Hannah Emery - The Secrets of Castle Du Rêve - A thrilling saga of three women’s lives tangled together in a web of secrets

For once, her father doesn’t snap or take offence that she has cleaned a surface and tried to make his flat more inhabitable. But after they have drunk their tea, Graham stands up.

‘I’d better get back down to the office.’

Isobel looks up at him as he stands, preoccupied, waiting for her to let him go back to bury his head in his paperwork. It’s been the same for over two years now, since that slow, inevitable morning when her mother died. Isobel’s dad always worked hard when Isobel was a child, but he usually made sure he finished in time to help her with her homework or watch Blue Peter together or eat pizza on a Friday night. Now, it’s as though his family mode has been switched off, and Isobel can’t find how to turn it back on, to tune him back into her.

‘Come on, then. I’m going to Tom’s anyway,’ she says. As they clatter down the uncarpeted stairs, a sweet, warm scent blooms in the air and overpowers the smell of frying fish and chips and vinegar from next door.

‘I can smell the bread again,’ Isobel says. The office downstairs used to be her grandparents’ bakery. Even though bread hasn’t been baked here for over thirty years, every now and again the overbearing aromas of yeast and flour, sugar and butter waft through the air.

‘It’s trapped in the walls. They don’t want us to ever forget it,’ Graham says. He says it every time they smell the bread. Even though Isobel has heard it so many times, it still makes her feel uneasy, as though the spirits of her grandparents are watching them from somewhere, their faces dusted white with flour and death.

They reach the bottom and she gives her father a brief hug. He looks down at her, at her stomach.

‘Doesn’t look like there’s much in there yet,’ he observes.

‘No, I know. I suppose it’s only a matter of time, though.’

He lifts a hand and places it gently on her belly, his unexpected touch warm and heavy. They stand for a moment, not speaking, until he moves his hand away. Isobel smiles at him, surprised and glad.

‘I think you’ll be just fine,’ he says.

When Tom swings open the door to his flat later that night, the sugary smell of cooked apples swirls in the air. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt, and to see him uncharacte‌ristically casual makes Isobel smile and reach up to kiss him. He lingers, his hands around her waist. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day. How are you feeling?’

‘Okay,’ Isobel says, feeling a broad grin spread over her face. ‘I’m feeling good today, actually. And something in here smells fantastic. It’s making me hungry.’

‘That’s because I’m doing one of my specialities. You’re going to love it.’

‘I’m loving the t-shirt too,’ she says, touching the soft grey cotton. ‘I usually like a man in a suit,’ she says with a wink. ‘But you really pull off casual.’

Tom laughs. ‘Well, that’s a relief. How did it go with your dad?’

‘He was fine with it. Calmer than I was. I think I expected him to freak out. But I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I freaked out.’

‘Maybe it’s because you’re his little girl. That’s a bit of a cliché, though, I suppose.’

Isobel shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure. To be honest, since Mum died, I feel like we’re not that close. It felt a bit weird even telling him about you. I don’t speak to him that much about real life these days. He’s always distracted by work. But today was good, I suppose, because I had to talk to him properly, and I suppose he had to listen.’

‘I’m glad,’ Tom says. ‘I felt a bit nervous, actually. Dads can be funny about who their daughters end up with, can’t they?’

Isobel smiles. ‘I think he could see how happy you make me. That helped.’

The words are luminous and dance around them. Tom’s face brightens and he leans down to kiss Isobel. After her long day, Isobel wants to melt into him, into his scent of herbs and wine. She pulls him closer and they linger over their kiss until Tom pulls away reluctantly.

‘Dinner calls,’ he says apologetically, going over to the hob.

‘Isn’t this like being at work?’ Isobel asks. ‘I’d have thought you’d be sick of cooking for other people. I was expecting a microwave meal. Or a takeaway.’

‘A man in a suit and a microwave meal?’ Tom laughs. ‘You had some strange expectations, Isobel Blythe.’

Isobel laughed. ‘Well, all I can say is that you’ve exceeded my expectations anyway, as always. I can’t wait to taste your cooking. What are we having?’ She sits down at the small glass table.

Tom clears his throat and whips a white tea towel over his shoulder. ‘Filet mignon de porc Normande,’ he says with an uncharacte‌ristically dramatic flourish of the hands. ‘Normandy Pork.’

‘It smells amazing. Is this a throwback from your time in France?’ Isobel remembers Tom mentioning that he spent a year or so living in France when they first met.

‘Yes, I suppose it is. I tried this dish for the first time there, although I never cooked it. I didn’t cook much when I lived in France. I mostly existed on bread and cheese. Have you been to France?’

‘No. But I know a lot about Paris because Iris really wants to go. She’s obsessed.’

‘She’s got good taste. It’s not a bad place to be obsessed with.’ Tom says as he stirs the pot on his sleek black hob. ‘What about you? Where’s your number-one destination?’

‘Vienna,’ Isobel replies quickly. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Vienna.’

Tom smiles and comes to sit at the table. ‘The city of dreams?’

Isobel nods. ‘I even love that it’s called that.’

‘I’ve never been. But I’d definitely go. We’ll add it to our list.’

‘Our list?’

‘Yeah. You know: have a baby, then go to France and then do Vienna.’

Isobel laughs. ‘That’s a pretty short list.’

‘Well, we need to keep it manageable.’ Tom scores a match and lights some tea lights on the table, and then goes back to the kitchen.

‘Actually,’ Isobel says, standing up and following Tom. ‘I kind of have a thing agreed with Iris. She promised to go to Vienna with me. My mum lived there when she was young, and she used to talk about it a lot. She made it sound like something out of a fairy tale: all castles and balls and music. When she died, I suggested to my dad that we should go. He got upset with me, said it was a terrible idea to go there without her, and I haven’t brought it up with him since. We had a bit of a falling out about it, which kind of made me even more determined to go.’

Iris had promised Isobel she’d go with her to Vienna on one condition: that they could go to Paris together too. She’d dug out a battered Paris brochure from her bedside drawer and printed out a webpage on Vienna for Isobel. Then she’d taken a shoebox from her wardrobe, tipped out the shoes onto her bed, and put the papers together in there instead. ‘This can be our box of dreams,’ she’d said.

They had laughed at the drama in Iris’s voice, at the clichéd title she had given the box. But they had kept it and filled it with more leaflets and printouts until the sides bulged.

Tom nods. ‘I know what you mean. My mum can sometimes be funny about remembering my dad, and things they did when they were young. It’s like it just hurts too much to think about the past.’

‘I can understand that. But losing her also taught me that life’s short. So I try to make the most of it. Obviously, it hurts to think about her sometimes because I miss her so much. But I do want to try and keep her with us, by doing things that she liked. I think that’s what she would have wanted me to do. But my dad doesn’t seem to think like that.’