Книга - Am I Guilty?: The gripping, emotional domestic thriller debut filled with suspense, mystery and surprises!

Am I Guilty?: The gripping, emotional domestic thriller debut filled with suspense, mystery and surprises!
Jackie Kabler


Everyone thinks I did it…maybe I did.Gripping, exciting and emotional, this book will grab you from the first page and refuse to let you go until the final chapter!I never thought it would happen to me… One moment I had it all – a gorgeous husband, a beautiful home, a fulfilling career and two adorable children. The next, everything came crashing down around me. They said it was my fault. They said I’m the worst mother in the world. And even though I can’t remember what happened that day, they wouldn’t lie to me. These are my friends, my family, people I trust. But then why do I have this creeping sensation that something is wrong? Why do I feel like people are keeping secrets? Am I really as guilty as they say? And if I’m not, what will happen when the truth comes out…?









Am I Guilty?

JACKIE KABLER







A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)


KillerReads

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Jackie Kabler 2019

Cover design Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd2019

Cover images © Shutterstock.com (https://www.shutterstock.com/)

Jackie Kabler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © April 2019

ISBN: 9780008328405

Version: 2018-12-12


Table of Contents

Cover (#u8e767239-5008-5ab9-a73d-640db22c3bdc)

Title Page (#u413ddcc7-0f03-5dbd-99a8-2b11f7bab51e)

Copyright (#ua65f4105-c21b-5e37-bd49-5258da493bf0)

Part One (#u67496577-fca7-594a-804b-1043e3fe2f40)

1 : Thea (#u42782e65-c704-5f43-8f5f-d611542126a4)

2 : Flora (#ubde9e4cb-6e39-5785-a834-26f67650590e)

3 : Annabelle (#u1bdb1f5f-7637-54a5-bdbb-09ea18265071)

4 : Thea (#ub5c2c791-699c-5c32-b9c5-7f9aa068781a)

5 : Annabelle (#u592d3359-82b1-5904-a88d-b6798435af25)



6 : Thea (#uf0a355c0-2276-54f1-9a2c-2af61217f984)



7 : Flora (#u4b4d5cbc-1774-5c49-b65b-48c582dd97dc)



8 : Thea (#uf97c7420-acf7-5ba5-8838-67684e3164b8)



9 : Annabelle (#u8f2999f4-261e-5d86-a486-904f6fb95b10)



10 : Flora (#u98a61d73-011c-51a1-ad71-7b0a7de81377)



11 : Annabelle (#u0968e8e8-a653-5004-9d0a-3ac125b1591e)



12 : Thea (#u639cb91d-e3c8-5916-bb86-53a220ce5def)



13 : Annabelle (#u60cc4aef-eb05-5d92-9f6b-f8f700f30826)



14 : Thea (#uf462a55b-1d95-5196-9409-79f293be6bfe)



15 : Flora (#u4d43e20b-661b-54eb-80ae-380b7512ed47)



16 : Thea (#u16229f70-0b59-5170-ad57-b6351018d965)



17 : Flora (#u9848da85-1fd3-57ae-8d1c-c233dae5faf7)



18 : Annabelle (#u9645306e-dd7d-5928-9c26-bde37d041a3f)



19 : Thea (#ud230c763-297f-540c-9736-dcb2632a1f5e)



20 : Flora (#ue2c3851f-b642-55eb-b28f-43cebf95e19e)



21 : Thea (#u2f2d0bcf-254f-55d1-b1fc-cde2c1457145)



22 : Annabelle (#u60d678b2-96dc-52c3-b36a-44078b6ddaf9)



23 : Flora (#u0736c5cf-f113-5333-834c-8b89da3e7d16)



24 : Thea (#u98beb949-ffb0-53b3-8a44-4562b582d626)



25 : Flora (#ub4aa0c05-50ed-50db-bb7f-981708c90512)



26 : Thea (#u10b58b11-ace0-56a8-b296-2fe3140e8c2e)



27 : Annabelle (#u2262eb4a-d012-5fd5-a64a-d07285d8e424)



28 : Thea (#u99df54bb-4fd4-586b-9670-b9dd809c3be6)



Part Two (#u63ab85cb-b3b5-5300-94c8-f5f8ccac0c95)



29 : Thea (#ua5da1dba-30e2-5e7e-9a7d-ea5490bd11f1)



30 : Isla (#ude78e44a-763f-5311-b427-43f1a5faddae)



31 : Thea (#uaffa0375-a933-5719-bbb9-51a26775f2f5)



32 : Greg (#u709c6589-50f1-5dce-b07d-b0ab4f23a80b)



33 : Annabelle (#uce3c69d7-fa84-5285-8372-1eabfbca49f3)



34 : Thea (#u294ebff8-42e3-53e0-856e-a8bc0ce324bc)



35 : Rupert (#u4b410e74-36c9-5949-bfe0-16591a8707bf)



36 : Thea (#u95f59f32-5968-5c15-8af4-2e97d812068b)



