IN THE YEARS before it all fell apart, the Claridges were the perfect family, with a life many of us can only wish for. Will and his siblings, James and Juliet, were blessed with the best parents, who fulfilled their every thought and desire without question, giving them all they could ask for and more. They did not even have to ask if they wanted to stay up late or eat ice cream for breakfast—a five-year-old’s beautiful, but impossible daydream. Though, what they didn’t realise is that only a parent who doesn’t care about the wellbeing of their child will allow them to have everything. You cannot put a price on love. It is about stopping problems before they happen. It is not letting things slide, and doing what’s best for someone, even if they don’t understand. It is making the hard choice, because it’s the right one.
The Claridges lived in an eleven-bedroom house in Knightsbridge, on Hyde Park Corner. It was the most exclusive neighbourhood in London, set in the very heart of the city, between Belgravia and Kensington.
In the beginning, Henry supported his family as an author and freelance book editor for Hachette UK, on the Victoria Embankment. But that was before he lost his job.
He stood at five feet nine, with broad shoulders and capturing eyes. He was remarkably strong for such a small man, easily able to carry all three of his children at once. He was handsome, steady, and tough as nails. But, deep below the surface, he was soft, sensitive, and scared—a part of him that only his wife could see. He was perfect to a fault, meticulously tending an herb garden that was the envy of Knightsbridge, which he loved more than his flesh and blood.
His mother, Annalise, was a tall woman with clear blue eyes and long lashes, which she had passed on to Will, though not her height. She was strong-willed, determined, and radiant with joy. She was loving, and refreshingly happy, as few people are. Cleaning was her own form of happiness—the kind that one only feels in unison with relief. But she did it too often and too much, until it became a manic obsession. It was the only thing that left her with that feeling of temporary, but abating satisfaction. Eventually, it drove to sit at the table for hours, touching every scratch; shifting and straightening the cloth that covered it, which never lay perfectly even. Every morning, when she showered, Annalise used an exfoliation brush until her skin was raw and bleeding from how forcefully and repeatedly she scrubbed it. She was the first person that Will ever saw purposefully hurting themselves, but didn’t understand until he was older that she couldn’t help it, and by then, it was too late. He could not undo what she had taught him—that thing that consumed his every waking moment; that brought him from hospital, to institution, to yet another cold and sterile room.
Will did not go to his mother’s funeral. But he arranged every minute of it, from the red berries and sprigs of holly that decorated her casket to the beautiful strains of flute and violin that filled the house. It was crowded with solemn family and tearful friends, all quietly dressed in shades of black and grey. They had a candlelit dinner at Le Malakoff, as she had asked. At the end of the night, they raised a toast in her honour, then said their farewells. Many of them never saw each other again.
Annalise died the week before Christmas.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
But, once upon a time, when the world was an easier, better place, Henry would disappear into the attic on the first day of December, returning with boxes of dainty decorations from Harrods and Harvey Nichols. Standing on a tall ladder, he tacked strings of tinsel and shining ornaments to the bannisters, which soared twenty feet above the foyer. And when he was finished, their house was the brightest and best in all of London. Lacy snowflakes adorned every window, and lights were draped around the frame, casting circles of gold upon the snow in the garden. Every night, Will fell asleep staring up at their soft, incandescent glow.
Their tree was never an inch under fifteen feet tall, and took hours to decorate, even with the help of their household staff. Each year, the children took turns placing the angel on top, while their father held them over the railing.
After dinner, the butler lit a fire in the hearth, and the chef brought them hot chocolate and cheesecake. The nurse gathered the children close, while their father read to them, and Frank Sinatra sang on the old wooden radio with ivory dials. Will always drifted off in her lap, listening to the crackling of the fire.
As Christmas approached and the advent chocolates dwindled, the children grew impatient. The gifts under the tree became only more plentiful, and by the time the twenty-fifth arrived, there were dozens for each person to unwrap on that long-awaited morning. The Claridges were a wealthy family, and lived like one.
On Christmas Eve, after watching the carollers out in the snow, they were each allowed to open one gift before they were sent up to bed. Will listened closely as he lay there in the darkness, waiting for the sound of sleigh bells. But he always fell asleep before reindeer landed on the roof. These were the moments he remembered with tears in his eyes, because he was so happy to have had such a beautiful family, and such a perfect life. He often wondered who he might’ve been if it had stayed that way—a selfish, spoiled aristocrat with a title and estate.
In the spring, they went to St. James’s Park, where the tulips were blooming and flourishing. Once there, the children were released, to climb the newly flowering trees, off in a world of their own imagining. They had to be pried away when it came time for lunch, which they ate in a hurry, before running off to places unknown and things yet to see. Their parents stayed behind, lying next to each other on a blanket, propped up on their elbows, sipping wine and looking on.
In the summer, they went on holiday to Clacton-on-Sea. Every year, they stayed for three weeks in a house on the beach, then five days with their family in Colchester. But when they left the city, driving north on the A12, Will knew that they were going to Southend-on-Sea.
On the last day of school, they were dismissed early, and ran through the woods, arriving back at the house, where their suitcases awaited them, already packed from the night before. During the drive, he pressed his face against the glass, staring out at the endless, flourishing greenery. When they arrived at the cliffs, in the quiet part of town, with its stone buildings and old, towering churches, he rolled down the window, breathing in the salty sea air.
Will spent the days running down the beach and crashing through the wide, open water and the glistening waves. If Heaven were a feeling, it would be that.
On the last day, they watched the sun setting over the ocean, sitting on the shore, wrapped in a wool blanket. The horizon was smooth and blurry, and screaming shearwaters streaked past overhead. They were silent as they last light of day lowered down beneath the surface of the sea, painting the sky with watery golden streaks. Will’s heart skipped in his chest, and a warm wind blew through his hair. He would never again feel as safe or as happy as he did in that moment, on the black rocks of Southend-on-Sea.