Книга - The Lost Sister: A gripping emotional page turner with a breathtaking twist

The Lost Sister: A gripping emotional page turner with a breathtaking twist
Tracy Buchanan


‘Refreshing and intriguing … I loved it!’ Tracy Rees, Richard and Judy bestselling author of The Hourglass‘Tracy Buchanan writes moving, gripping, heartbreakingly real family drama.’ Susan Lewis‘Twisty, emotional and far too hard to put down.’ Katie MarshFrom the #1 bestselling author of My Sister’s Secret and No Turning BackFor the first time in your life, she is going to tell you the truth…Then: A trip to the beach tore Becky’s world apart. It was the day her mother Selma met the mysterious man she went on to fall in love with, and leave her husband and child for.Now: It’s been a decade since they last spoke, but Selma has just weeks to live. And she has something important to tell Becky – a secret she been hiding for many years. She had another daughter.With the loss of her mother, Becky aches to find her sister. She knows she cannot move forward in her life without answers, but who can she really trust?An emotionally powerful novel full of twists and family secrets. Perfect for fans of Josephine Cox and Susan Lewis.




















Copyright (#ud125500e-d115-5407-8acc-a8a46e136268)


Published by Avon, 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 2018

Copyright © Tracy Buchanan 2018

Cover design © Lisa Horton 2018

Cover photographs © Arcangel Images

Tracy Buchanan 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008264642

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008264635

Version 2018-11-06




Praise for Tracy Buchanan’s novels (#ud125500e-d115-5407-8acc-a8a46e136268)


‘A pacy read … A great book to take to the beach!’ Daily Mail

‘An emotionally charged new novel.’ Take a Break

‘Perfect for sisters everywhere, it’s both heartbreaking and uplifting.’ My Weekly

‘An addictive novel that gets under your skin.’ Gill Paul

‘A compelling, page-turning read about secrets in families and the unwitting consequences thereof. I was completely hooked on this story of love, sacrifice and the things people will do to keep the truth from coming out. A sad, powerful and absorbing story.’ Julia Williams

‘It’s such a compelling and emotional read that pulled me in from the very first page – full of intrigue and secrets, a riveting story that I know will stay with me for a very long time.’

Alexandra Brown

‘An ambitious and deeply poignant story that will take you into another world.’ Heat

‘I was left absolutely traumatised in a totally brilliant way … Beautiful, heartbreaking, uplifting … Really worth a read.’ Hello!

‘I could see it playing out like a movie as I was reading … I loved it.’ Novelkicks

What readers say …

‘I was busy but found myself thinking about it when I was supposed to be working. Thank goodness I work for myself or else I would have been fired!’

‘The twists in the book kept me engrossed. I couldn’t put it down. I am going to read the other books by this author.’

‘Had great reviews before purchasing. They were completely correct. I just couldn’t put it away.’

‘One of the best thrillers I have read this year.’

‘What a page-turner this book is, I couldn’t put it down.’

‘This is the first time I have read anything by Tracy Buchanan, it will not be the last.’

‘I was totally hooked on the story from the start. I loved the twists and turns, thrills and mystery in this story.’

‘All the lies and suspense kept me just wanting more, I was sorry when the book finished.’




Dedication (#ud125500e-d115-5407-8acc-a8a46e136268)


For Archie. We miss you, boy.


Table of Contents

Cover (#u65c08162-473d-551f-b108-1fa7be6013d3)

Title Page (#u3ee7d0c7-7bd0-520a-b5b4-f4f72151f306)

Copyright (#u55b5f9f4-d07a-5b5c-9d42-3715f425ca29)

Praise for Tracy Buchanan’s Novels (#u7999d40c-5974-5cea-8095-9e7849c1318e)

Dedication (#uba4ea627-2e0a-5376-a204-7d93b71e5979)

Chapter One (#ud74090b8-64c1-5dc3-8c4d-694ac80b9121)

Chapter Two (#u3d758a4b-7a3a-5ed5-a643-2631a7fb1b36)



Chapter Three (#u79186b23-1a02-5903-a53d-dcbd0a63a754)



Chapter Four (#u86d33fd3-15f0-5a47-90c0-2a8a7e64098c)



Chapter Five (#ubef3a4ac-21bd-5f74-9285-c069f50db81c)



Chapter Six (#u8ac091e4-cedf-55a4-bae8-757f1a1b852e)



Chapter Seven (#u922d6a79-b362-56ce-a6c5-a8e5354d1c1f)



Chapter Eight (#u50e565d1-3807-599e-bfc5-ef0c077f41f3)



Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)



Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)



Some Thank Yous (#litres_trial_promo)



Read on for an Extract of Tracy Buchanan’s Twisting, Emotional New Novel… (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



Also by Tracy Buchanan (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#ud125500e-d115-5407-8acc-a8a46e136268)


Selma

Kent, UK

18 July 1991

It all started when the boy nearly drowned.

Queensbay was experiencing one of those summer evenings where strangers smile at each other as they pass on the street, everyone in awe that the temperature could be that warm in grey old Britain. Flip-flops and sandals abounded, the slip-slap of soles on the wooden path and the bark of small dogs a familiar reprise. The seafront café was full to bursting, especially the outside area, with children excited at being out so late on a school night, and parents trying to drink wine and smile with friends in between reprimanding hyper and sunburnt toddlers. On the sandy beach, older couples strolled through the shallow water, shoes dangling from their fingertips as their dogs ran in and out of the caves nearby. And beyond it all, the sun as it set, a fierce orange in the sky, fringing people’s heads with fire.

I watched it all through my sunglasses, the gin I’d drunk blurring the edges of my mind, just the way I liked it. The curved sandy bay looked particularly pretty that night, bookended by the café on one side and three towering chalk stacks on the other. People could walk beyond the stacks and there they’d find a secluded bay of caves overlooked by an abandoned hotel … the same hotel I once dreamed of buying. I sighed. Not looking likely now.