37 : Nell (#udd5e2000-21f7-57bf-99db-4e7fee3a072a)



38 : Thea (#u02069b30-54d5-5a42-a824-8dba8051a936)



39 : Annabelle (#udfc8b2c7-3632-5eb3-8fe8-3b3a38978d63)



Part Three (#u93151cf5-ef7d-5e9b-9bad-c537ba69336d)



40 : Flora (#u3bc0ec1a-6b38-5c0c-b8c8-b5095df0593a)



41 : Thea (#u65d7e41f-c2c4-57e7-9da1-e55e775d00e8)



42 : Annabelle (#u0c462f14-58d8-58be-8d56-9e36dcaa7c3b)



Epilogue: Croft Park Hospital (#u1af330ad-a874-5b4b-8dca-8e19e0c558c0)



Acknowledgements (#ubcc70d3f-41ae-557c-a34c-f5d4f18700be)



About the Author (#u62a4d5a3-a4c7-5a44-b203-4cffe53d87d4)



About the Publisher (#u67d5f80b-0ea3-5627-b8dd-dfa643c0b38d)



PART ONE (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)




1 (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)

THEA (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)


They were staring again. I shivered, curling my fingers tightly around the handle of the pram, and walked quickly past them, my eyes not meeting theirs. It was two women this time, around my age, late thirties, standing outside WHSmith. I’d only stopped for a moment, to adjust my scarf, but I knew instantly that it had been a mistake. Never stop, keep moving. Keep your head down. Don’t give them a chance to recognize you. I was usually so careful, on the rare occasions I ventured out. Tried to avert my gaze from store assistants, cashiers, other shoppers, looking down into my purse or at the pram, so they didn’t get a good look at me. It was easier that way, safer. But today, with the scarf slipping, I’d risked it, just for a moment, stopping to wind the stupid thing back into place. Idiot. It was January, the sky a bleak grey, a biting wind whistling down Cheltenham High Street and whipping loose strands of hair across my cheeks, a crisp packet scudding across the road in front of me as I hurried past the shopfront, eyes fixed firmly ahead, not looking at their faces. I heard them, though, their voices sharp and full of disgust. Full of loathing.

‘It is her, isn’t it? Look at her. What a freak,’ said one.

‘Evil bitch, more like,’ said the other.

A sob caught in my throat and I walked faster, suddenly desperate to get home. I shouldn’t have come out today, I shouldn’t. I’d been feeling all right earlier, almost sprightly, after a good night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. Seven hours. Seven. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept for that long and it had done wonders, made me feel that today I could cope, that it would be fine to go out, get some fresh air, pick up a few bits and pieces in town before I started work. I did most of my shopping online now, but it had seemed silly to pay delivery charges when you only needed some cotton wool, wrapping paper, a pack of pens. And sometimes, it was fine. Sometimes I got away with it, and nobody recognized me, nobody stared or commented or shouted abuse across the street. Not often though, and not today, clearly.

It had started to rain now, fat drops spattering the clear plastic cover I’d put over the pram before going out. Beneath it, a white cashmere blanket was pulled up high, but I could picture Zander’s sleeping face, his ludicrously long lashes resting softly against his delicious pink and cream cheeks, see in my mind’s eye the gentle rise and fall of his little chest as he dreamed his baby dreams, oblivious. At the thought of him, my darling boy, I sobbed again, aching to hold him in my arms, look into his bright blue eyes, hear his adorable chuckle as he reached up to grab my hair, the chuckle that made everything bad in the world simply melt away.

I bent my head against the wind, wiping my tears away fiercely with one hand as I steered the pram round the corner onto the Prom, heading for home. Everything would be fine, I told myself. I’d get back, have a nice cup of tea, something soothing – camomile? – and then get to work. I didn’t really like camomile tea, but Isla said it always calmed her down, and Isla knew about these things. She was my best friend, one of the few who had stuck by me.

We were more like family really, me and Isla, discovering soon after we met all those years ago that both of us were only children who’d craved siblings, jokingly offering to be each other’s substitute sister, bonding quickly, irreversibly. From day one we hated to be apart for long, and it was the same even now, now that we were both all grown up with homes and jobs and responsibilities, and even though our everyday lives were so different. She was a real party girl, Isla, but she balanced out the excesses of her crazy work and social life, the boozy nights and junk food lunches, by being into all that healthy stuff too – Pilates, meditation, mindfulness, smoothies, funny teas. She’d only managed to persuade me to go as far as the tea, but she was persistent.

‘Yoga next!’ she’d said chirpily, when she’d rung me before bed as usual to check that I was OK. ‘We can have a private lesson, just the two of us, and I’m paying, so no excuses. It will do you good, Thea. Especially now. I know everything is horrible, but you need to chill out a bit. You’re too tense, and it’s not helping. I’m going to book it, and you’re coming, and that’s that.’

