Praise for Georgina Moore ‘Moore writes in lush, enveloping prose. She turns what could have been just another second-chance romance tale into something more enticing, touching on the pull of memory and the importance of what is passed on’ Sunday Times ‘An epic saga full of characters that will stay with you’ The Sun ‘SUCH a treat! Glorious, glamorous and transporting: the British answer to Taylor Jenkins Reid’ Lucy Foley ‘Utterly enchanting, and with richly drawn characters, this is the perfect summer read’ Heat ‘It’s a dream. Romantic, sexy, bittersweet’ Patrick Gale ‘Totally enchanting . . . romantic and aspirational. You’ll be captivated’ Adele Parks ‘Wholly involving with a rich, emotional depth. I loved it so much. Georgina Moore is the heir to the late great Maeve Binchy’ Jennie Godfrey ‘A beautifully written story . . . truly wonderful characters. With a love story at its core, it’s an absolute winner!’ Santa Montefiore ‘Gorgeous. A hugely rich and rewarding read . . . the perfect summer escape’ Emma Stonex ‘Sublime writing, deep deep emotion and characters you won’t want to let go . . . Heavenly!’ Veronica Henry
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Georgina Moore grew up in London and lives on a houseboat island on the River Thames with her partner and two children. Her debut novel, The Garnett Girls, was a Sunday Times bestseller. Her second book, River of Stars, was her love letter to the River Thames and inspired by the colourful history of another island upstream from the one she lives on, Eel Pie Island. Summer House is her third novel.
Also by Georgina Moore River of Stars The Garnett Girls
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Summer House
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HQ An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk HarperCollinsPublishers Macken House, 39/40 Mayor Street Upper Dublin 1, D01 C9W8, Ireland This edition 2027 1 First published in Great Britain by HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2027 Copyright © Georgina Moore 2027 Georgina Moore asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. HB ISBN: 9780008765514 TPB ISBN: 9780008765507 Typeset in Centaur MT Std by HarperCollinsPublishers India This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers. Without limiting the exclusive rights of any author, contributor or the publisher of this publication, any unauthorised use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited. HarperCollins also exercise their rights under Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790 and expressly reserve this publication from the text and data mining exception. Printed and bound in the UK using 100% Renewable Electricity at CPI Group (UK) Ltd
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For Sonny and Daisy
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July 2013 Summer House, Haven Island
Teddy looked down across the sweep of lawn to where the tables were laid with Mira’s favourite food, lobster and green tomato salad, a baked cod, grilled peach and mozzarella, oysters on ice. There were thick jewel-like slices of watermelon bright against a white china plate. Teddy had a flash of memory then, the way Mira had taken huge bites at their family picnics on Crescent Beach, letting the juice fall down her chin, not caring, a rare moment of greed over manners. Teddy checked that the big cream umbrellas were up, some shade for the guests from the heat of a Haven Island July. The silver ice buckets were out on the tables too, beads of condensation on them, full of bottles of the Provençal rosé Mira had called her ‘pink wine’. They had got drunk on it once in the pavilion, half empty bottles snuck out of the kitchen, when there had been nothing else to steal. The taste of it took her straight back to heartbreak, what it was like to be seventeen and in love. Cigarette smoke filling her lungs, clawing butterflies in her stomach, much the way her stomach felt now, the anticipation building about seeing Jude again. She didn’t want to come off this porch, she didn’t want to step 1
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into the party. Only Mira could demand a party instead of a funeral. Only she could drag them all back here to this place they had all loved so much, knowing that they would have to come. Later, after lunch, they would scatter the ashes off the dock, the very end of it where Mira had always dived into the sea, that perfect arc, her brown legs, the white swimsuit. Teddy had watched her so many times, but also not enough times. Just two summers’ worth. Teddy’s dive was never immaculate like Mira’s and she had tried so many times to perfect it. She remembered them all lined up together along the dock, the lavender-scented heat of the air, the sandy wood of the boards under bare feet. The way they had teased Jude about how he made such a big splash. The times they had given up on diving and jumped together, holding hands, the five of them. Just bright sky and silvered sea, their screams echoing around their creek, the silky coolness of the water on hot skin. It was Elliott who had come closest out of all of them to Mira’s dive. Perfect Elliott, good at all the things she was bad at. Teddy came out of her daze, Elliott’s name an alarm call in her mind. She was going to see him for the first time in years. It made her feel sick to think of it, the way they were almost strangers. But John would expect something from them. Some act of civility or unity, in honour of their mother. Teddy forced herself to move down the porch step, keeping her eyes lowered, and then she heard Jude laugh and her head turned. He had just been with Gisele and Amy and now was moving across the deep green of the lawn towards her. That same walk, lolloping, easy and confident. She knew now what she didn’t at seventeen, that the confidence was sometimes an act. At seventeen Jude had been a god to her. He wasn’t blond anymore, darker, but still that thick flop of hair. He was wearing a linen shirt buttoned low, showing smooth tanned skin. He had always found it hard to dress formally. For 2