My daughter Becky chased her friend around the busy tables and I kept half an eye on her, ready to pounce at the sound of breaking glass, a sob, a crash. Next to me, my husband Mike kept a casual hand on my bare knee, smiling as his friend Greg recounted a difficult client he’d had to deal with. Why did people feel the need to discuss something as banal as work on evenings like this?

I yawned and stretched, noticing Greg’s eyes slide over my breasts, which strained against the thin material of my floral wrap dress.

So predictable. So wrong too, considering his wife Julie was sitting right next to me trying desperately to feed their newborn, his crumpled little red face squashed against her bare nipple as she fanned her hot, freckled cheeks with a menu.

I narrowed my eyes at Greg and he turned away. He was what my mum would call ‘trouble’. I even remember the way my mum said it, sprawled across her sofa, drink in hand as she gossiped with her friend. ‘He was trouble, darling,’ the r stretched out in that deep throaty voice of hers. When I asked what she meant over dinner that evening, she shot me one of her withering looks. ‘What does it matter to you?’

A week later, I got my answer when I met the man who was to become my stepfather. He was the worst of them. The others – three in total since she told my father to sling his hook when I was eight – had their faults too. Luckily I was well gone by the time the third one came along.

No, Greg was nothing like that first horrid stepfather. Well, maybe he looked like him with his slicked-back dark hair and wickedly handsome face. But I couldn’t see him raising a hand to his wife and child like my stepfather had. I shouldn’t be too harsh on Greg. The flirting, the sneaky glances … they were all just a little titillation for him to make the humdrum of life in that godforsaken town more bearable.

People came to Queensbay for a slower pace of life. A beautiful stretch of sand on the Kent coast, once a hidden gem favoured by retired couples and families looking to escape the rat race. The problem was, it had got too slow thanks to the country plunging into recession, boards covering the windows of the shops I once loved; For Sale signs up for too long outside usually desirable houses. You could barely see the words on those signs through the layer of seagull mess. Love’s young dream well and truly faded.

It was the same for me and Mike too. It hadn’t been that way when we’d driven through the town on the way to Margate for an old friend’s wedding after we got married ten years prior. I’d been so blown away with the pretty bay, we’d impulsively booked a room in one of its hotels, staying on for a further week after the wedding. When I’d spotted the abandoned hotel sitting in an elevated position above the caves nearby, a tatty For Sale sign outside its front, I’d been in awe. Sure, the white weatherboard that adorned its exterior walls was blackened with moss, the wraparound glass windows at the front grimy with dirt. But it was still beautiful.

‘I’d love to live somewhere like that,’ I remember saying to Mike during that impulsive weekend away.

But he’d laughed. ‘You have to be kidding. Look at the state of it!’

That was the problem with Mike. He’d never had the imagination I did, I should have known the moment he refused to play a drinking game on the first night we met in that university bar.

Anyway, back to the evening. That evening.

‘Oh, come on, Finn,’ Julie moaned next to me as she looked down at the baby.

I tipped my large sunglasses down to the end of my nose, peering over them at the newborn. ‘Not feeding again?’ I asked.

‘Latching on, I think,’ Julie replied, the dark circles under her eyes pronounced, her red hair flat and frizzy.

‘Good for you, persevering.’

‘Did you?’

I let out a dramatic sigh. ‘Sadly, these old things couldn’t produce enough milk,’ I said, gesturing towards my own breasts. I caught Greg’s eye and he held my gaze. ‘Had no choice but to bottle feed,’ I added.

Mike shot me a look. Okay, maybe that was a little white lie. Truth was, I’d produced plenty of milk – so much it dribbled out at night, wetting my silk camisole. But I’d hated the act of breastfeeding, especially the smell of my own milk. I couldn’t say that out loud though, could I? It would be frowned upon, especially in Queensbay with its penchant for yoga and earth mummies.

I yawned again, peering at my gold watch. It was past eight now.

‘Sorry, I’m boring you,’ Julie said, frowning.

I gently touched her arm. Yes, the woman was boring me. But that wasn’t her fault.

‘Not at all!’ I said. ‘I’m just tired from the heat. You’re doing great, really darling.’

‘Do you think you’ll have another?’ Julie asked.

Mike caught my eye. He was desperate for another. But I couldn’t think of anything worse, shuddering as I remembered that sticky, confusing, sick-infested time of Becky’s newborn months. The emotions. The tears. I adored Becky, my perfect one. It would be like going back to squareone if I had another. Plus, there was the slight problem of Mike and I barely touching any more. Maybe that should have worried me, but the truth was, I didn’t want to touch or be touched. On the rare occasions when we did make love, I flinched then felt nothing, going through the motions as I turned my face away. I used to be so passionate, to love to hold and be held. But not any more.

I sighed, turning back to Julie. ‘We’ve been told we can’t,’ I whispered so Mike couldn’t overhear. The lie sent a thrill through me. ‘We don’t like to talk about it, especially Mike,’ I added with a grimace. Another touch of the arm. ‘You’re one of the only people I’ve told.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Julie whispered back. I could see it mixed in with the empathy in her eyes, how pleased she was to be one of the privileged few to know.

‘But let’s not talk about that,’ I said, fanning my hand about. ‘Tell me about you.’

As Julie launched into the details of her problems with sore nipples, I slid my sunglasses back up to hide the fact I wasn’t really listening, my mind drifting off to the plot of my latest novel.

A harsh winter. A lost girl. A savage man. A world away from here.

Oh God, yes please.

‘Selma!’ A voice pierced my thoughts. I looked up, annoyed, as a red-faced woman in a bright pink top wove her way through the tables to get to me, waving her hands erratically, her sullen son following her.

It was Monica from work, the office manager who considered everyone her best friend, spilling the intimate details of her life to anyone who’d listen. Her husband’s breakdown. Her sister-in-law’s affair. The dose of thrush she’d been suffering from the past two years. I did my best to avoid her most days, unable to deal with her perpetually sunny disposition, especially on Monday mornings. But it was hard in such a compact office, just ten of us crammed into the top floor of a small barn conversion as we scribbled out copy for various clients. Thank God I only had to endure it three days a week.

