Save Her, Abigail Osborne [ebook reader for surface pro txt] 📗

photo on her bedside table was worn, creased and the colours faded. But with this canvas, she could make out more detail than she ever had before. She could see the different shades of blonde in her mother’s hair, the ‘R’ on the necklace she always wore. Her father’s moustache looked thicker and she could see the crow’s feet framing his twinkling blue eyes, and his hair the exact same shade of hazelnut brown as her own. Flora saw that her eyes were the same distinct amber colour as her mother’s. She had always thought they had similar eyes but now it was possible to see that she had her mother’s exact eye colour.

It had taken her a while to compose herself. Sam had looked aghast when she had begun to ugly cry, but she assured him they were happy tears.

She gripped his hand as he drove, never wanting to let go. Her love for him now was overwhelming. Like a tangible thing inside of her that made her want to cry and laugh at the same time. She wanted to tell Sam how she felt but how did you explain the indescribable. The loss of her parents had tainted her whole life. There was a hole in her heart where they should have been. Not a day went by when she did not wonder what they would think of her or what they would be doing right now had they still been alive. Flora had studied that same photograph hungrily since the day they died. She had wanted to stare at the canvas all night, relishing this magnified view of her parents. It made them feel more real to her, no longer just the fading images in her mind like a worn-out film reel. Here they were, sharp and in focus. Real people who had wrinkles and eyes just like hers. How had she not thought to do this herself?

Sam had torn her away from them with kisses and promises that she could spend the whole weekend staring at it if she wished. He would hang it wherever she wanted in the house. It was so large it would cover one of the walls.

The car came to a stop and before she could even reach for the handle the door was opened by Sam. He took her hand, helping her out of the car, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand with lustful eyes full of promise. She blushed and followed him into the house. Reginald appeared from nowhere like the resident ghost, making her jump as he requested their coats. Flora felt a momentary pang of sympathy for Reginald as Sam strode away without even glancing in his direction, not even a thank you. But that feeling soon subsided as she caught the look of disdain that he gave her coat as she handed it to him. He took the grey jacket and held it far away from his body as if it had fleas, his nose turned up as if she had just handed him a dirty rag.

Following Sam into the greeting room, she found him deep in conversation with his mother. As usual, Cecelia had her hand resting on Sam’s arm as they sat on the chaise longue together. At first, Flora had found it sweet that whenever Cecelia was near Sam she was always touching him, needing to be close to him. But then she began to catch the territorial looks she would fling at Flora. She may as well have put up a sign saying, ‘this man belongs to me’. This used to bother Flora and she would find a way of touching Sam as well. They would be locked in a silent battle of possession, finding excuses to touch Sam and divert his attention to them. It became like a game of table tennis and Sam was the ball.

Cecelia had once turned an angry shade of purple when Flora, in an unusual display of bravery fuelled by the three glasses of sherry she had consumed and egged on by Sophie, had taken Sam’s face in her hands and kissed him passionately. From the corner of her eye she saw Cecelia choking on her sherry and excusing herself from the room. Flora had revelled in the glory for a whole thirty seconds, until Cecelia had called them into the dining room and announced that they were having seafood for every course that night. She gave Flora a huge smile, well aware that Flora hated seafood. Over dinner, Cecelia announced to Sam that she had booked the two of them a weekend retreat to a winery for some mother/son bonding time, looking pointedly at Flora to make sure she got the message that she was not invited.

Tonight, Flora realised that the dinner table and chairs had been replaced. Flora marvelled at Cecelia’s display of frivolity: everything was dispensable in her world. She couldn’t imagine how much the last wrought-iron table had cost, let alone this new one that was made of thick glass that glistened in the light.

She felt apprehensive, as always, when she sat down, like she was eating with the queen and was bound to make a fool of herself. It never got any easier being around Sam’s family. She would always be the weed in the flower bed of elegant roses.

Cecelia’s voice penetrated her thoughts. ‘There’s a new bistro opening tomorrow, a close friend’s son. Trained in Paris, don’t you know? I’ve got us the best table in the house. Can you be there for 7pm?’ said Cecelia.

Flora held her breath. Sam coughed and looked down at his plate. Don’t you dare, Samuel Cavendish, she thought.

‘Sorry, Mother. We already have plans tomorrow night.’

‘What plans? Just rearrange them. I’ve already said we will go. This is much more important.’

‘I can’t, Mother. It’s our anniversary.’

‘What anniversary?’

‘Our wedding anniversary.’

‘Ah. Well, what better way to celebrate than at a restaurant with a Michelin star chef? I bet it is much better than what you