Hothouse Flower by Lucinda Riley Page B

needed a sister with whom to share the grief, not a ‘stand-in’ – albeit well-meaning – who could never replace what she’d lost.
    And now, fate had conspired to put her in a position where she’d needed Alicia’s help again. True to form, Alicia had been there for her immediately, never once reproaching Julia for her woeful lack of contact since she had flown the nest at eighteen and subsequently moved to France.
    But coming back here – Julia sighed sadly – it was as if history was repeating itself. Her life in ruins, juxtaposed against Alicia’s perfect one, compounded by her sister’s suffocating need to protect her. And – even more irritatingly –Alicia would often voice the thoughts Julia knew she was hiding from herself.
    She sat down on the sofa with the diary in her hands, determined to focus on something else. She opened it at the first page, but couldn’t concentrate on the words. She sat instead, staring into the fire.
    ‘ He’s very attractive, don’t you think … ? ’
    Julia sighed, Alicia’s comment and her own exaggerated reaction to it forcing her to focus on why.
    Yes … this morning, out on the spit, she had accepted she must move on, that she really had no choice. But even a hint that ‘moving on’ would almost certainly at some point include a man , was a step too far. The half-lit world she’d inhabited for the past few months had held no thoughts of the future.
    How could it, when the future was gone?
    Julia stood up and meandered into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, which was now brimming over with all sorts of food stuffs, and pulled out a pasta ready-meal. She wondered meanly whether she should take a photograph especially for Alicia, to stop her nagging.
    As she carried her supper back into the sitting room, she acknowledged the source of her anger with her sister. She felt … guilty . Guilty because, despite herself, when Kit had been here she had enjoyed his company. And yes , she did find him an attractive man.
    After supper, Julia picked up the diary, but felt too distracted to tackle it. It had been a long and emotional day. She made her way up the stairs to bed and, for the first time since her world had been blown apart seven months ago, Julia slept without having nightmares.
    The next morning, she was awake and downstairs by eight. A cup of tea, this time with milk, and a bowl of muesli stiffened her new resolve to face her life once more. She dug her mobile phone out of the drawer, switched it on and went upstairs to the bathroom, the only place in the cottage where there was a proper signal.
    She now had nineteen voicemails, some of them stretching as far back as two months ago. The most recent were from Alicia, her father, Kit and numerous messages from Olav, her agent.
    Her housekeeper in France had also contacted her, asking her to call back immediately. There was some problem with the house, but Agnes spoke French so fast, Julia couldn’t work out where the leak was. She sat on the edge of the bath and made a list of the other callers, her hand shaking with the fear of speaking to people from her past.
    Today, she would tackle her housekeeper and her agent. Everyone else could wait.
    She went back downstairs, threw herself on to the sofa and closed her eyes. She forced herself to picture the vine-covered terrace of her beautiful home, perched high up on the hill in the ancient village of Ramatuelle, with the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkling far beneath it.
    She sighed, knowing the memories she had avoided with such determination could no longer be ignored if she was to start on the road back to life. And, besides, perhaps she needed to begin to remember those precious moments and treasure them, not resist them …
    The sun is on its descent as I watch it, its lustrous red-gold colours making the blue water beneath it look as if it is on fire. The sound of Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 3 drifts across the terrace, reaching a zenith