‘Hello, Monica,’ I said with a tight smile.

Her son let out a bored sigh and crossed his arms, staring out to sea. He was ten, just a couple of years older than Becky but the same size, which always came a surprise to anyone who knew Monica, who was a tall, wide-hipped, big-breasted woman. I suppose that was one thing she and I did have in common: our curves – a contrast to the stick-thin women that seemed to grace the town.

‘Oh, hasn’t Becky grown!’ Monica exclaimed, gazing across to Becky on the beach. Her forehead was sunburnt, freckles smattering her tiny nose, her golden hair long and tangled in the sand, ice cream smeared on her face. My heart clenched at the sight of her, my beautiful happy daughter. They tell you about the love you feel for your children and at first, for some, it doesn’t come as quickly in the madness of those early newborn days. But when it does, it has a quality that supersedes all other types of love. Even I, as a writer, find it hard to describe.

I beckoned my daughter over, suddenly desperate to cuddle her. She jumped up, weaving around the tables to get to me. She smashed into my arms, putting her cheek against my neck, and I felt utterly overwhelmed with my love for her.

‘She has grown,’ I replied, leaning down to kiss Becky’s head. ‘Seems to every day.’

‘I wish Nathan would,’ Monica said with a sigh as she looked at her son. ‘Amazing the amount of food he puts away and yet still, look at him!’

‘Shut up, Mum,’ her son hissed under his breath. Monica’s face flickered with hurt and I couldn’t help it, I felt sorry for the poor woman. Monica had told me – and anyone else who’d listen – of the trouble she’d had with Nathan at school, the fights he’d got into, the back-chatting too. Becky had mentioned it occasionally too.

I looked down at my own daughter and stroked her soft hair, thinking how lucky I was to have her. A challenge sometimes, yes, like many children. But she was a good girl really.

‘How are the book sales going?’ Monica asked, face alight with excitement.

‘Fine,’ I replied airily. I took a quick sip of gin, the ice clinking against my teeth. ‘You don’t really get told much about sales.’

‘Not even two years after it’s published?’ Greg suddenly piped up.

I tensed. ‘Nope,’ I replied, taking another urgent sip of gin.

‘So when’s the next one out?’ he asked.

All eyes turned to me and I felt my face flush. I usually loved the attention, but not when it came to talk of sales. ‘Winging its way to my publisher very soon,’ I replied in as cheerful a voice as I could muster.

Mike frowned. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really, darling,’ I said.

‘How exciting!’ Monica exclaimed. ‘Give it time and you’ll be the next Danielle Steel!’

Mike snorted to himself and I shot him a look. ‘One day, maybe,’ I said, forcing a smile. If my husband were more bloody optimistic about my chances anyway, I wanted to add.

‘Mum, come on,’ Nathan moaned impatiently. ‘It’s going to get dark soon.’

We all peered towards the sun, which was now low in the sky and would soon be dipping beneath the horizon.

‘Right, better go,’ Monica said. ‘Nathan’s insisting on an ice cream. See you at work next week!’ She gave a nervous wave then wandered off, stopping again to talk to someone else as her son clenched his fists in frustration.

Becky jumped off my lap and ran to the beach to join her friend again. I took the chance to close my eyes behind my sunglasses, trying to return to that momentary period of peace I’d felt earlier. But then I felt an elbow poke me. I opened my eyes, irritated by the disturbance, and watched as Julie leaned down to get a muslin that had fallen to the ground, her baby squeezed against her blue-veined breasts.

‘Here, let me,’ I said, bending down to grab the cloth for her. As I handed it back I paused, catching sight of a man standing by the chalk stacks. He was tall, over six foot, long-limbed and deeply tanned, blond hair to his shoulders, a golden beard. On his arm was a thick row of tweed bracelets, his blue shorts ripped at the pocket. He was holding a large rucksack with a sewn-in patch showing one unblinking eye.

The man turned, as though sensing me looking at him. He held my gaze and I felt my breath stutter.

Then a scream pierced the air.




Chapter Two (#ud125500e-d115-5407-8acc-a8a46e136268)


Selma

Kent, UK

18 July 1991

Mike stopped talking, Greg and Julie too as another scream rang out. Other people started rising from their tables, shading their eyes to look out to sea.

I followed their gazes to see a woman running to the edge of the water, bright pink top blowing about in the breeze as she flapped her sunburnt arms about.

It was Monica.

‘My son!’ she shouted. ‘He’s drowning. Someone help, I can’t swim!’

I looked in the direction she was pointing to see the top of a small head poking up from the waves, before being submerged again.

‘Jesus, he’s in the sea,’ I said.

Greg jumped up, kicking his shoes off. ‘I’m going in.’

Julie grabbed at his hand. ‘Be careful.’

Greg glanced over towards me then back to his wife. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said before jogging down to the beach. I nudged Mike and he sighed, reluctantly following his friend, the setting sun turning his balding head red.

‘God, how terrifying,’ Julie said as she held her newborn Finn close.

I imagined Becky out there then, her little body engulfed by the waves. The horror of it made me dizzy.

‘Come here, darling,’ I called over to her.

Becky jumped up and ran over to me. ‘What’s happening, Mummy?’ she asked as I pulled her close and kissed her head.

‘Just silly Nathan swimming in the sea when he shouldn’t have,’ I replied.

‘Poor woman,’ Julie said, staring at Monica as she splashed into the water, her hands to her head in horror. ‘Do you know her well?’

‘Just from work.’ I watched Monica as she stepped forward into the waves, tears running down her cheeks, then jumped back, scared. She annoyed the hell out of me. But the way she was trying to fight her apparent fear of the water, the panic on her face …

‘Keep an eye on Becky, will you?’ I said to Julie. I stood, head suddenly swimming from the gin, then weaved my way through the tables and chairs to get to Monica.

‘Oh Selma!’ Monica exclaimed when I got to her, clutching at my hand. ‘What if they can’t get to him?’

