Sadie
January 2019
The silver Mercedes S-Class arrives precisely on time, gliding between the hatchbacks parked along Sadie’s narrow street like a swan parting a flock of scruffy mallards. Sadie isn’t quite ready. She dashes to the bathroom to touch up her lipstick, then makes a last-minute change back into her own shoes—hers are more comfortable than the pair the company sent. The rejected ones she slips back inside the suitcase. Then she makes one final check of her reflection in the hall mirror. The ivory silk dress is perfect; she’s never worn anything so glamorous.
The doorbell rings, and she flashes herself a quick grin in the mirror before hurrying to open the door. The chauffeur helps her with her luxurious coat, and he carries her case as he escorts her out to the car. I could get used to this, Sadie thinks.
The night is bitterly cold, and once they’ve left the main roads, there’s nothing to see through the windows but the occasional lit-up farm buildings in the darkness. They could be heading anywhere in the black night. Sadie forces herself to relax against the leather seat; this isn’t an audition—she already has the part. No need to feel jittery. Drinks, dinner, and a game. It’s going to be fun.
She runs through her character details in her head automatically: Miss Lamb, newly arrived in the area, seeking employment at Raven Hall . . . She locks eyes with her reflection in the blank window by her side, and she gives a wry grimace. Here in the real world, Miss Sadie Langton is twenty-eight. She can barely pay her own rent, and she’s never had a relationship or a job that’s lasted longer than twelve months. She summons her mother’s voice in her head: “You don’t need money or a man to make you happy, Sadie. But you do need to think before you act. You’re too impetuous.”
Her mother was fond of dishing out advice like that—statements that always seemed carefully rehearsed; her mother wasn’t one for spontaneous heart-to-hearts. Growing up, Sadie learned that excessive displays of emotion on her part sent her mother into retreat, as if feelings were things that should be kept private and not shared, even between daughter and mother. When Sadie, aged eleven, came home from school in tears because she’d been given a detention for something that wasn’t her fault, her mother ate nothing that evening and drifted upstairs to bed before it had even grown dark. When Sadie’s first boyfriend rang her at home to tell her he was dumping her, her mother remembered an urgent appointment and went out for the rest of the day, leaving Sadie to sob on her bed all alone.
The car slows as they approach the sparse lights of another village, and Sadie lets her reflection blur for a moment, focusing instead on the little she can see of the houses they pass. She never doubted her mother loved her when she was growing up; she just wished they could have been more open with each other.
Around the time Sadie left home, when she was eighteen, her relationship with her mother grew spikier, no doubt fueled by what her mother described as Sadie’s “irresponsible attitude to employment.” Sadie was drawn toward acting, thrilled to be signed by Wendy at the drama agency, starry-eyed at the prospect of earning a living by pretending to be something she wasn’t . . . but it quickly became clear that she needed a backup income. So she lurched from one part-time job to another, keen to keep some of her time free in case, one day, Wendy was to ring with a truly exciting opportunity . . .
“You’re too optimistic,” her mother had told her, only a few months ago.
Sadie had laughed, but the comment had stung. “Why does that have to be a bad thing, Mum?”
“You need to stick with one job for a while. Your CV must look terrible. How many times have you been sacked now?”
“It doesn’t—”
“Four, isn’t it?” Her mother knew full well it was four.
“In ten years, Mum. And it was never—”
“And how many other jobs have you just walked out on?” Her mother’s sigh filled the stuffy sitting room with her disappointment. “Please, just try to think things through a bit more calmly, will you? Before making snap decisions.”
“You mean, Grow up, Sadie,” Sadie had replied. “Don’t you? You can just say it. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
Her mum had sounded weary. “I just want you to be happy . . .”
The car hits a bump in the road, and Sadie’s focus is jolted back to her reflection in the glass. She asks her mirror image, silently, Are you happy? Scraping money together from one month to the next, auditioning for sometimes quite dubious jobs, eating beans on toast every night . . . Her reflection’s serious expression softens into a smile. Happy enough is the soundless reply. And this job tonight will make me a whole lot happier, when I get paid.
A brightly lit B and B sign marks the end of the village, and they’re quickly plunged back into the darkness of yet another country lane.
“We’ve made good time, miss,” the chauffeur says from the front—the first time he’s spoken since they set off. “We’re almost there now.”
A minute or two later, they swing off the road, and Sadie spots the grand house lit up in the distance, familiar from the images she’s seen online. It reminds her of an ocean liner, all lights blazing in a sea of black. She peers around the chauffeur’s hat, her pulse quickening. The tower is still there, she sees. But the ivy has been cleared away—that’s promising.
They pull up by a flight of steps, and the chauffeur leaps out and strides around to open her door. She takes his gloved hand and steps lightly onto the gravel, one high heel after the other. A stunningly beautiful woman in a long emerald green evening dress comes down the steps toward her, all black hair and dark eyes and heavy mascara, her arms opened wide in greeting.
“Welcome to Raven Hall,” the woman says grandly. “I’m Lady Nightingale, your hostess. And you must be Miss Lamb. Please—do come in, out of the cold.”
She waits, watching, hidden behind the scratchy leaves in the garden border.
Eventually, there’s movement by the back door. The fluffy dog lifts its head. A hand appears, gripping the doorframe. Someone is stepping out cautiously onto the veranda, taking their time about it.
Is this the new owner of Raven Hall?
It’s a woman in her forties. A loose summer dress billows over her bloated frame, and her pale hair is scraped back into a ponytail, creating the impression that her head is too small for her body. She shuffles across the veranda and collapses onto a swing seat with a groan that rolls out across the lawn. The fluffy dog springs up beside her and nestles into the folds of her dress, and she rests one puffy hand on its little head.
Almost immediately, a second woman, much younger, appears in the doorway. In stark contrast to the figure on the swing seat, this one is dressed to show off her slim frame: bright orange crop top, tight-fitting denim shorts, enormous hoop earrings. She hovers briefly on the veranda without saying anything, then swivels and disappears back inside the house with a swish of her waist-length hair. The swing seat rocks and creaks, and the older woman tips her head back and closes her eyes.