Bella

THE DAY BEFORE THE SOLSTICE

A BLUE DUSK FALLS AS the last of the sun melts into the sea, but people are still on the grass tennis court when I pass by. The Manor offers padel courts, too—of course it does—but this evening tennis seems to be winning out. I hear balls being hit, laughter, a shout of: "You bastard!" I veer that way and sneak a look through the hedge. The court's in exquisite condition now, a glorious deep emerald green (no hosepipe ban for The Manor, apparently). Back in the day it was a desiccated yellowing savanna, the grass long and tufted by the net where the elderly gardener had missed it with the strimmer. A total suntrap. God how I hated being there.

A tipsy-looking mixed doubles match is finishing up: a lot of prancing around, cocktail swilling, tennis racket swishing, and groping. It's a little like watching a group of horny racehorses frolic in the pasture. The women have almost identical outfits (very short white dresses) and Instagram filter looks, save for one being blonde and the other brunette. At a quick glance I note that the two guys are of a type: plummy, tall, both slightly gone to seed. Oh no. Now I recognize them. A nasty little bolt of adrenaline goes through me. What are the chances, among a hundred or so guests, of bumping into Hugo Meadows twice in one day?

They're leaving the courts now. I press myself back against the hedge to get out of their way: they're walking four abreast with the entitled inconsideration of drunk people. And as they barrel past both men glance at me, appraise me in a way I remember so well. Up, down. Lingering on breasts and legs. Their gazes pressing heavy as fingertips. I barely manage to suppress a shudder. The shame, the fear: as close to the surface as if it were yesterday.

Now Hugo Meadows glances away—judging by the girl on his arm I'm way past my sell-by date. Is there a second of hesitation from Oscar Meadows? I steel myself, but then they're striding out of sight. I can still feel my pulse going double time. Thank God I look so different to the skinny, shy girl with the long dark hair of fifteen years ago. How much did they ever know? I've never been able to work out the answer to that question. They were there that night, after all.

I leave the courts and take the path between the Woodland Hutches. The shadows are lengthening, the moon rising. It's nearly time to enter the woods. My whole body is singing with adrenaline and there's a hard little knot of dread between my ribs. I can't quite believe I'm actually doing this. I can't believe I might be about to come face to face with her after all this time.

A little way into the trees I notice a kind of gap or scar on the ground where the brick foundations of a building are visible. It takes me a moment to understand what it is. Of course. Her grandad's study. Where he'd go and "take important phone calls": phone his mistresses more like. I read the obituary in the paper. Lord Meadows died here still hard at work at his desk on the day his heart gave up. No wonder she wanted it pulled down.

The light here looks as though it has passed through green glass. The air isn't just cooler, it's like I've stepped into a different climate. At first I follow the well-kept gravel track laid out for guests with quaint little signs pointing the way. In beautiful painted handwriting I read: THE SECRETS OF THE WOODS LIE THIS WAY ...

Are you fucking kidding me?

Another remnant from the past that she's repurposed into her special brand of rustic chic. I bet I'm the only one who finds that innocent little sign so sinister. But I'm not the only one who knows what happened in the woods that day...