‘He’ll be fine, look at all the people going to help him!’

As I said that, I noticed the man I’d seen by the chalk stacks walking towards the sea. He was calmer than the others, but his long strides somehow kept up with them. Just ahead of him, Mike followed Greg into the water, splashing into the waves clumsily, nearly falling as Greg turned to help him. But the man stepped into the sea without trouble, his outline set alight by the dying rays of the sun.

‘Oh God, I can’t see my boy. Can you see him?’ Monica asked, fingers clutching at my arm, face paling. ‘It’s getting so dark!’

I stepped forward, narrowing my eyes to see better. Monica was right, it was hard to see Nathan now. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon and the sky was an indigo blue. But I could see the man, his hair like silver in the growing darkness. While the other would-be rescuers flapped around in the water, he looked serene.

In fact, it was almost as though he were walking on the waves.

‘Is that man walking on the water?’ a woman nearby said, echoing my thoughts. Others around her laughed nervously but I could tell they were seeing the same thing.

I took a few more steps forward, heart thumping as my eyes stayed on the man, his tanned calves visible, his ankles … and yes, his feet. It really was like the water was ice and he was just walking across it.

‘Jesus,’ I whispered to myself.

A hush fell over the bay, others clearly unsure of what they were seeing too.

‘Must be a trick of the light,’ a man said, breaking the silence. But I could hear the waver of doubt in his voice.

The man stopped, then leaned over and lifted something into his arms.

‘He’s got him!’ someone shouted. A nervous cheer went up among the crowds.

Monica slumped against me, crying in relief as we watched the man walk back to shore, the boy seemingly weightless in his arms. The man was clearly walking in the water now; clearly it had been a trick of light.

People watched him, open-mouthed, as he headed towards us.

‘Mummy!’ Nathan sobbed, reaching for his mum. Monica took him from the man, burying her face in her son’s wet neck as she sunk to the sand.

The man looked at me. Something passed between us, something I couldn’t quite get a grasp on. Then he leaned down, retrieved his rucksack and disappeared into the night, the sound of sirens filling the air.

‘Did you know that man, Mummy?’ Becky asked, peering up at me with those knowing blue eyes of hers.

‘No, darling. He’s a complete stranger.’




Chapter Three (#ulink_86f239d7-d767-51bb-8a1a-e564357afb20)


Becky

Sussex, UK

1 June 2018

‘He’s a complete stranger, Kay!’ Becky says as she checks the calendar for details of her next appointment. ‘There is no chance I’m going on a date with him.’

‘It’s just a party. There’ll be lots of people there,’ Kay counters, glasses resting on the end of her nose, her white blouse stained and creased after a day fussing over puppies.

‘If you’re suggesting he picks me up first and takes me for a drink,’ Becky says, ‘it is a date. Anyway, Summer is still recovering from surgery. I can’t leave her.’

‘You have David next door! It’ll have been a month by then, you know more than anyone she’ll be fully recovered.’ Kay’s face grows serious. ‘I know it’s just an excuse. But no matter how much I adore those mutts of yours, three dogs are no substitute for human company, especially for an attractive thirty-four-year-old woman like yourself.’

‘I politely disagree.’ Becky leans forward, putting her hand on her friend’s shoulder and smiling. ‘I appreciate your attempts to marry me off, but I’m quite happy as I am, thank you.’

Kay crosses her arms and gives her a cynical look just as the bell above the door rings.

‘Perfect timing,’ Becky says with a wink as a woman walks in carrying a plastic box, a girl of about eight beside her. Becky leans down and smiles at the girl. ‘You must be Jessica and this,’ she says, gesturing to the box, ‘must be Stanley.’ The girl nods shyly. ‘Come on through, we had a cancellation so we’re running bang on time for once!’

Becky leads them into her small consultation room. It’s a tiny practice, sitting in a red-brick building on the edge of a large field, just her, two job-sharing veterinary nurses, a part-time locum and Kay, receptionist and accountant extraordinaire. Plenty to serve the small village they live in.

The woman places the plastic box on Becky’s consulting table and opens it.

Becky peers in, smiling. ‘What a beauty,’ she exclaims.

The girl beams with pride as her mother carefully pulls the fish tank out of the box. Becky leans down and looks at the small goldfish inside, at its transparent orange skin, globe eyes and bubbling mouth. One of the vets she’d trained with had described goldfish as a waste of his time. If he could just see the way this little girl was staring at that waste of time right now, he might see this goldfish – that all animals – are worth so much more than that.

Or maybe not. He was a bit of a shallow idiot after all.

‘I’m pleased you brought him in,’ Becky says.

The girl crosses her arms, frowning. ‘It’s a her.’

Becky peers at the mother who gives a little shrug.

‘Ah. Her. Sorry,’ Becky says. ‘Well, I’ll tell you straight off, it’s not serious. You managed to bring her in just in time.’

‘What’s wrong with Stanley?’ the girl asks.

Becky points to the small white spots on Stanley’s fin. ‘Fin rot,’ she explains. The girl’s big blue eyes widen. ‘But no need to worry!’ Becky quickly adds. ‘Thanks to your vigilance, Stanley will be just fine.’

The girl smiles, lighting up her young face.

Her mother squeezes her shoulder. ‘See? What did I tell you?’

Becky watches them, unable to stop herself feeling a tinge of jealousy. ‘So,’ she says, clearing her throat. ‘Do you have some salt at home?’

The girl peers up at her mother, who nods.

‘Good. That’s how we’ll treat Stanley. A few teaspoons of salt in her tank each day and she’ll be as right as rain within the week.’ Becky turns away to tap some notes into her computer. ‘It’s just as well Stanley has such a loving owner. Fish are so important. You know they were here first, way before us, even way before dinosaurs? And yet look at them,’ she says, gesturing towards the tank. ‘They’re still here. Quite a feat.’

‘They’re the best pets in the world,’ the girl says stoically as her mother places the tank back in the box.