I hadn’t argued, didn’t have the energy. And Isla knew me better than pretty much anybody; so maybe she was right, maybe it would do me good. I had so much to do, my work more important than ever now that I was a single parent. I didn’t even have an assistant anymore, not since November, not since Flora had left, and I hadn’t got round to trying to find a replacement, not yet. I doubted I’d find anyone who’d work for me anyway. So, I had to carry on, even if it was just me now and the workload was overwhelming.

I’d let things slide recently, there was no doubt about that, and I needed to get the business back on track. The orders had slowed drastically for a while, last autumn. But they’d picked up over Christmas, and I needed to get on top of things again. I had to keep going, no matter how shitty I felt. I needed to show everyone that I could still do something good, something positive, despite everything. That I was still me,no matter what I’d done. Still Thea. Still Theodora Alice Ashfield.

I stopped outside GAP as the bloody scarf started to unwind itself again, one end trailing perilously close to the pram wheels. Frustrated, I yanked it off and stuffed it under the plastic cover, catching a glimpse of myself in the shop window as I straightened up again. I paused for a moment, staring. I didn’t look good. My long dark hair, unwashed for days, was pulled up into a messy topknot, and even in the hazy reflection I could see the dark shadows under my eyes, my high cheekbones in sharp relief. I’d lost weight recently, and not intentionally.

I dragged my gaze away from the window and started moving again. As I crossed Montpellier Gardens the rain grew heavier, and I walked faster, almost jogging now, the pram bouncing over the uneven path. A park keeper in a luminous jacket, pulling up weeds around the bandstand, paused as I approached, watching me, and my chest tightened, my heart rate suddenly speeding up. Not again, please. Not today. But as I got nearer he smiled and waved a muddy hand skywards.

‘Nice mornin’ for ducks, eh love?’

‘Yes. It is, yes.’

I stopped for a moment, bending to adjust the pram cover and push my shopping bags further under it, and smiled back at him before moving off again, the momentary panic subsiding, my breathing steadying. Feeling almost dizzy with relief, I twisted my right wrist round as I walked, checking the time on my vintage Omega. Just after eleven. I had about four hours before Nell would be home from school. Four hours to do some work, drink tea. Eat something. Avoid the gin bottle. Or try to. Try hard to.Keep focused. I lowered my head against the now-torrential rain and headed for home.




2 (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)

FLORA (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)


I stretched luxuriously, wriggling my toes against the 400 thread count Egyptian cotton bedding, then reached for my phone, which was on the bedside table, tapping it to check the time. Just after eleven. For a moment, I felt a pang of guilt for still being in bed at such a late hour, then shrugged and pulled the duvet back over my head. Stuff it. It was Monday, my day off this week, after all. And the weekend had been hard work: a two-day fiftieth birthday event at a stately home near Oxford. Annabelle had been anxious, and even more needy than usual, and she’d run me ragged. I didn’t mind, not really – I enjoyed the job, loved it in fact. But today I was tired, and I deserved the lie-in, I thought.

I’d worked for Annabelle Garrington for nearly two months, as her personal assistant. Bit of an unusual PA job, compared with most – I lived in, like a nanny, and indeed part of my role was helping out with the kids, but it was much more than that. It was the second job I’d found through a specialized London agency, and my job was mainly helping Annabelle with her business. She ran an events management company, her clients mainly the Cotswolds set, the glitzy sort, numerous celebrities among them.

In the short time I’d worked with her, I’d helped her throw a flamingo-themed baby shower for a well-known catwalk model, a Christmas party for a flamboyant London hair stylist at his Gloucestershire hideaway, and a fortieth birthday lunch for a slightly neurotic daytime television presenter who, clearly in denial about her age, had banned the word ‘forty’ from her event entirely, even asking me to quietly destroy several birthday cards and a balloon bearing the dreaded number presented to her on the day by well-meaning friends. Yes, it was hard work, this job, but I was enjoying it thoroughly, and there were some exciting events coming up in the next few months.

The day, though, was all mine, and I planned to spend it doing very little indeed. A run first, obviously. Then a leisurely brunch, followed by a wander around nearby Cirencester to pick up a few bits and pieces, maybe. And then an evening chilling in my room, catching up on some TV or something on Netflix.

I pulled the duvet down so my head was free again and gazed with pleasure around my little home. It was a big, bright room on the top floor of the Garrington house, a rambling but lovingly – and expensively – decorated and modernized Victorian villa, set in three acres of manicured gardens. Two large sash windows gave me a stunning view of rolling countryside and Cotswold stone houses, a church spire visible in the distance. On Thursday and Sunday evenings the bell-ringers did their practising, the peals drifting across the fields as they had for centuries: a sound which had driven me mad at first, but which I’d gradually begun to find oddly soothing.

My room was flooded with light, even on a grey day like today, and the white walls, soft cream curtains and duck-egg blue cushions on the big, squishy sofa gave the space a calmness, a much-needed contrast to the frantic pace of life outside it. The ensuite bathroom was spacious too, with a separate shower and a glorious free-standing claw-foot bath, and Annabelle had made sure I had everything I needed to be self-sufficient up here, if I’d wanted to be. I had the run of the main kitchen downstairs, of course, but there was a little kitchenette in a corner alcove of my room, and she’d also installed a forty-inch television, so I could watch my favourite shows alone, away from the chaos of the family living room.

