What Goes Down: An emotional must-read of love, loss and second chances

  Table of Contents

  SEPHChapter One

  SEPHChapter Two

  SEPHChapter Three

  SEPHChapter Four

  SEPHChapter Five

  LAURELChapter SixJune 1987

  SEPHChapter Seven

  LAURELChapter EightJune 1987

  LAURELChapter NineJune 1987

  SEPHChapter Ten

  LAURELChapter ElevenJuly 1987

  SEPHChapter Twelve

  LAURELChapter ThirteenSeptember 1987

  SEPHChapter Fourteen

  LAURELChapter FifteenOctober 1987

  SEPHChapter Sixteen

  LAURELChapter SeventeenNovember 1987

  SEPHChapter Eighteen

  LAURELChapter NineteenJanuary 1988

  SEPHChapter Twenty

  LAURELChapter Twenty-OneMay 1988

  SEPHChapter Twenty-Two

  LAURELChapter Twenty-ThreeNovember 1988

  LAURELChapter Twenty-FourPresent Day

  LAURELChapter Twenty-Six

  SEPHChapter Twenty-Seven

  LAURELChapter Twenty-Eight

  SEPHEpilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  What Goes Down

  NATALIE K. MARTIN

  SEPH

  One

  ‘That’s that, then,’ Seph muttered quietly to herself, looking at the hold-baggage label attached to the worn leather straps of her duffel bag. ‘Back to reality.’

  She tugged it off, scrunched it into a tiny ball and dropped it into her back jeans pocket before letting herself into the house. Light streamed in through the stained glass panels of the front door as she closed it behind her, casting a dusky pink hue in the hallway. The air was thick with the scent of roast potatoes. She could almost taste them - fluffy on the inside and perfectly crisp outside, sprinkled with rosemary and a generous dash of sea salt.

  ‘That you, love?’ Her mum’s voice carried through the cottage.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’m in the kitchen.’

  Seph dropped her bag to the floor and unzipped it to lift out a bag full of cheese wedges, sun-dried tomatoes and tubs of olives. Everything was fresh from the farmers’ market she’d visited just that morning in southern France, including a bottle of homemade red wine. It had no label but was among the best she’d ever tasted, and it would go perfectly with dinner. It might even help to eke out the holiday feeling that was dying with every second. Coming to her parents’ house instead of going straight back to London had been the right decision to make. The warm familiarity of her Hertfordshire childhood home was already keeping the inevitable feeling of tension at bay, acting like a buffer zone between the idyllic surroundings she’d just left and the resumption of normal life.

  Seph bundled everything up and carried her haul through the living room. It was tiny but cosy, with furniture jostling for space. The two-seater sofa sat under the window and a matching armchair was wedged into the corner, both slightly too big for the room. Shelves groaned under the weight of books in the alcoves on either side of the fireplace, and Seph almost banged her leg against the coffee table as she walked through to the kitchen. Only marginally bigger than the living room, it was decked out with contemporary shaker cupboards and shelves lined with mason jars, full of oats, grains and pasta.

  Her mum, Laurel, stood in the middle of it all, surrounded on three sides by cupboards as she rolled out a lump of dough on a wooden chopping block. She looked up at Seph without pause and smiled.

  ‘Hello, love.’

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ Seph set everything down onto a counter before kissing Laurel’s flour-dusted cheek.

  ‘You look lovely.’

  She looked down at her wrinkled shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and her loose jeans turned up at the ankle. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun. She looked how she always did, albeit with a tan.

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied and looked down at the dough. ‘Lemon tart?’

  ‘Of course. You know I’d never let you have a birthday without one.’

  ‘Mum,’ she tilted her head to one side. ‘It was three days ago.’

  ‘I know.’ Laurel worked the rolling pin against the dough.

  Seph smiled and shook her head, but she wasn’t complaining. Lemon tart was her absolute favourite dessert, and her mum was a stickler for tradition. As far as she could remember, birthdays had always been celebrated with an elaborate dinner that was only ever matched at Christmas.

  ‘Do you need some help?’ she offered, but Laurel shook her head.

  ‘Everything’s done, we’re just waiting on your dad. So, how was France?’

  ‘Great,’ Seph replied, turning away to take the cheese and olives from the bag. ‘It was really nice to be in peace and quiet for a while. Their place is in the middle of nowhere, but they have an awesome farmers’ market in town. I brought back some stuff.’ She took a tub of olives and lifted the lid. ‘Want one?’

  Laurel shook her head and Seph popped one into her mouth, allowing the flavours of garlic, rosemary and thyme to dance on her tongue.