‘I’d agree,’ Becky replies. ‘But my three dogs might get a bit upset. I think that’s it for Stanley today. Just call if you have any problems.’

‘You’ve been brilliant, thank you,’ the girl’s mother says as they walk out to the reception area. ‘Say thank you, Jess.’

‘Thank you,’ the girl says in a shy voice.

‘A pleasure!’

When they leave, Becky returns to her consulting room and sinks down into her chair, yawning. She likes to do this at the end of the day, just close her eyes and relax for a few seconds. She’s done her best to make the consulting room as homely as possible. One wall crowded with cards from grateful patients, her small, tidy desk adorned with photos of her three skinny suki whippet crosses, Summer, Womble and Danny.

Above the desk is a shelf of books lined with the usual suspects: a wide range of medical reference books. But mixed in with them are romance novels, given to Becky by patients as gifts after Kay let slip to one that Becky is a secret fan of romantic fiction. It is a running joke now, with books gifted to her by regulars each Christmas, or when an owner wants to thank her. The truth is, Becky does love the novels, devouring them whenever she is lucky enough to have a break.

But that is just about the extent of the romance in her life. It has been ten years since she was dumped by the boyfriend she’d had since school, just before their tenth anniversary. There have been a succession of bad dates since, but recently, she’s begun to think a life with just her and the dogs would be perfect, despite what Kay thinks.

Becky’s eyes stray towards the photo at the end of the row of books. It’s her on the day she graduated from veterinary college five years ago. Her dad is standing stiffly beside her, a hint of pride on his face. She ought to feel pride herself when she looks at that photo but, instead, she often finds herself thinking of who wasn’t there that day: her mum.

Becky drives thoughts of her mum away, focusing instead on her dad. God, she misses him. Even their lunches, when they would both sit and eat in complete silence, comfortable with each other after years of being in each other’s company. At least he is happy now. That’s what’s important, even if he is many miles away in Wales with his second wife, Cynthia.

Becky smiles at her dad’s proud face in the photo then grabs her pale blue rucksack and slings it over her shoulder, walking out into the reception area.

‘Last patient of the day, thank God,’ Kay says, standing up and stretching. ‘Has seemed like a long week this week. Must be the heat. Any plans for the weekend?’

Becky shrugs. ‘The usual.’

‘Long walks. Dinners for one—’

‘Four,’ Becky says, interrupting her.

‘Ah yes, the dogs. Then, let me guess, some reading?’

Becky laughs. ‘You know me so well.’

‘You know you can pop by any time if you find yourself getting lonely.’

‘Thank you, but I honestly never feel lonely.’

Kay shoots her a cynical look. ‘Either way, remember to go shopping for a new dress for my party next month.’ Becky opens her mouth to say something but Kay puts her hand up. ‘I refuse to hear any excuses. I’ll be fifty. Fifty! If you really like me as much as you say, then you’ll come. Plus you’ll get the chance to meet the family I bitch about every day!’

Becky gives her a faint smile. She can’t think of anything worse than a huge family party, even if it is for her friend. ‘I’ll see how Summer gets on.’

‘That’s a yes then,’ Kay says with a wink.

They both laugh, going through their nightly routine of switching lights off and locking the place up. Then they step out into the searing evening heat, the field stretching out before them.

‘Have a good weekend!’ Becky calls out as Kay rushes off down the path, no doubt needing to get back to take one of her teenage kids to a football match or dance class.

But Becky doesn’t need to rush. Instead, she takes a moment to stop, breathing in the warm air infused with the scent of flowers and grass. It’s one of the many luxuries of not having to rush home to people like others have to, she thinks. She’ll always be able to take the time to enjoy the simple things, like breathing in the beauty of a hot summer evening.

After a few moments, she heads across the fields and down a path created from grass well-trodden by dog walkers. Kay lives near the cobbled high street five minutes in the opposite direction, but Becky lives out of the way, in one of four cottages that sit in a row and overlook the field. Each of the cottages are tiny but their gardens are huge with gates that lead onto the field, ideal for the dogs. She still remembers her dad driving them through this very village on the way to their new home in Busby-on-Sea after her mum left. That was over twenty-five years ago now. ‘This is a pretty village,’ Becky remembers saying to him.

‘Too small,’ he’d replied. ‘Busby-on-Sea is much better, you’ll see. It even has a leisure centre! Plus, your grandparents are there.’

One shop and no leisure centre sounded perfect to her, even then. But she knew her dad needed to be around family. She remembers asking her dad when her mum would be joining them. She knew she wouldn’t be, they’d had ‘the talk’ just a few weeks beforehand. But she still had to ask, just to be sure.

‘Mummy’s not coming with us, remember?’ her dad had replied, a confusing mixture of sadness and anger on his face. ‘But she’ll visit. I think you’ll be happy in Busby-in-Sea, I really do, Becks.’

As Becky thinks of that, she gets another flash of memory. The sound of waves. Sand in between her toes. Her mum smiling down at her, nose freckled from the sun, blue eyes sparkling.

‘I think you’ll be happy here, Becks, I really do.’

And then beyond her, the mouth of a cave.

‘Becky!’ The memory trickles away as a couple in their seventies walk towards her, their golden Labrador bounding over to greet her, one of her many patients.

She stops and leans down, pressing her nose against the dog’s wet one. ‘Hello, Sandy!’ she says. ‘How’s his ear today?’

‘Better thanks to you, Becky,’ the woman says, but she seems to already be walking away with her husband. They obviously have somewhere to be, and Sandy follows. Becky wonders where. Maybe dinner out with friends. Cinema. Or just a date with a film indoors. They had each other, whatever they had waiting for them. She feels a pang of loneliness, thinking of what Kay had said earlier.

No, Kay’s wrong, she doesn’t get lonely. If she ever wants company, she just needs to head out here into the fields, knowing there will always be one villager or another walking their dogs. There’s such a sense of community here. Her dad hadn’t seen it that way when she’d told him she’d be moving out of Busby-on-Sea four years ago, the place that had been her home since she was eight years old. But she needed the independence of living in a different town, even if it was only a twenty-minute drive away … and so had he. In fact, it was after she left that he got back in touch with his old friend, Cynthia. And now they were married!