She was thoughtful like that, Annabelle. She seemed to really like me, and I liked her too, liked the whole family, in fact, and I knew I’d been lucky to land a new job so quickly. It helped that I’d known Annabelle for a while, although only vaguely. Before this job I’d worked in Cheltenham for Thea Ashfield, who ran Just Enfant, the children’s online clothing company. Thea’s daughter Nell and Annabelle’s Millie were the same age and went to the same school, so Thea and Annabelle were acquaintances, if not exactly close friends, and I used to chat to the tall, glamorous Mrs Garrington now and again when Thea put me on the school run. When I needed a new job – when I decided back in November that I just couldn’t work for Thea any longer – I was amazed when the agency told me about the vacancy at Annabelle’s, and she’d seemed equally delighted. Serendipity, we both said.

I never spoke about what happened at Thea’s, though, not to Annabelle – not to anyone, to be honest. I just couldn’t. It was too awful, too horrific. Annabelle hadn’t asked either, not even in the beginning. I supposed it was because she knew all about it already – everyone did really. You couldn’t escape it, at the time, and for weeks afterwards – the papers, the television news, and then all that horrible social media stuff – and Annabelle didn’t seem to need anymore details, for which I was grateful.

I had tried to stay on with Thea, afterwards, but it was never going to work. I just couldn’t do it. I managed nearly two months, but then I quit, took a holiday, then came back to start at Annabelle’s. I thought about Thea a lot though. I still saw Nell, via Millie, which was nice. Nell and I had been close, still were. But I often thought about Thea, and Rupert, her husband. And about Zander, of course. Zander, the beautiful baby with the bright blue eyes and the winning smile …

Their faces swam through my head and I shivered, even though the room was warm. Then I jumped as there was a gentle rap on my door.

‘Flora? Flora, are you up? I’ve drawn a picture of you. Flora?’

I smiled. I’d never have admitted it to Annabelle, but Sienna, the youngest, was my favourite of her brood. They weren’t supposed to bother me, the kids, not on my day off, but I didn’t mind. And it was time I was getting up, anyway.

‘Come in, Sienna, sweetie, come in and show me,’ I called, and threw back the duvet as she ran in, bright-eyed, clutching her drawing to her chest, and leapt onto my bed, giggling. She was three years old, blonde and adorable. I grabbed her, pretending to try to wrestle the picture from her, and she shrieked with delight. I grinned, and she grinned back, her tiny nose wrinkling, blue eyes squinting up at me. They were gorgeous, those eyes – sparkling, cornflower blue. Eyes that reminded me of Zander’s. I swallowed hard, my heart aching for a moment, then resolutely pushed the feeling away. Stop it, I told myself. You’re with a new family now. Move on.

‘Right, missy. Are you going to show me this picture or not?’ I demanded.

Sienna looked coyly at me for a moment, then beamed and pushed her drawing into my hands. I took it and frowned at the scrawl of red and yellow scribbles topped with a vaguely face-shaped blob, then raised my eyebrows at Sienna in mock shock.

‘Well, if I look like this, I need a makeover pronto,’ I said, then jumped out of bed, scooping the giggling little girl up into my arms. Today, I decided, was going to be a good day. No more thinking about Thea, or about any of them. What was the point? It was over, all of it.

‘All over. Done,’ I said out loud.

‘What?’ Sienna frowned, and I laughed and ruffled her fine, soft hair.

‘Nothing, sweetie. Come on, help me choose what to wear.’

I put her down gently and headed for my wardrobe.




3 (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)

ANNABELLE (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)


As I loaded the dishwasher, I hummed softly to myself. I had to admit, I felt rather content today, despite it being a damp, chilly Monday morning. The weekend house party that I’d been so anxious about had gone incredibly well – so well, in fact, that several guests had asked for my details for their own parties later in the year – and arrangements for the next few events in the diary were already coming together nicely. Business was, to use a cliché, booming, and I knew that this was thanks in no small part to Flora, my new PA, who was proving to be a bit of a godsend. Personable, efficient, hard-working, a fast learner, she had improved my life immeasurably in the short time she’d been here. I’d never had an assistant before, preferring to juggle everything myself, but at the end of last year my workload had finally got too much, the challenges of running a growing business alongside a home with three demanding children and an equally demanding husband finally beating me. I needed help, and I finally admitted it.

I’d met Flora ages before she worked for me, of course – she often did the school run with my middle child Millie’s close friend, Nell. Nell, Thea Ashfields’s daughter. I’d actually been a little wary at first about taking Flora on, after what had gone on at the Ashfields. I am anxious by nature, but I’d been silly, really, in retrospect. It had been a sort of superstitious thing, I suppose – the thought that maybe the terrible thing that had happened might cling to Flora somehow, like a fine dust, and that traces of it might end up here, in my beloved home. Stupid, I know.