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a moment she wanted to run to him; she had a sharp memory that stabbed at her, of running across this lawn into his arms, being swept up, swung around. She pulled at her dress which was too tight and wondered what he would see. Not that girl who had starved herself to please her mother, whose denim cut-offs had finally hung low over a tiny bikini. She ate now and was greedy for food. Food had replaced sex as the main pleasure in her single thirty-something life and she wasn’t about to give it up just to fit in beautiful clothes. But for a minute she wanted to be that girl again, light and free, before any of it had happened. ‘Ah, there you are, Ted, you never change.’ Jude was looking down at her, as if he still owned her. There was nostalgia and a touch of pity in his look, which she couldn’t bear. Those eyes of his haunted her dreams. When she tried to capture him on the page, when she was writing, she could make his beauty come alive but never describe the thing that made him so devastating. Charisma, sex appeal, whatever it was. The recklessness and verve in him, then the flash of something that hinted at being lost and sad. She had been trying to work him out all her life, like a puzzle, following red herrings. ‘Do you need any help with anything?’ She looked up and smiled, so that he took a step back, confused. He had been expecting her to be cold. Her voice was carefully casual. ‘You look as gorgeous as ever. Do you mind helping me with the tables? We need some hydrangeas, the tables are too bare without them, Mira liked to see them everywhere, remember? White and blue – a mix. I need to get lemonade and then I’ll go and ask John if he’s ready for everyone to sit down.’ She heard Mira’s authority in her voice but Jude didn’t move, just stood beside her looking ahead across the lawn, down to the sea. She didn’t want to think about who he was looking for. 3
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‘No White Star? Has someone taken it out?’ The sailing boat was usually moored alongside the dock, the missing white sail another absence. ‘John sold it – reminded him too much of Mira.’ There was a pause and when she turned to him she saw that there was pain in his face, his clenched jaw. ‘I was always trying to get you to come out to sea with me.’ All the nostalgia, Summer House, it made her feel reckless and she reached for his hand to pull him back to her, just this one last time. ‘Don’t stay at the beach club tonight. Stay here. We can drink stolen wine in the book room and toast Mira. It’s awful being here without her.’ His eyes met hers. ‘What about Elliott?’ ‘He won’t stay here – he’ll probably stay with Gisele.’ They stood for a moment watching the guests. They were spilling all over the place in Hamptons shades of white and cream, expensive silk and linen. A group gathered in the wood pavilion, under the scent of Mira’s beloved white roses. She couldn’t look towards the Old Chapel near the wood. Instead she looked at the view that she loved, that was part of her, that she would probably never see again. Cerulean sea and its luminous horizon, the curve of the peninsula, the white shore of Greenbay, a few solitary boats moored close to the beach. The sky and sea were constantly changing in subtle ways if you watched them closely. Summer for Teddy had never been just a season, it had been a place, this place. If she thought about never seeing Summer House again she wouldn’t get through the lunch and what came afterwards. She turned to Jude, to his profile. It was strange for him to be this still and quiet; he was suffering in some way, pulled back like her to the past. ‘Will you stay with me?’ ‘Yes I’ll stay.’ * 4
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Later she found herself at the end of the dock with Elliott, John beside them holding the urn, guests lined up on the lawn and crowded into the pavilion, watching them. The party hushed finally. A surreal moment to be reunited. She had managed to avoid Elliott until now, aware of him always, moving around talking to guests. He had that way about him that drew people to him, charm and the way he listened intently, made you feel like you were the only person he wanted to listen to. He was ageing better than her, still tall and lean, the blue of his eyes that made people stop and look again. This was the person she had loved most in the world and now he was standing next to her silently, with his solemn face. This void in her life where he used to be, her loneliness without her twin, how she carried him in her mind and heart anyway. Writing was lonely too, the way she was trying to write this novel that had her in a chokehold, the one about Summer House and their mother. It hurt to write about it all. Writing to try to understand those two summers that had changed the path of their lives. She didn’t want to touch her ashes, hold them in her hand. Parts of Mira that they were about to scatter to the sea, a million little pieces of a mother who had never seemed like one whole person, who had been a mystery. They had agreed to tip the urn, each taking a turn. There was no wind, the sea mirror calm, only slow-moving ripples. The heat had taken over everything and Teddy could feel the wine she had drunk about to give her a headache. She wanted it to be over. She wanted the soothing buttery light of her old bedroom, the comfort and release of a naked Jude, who would break her and heal her all over again. She felt Elliott turn to her and she knew that he was reading her mind, the way he always had. His voice low, almost a whisper, just for her. ‘We didn’t really know her, did we?’