Becky reaches the end of the field, stopping at the fence lining the four long gardens belonging to the cottages. Her cottage sits at the end, and looks just the same as the others with its white-washed walls and thatched roof.

In the garden next to hers, David is sitting on a chair reading a book. His Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Bronte, is lying at his feet, and Becky’s three lurchers are stretched out in the evening sun on the lawn. Summer has a short chestnut coat, and big brown eyes with long lashes. Danny is as black as the night, long-haired and handsome. Womble is the longest and tallest of the three – grey, inquisitive and the fastest dog she’s ever seen. Each of them had been brought into the practice for treatment after being found as strays, and each was rescued by Becky who had a soft spot for ‘skinnies’ as she called them. Poor Summer was the worst, brought in by the police after it was reported she had been dragged behind a car, tied to the bumper with a rope to make her run faster. She was still terrified of strangers, hiding behind Becky’s legs whenever anyone but David approached her.

Summer is the first to see Becky as she opens the fence into David’s garden. The dog gingerly stands up, does a quick stretch, then limps over to Becky, her leg still bound from the surgery Becky had carried out to fix a broken bone. She nudges her nose into Becky’s tummy, and Becky strokes her.

‘Hello, darling,’ Becky says, leaning down to kiss her head as the other dogs’ ears prick at the sound of her voice. They too jump up, padding over.

‘Summer’s been a terror today,’ David says with a smile that gives away just how much he enjoyed her being a terror. He’s in his sixties, and is tall with short, grey hair and a wicked smile. He moved to the area just a few months after Becky did four years ago, and they’d clicked straight away as they discussed their love of animals. They mainly talked about dogs, but David did mention once that he and his wife had split up many years before, and they had a daughter who lived abroad.

‘Thanks for looking after them,’ she says to him now with a smile.

‘Always a pleasure.’

She occasionally took the dogs into the practice with her, but it was hard keeping three large dogs entertained in such a small space. David looked after them most days, bringing them over to see her during her breaks.

She leans down and pats Bronte on the head. She gives a soft thump of her feathery white tail then puts her little chin back on her paws. She was another rescue dog, brought in to the practice two years ago, an ex-breeding dog dumped by a local puppy farm after getting an infection. David had taken an instant liking to her after his last cocker spaniel had passed away, so he’d ended up adopting her.

‘Right, let’s get you all back,’ Becky says, patting her thigh and heading towards the fence that divides their gardens.

‘Not staying for a cuppa?’ David calls out to her.

‘Tomorrow,’ she calls back. ‘I’m so exhausted, I think I might go to bed straight after dinner.’

He laughs. ‘You work too hard.’

Becky steps over the fence, the dogs leaping over with her, and lets herself into her cottage. All three dogs dart to the back of the house as soon as they get in, standing by their bowls and looking up at her with impatient eyes, ready for their dinner.

‘Okay, okay, give me a minute!’ Becky calls out.

She chucks her keys onto the stairs and walks down the small hallway and into the kitchen, which is surprisingly large considering the size of the rest of the cottage, and has enough room for a decent-sized pine table in the middle.

Becky feeds the dogs then sets about making her own dinner, a quick stir fry. Once she’s finished cooking, she plates up and heads out onto the patio to sit down with her dinner and a book – another romance. David has gone in now. Becky leans back in her chair and blinks up at the sun. She loves this time of day; warm enough to sit outside, cool enough that she doesn’t have to worry about it burning her pale skin. A bird soars above, heading east … maybe towards Kent, where she once lived.

The phone rings, puncturing her thoughts. She sighs. Why does this always happen when she’s settling down to eat? She places her plate on a table as she stands up, then walks inside quickly to grab the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Becky?’

The voice is weak, barely audible. It’s a voice she hasn’t heard in many years and yet she knows it in an instant. It’s seared into her heart.

‘Mum?’




Chapter Four (#ulink_6184939a-4bb5-5c3a-afb9-937cfdcbd703)


Selma

Kent, UK

19 July 1991

‘Mummy?’

I nibbled on my pen while looking out towards the sea, playing over what had happened the evening before again. I’d dreamt about the man all night, hot feverish dreams, as I’m sure half the town had too.

‘Mummy!’

I looked at Becky. ‘Sorry, darling, I was a million miles away.’

‘Did the man really walk on water, like everyone was saying?’

‘Of course he didn’t!’ Mike exclaimed over his shoulder from the kitchen. ‘It’s just bored people imagining things.’

I smiled to myself, snapping my notepad shut. ‘Yes, Daddy’s right of course, very bored people making stuff up.’

Becky looked disappointed. ‘Still hungry, Daddy,’ she chirped, pushing her half-eaten cereal to the side.

‘You’ve hardly eaten your cereal,’ I said.

Becky shrugged. ‘Don’t like it.’

‘You can have some strawberries then,’ Mike said.

Becky frowned, crossing her arms. ‘No, I want chocolate.’

I leaned in close to her ear. ‘Maybe when Daddy goes,’ I whispered.

Mike shot me a disapproving glance. ‘Fruit or nothing,’ he said, grabbing his car keys. He gave Becky a kiss on the head then waved at me before letting himself out. There was once a time when he’d kiss me before leaving for work. Not now though. Should that have made me feel sad? Well I didn’t. I felt nothing.

When I was sure he was gone, I went to the cupboard and got some chocolate-flavoured cereal out, winking at a giggling Becky. ‘You have to be quick though, we have to leave for school soon.’

Five minutes later, we walked to Becky’s school. It was a breezy day, still warm though, the skies blue, the sun bright, the sea glimmering in the distance. People were either walking to work or coming back from dropping kids off, dressed in shorts and T-shirts, sandals and flip-flops.