And it really had been stupid, because Flora had fitted right in pretty much straight away. She’d been a bit reserved at first, still was a little quiet at times – not surprising, really, after what she’d been through at Thea’s – but it hadn’t taken long for her to come out of her shell. The children loved her, even Oliver, who at eleven was at the age where he didn’t much like anyone or anything, except his skateboard and games console.

Flora Applegate … the children even adore her surname, I thought, as I stacked plates neatly side by side and slotted knives and cereal spoons into their basket, then reached up to the shelf for a dishwasher tablet and turned the machine on. Cute name, cute face. A wellspoken Surrey girl, she’s twenty-five, but looks years younger, her dark brown hair cropped into a pixie cut with a wispy fringe sweeping across her forehead, green eyes sparkling with intelligence and humour. Not beautiful, but definitely very attractive, her petite frame strong and boyish, her skin smooth and blemish free, other than a little scar on her right wrist from some childhood accident.

I like the way she dresses too – sporty, but stylish. Sports-luxe, I think they call it. Completely the opposite to me – I am more of a maxi dress and florals kind of person – more than a decade older and half a foot taller than Flora, blonde hair falling in loose waves past my shoulders. Willowy, my husband Greg likes to call me. His ‘willowy blonde’ wife.

I smiled at the thought, then grinned widely as shrieks of laughter drifted down the stairs from Flora’s room, where I knew Sienna had sneaked off to a few minutes earlier. She was normally at nursery on a Monday morning, but it was closed today for urgent maintenance, and with the other two at school and Flora off duty today, I’d decided to take the day off too and spend some quality time with my baby. She’d be at school, too, come September, so I needed to make the most of these last few precious months.

Sienna is obsessed with animals, birds in particular, and once I’d tidied up I was planning to take her to Birdland, the wildlife park in Bourton-on-the-Water, about half an hour’s drive away. We’d look at the birds, grab some lunch in one of the picturesque village’s numerous cafés and be back in plenty of time for the afternoon school pick up, I thought.

I rinsed my hands under the tap, dried them on the towel on the hook by the sink, then wandered into the hallway.

‘Sienna!’ I called up the stairs. ‘Flora, can you send Sienna down? We need to go in a minute.’

There was a faint yell from three floors up, then the sound of a door opening and footsteps thundering down the stairs. Moments later Flora appeared, still in her red and white striped pyjamas, hair tousled, a laughing Sienna perched on her back, legs wrapped around Flora’s waist, her cheeks pink.

‘Sorry, Annabelle! This little monster wouldn’t come down unless I carried her. I’ll go and get dressed in a minute. Right, you, off you get.’

Flora smiled at me then twisted sideways so that Sienna slid gently to the floor, where she lay in a giggling heap, one hand still clutching onto Flora’s leg.

‘Gosh, that’s fine, thanks for putting up with her on your day off,’ I replied, and she shrugged.

‘I don’t mind. Have fun at Birdland. Now let go of me, trouble. I’ll see you later.’

She reached down and peeled Sienna’s fingers from her calf, and my daughter stuck out her bottom lip.

‘Awwww! Come with us, pleeeeeese!’

‘Sienna, leave Flora alone, it’s her day off,’ I said warningly.

‘Oh, it’s OK. I don’t mind,’ Flora said again. ‘Go with Mummy, Sienna. I’ll see you later. Maybe I can read you a story before bed; sound like a plan?’

Sienna nodded, her petulant expression turning into a beaming smile.

‘Yesssss!’

‘Good. Now get up, silly.’

Flora poked Sienna gently with a bare toe then turned and darted up the stairs again, and I bent and pulled my daughter to her feet, smoothing her soft hair back.

‘Good girl. Shall we go and see the birds then?’

‘YES!’ she shouted.

‘OK, go and get your boots on, and I’ll get the coats.’

She ran off into the kitchen, and as I turned to the heavily laden coatrack to find our warm jackets, I wondered for a moment if I should have asked Flora if she’d like to come too. So far, she’d appeared to have spent all her days off on her own, going for long runs or walks, shopping, watching TV. If she’d had friends when she’d worked in Cheltenham, she didn’t seem too interested in seeing them. I didn’t like to ask though, and she seemed happy enough. Maybe she was just one of those people who were happy with their own company. Or, more probably, maybe she just needed time alone to adjust, time to recover.

We’d never really talked about it – I didn’t dare ask, not yet – but I knew it must have been horrendous for her, going through what she did in her last job. But I watched her sometimes, noticed that now and again when we were at work, at an event, a sudden stillness would come over her, a look of sadness flashing across her face, just for a few seconds, as if a memory had briefly surfaced in her mind. It never lasted long though, and within moments she’d be smiling again, filling glasses, flitting between tables, wiping up spills and charming the guests. It hurt my heart, imagining her pain, and I hoped that one day she might feel able to talk to me about it. Or that one day I might be brave enough to ask her about it …

‘Ready, Mummy!’ Sienna had reappeared, boots on and clutching her favourite soft toy, an overstuffed penguin with an incongruously bright pink beak.

