The Secret Path by Karen Swan (summer beach reads TXT) 📕

hormonal, and stuck up a windy hill in the Shropshire dales with friends who were bordering on bitchy. She felt caught between two lives, with no one to talk to. She was immersed in secrets, and the only person who knew about them had made her feelings perfectly clear.

Tara watched as Holly passed around the hip flask again, the flash of bitterness between her and Annie seemingly forgotten by the others already. Everyone was already getting looser as the amber spirit shot into their veins. There’d be singing on the way back down, no doubt, a takeaway curry and more drinks back at the house. What excuse was she going to use to avoid them then?

It had been a mistake coming away this weekend, she realized that now. Like Alex pretending to be a Chelsea fan, she hadn’t thought it through. She’d thought she could pretend that she was still one of the gang for a bit longer – deny that she was already changing course – but she was already an outsider. She could feel it, and so could the others, even if they didn’t yet know why.

‘Come on. Let’s head back before it gets dark and open some booze,’ Charlie said, scrambling to her feet. ‘I’ve not come all the way up to bloody Shropshire to spend it getting windburn on a mountain.’

‘Technically it’s only a hill,’ Sophie corrected her. ‘It has to be over—’

‘Shuddup. I don’t care. If I’m leaving London it’s only on account of a damned good pub. I’ve done my good deed of the day, now it’s time for my reward. First round’s on me.’

‘Actually, my father’s running a tab for us,’ Sophie said with a hitch of her eyebrows.

Charlie’s mouth opened wider. ‘Then what the fuck are we doing up here with sheep?’

The girls all gathered in their legs, pulling each other up by outstretched arms and swiping grass off their bottoms. Tara simply smiled – and did her best to blend in.

Tara stood at the bar, watching as the barman pulled on the ale lever, the glass angled precisely to create just the right amount of froth. Behind her she could hear her friends, laughing loudly as Annie regaled them with a tale about her ex, George. From what she had picked up, it involved thorny bushes, torn, bloodstained boxers and having to sleep on his stomach for a month.

Her eyes rose to the clock, willing the hands to be further round than they had been last time she checked. Ten thirty-four. It was something, she supposed. She had blagged her way through this evening by laughing even when she wasn’t amused, suggesting a game of Ibble Dibble and fulfilling her Mother Hen duties by taking the seat closest to the bar and insisting on being the one to get each round of drinks – this was their fifth, and she had been passing off her elderflower as vodka tonic all night. Only Holly had sussed her game, disappointed looks scudding her way across the table every so often.

The phone in her jeans pocket vibrated suddenly and she whipped it out with impressive fluidity, her heart rate rocketing up. ‘Alex?’

‘Twiggle! My Twiglet!’

She frowned at the uncharacteristic bounce in his voice. ‘You’re drunk?’

‘No. I’m . . . what’s that word you use? . . . Sozzled. I’m sozzled.’ He laughed, the sound soft and indistinct, like his words had rolled onto their sides.

She heard the sound of traffic rushing past him, London in her ear. ‘Where are you?’

‘Going home . . . Taxi!’ There was a pause. ‘Fuck.’ The word was a whisper, muttered below his breath. He hiccupped. She had never heard him hiccup before. It seemed such a frivolous sound for him. ‘You should have warned me your father takes no prisoners.’

‘Dad? You mean you’re still together?’

‘All day. All day long,’ he said, sounding as proud as a boy with his first sandcastle. ‘We had the best time.’

‘Where are you right now?’

‘I’m not entirely sure . . .’ he said slowly, sounding baffled. She could practically hear his brow furrowing – as though this were the first opportunity he’d had to consider his surroundings. ‘I think St Jays,’ he slurred.

St James. They were at her father’s club. She groaned as another thought followed on the heels of that realization. ‘Oh God. Not the port.’

‘Yesh the port!’ There was a small silence, then another hiccup.

Her father had a very serious wine collection, kept in his various cellars, but he was a particular aficionado of port, and rare was the man who could keep up if he was treated to a tasting session.

‘So you’ve been with Dad all day?’

‘We’ve been bonding.’ Another short silence, another hiccup.

‘And . . .?’ she prompted, as he offered nothing more. She wondered if he had gone to sleep standing up, right there, in the middle of St James.

‘Oh. Yes. And we’re playing golf tomorrow. At his club. Another club.’

She rolled her eyes, and not only because he’d completely missed her point. Getting to Wentworth meant taking a helicopter – and what had she specifically asked her father to do? Hide the toys. Hide the bloody toys. ‘Alex, do you even play golf?’

‘No,’ he chuckled. It sounded like it would have been a giggle except that his body couldn’t muster the requisite muscular strength. ‘But I know the concept of the game – get the ball in the hole in as few hits as possible.’

Tara shook her head; it was hard to believe this was a PhD student she was talking to right now. She caught sight of her friends in the foxed mirrored wall. Holly was staring into space, looking a world away from here.

She brought her attention back to the very drunk man breathing heavily in her ear. ‘Alex!’ she hissed, snapping him to attention; she heard his breathing change.

‘Huh?’

‘Did you ask him for my hand?’

The guy standing beside her and nursing his pint overheard and looked at her with a curious mix of surprise, distaste and pity. Tara gave an embarrassed smile.

‘No!’ His ‘ew’ tone was clear and she knew his brain was