The school lay at the bottom of a hill, five minutes’ walk from our new-build house. As I passed the newsagent, I noticed the headline: UK’s Economy at Historic Low. I peered towards where Mike worked with Greg at a large financial advice firm in town. There had been rumours of redundancies the year before but nothing had come of it. What if Mike was made redundant now? Would I have to go back to working full-time again?

The thought sent a dart of fear through me.

Better if they made me redundant from my senior copywriter job. It wasn’t like I was pulling in much on my three-day salary anyway.

I put my sunglasses on, pulling up the straps of my silky red vest top to cover my bra straps, my black skirt skimming the back of my knees. Everyone else around me was wearing pastel colours, but I liked to be bold: blood reds and stark blacks, azure blues and emerald greens. I had earrings to match, necklaces sometimes too.

As I approached the small primary school, which was housed in a Victorian building, I noticed some of the parents already crowded around the gates nattering. I hated the whole school-gate drama, especially recently with all the talk of recession. Most mornings, I made up excuses to leave: lunch in London with my editor; a book signing in Canterbury; some media interview or another. I liked to make it vague, so they couldn’t check whether I was telling the truth or not. Sometimes, if I was having a bad writing day or had received yet another royalty statement with minus signs on it from my agent, I’d hang around, basking in the inevitable glory of being the only published novelist in town. I suppose sometimes I needed the questions that at other times irritated me, the stories of success I weaved wiping away the disappointment.

‘There she is!’ a woman declared, a slim brunette called Haley. She was one of the few mums I could tolerate, plus she worked in the town library which was always a good thing as she let me take out more books then the standard eight. ‘You saw it from a front row seat, didn’t you?’ she asked me when I got to the group.

‘Saw what?’ I asked. I knew perfectly well what she meant, of course. But I enjoyed this, the tease.

‘The man who saved that boy last night,’ one of the other mums said, a timid woman called Donna. She was wearing an oversized beige blouse and black leggings. Her shoulders were slightly slumped and she had her arms wrapped around her midriff.

‘Oh, that,’ I said with a bored sigh. I almost resented other people having seen it all happen. If only I’d been alone on that beach with Monica and her son so I could add embellishments to the story: a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after, maybe?

‘I hear he’s a homeless man,’ one of the other mothers drawled. It was Cynthia, or Gym Bunny as I referred to her. She had her blonde hair up in a high ponytail, her hip bones jutting out from the top of her Lycra leggings.

‘He didn’t look very homeless to me,’ Haley said with a raised eyebrow. ‘You have to admit it was rather exciting?’

‘I suppose so. For this town, anyway,’ I said as I gave Becky a kiss on the head, aware of everyone’s eyes on me. As Becky ran off towards one of her little friends, I paused a moment, looking towards the sea, adding another bored sigh for effect. Then I turned back to the group of mums, shrugging. ‘He’s just a man who helped a kid. I think people are getting a bit carried away.’

A couple of the mums gave each other a look. But Donna looked out to the water, a wistful expression on her face as her short dark bob lifted in the breeze. She always seemed so overwhelmed by the other mums, which was surprising considering she was a midwife. Or maybe she was just used to hysterical women and had learnt to be calm and stoic in the face of dramatics.

There were times when she really should have said something though, like when Cynthia gave her some free passes to the gym to ‘knock off those extra pounds’. Donna had just stood there in shock, eyes filling with tears. I had to do something so I’d linked my arm through Donna’s and arched an eyebrow. ‘Gym? With these?’ I’d said, pointing to both our ample chests. ‘Absolutely not! Can’t risk ruining our best assets.’ Cynthia, as flat-chested as her own son, just looked at me dumbfounded, Donna sneaking me a quick and grateful smile.

‘Anyway, must get back,’ I said now, peering at my watch. ‘My book won’t write itself.’

‘How’s it going?’ Donna asked softly.

‘Good,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘Should be finished soon.’

‘And the cake preparations for next Saturday?’ Haley asked. ‘I hope it’s still okay to do one?’

Oh bugger.

I tried to keep the smile on my face. I’d completely forgot I’d volunteered to bake a cake for Haley’s son’s birthday party. It had happened after Cynthia made a throwaway comment about me ‘not being the domestic type’, no doubt revenge for the gym pass slight the week before.

‘You’d be surprised,’ I’d retorted.

‘Really?’ Cynthia had asked, eyebrow arched.

‘Yes, really.’ I’d turned my best icy glare to Cynthia then. ‘I’m a dab hand at baking actually.’

‘You are?’ Haley had said. ‘We were going to find someone to make Beau’s cake but if you can, wonderful! I’d pay you of course.’

‘No need to pay,’ I’d replied, waving my hand about as I watched Cynthia’s expression out of the corner of my eye. ‘It’s no problem at all.’

‘Can you do it in the shape of a monkey?’ Haley had then asked. ‘It’s just that Beau’s obsessed with them after our latest trip to the zoo.’

I’d nodded, trying to hide my horror. Sure, I’d made the odd chocolate cake or two. It hadn’t given Mike and Becky food poisoning so that was a bonus. But that was the extent of my baking skills.

I smiled at Haley now. ‘All sorted, darling. See you all next week!’ Then I walked up the hill towards my house, muttering ‘Bloody monkey cake’ under my breath.

Before I opened my front door, I paused. I really couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the house to write. I’d had to drag the words out lately. I tried to tell myself it was the house. But the fact is, I used to be able to write anywhere: on the bus in the dreary rain, sitting in a doctor’s waiting room, even in my car when I was stuck in standstill traffic once. No, there was more to it than that. The past couple of years, a numbness had descended. Stopped me from wanting to be touched and touch. Stopped me from wanting to write.

Maybe I’d grown weary. It was all so far from the dreams I’d had of writing from the hotel above the cliffs all those years ago, a glass of gin by my side as Mike took up some exciting watersport. Instead, the only house we could afford when we finally decided to move from London when I was pregnant nine years ago was a good fifteen-minute walk from the sea. It wasn’t much to look at either, a plain brown new-build house sitting across from a petrol station. The only bonus was it looked out to fields at the back. I’d set up an office in the spare room at the back in the hope I’d write from there, looking out over those fields, a tiny glimpse of sea in the distance.