‘Is Percival coming too? Great idea. He can meet all his penguin cousins there, can’t he?’

I helped her with her coat, deciding not to issue Flora with a last-minute invitation after all. I didn’t want to put her in an awkward position – spending her day off with her boss and a toddler was probably the last thing she’d want to do, but she was so polite she might feel obliged to say yes. No, I’d leave her be. Maybe next time.

I closed the door behind us and headed to the car, an excited Sienna scampering ahead of me, and hoped Flora would enjoy a peaceful day. But as I strapped my daughter into her car seat, I found myself thinking about Thea Ashfield again, as I did so often – Thea, who one day not so long ago had been having a normal day, just like this, with her family, her children. Thea, who fell asleep, and woke up in hell.




4 (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)

THEA (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)


‘I don’t want to do it, Mummy. It’s stupid and boring and I don’t see the point.’

Nell scowled at me, then slammed her pen down onto the polished wood of the dining table, her dark curls bobbing with the ferocity of the action. At the opposite end of the table, I sighed and closed my laptop.

‘The point, Nell, is that you need good grades at school to make a success of yourself in life. And yes, homework can be boring. Lots of things in life are boring, but we still have to do them, OK?’

She scowled harder, her chocolate brown eyes narrowing to slits.

‘Well, help me then. Flora used to help me. You never do. You’re rubbish.’

I flinched slightly, trying to stay calm. Fighting back never worked with Nell – it only wound her up more.

‘Flora doesn’t live here anymore, does she, darling? I do help you, when I have time, but I’m trying to work right now. And please don’t talk to me like that. What would Daddy say? And what would your baby brother think? Come on, let’s—’

Nell stood up so suddenly that her chair tipped backwards and crashed to the floor behind her. Her eyes flicked to the pram in the corner of the room and back to mine, an expression on her face that I couldn’t read. Anger? Hatred? Something else?

‘Well, Daddy’s not here anymore either, is he? And who cares what my baby brother would think? Who cares what anybody thinks?’

She slapped the table hard with both hands, her face contorted with emotion, then turned and ran from the room. I heard her stomp up the stairs and then a door slammed. I sat motionless for a moment, then sank my head into my hands. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. It was getting to the point where I just didn’t know how to handle Nell anymore when she was like this. What was I supposed to do, how could I help her? Had I ruined her life, as well as my own? She was eight years old, still a baby really, and yet in the past few months she’d changed so much, often seeming more like a raging, hormonal teenager than a sweet little girl. It wasn’t all the time, thankfully – I had no idea how I’d cope if this was a daily occurrence. But these outbursts were regular, and becoming more frequent, and it frightened me that I didn’t seem to be able to reach her anymore.

I knew exactly what had caused today’s, too. I didn’t often do the school run these days, not since … well, not since. I’d tried to, at first, tried to keep everything as normal as possible for Nell. But I’d had to stop. Too many nasty comments, too many stares, especially in those early days. It upset Nell, frightened and confused her, and I couldn’t bear it. Now, some of the other parents took it in turns, had set up a sort of rota, to pick her up in the morning and drop her off at home again in the afternoon. I knew they were doing it for Nell, and not for me, but I was still deeply grateful. There was the odd day, though, where they couldn’t fit the detour into their schedules, and on those occasions, I’d have to do it myself. And sometimes, just like when I went shopping, it was fine. They always looked, of course they did, but I was used to that. I could cope with the sideways glances, with the mutterings – it was only really the shouts, the loud name-calling, the vile language, that made my heart pound and my head swim.

But today, one of the fathers, one who’d been particularly abusive in the past, the dad of a little boy in the year below Nell, spotted me. My breath caught in my throat as I spotted him at the same time. I’d grabbed Nell’s hand, trying to steer the pram quickly out of the school gate with the other, get her away before he started, but it was too late.

‘Oi! Fucking evil cow! Look at her, the fucking weirdo. Should be locked up. Fuck off out of here!’

I didn’t look at him, didn’t need to. I knew exactly what his expression would be like, his eyes narrowed with hate, his thin lips set in a sneer. I’d seen the same expression so many times, on so many faces, in the past few months.

But Nell had looked, her eyes wide, face reddening, tears beginning to roll as I dragged her down the road, out of earshot. I’d asked her if she was all right, told her not to listen, told her not to worry about it, all the things I’d said to her a hundred times before, and she’d nodded and wiped her eyes, and started telling me about the art class she’d had this afternoon where silly Charlie Wilson had spilled an entire jar of dirty water down his trousers, but I’d known then. I’d known by the set of her jaw and the stiffness of her smile that sooner or later today we’d have another outburst, that she would punish me for what had just happened.

