Her Last Breath: The new gripping summer page-turner from the No 1 bestseller. Tracy Buchanan
they drove further into town, Estelle noticed colourful posters stuck to walls and lamp posts, advertising the upcoming festival. It was an annual event held in May to celebrate the legend of Lady Lillysands. Lots of stalls, games, entertainment and fun.
‘They still hold the festival here?’ Estelle asked the taxi driver.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘You’re not new to the place then?’
‘No, I used to live here a long time ago.’
‘In Seaview Terrace?’
‘Yes.’
The taxi driver’s face darkened. He went quiet and focused on driving further up the cliffs, passing streets of small pastel-coloured houses. The farther up she got, the more people watched the car suspiciously. Tourists rarely ventured up here so it was unusual to see strangers in taxis this far up. The people of Lillysands didn’t take to strangers, unless they were tourists ploughing money into the town. And even they weren’t supposed to venture beyond the centre. That was why it felt so wonderful to have been accepted as Estelle was back then. As cold as Lillysands could be with strangers, it was irresistibly warm to those it knew and trusted.
As the taxi reached the street where the Garlands lived, two terraced cottages came into view: one pretty blue cottage with a well-kept front garden, the other pink and long abandoned with boarded-up windows. The cottages weren’t officially part of Seaview Terrace, that started with the grander houses farther up the street.
Estelle leaned forward as the car approached the cottages, gripping the taxi driver’s headrest. ‘Can you stop here? I can walk from here.’
The driver came to a stop in front of the cottages and helped Estelle with her large bag as she handed him his money. He peered further up the road towards the Garlands’ mansion, a frown puckering his brow. ‘You take care, alright?’ he said.
Estelle looked into his eyes. He seemed wary of Autumn and Max. But then Estelle remembered there had been jealousy in the town, the rich residents sometimes sneered at by the less well off.
As the taxi drove off, Estelle didn’t go straight to the Garlands’ house, instead walking towards the pink cottage, memories accosting her of her foster sister Alice sitting cross-legged on the dusty floorboards, red hair dangling to her knees as she read a book; Aiden sitting on the windowsill, strumming his guitar as he looked out over the sea. And Estelle – or Stel as she was known then – her long brown hair a tangle around her shoulders, lying on the floor next to Alice, drumming her fingers to the music as she watched Aiden. She quickly peered into a window to double check it still wasn’t occupied, finding the same empty rooms and peeling wallpaper. Still empty, just as it had been when she’d been a teenager.
Estelle’s fingertips glanced over the cottage’s bumpy walls as she walked around its side, heading towards the small garden at the back with its large tree, branches trembling in the early summer breeze. She paused. Was it her imagination or did there seem to be barely any garden left now? The tree she was sure used to sit in the middle of the garden was now so close to the cliff edge. Perhaps she’d just remembered it wrong.
She paused as she peered past the tree. At the edge of the cliff was a withering bunch of flowers. Pink roses, edges browning, green stems wilting. A memorial to a life long lost.
‘Oh Alice,’ she whispered to herself.
‘I thought it was you.’
She turned to see a man in his fifties with glasses and greying hair standing behind her. She frowned. ‘Do I know you?’
He smiled sadly. ‘I’ve aged that much, have I?’
She looked at him in shock. ‘Mr Tate?’
He nodded. He had aged. Mr Tate had been the school’s most beloved teacher, one of those hip teachers who let you sit on your table and discuss the interesting anthropological learnings from last night’s Eastenders when you should have been learning about the Treaty of Versailles. And yet he still managed to get top marks for his students.
Estelle had been particularly impressed by him. She’d come to Lillysands being suspicious of teachers, her first experience of them in her old primary school chequered. But soon she grew to adore Mr Tate just as much as everyone else did.
‘I’m surprised you recognise me,’ she said to him with a smile.
‘The famous chef? Of course I do. So, what brings you back to Lillysands? Autumn’s sixtieth?’
Estelle closed her eyes. Oh god, she’d forgotten it was Autumn’s birthday that weekend. This was the woman who’d been like a mother to her for several years. But, then, Estelle hadn’t been in touch with her for even more years.
Thinking that made her feel even worse.
‘It’s going to be quite the party,’ Mr Tate continued. ‘I hear they’re even getting in caterers.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But then the Garlands have always known how to throw a party.’ He’d never been a fan of Autumn and Max. Maybe as a self-proclaimed leftie, he found their excesses a bit much.
‘No, it’s just a fleeting visit,’ Estelle explained.
He flinched. ‘Look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to get in touch about.’
‘The journalist?’ Estelle asked, thinking of what the journalist who’d visited her had told her about speaking to Mr Tate.
He nodded. ‘It was Mary. She answered the phone to him, he got her talking. By the time I realised who it was …’ He sighed. ‘Sorry. I tried to remedy it by talking to him but I probably just made it worse.’
‘It’s fine, really. How is she?’
He peered towards the blue cottage where he lived with his wife, another teacher who’d been at the school when Estelle was there. His brown eyes filled with sadness. ‘She’s ill, I’m afraid. Cancer.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’
‘We’ll fight it, don’t you worry,’ he said, clearly forcing himself to be bright. ‘I retired early to make sure I’m there for her.’
Her heart went out to him. She’d always liked them both.
He looked towards the dried flowers at the side of the cliff. ‘It still pains us to think of what happened to Alice. She was such a bright girl, had so much promise.’
Estelle followed his gaze. ‘Yes, she did,’ she whispered.
Fifteen years ago, Alice had jumped from this very cliff. They’d discovered Alice’s body the day after Estelle gave birth, swept up on the beach at the foot of the Lady Lillysands cliff, a suicide note eventually found in her room.
‘She’d have been proud of how far you’ve come,’ Mr Tate said. ‘I’m proud. You did it. You really did. And with a recipe book too.’ He put his hand on her shoulder, looking into her eyes. ‘You’ve come a long way, Estelle.’
‘Thank you.’
He sighed, peering back over his shoulder. ‘I better get back to Mary. I just saw you here and thought I’d come over to say hello. Hopefully see you around?’
Estelle smiled. ‘Hopefully.’
‘Take care, Estelle.’ Then he walked off towards his cottage.
She watched him go, noticing how he limped slightly. Would Autumn and Max appear aged as well? Somehow, she couldn’t imagine it. They’d always seemed invincible and timeless to her. Only one way to find out.
She shrugged her bag over her shoulder, walking up the road towards Seaview Terrace, home to the huge house where the Garlands lived.
When she’d first arrived there as a child, a large sign had welcomed her: ‘Seaview Terrace. Luxury 5- and 6-bed clifftop houses for sale, the ideal seaside home or holiday let.’ Her foster father Max had developed