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Mira King archive, file marked Twins, carbon copy typed letter Summer House, Haven Island 23 September 1993 M, Please let them come. I know it’s hard to forgive me, but the children should not be punished because of it. I’ve worked so hard to make a beautiful home here, somewhere magical for them to visit. And it’s just for the summer, then they will return to you. Surely they’re old enough now to decide themselves if they want to come or not? The same age I was when I ran away. And I would love the chance to know them better. We all have so few summers in our lives. You know better than anyone how keenly I feel that, after the lost summers I spent in that place. You were never a petty man before. Let them come to Summer House, it’s waiting for them. Mira x
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Book One
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1
October 1993 Coniston House, Rye
Teddy always insisted that she remembered their christening, but Elliott told her it was impossible. She had just heard the stories so many times, seen so many small and faded photos. There was an album with a burgundy cover, a gold frame around it. The photos had been placed in those fiddly sticky corner things, which had unpeeled with age. Elliott said those sticky corners were something that should make you pleased about progress, not sad about it, the way Teddy was. If Teddy could have stepped back in time, into that party in the photo, she would have. Their mother wore a dress of many colours that brushed the parquet floor. She was laughing, long gold hair behind her, a cigarette in one hand, a champagne flute in the other. ‘So she was happy then. I mean to be here.’ Teddy’s voice was wistful. ‘In that moment. Before it all kicked off – but what do we really know?’ Teddy looked at her twin and smiled. He often said that when they were talking about the unreliable past. As children of divorce, Elliott maintained that any story from the past had to be questioned. 8
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How could you trust your sources when they were at war? Elliott had a mind like a steel trap, he wanted facts and figures. Teddy was only interested in the glamour, the emotions, the affairs. Their mother’s model cheekbones. Elliott was resting his head on her shoulder, looking at the album she held open on her lap. When they were really bored in the house this is what they did. A tragic waste of two not bad-looking fifteen-year-olds, Teddy thought. Well, Elliott was actually beautiful; you just couldn’t debate it. People stopped in the street to look at him. Every time it happened Teddy felt proud but jealous. ‘Do you think I’ve got fatter? Be honest.’ ‘No, you always say that when you look at photos of Mira. I think we should stop because you hate yourself afterwards. She just smoked and never ate – that’s what Dad said.’ Teddy felt Elliott’s hair tickle her ear. He was right. She felt lumpy and dull when the christening photos came out. Unhelpful girls at school called it her ‘puppy fat’. Their housekeeper, Mrs Alsopp, called her ‘cherubic’ and pinched her cheeks. Clothes had hung from her mother, not stuck to bits of her the way Teddy’s did. And Teddy had breasts, huge ones, so big that men on scaffolding shouted ‘great knockers!’ as she passed by. Teddy was convinced that her breasts were all people saw of her, that and her messy blonde curls that gave her a just-got-out-of-bed air and made everyone treat her like she was a bit silly. ‘The way she wore clothes, she just has verve you know?’ Elliott straightened up. ‘Verve was her thing.’ ‘She’s not in the past. She’s out there sending invitations to Summer House. Do you think he’ll ever let us go?’ Teddy looked pleadingly at Elliott, even though she knew she would only get the truth. ‘Nope – over his dead body.’ Elliott had moved to the big window and he was looking down into their walled garden. Rye was on a hill, 9
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and Coniston House was near the top of that hill, so they had a view from the second floor across the graveyard and spire of St Mary’s Church, across the red-tiled rooftops to the Salts, the fields beyond them, the marshes. The medieval town looked impossibly picturesque, like a painting, with the golden October light, the coppering leaves, timber and crooked chimneys. They had shared the big room up here but now it was considered unseemly by their father and they had separate rooms, Elliott squeezed into a tiny room across the hall. She had kept all his books and mix tapes, their shared CDs, as she had the space. They still spent all their time in here together, or in their walled garden, or on their bikes racing down Mermaid Street, getting shouted at. When they weren’t weekly boarding at Abbey School they listened to music and read paperback after paperback in that big house with the ticking grandfather clock, to the sound of the town’s bells and mournful seagulls. Nothing ever happened and time was so slow. ‘I need to put more bird seed out. There are so many leaves now. I should go and sweep – Dad’s given up on our garden. Shall we take the dogs to Camber?’ Teddy pulled at her flannel shirt. It didn’t suit her, boyish casual things didn’t seem to which was a pain when they were fashionable. Not that anyone knew what fashion was on their cobbled streets. ‘He’s given up on everything. I mean he was grumpy before but now there’s all this stuff about “the Recession”, and “the Repairs”.’ Elliott was still looking down at the garden. Teddy thought it another tragic sign of how bored they were that her brother was taking up gardening as a teenager. She loved their garden too, the way it wrapped around the house and was completely private, the shade of the mulberry, the wisteria she longed for every year. But she didn’t want to know how the roses bloomed like clockwork or do anything at all in the vegetable patch. She just wanted to eat the 10
