The Secrets of Castle Du Rêve: A thrilling saga of three women’s lives tangled together in a web of secrets

Isobel sits down on the old brown sofa and gestures for her dad to do the same.

‘That’s okay. Are you done for the day now?’

‘No. I’ll go back down for a bit, I think. Plenty to be getting on with, as usual. So, what’s new?’ he asks.

‘Well,’ she begins.

Her father pats his knee for Duke to join him. The cat springs up and curls on his lap. ‘Yes. We’re listening.’

‘I’ve met someone. A man. It’s going brilliantly.’

‘I’m so pleased. That’s great. And?’

‘Why does there have to be more?’

‘With a man, there’s always more.’

Isobel shakes her head and laughs. Then there’s a silence until Duke begins purring loudly, the glottal sounds filling the room.

‘I’m pregnant, Dad.’

As she blurts the words out, Isobel remembers all the other things she has blurted out to her father over the years. I’m doing teacher training, I’ve got a job at Silenshore Castle High School, I’m going to rent a flat with Iris. Her mother always spoke softly, prepped them carefully, built a platform for whatever she was going to say. Isobel has never been like that. She can’t ever think of words other than those that are on her mind. The words she wants to say blink, fluorescent and blinding. No others can be seen. She tries to look at her father but his eyes are lowered.

‘Dad?’

‘Are you happy?’ he asks eventually, looking up at her.

‘I’m really happy. I panicked at first,’ she admits. ‘I’m still kind of scared, I suppose.’

‘Oh, everyone’s always scared of something, Izzie. So if that’s all you have to contend with, then things aren’t so bad.’

They chat for a few minutes. Graham asks when the baby will arrive, and they speculate on if it might be a girl or boy. Isobel tells her father trivial things about Tom: his shifts at the restaurant in Ashwood, his good dress sense, his flat. She makes some tea and quickly wipes the kitchen worktop while she waits for the kettle to boil. There are breadcrumbs, hard pellets of rice and shiny slivers of cheese stuck to her cloth when she’s finished. The tang of fish lingers in the air of the small kitchen, which mixes with the scent of tea and makes Isobel gag behind her sleeve.

For once, her father doesn’t snap or take offence that she has cleaned a surface and tried to make his flat more inhabitable. But after they have drunk their tea, Graham stands up.

‘I’d better get back down to the office.’

Isobel looks up at him as he stands, preoccupied, waiting for her to let him go back to bury his head in his paperwork. It’s been the same for over two years now, since that slow, inevitable morning when her mother died. Isobel’s dad always worked hard when Isobel was a child, but he usually made sure he finished in time to help her with her homework or watch Blue Peter together or eat pizza on a Friday night. Now, it’s as though his family mode has been switched off, and Isobel can’t find how to turn it back on, to tune him back into her.

‘Come on, then. I’m going to Tom’s anyway,’ she says. As they clatter down the uncarpeted stairs, a sweet, warm scent blooms in the air and overpowers the smell of frying fish and chips and vinegar from next door.

‘I can smell the bread again,’ Isobel says. The office downstairs used to be her grandparents’ bakery. Even though bread hasn’t been baked here for over thirty years, every now and again the overbearing aromas of yeast and flour, sugar and butter waft through the air.

‘It’s trapped in the walls. They don’t want us to ever forget it,’ Graham says. He says it every time they smell the bread. Even though Isobel has heard it so many times, it still makes her feel uneasy, as though the spirits of her grandparents are watching them from somewhere, their faces dusted white with flour and death.

They reach the bottom and she gives her father a brief hug. He looks down at her, at her stomach.

‘Doesn’t look like there’s much in there yet,’ he observes.

‘No, I know. I suppose it’s only a matter of time, though.’

He lifts a hand and places it gently on her belly, his unexpected touch warm and heavy. They stand for a moment, not speaking, until he moves his hand away. Isobel smiles at him, surprised and glad.

‘I think you’ll be just fine,’ he says.

When Tom swings open the door to his flat later that night, the sugary smell of cooked apples swirls in the air. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt, and to see him uncharacte‌ristically casual makes Isobel smile and reach up to kiss him. He lingers, his hands around her waist. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day. How are you feeling?’

‘Okay,’ Isobel says, feeling a broad grin spread over her face. ‘I’m feeling good today, actually. And something in here smells fantastic. It’s making me hungry.’

‘That’s because I’m doing one of my specialities. You’re going to love it.’

‘I’m loving the t-shirt too,’ she says, touching the soft grey cotton. ‘I usually like a man in a suit,’ she says with a wink. ‘But you really pull off casual.’

Tom laughs. ‘Well, that’s a relief. How did it go with your dad?’

‘He was fine with it. Calmer than I was. I think I expected him to freak out. But I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I freaked out.’

‘Maybe it’s because you’re his little girl. That’s a bit of a cliché, though, I suppose.’

Isobel shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure. To be honest, since Mum died, I feel like we’re not that close. It felt a bit weird even telling him about you. I don’t speak to him that much about real life these days. He’s always distracted by work. But today was good, I suppose, because I had to talk to him properly, and I suppose he had to listen.’

‘I’m glad,’ Tom says. ‘I felt a bit nervous, actually. Dads can be funny about who their daughters end up with, can’t they?’

Isobel smiles. ‘I think he could see how happy you make me. That helped.’

The words are luminous and dance around them. Tom’s face brightens and he leans down to kiss Isobel. After her long day, Isobel wants to melt into him, into his scent of herbs and wine. She pulls him closer and they linger over their kiss until Tom pulls away reluctantly.

‘Dinner calls,’ he says apologetically, going over to the hob.

‘Isn’t this like being at work?’ Isobel asks. ‘I’d have thought you’d be sick of cooking for other people. I was expecting a microwave meal. Or a takeaway.’

‘A man in a suit and a microwave meal?’ Tom laughs. ‘You had some strange expectations, Isobel Blythe.’

Isobel laughed. ‘Well, all I can say is that you’ve exceeded my expectations anyway, as always. I can’t wait to taste your cooking. What are we having?’ She sits down at the small glass table.

Tom clears his throat and whips a white tea towel over his shoulder. ‘Filet mignon de porc Normande,’ he says with an uncharacte‌ristically dramatic flourish of the hands. ‘Normandy Pork.’

‘It smells amazing. Is this a throwback from your time in France?’ Isobel remembers Tom mentioning that he spent a year or so living in France when they first met.

‘Yes, I suppose it is. I tried this dish for the first time there, although I never cooked it. I didn’t cook much when I lived in France. I mostly existed on bread and cheese. Have you been to France?’

‘No. But I know a lot about Paris because Iris really wants to go. She’s obsessed.’

‘She’s got good taste. It’s not a bad place to be obsessed with.’ Tom says as he stirs the pot on his sleek black hob. ‘What about you? Where’s your number-one destination?’

‘Vienna,’ Isobel replies quickly. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Vienna.’

Tom smiles and comes to sit at the table. ‘The city of dreams?’