I was making my daughter desperately unhappy, and the thought was almost unbearable. All I wanted to do was run upstairs after her, take her in my arms, tell her everything was going to be all right. But was it? Would everything ever be all right again? Or would that just be a lie, another lie to add to all the others I’d told her? I’m fine, Nell. I won’t drink today, Nell. It’s just water with lemon, Nell. People will soon forget, Nell. It’ll all be OK, Nell. Lies. All of it, lies.

So no, I couldn’t go upstairs to comfort my daughter, not yet. She wouldn’t let me anyway, would hold herself rigid now if I tried to wrap my arms round her. I knew that if I left her alone for a few minutes she’d calm down, but she’d still be cagey with me for the rest of the day, refusing to let me cuddle or console her, and it broke my heart. I swallowed hard, trying to put her out of my mind for a few minutes, and opened my laptop again.

I had to order some new stock, had to arrange a photo shoot, had to keep this business on track, had to concentrate. I’d been running Just Enfant for four years, setting it up after Nell started school, and I suddenly found myself with hours of spare time every weekday. I imported children’s clothing from all over the world, quirky, unusual pieces – mini kimonos from Japan, dresses with beautiful Masai beadwork from Kenya, little rhinestone-studded cowboy boots from Texas. I’d had some decent publicity when I launched – Isla had helped – and the business had taken off in a big way almost immediately. Within a year I’d needed to hire a small warehouse to house the stock and some casual help to pack the orders; by the end of year two I’d needed a full-time assistant, which was when Flora had come along. Those were the glory days – my life a whirl of work and motherhood and happiness. Not like now, when life was nothing but greyness and pain. Would I ever be happy again? And would Nell?

Before she was born I’d worked full-time in London as a fashion buyer for Normans, the department store chain. I adored it – the travel, the trade fairs, the designers, the shows. But motherhood and that sort of lifestyle really weren’t compatible, and so just before Nell was born we left London and moved to the edge of the Cotswolds, to Cheltenham. Rupert’s company had offices in the town, and were happy to transfer him, and we thought it a reasonable place to live, a pretty Regency spa town with decent shops and restaurants and a seemingly never-ending stream of festivals – literature, jazz, food, science, horse racing. More importantly for me it was just two hours from London, my friends and social life a short train ride away. Of course, by the time Nell was born, I had new friends, mummy pals acquired during antenatal classes, coffee mornings, parenting groups. I’d grown to love it here, the town, my social network, the beautiful countryside just minutes away.

But everything was different now. Most of my friends had drifted away, the stream of invitations to dinners and parties fading to a trickle and then stopping altogether.

I stared at my screen for a moment then pushed back my chair, stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the street was quiet, the sky already darkening. A man bundled up in a padded jacket, a woolly hat pulled down low over his eyes, was half-walking, half-jogging on the other side of the road, a large black Labrador tugging at the lead he held in his outstretched hand. Even from this distance, I could see that he was smiling, saying something to his eager pet, and I felt a sudden pang of envy.

Everywhere around me, people were going about their lives, feeling happy, enjoying the little things. The normal things. I wondered, would I ever be able to feel like that again? To take pleasure in simple, everyday tasks, without this gnawing pain, this overwhelming guilt, this grief that paralyzed me? Would I ever stop feeling this self-loathing, this disgust every time I looked at myself in the mirror? And what about Nell? How was I going to fix Nell?

I turned from the window, wondering, not for the first time, if I should get her some professional help, a counsellor or something. I was seeing Isla later in the week, as usual – she’d probably know somebody. Isla knows everyone. But what if Nell refused to go? Could I make her? I sighed, my eyes drifting to the drinks cabinet under the mirror, the big one with the elaborate metal scrollwork that I’d loved so much when Rupert and I had spotted it in a junk shop when I was pregnant with Zander, just after the scan where we found out we were having a little boy. Rupert had bought the mirror for me straight away when I said how much I loved it, so excited about the new baby, so thrilled he was getting a son. If only he’d known then, how things were going to turn out. If only I’d known.

My eyes flicked again to the drinks cabinet, then I resolutely looked away. I’d been doing so well, hadn’t had a drink for two days now. Well, this was day three, so nearly three really, if anyone was counting. I took a deep breath. No, no drinking today. I could do this sober. I had to. I inhaled again, slowly, deeply, blew the air out forcefully, then walked out into the hallway and headed upstairs to Nell’s room.




5 (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)

ANNABELLE (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)


‘Oh, that garden will be perfect for photos! Look Annabelle, how lovely it is!’

Flora, who was standing at one of the three windows of the large drawing room, turned to me, her eyes bright with excitement. I put my notebook down on the arm of the sofa and went to join her. She was right.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘It really will, won’t it?’

We stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, taking in the view. It was Wednesday morning, and we were on a site visit to a house near Wotton-under-Edge. It was owned by Elaine Gorton, a criminal barrister who worked in London during the week and spent her weekends in the Cotswolds, but she’d given me keys this week so I could come and check the place out, put a plan together for our next meeting.