  When two of her friends had left London almost a year ago for Uzès, a small market town in southern France, Seph had been more than sceptical. Chris and Alex were her party friends, the ones who could always be relied on for spontaneous nights out, a last minute trip to Croatia or festival in Portugal. It was what they’d lived for – endless fun, wild parties and living from day to day with little to no boundaries. Swapping London for the middle of nowhere had seemed like a bizarre choice, especially because they’d never even so much as hinted at it before. Seph hadn’t been able to picture them living out in the countryside but when they’d pulled up at their rustic farmhouse after picking her up from the airport, that all changed. It needed heaps of work done to it but it had two small outhouses and was surrounded by fields of sunflowers, and that was only for starters. As soon as they’d dropped Seph’s bags and given her a quick tour, they’d walked the one kilometre into town to visit the local market. Uzès was postcard perfect, with cobbled streets bathed in an almost dreamlike ochre tint from the sun. Locals and tourists had filled the market, wandering around between stalls selling everything from artisanal soaps to fresh lavender and handmade pottery. A band of musicians had played right in the centre of it all, and the scents of rotisserie chicken and freshly baked bread filled the air. When Seph had found a stall with dozens of varieties of olives, she’d almost been convinced they were in heaven.

  ‘And how was it, really?’ Laurel asked, jolting Seph out of her daydream and landing her back into the cramped kitchen. The look on her mum’s face was one that said the breezy answer Seph had given hadn’t been convincing enough. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Mum, I’m fine,’ she replied with a small laugh and took two bowls from a cupboard. ‘Honestly, you shouldn’t worry so much.’

  ‘I’m your mum, it’s my job. And-’

  ‘And there’s nothing for you to worry about,’ Seph replied, gently and playfully, but still with a hint of firmness. ‘Seriously. I had a really nice, relaxing week. I’m good.’

  Laurel stopped what she was doing and looked pointedly at her. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ She nodded with a smile before turning away to fill the bowls with olives.

  ‘Okay, good. I’ve been so worried about you since Bicester Village. We both have,’ Laurel said.

  Seph threw the empty pots into the recycling bin by the back door. It was inevitable and normal, but she hated the thought of her parents worrying about her as i
f she was a teenager instead of the independent twenty-seven-year-old that she was. She knew there would be a price to pay for breaking down like she had, and this was it.

  Three weeks ago, what was supposed to be a nice day out had descended into a living nightmare. Designer brands weren’t Seph’s style, but her mum had wanted some new shoes and sunglasses, so they’d driven to Bicester Village for some reduced price shopping and a long lunch. The weird thing was, that when she thought back to it now, Seph couldn’t really remember what had triggered the panic that had attacked her from absolutely nowhere. The sun had been shining as they’d wandered in and out of the shops in the purpose-built, outdoor shopping centre. It had been a relaxed day, with no hint of stress or need for panic. All she knew was that, somewhere between Gucci and Michael Kors, her breath had caught in her throat and it wouldn’t budge. She’d been gripped with a sense of absolute terror over something she couldn’t even identify. It had felt as if someone had snuck up and scared the daylights out of her, except, that “on edge” feeling didn’t go away. It still hadn’t. Seph shook her head. It was ridiculous, but just thinking about it caused her chest to tighten, even when standing in the safety of her mum’s kitchen. It was no wonder her parents would have worried after that.

  ‘Every cloud…’ Seph shrugged, faking nonchalance and leaving the rest of the proverb unsaid. ‘France was perfect and who knows, I might never have gone if it hadn’t happened.’

  ‘Then we’ll say no more about it.’ Laurel crimped the edge of the dough in a baking dish, her face flooded with relief. ‘How’s Ben?’

  ‘Good, I think. We haven’t spoken much but he comes back tomorrow.’

  The oven timer rang, and Seph pulled on a pair of padded gloves before opening the door. As the wall of hot air hit her, she pictured Ben in Tangiers, completely absorbed in work as he filmed part of a music documentary. She hadn’t told him about the panic attack. It was bad enough to know that her parents were worried about her; she didn’t want him to be too. He would’ve tried to cancel his trip, not that she’d have let him. The last thing she’d wanted was for his mind to be on her instead of his job and besides, they needed the money. Her trip to France was easily explicable as a last-minute birthday treat and an opportunity to get some inspiration.

  Seph lifted out the tray of roasted potatoes. ‘Should I put these in the dining room?’

  ‘Please.’ Laurel nodded before looking up at the clock on the wall and tutting. ‘Your dad’s late.’

  ‘It’s alright. I’ve got to catch up on emails and stuff anyway.’

  Seph stepped through the archway to the dining room. For most of the year, it was used as an overflow for the rest of the cottage. The solid oak table was usually hidden under books and piles of laundry waiting to be ironed but keeping with tradition, today it had been transformed. She nudged a bowl of rocket leaves drizzled in olive oil out of the way to make space for the potatoes before nipping back into the kitchen for the cheese and olives. Finding room for them wouldn’t be easy. Various jars of pâtés and spreads occupied one section of the square table while homemade lemonade, elderflower cordial and a bottle of champagne occupied another. A bowl of couscous sat in the centre, glistening with carrots, bell peppers and green beans. As usual, Laurel had cooked much more than they could ever hope to eat but Seph had yet to see a time when anything would go to waste. There’d be enough leftovers for another day at least, and chances were she’d be taking some on the train to London with her.

  She slid into one of the chairs, pushing a champagne flute further into the table and out of harm’s way. She fiddled with the stag-shaped pendant hanging from her necklace as she took her phone from her pocket, trying to ignore the ball of anxiety growing in her belly. Apart from checking in with her parents and Ben on her birthday, she’d only used it as a camera. No Facebook, no Instagram, no emails - nothing. Before going to France, if anyone had told her she’d be able to go off the grid for a day, let alone a week, she’d never have believed them. But as she looked at her phone now, Seph only wished she’d have done it earlier.

