Secrets from the Past. Barbara Taylor Bradford

       ELEVEN

      When I’d brought Zac to the bolthole for the first time, we had used this bedroom; it was the one my parents had used, and my favourite. He had glanced around with interest, and made a remark about how much my parents were in love and yet slept in twin beds. He obviously thought this was strange.

      There was a Stone rule: we didn’t discuss private family matters with outsiders. But I remembered now that I had been oddly embarrassed that day, had felt obliged to explain the reason to Zac. And so I confided that my mother had had a rare form of osteoporosis, which necessitated that she sleep in a single bed for her comfort.

      He had been sensitive enough not to ask any further questions, and I had not volunteered any more information. I did not wish to go into personal details about my mother’s health. I felt that simple explanation was enough.

      Ever since that first visit together, we had continued to use my late parents’ bedroom. In any case, the two others were also furnished with twin beds. Essentially, the bolthole was maintained for Global photographers and photojournalists, so that they could get a bit of much-needed R&R – it was not for romantic interludes.

      Tonight the room was still, quiet, and nothing stirred except the flimsy white curtains flapping against the glass. I’d opened the window earlier to let in fresh air, and a breeze had blown up.

      I was wide awake and listening attentively. I sensed Zac was awake as well. I was hoping he would eventually fall asleep, knowing I was here with him. Earlier this evening, I’d managed to get him to sip some of the soup and eat a bit of the chicken, although not enough to satisfy me. At least his stomach was not entirely empty.

      What did please me was his cleanliness. He had showered, shampooed his hair, and thankfully it was now his natural glossy brown again, and not that strange dusty-grey colour. It was long, but that was of no concern. He had even shaved, had nicked himself with the razor, but he had made the effort. After his shower, he’d put on a pair of Harry’s pyjamas and a terrycloth robe, which Geoff had found for him.

      After Geoff had gone off to the Bauer Hotel, I pottered around in the kitchen, watched my chicken bubbling, called Harry to report in, then spoke to Claudia downstairs, to say hello and thank her. After that, I unpacked my bag. For the remainder of the day, and the evening, Zac was glued to the TV, but he kept the sound low, and he seemed calm, and much less uptight.

      Instinctively, I knew it was best to keep everything as normal as possible, low key, with no pressure of any kind. By allowing Zac to be himself, to do whatever he wanted, he would feel more natural and at ease.

      And it worked. He had begun to speak a little, although he did not say very much, and I chatted back casually, avoided asking any questions. Harry had warned me not to probe, just to accept that he had come out of Helmand Province because he was tired, weary of being on the front line in Afghanistan.

      Eventually my eyelids began to droop, but I wanted to stay awake for as long as possible, to be there for Zac. And so I began to make a mental list of things to do tomorrow.

      I must call Harry twice, morning and evening; that was mandatory. He insisted on knowing what was happening with Zac, and, just as importantly, how I was coping.

      I had to let Jessica know where I was, and what I was doing. That was also mandatory, another Stone rule. We must know each other’s whereabouts. Dad had drilled that into us. And I must speak to my other sister, Cara. Not only about Dad’s pictures of Mom, but the dummy of the photographic book she had recently found, one which my father had started but not finished.

      Cara. My mind focused on her. She called herself the middle sister, because Jessica had been born first; she had been the second twin to pop out ten minutes later.

      It had been Cara who had explained our mother’s bone condition to me, when I was old enough to understand. What Mom actually had was osteoporosis, usually considered an old woman’s disease. Our mother had a rare form of it, and this had been triggered by her pregnancy, which is when a woman’s bone density drops, and especially if she breastfeeds.

      Mom was thirty-four when the twins were born, and she had breastfed them. Also, she had low peak bone mass to begin with, her doctors had told her at the time, and this hadn’t helped.

      Cara had gone on to explain that when I was born, eight years later, Mom’s condition was under control, thanks to medication, although she was not permitted to breastfeed me.

      I was grateful that Cara always enlightened me about tricky or complicated family matters. She usually ploughed ahead, even if she thought it was something I might not want to hear, telling me the truth. She always said it the way it was.

      She was very matter of fact, pragmatic by nature, and slightly more reserved than Jess.

      I loved Cara, just as I did Jess. She made me laugh a lot, and this was because of her pithy observations, often about people we knew, and her frequently caustic comments about life in general.

      As a child, Cara had spent a lot of time with our grandmother, my mother’s mother, Alice Vasson. She was the only grandmother we had. Our father’s parents, David and Greta Stone, had died long before we girls were born.

      Granny Alice had a repertoire of old sayings to suit almost every situation; Cara had picked them up when she was little, had kept using them ever since, and they were now part of her vocabulary. Her three favourites were: That’s going to put the cat among the pigeons; I’ll be there before you can say Jack Robinson; Waste not, want not. That last saying I often threw back at Cara, because she was no more thrifty than Jessica and I were.

      It struck me that perhaps I had failed Cara, in a certain sense. I hadn’t been around enough for her after Dad died; she and Jessica had suffered as I had, had been grief-stricken as well, and I’d been nursing my wounds and my guilt in New York when I should have been with them.

      Cara, in particular, was vulnerable these days because of her fiancé’s death two years ago. Jules Nollet, her French childhood sweetheart, had been killed in a skiing accident when they were on vacation in the French Alps. And that was the reason I believed Cara was frequently depressed. Jessica agreed with me. All Cara did these days was work in her orchid business. I worried about her …

      I must have fallen asleep. Suddenly, I awakened with a start.

      Zac was calling, ‘Serena, Serena!’

      I struggled up, threw the bedclothes back and jumped out of bed, rushing over to him. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

      ‘I’m cold. Freezing,’ he muttered.

      Turning on the bedside lamp, I looked down at him. His face was chalk white, his eyes red-rimmed, and he was shaking uncontrollably,