She was getting married in May, at nearby St Mary the Virgin church, and I was in charge of the reception, a relatively small affair for around sixty people, which would be held here at her home, an elegant, Grade II listed, Queen Anne-style villa set in an acre of beautifully landscaped gardens. From a paved patio area outside the window, steps led down to an expanse of lawn, ideal for the marquee I intended to set up, and bordered with shrubs, roses and fruit trees. A curved path led, via an archway covered in some sort of evergreen climber – I’m not bad on trees, but not great on recognizing plants – to a large, white, painted summer house, and behind that a walled ‘secret’ garden. It had been too wet to venture out yet this morning, but I knew from the photos Elaine had sent me that that would be the perfect spot for pre-lunch drinks, with wooden benches dotted around under magnolia trees, beautifully colour-coordinated beds of herbs and flowers, and a gently bubbling fountain.

‘You’ve got a good eye, you know.’ I turned to Flora and she looked at me and grinned.

‘Thanks, Annabelle! I’m not much of a photographer myself, but it does look like a garden from a wedding magazine, doesn’t it? I can just picture Elaine out there, all slinky in her dress, the sun shining, the roses in bloom … it’s going to be fabulous, isn’t it?’

Her green eyes shone, and her enthusiasm was infectious. My first thoughts when planning an event like this, which would rely so heavily on good weather, were anxious ones about rain and wind, flyaway marquees and soggy food. But Flora was definitely better at looking on the bright side, and although I still needed to have a wet weather contingency plan, I suddenly felt inspired.

‘It is,’ I said. ‘Maybe we could drape that archway halfway down the garden with some little fairy lights, and do a few more photos out there later on, when it gets dark? And … random thing to say, and tell me if you think I’m bonkers … what do you think about trying to use that horse? The one we saw as we drove in?’

‘Oooh yes!’ Flora squealed, clapping her hands, and I could see that she’d immediately understood my idea. ‘We could make a flower garland for its neck. It would look wonderful! I wonder if it’s tame enough though?’ She wrinkled up her small nose, pondering.

‘Hmm, yes, maybe we should check that out before we suggest it to Elaine – could go horribly wrong otherwise!’

We both laughed. We’d spotted a white horse in the field adjoining Elaine’s garden as we drove in, the animal almost fairy tale in appearance with a long flowing mane and graceful swishing tail, and a haughty, regal stare. I wasn’t sure who owned it, but if they were willing, and the horse was a well-behaved one …

‘Oh, Flora, I almost forgot.’ I turned from the window as something else from my never-ending to-do list suddenly came to mind. She turned too, grabbing her own notepad and pen from the windowsill.

‘Yes? Shoot.’

I flicked through my notes.

‘Here it is. Isla Laird’s been in touch. You know her, don’t you? Oh, of course you do, she’s a friend of Thea’s, isn’t she? She’s a producer on that late-night chat show, Yak Yak Yak? Anyway, Ailsa Levi is appearing on the show in a couple of weeks’ time, and as we’re doing her book launch on Friday Isla was wondering if we could get a bit of footage for her to use on the show – you know, Ailsa signing books and that sort of stuff? She said the show will pay for it – we just need to sort someone who can shoot broadcast-quality video as well as the stills photographer we’ve already booked. Can you organize that?’

‘Sure, no problem.’

Flora nodded, scribbling away in her book. I watched her for a moment. Was it my imagination, or had she suddenly turned a little pale?

‘Are you OK, Flora?’ I asked hesitantly.

She looked up, a slightly haunted expression in her eyes, then smiled.

‘Fine! I’ll get onto that this afternoon. Oh look, it’s stopped raining. Do you want to make a run for it now, zoom down and have a peek at the secret garden while the going’s good?’

I nodded.

‘Great idea. We can roughly measure the lawn too, see how big we can go with the marquee. She wants a dancefloor as well as dining space. Should be fine, but let’s just check.’

As I followed Flora out through the hallway and down into the kitchen to the back door, I mentally kicked myself. I should have dealt with Isla Laird myself, damn and blast it. Why had I passed the job on to Flora? She’d definitely looked a little shaken there for a moment. I should have thought, should have realized that as one of Thea’s best friends, Isla was very much a part of what had happened, and that being forced to deal with her now was bound to be very difficult for poor Flora. That had been thoughtless of me.

I knew Isla myself a bit, too, of course – as a showbiz type, who flitted between London and Gloucestershire, she often attended events I’d organized, launches and celebrations and parties thrown by writers, actors, local celebrities. She’d even been to a do at my own house once, a couple of years back, I remembered now – probably the garden party I’d held to mark three years of Big Day Event Planning.

She was quite loud, the sort of person who some would describe as ‘fun’, I suppose. A bit over the top for me, and I’d sensed that Rupert – he and Thea had been at the same party – found her slightly irritating too. But, by all accounts, she’d stuck by Thea, after what had happened, and that had to be admired, I supposed. I was pretty sure I couldn’t have done it. My chest tightened slightly, as it always did when I thought about Thea, and what she’d done, but I swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts away, pulled on my wellies and followed Flora out into the damp garden.





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