  Chris and Alex had cultivated a laid-back, hassle-free lifestyle and she’d slipped right into it. The uptight, frazzled mess she’d been in when she’d arrived in France had stood no chance of surviving the week, not with lazy days spent around the pool or lying in a hammock with crickets chirping all around. It was impossible not to relax, and she’d even made moves to start filling the blank sketchbook she’d taken with her. With her mind freeing itself from the never-ending circle of deadlines, dwindling finances and not-quite-arguments with Ben that somehow felt worse than full-blown ones, Seph had been perfectly poised for inspiration and clarity to make their way in. The only flaw in the process was she didn’t have an infinite amount of time to spend there. Before she’d known it, she’d found herself checking in again at the airport. Her friends had offered for her to stay. There was a decent art supply shop an hour’s drive away where she could stock up on oils and canvases, and work until the exhibition. But she’d booked a return ticket, and it was non-refundable. She couldn’t afford to just let it go. She’d flown with a low-cost airline that felt more like a bus than a plane, but it was high season and she didn’t have money to burn. She needed to get her series finished in time for the exhibition to have a hope in hell of earning anything decent for the foreseeable future. Besides, she couldn’t have stayed in France for a day longer anyway, even if she had been able to afford it because she had a meeting with the gallery owner tomorrow to talk about the said exhibition. And so the merry-go-round in her head restarted as if it had never stopped. She’d spent the entire flight chewing on her nails and watching the earth zip past below, wishing she could turn the plane around to stop the tension clawing at her with more ferocity than it ever had before.

  Seph sighed, switched off ‘flight mode’ and within seconds, her phone vibrated as a barrage of notifications began filling her screen. Her pulse quickened a little with every one - each representing something or somebody demanding a piece of her time. She went straight to her email app and began swiping her thumb across the screen, deleting newsletters and sale offers before stopping at one with just a simple “hi” as the subject header. She didn’t recognise the recipient, but it could be someone commissioning her for a painting. It wouldn’t be the first time. In reality, those offers had all but dwindled to nothing, but she’d learned not to delete without reading, just in case.

  Hello Seph,

  I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to write this, but I reckon it must be in the hundreds by now.

  Her eyebrows furrowed as her breath momentarily hitched in her throat. Only her close friends and family called her Seph. To the outside world, she was Persephone. She used her full name for work and publicity, which meant that this was no scam or spam. This email was from somebody who knew her.

  From: Nico Papoulis

  To: Persephone Powell

  Date: Tues, Aug 17 at 11:29 AM

  Subject: Hi

  Hello Seph,

  I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to write this, but I reckon it must be in the hundreds by now. There’s always been a reason not to. Actually, there’s been loads, but it was mostly because I couldn’t think of an easy way to say it. I still can’t, so I’ll just come out with it: I’m your dad.

  I know Laurel’s been married a long time, and you’ve probably grown up thinking that her husband is your dad, but he isn’t. I am. You’re my daughter, and I think you deserve to know that. If Laurel hasn’t told you the truth yet, then I know this will come as a shock. The first thing I want to say is that I don’t want anything from you. I only wanted you to know the truth about who you are and who I am, and where you come from.

  The second is that I want to apologise for not being there to see you grow up. I’ve got a lot of regrets and leaving you is the biggest one of them all but the truth is, I didn’t really have a choice. I don’t know wh
at would have happened if I hadn’t, but I’m sure it wouldn’t have been anything good. Leaving was the only thing I could do to be a good dad and a good man, and right some of the wrongs I did. I can’t blame your mum for wanting a fresh start and an easier life. Things didn’t end well between us. There’s a lot of things I’d take back if I could, but you’re not one of them. When I see how you’ve turned out, part of me knows that your mum was right. As hard as it is to admit it, you have been better off without me. You’re so successful now, and maybe it wouldn’t have happened if I’d have been around.

  I’m going on a bit now. I’m not really good at putting things down on paper – never have been. But I’d really like to meet you. I think it’d be easier to talk and explain everything in person, if you’d be up for it? I’ve put all my details below if you are.

  Oh, and happy birthday. It’s nice to be able to say it to you myself, finally. I hope this hasn’t ruined it at all, it just seemed like a good time to get in touch.

  Nico (your dad)

  x

  SEPH

  Two

  Seph stared unblinkingly at the photo that had been attached to the email as her mum bustled into the dining room.

  ‘God knows where your dad’s got to,’ Laurel said, brushing her hair away from her face as she sat down. ‘The food will get cold if he doesn’t hurry up. He’s always late.’

  Her jovial voice suggested that everything was completely normal. Like this was just an ordinary day with no surprise, shock or scandal waiting around the corner. Her face looked the same way it always had: warm and friendly, with an easy smile and kind, hazel eyes. There was nothing to suggest it was the face of someone capable of lying for years on end.

  ‘Everything alright? You look a bit off,’ Laurel said, her voice coaxing and trustworthy.