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potatoes, baked and stuffed with butter. That was the thing about food, it was such a highlight if you were bored. Easy for their mother with parties and lovers to just forget meals, eat a few canapés. But in Coniston House the days were punctuated by mealtimes and their father, despite his penny-pinching, would never think of getting rid of Mrs Alsopp, because she was such a good cook and left them delicious dinners wrapped in foil in the kitchen that none of them knew how to use. Tonight it was lasagna, she could smell it. They were all greedy and her father had a paunch now, but Elliott could just eat and eat, and he was lean muscle and long, hollow legs. ‘His mother’s genes,’ Martin would mutter and it would sting Teddy, tears would prick at her eyes. Because it was so clear that she had nothing of her mother’s. ‘We should be in London. Meeting friends in Pizza Hut. Or getting videos from Blockbuster. The local shop has nothing at all. I’m still waiting for bloody Robin Hood, someone in Rye is hogging it.’ Teddy looked at the posters tacked over her bed. Madonna, River Phoenix, covers of Vogue with the Big Five supermodels on them. Tatjana was her favourite. Her father hated looking at models because their mother had been one for a while in the early Seventies, and it reminded him of being desperately in love with her. He said the posters didn’t suit the period style of the house. But they stayed up, until they unpeeled at night and flapped over her face like ghosts. She knew they didn’t look right in the panelled room. All Teddy wanted was a normal London terraced house, a normal teenager’s room. Not to live somewhere the floors creaked and the front door was so big and heavy it had to be pulled shut with two hands. She stood up and as she did the christening invitation floated to the floor, having escaped the album. Teddy picked it up and read it aloud in a doomful voice, even though she already knew every word. 11
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‘Mr and Mrs M King, invite you to the christening of their twins, Elliott and Teddy, at St Mary’s Church and afterwards at Coniston House.’ Elliott turned from the window a frown on his face. ‘You’re pathetically obsessed.’ ‘The day it all went wrong. We could still be a happy family if it wasn’t for the christening. I’d rather be a heathen.’ Elliott slouched into the armchair by the window. ‘Teds, I love you, but come on. She was going to bolt whatever happened – like the mother in that Mitford novel—’ Teddy interrupted him because it was the only area she knew more about, the only time she ever got to help him. He was ahead of her in every single other subject. ‘The Pursuit of Love.’ ‘She was probably already looking for a way out. Two babies – who’d want that and at the same time?’ Elliott didn’t like babies, but Teddy did. She loved them and thought about being a mother already. A devoted mother. She didn’t understand the way Elliott never seemed to yearn for their mother’s love. He had written Mira off. That was the thing about him, he just shut people out if they disappointed him. Teddy spent a lot of time worrying about how one day she might get shut out from Elliott’s love. ‘And it was Dad’s fault, bringing the Man in the White Suit. Who the hell invites a rich colleague to the christening of your children, especially when you’re married to Mira? It’s like he had a death wish.’ Teddy watched as Elliott pulled a CD off the metal rack next to him. She knew he was bored of the conversation now. ‘How about some Blur?’ ‘I just don’t get them.’ ‘You worry me. I made you the mix tape you wanted by the way, with Everything But The Girl on it. Yes, and Bryan Adams.’ Elliott didn’t approve of her music taste. He was cooler, he had been born 12
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that way. He looked good in jeans, he could look moody. He had Mira’s cheekbones and hair that styled easily and china blue eyes that seemed to turn a cool grey when he didn’t like something. He never tried to please everyone the way Teddy did. People wanted to please him. ‘Thanks. You know my favourite christening story?’ Elliott looked up and his face broke into one of its rare transforming smiles. ‘Yes. When Mira was handing us from guest to guest and we were going round the party in opposite directions—’ ‘And we were crying, yelling and no one could comfort us.’ ‘And then Mira’d had enough of it and she put us back together in the big blue pram.’ ‘Side by side.’ ‘And we were happy.’ ‘And gurgled at each other for ages.’ ‘And we were left alone and the party went on around us.’ Teddy looked at her twin and she could see that the story made him happy too. They had always felt this way, that they were better together. ‘Let’s go and buy sweets and then take them to the beach.’
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