ella knew about her family had been garnered from a photo album she’d found under her mother’s bed when she was ten years old. There had been one particular photograph, faded and creased, of an old man with a bushy moustache and a little blonde girl on his lap. Behind them stood a slim woman with wispy hair and a far-off look in her eyes. It had given Ella the creeps and she’d never looked for the album again.

They sat in the hotel marquee for over an hour, taking in the beauty and listening to the rustle of the waves lapping at the rocks below. Ella got up to look for the restroom, and that’s when everything changed.

How Ella wished that she’d made the most of that night. What would she have said to her mother had she known it was to be the last time she would have her to herself? What would have happened had her mother gone to the bathroom with her or they’d gone home early?

When journalists asked Felicity how she’d met Richard, she always replied that they were introduced that night by mutual friends, although the truth was a lot less glamorous. Ella had got lost on her way back from the toilet and mistaken Richard for a waiter. How different would her life be now if she’d turned right instead of left? Would her parents have met anyway?

One of the first things Ella noticed about Richard, as he led her to the pool area, was the way he moved. He reminded her of an animal keeper she’d seen at Fuengirola Zoo; slow and unthreatening. Every gesture was measured and deliberate. His first words to her were, ‘Have you lost your mother? I’ll find her.’

Find her he did. He also kept her.

‘But I thought we were looking for your mother?’ Richard said, giving Felicity a wide smile. He had a kind but strong voice, dripping with wealth. ‘Surely this is your sister?’

This was nothing new. The only reason the boys in Ella’s class had ever wanted to