But as soon as Becky was born, my days had mostly been filled with baby sensory classes and weigh-ins, toddler tantrums and coffees in overfilled cafés. It was only when Becky went to school I was able to really focus on writing. But then the days went so damn fast before it was time to pick Becky up again at three. If I could only get that second book published, I could give up the job and write full-time instead of just two days a week.

That was the dream, wasn’t it? It had always been the dream, from the moment I used to sneak glances of the novels my mother would bring back from her countless trips to local charity shops, their battered spines smelling of earth and dust. Authors became my rock stars and I’d escape into their words for hours, a place to pretend I was something other than the little girl nobody noticed.

While studying English at university, I’d been determined to come away with a novel ready to send to editors. Of course, I didn’t know then how unrealistic that was. But I was so idealistic then, so full of romantic notions, attaching myself to fellow dreamers. Before I met Mike, I’d dated a beautiful Polish man with graceful hands and the softest of lips. He’d write poetry on my naked curves, inspiring me to spill words out into a notepad he’d bought me. But even then, each time I started something, I just couldn’t finish it.

When I graduated, I fell into various copywriting jobs to pay the rent on the tiny flat I rented with Mike in Battersea, writing in the evenings. Then one gloomy October day, feigning an illness to stay at home, I found myself writing pages and pages of a novel that seemed to have come out of nowhere about a woman who runs a small hotel in the woods with her mother. Unable to deal with the loss when her mother passes away, she tells guests she’s just resting after an illness. Sounds depressing, doesn’t it? But there was a love story thrown in. Lady Chatterley’s Lover meets Hotel du Lac was how my agent described it.

A year later, it was ready to submit. It had countless rejections and I nearly lost hope, but then a small publishing house took it on. I’d been so proud, I’d even called my mother to tell her, despite the fact that we rarely saw each other apart from a brief, awkward visit to her little flat in Margate over the Christmas period each year.

‘I’ll be able to find it in WHSmith, will I?’ my mother had asked me. I’d imagined her sitting on her battered sofa with a glass of wine in her hand, her dark dyed hair in rollers.

‘Yes,’ I’d replied, knowing it was a lie – my editor had told me only a few independent bookshops were taking it. But I wanted so much for my mother to be proud. Needed so much.

A week after it was published, she’d treated me to a rare phone call. I thought it was to congratulate me on the launch of my debut. But instead, it was to berate me for ‘embarrassing’ her in front of her friends who thought she’d lied about her ‘author daughter’ seeing as they couldn’t find her books in WHSmith.

‘You’re just one of those crappy authors, aren’t you?’ my mother had said. ‘The ones whose books you find in the bargain bucket.’

I had slammed the phone down, resolving never to take a call from her again. That was two years ago. Two long years with only a few thousand words written of my next novel, despite having two days a week dedicated to it.

Why wouldn’t the words come?

I looked up at my house, then at the petrol station across from it. It had to be the house. It was just so uninspiring! I impulsively turned back and headed towards the beach.

The tide was low, the sea hazy in the distance, seaweed and shells clogging the wet morning sand as people walked out of the café nearby with takeaway teas in polystyrene cups. It wasn’t a built-up beach – even now it isn’t – just a plain and simple sandy cove, no trendy eateries or boutique shops. Its natural beauties were enough to draw people in, the chalk stacks adorning most of the postcards in town. The bay beyond the chalk stacks with its five caves wasn’t as much of a draw then; people were put off by the stories of tourists being caught out there during high tide.

I walked onto the sand that morning, taking my gold sandals off and strolling along the edge of the seaweeded area, picking up shells for Becky. I liked to do that sometimes when my mind was blocked or sad memories crowded. Breathe in the salty air, feel the sand beneath my toes and the smooth curve of shells in my palms.

After a while, I spotted a washed-up starfish, orange with black dots, its legs tangled and broken. I crouched down, staring at it, tears irrationally pricking at my eyelashes.

What the hell was wrong with me?

The wind picked strands of my dark hair up, the sound of laughter carried along with it. I stood and looked over towards the bay of caves. It was usually quiet at this time of the morning, with children at school, but there was a group of teenagers crowding around the entrance to the larger cave at the end of the bay. Four of them were girls, long hair trailing down their backs, the waistbands of their school skirts rolled up. I remembered doing the same at the struggling comprehensive I went to in Margate all those years ago. The two boys with them looked bored, their shirts hanging out, hair spiky. But the girls were enraptured as they peered into the cave at something that was out of my eye line.

I took another step forward until the focus of their attention came into view.

It was the man who’d rescued the boy the evening before.

He was sitting on a white chalk rock just inside the entrance to the cave, painting something on the cliff wall in swirling blue. His hair was up in a bun this time, exposing his long, tanned neck, the golden stubble on his cheeks. As he painted, his lean muscles flexed, the morning sun picking up the contours of his shapely arms and bare back.

‘That’s so cool,’ I heard one of the girls say in a hushed voice.

‘Totally,’ another agreed.

‘We should go now,’ one of the boys said, looking at his watch. ‘Mrs Botley will go mental if we’re late.’

The blonde girl looked at the boy. ‘You go,’ she said, sinking to the sand and crossing her long legs beneath her. ‘I’m staying.’

‘Me too,’ one of her friends said, joining her.

The boys rolled their eyes at each other. ‘Not our issue if you get a rollocking,’ one of them said before the rest of the group walked off.

I watched the two girls for a while, looking at the way they observed the man. There was clear attraction in their eyes, a calm attentiveness too.

I quickly got my notepad out, writing what I saw.

He moved his arm gracefully, slowly, like how he’d appeared to walk on water the night before. The girls watched in rapture, as though they were seeing something for the first time. Beyond them, the sea—

‘The next bestselling novel?’ a voice asked from behind me.

I snapped my notepad shut and looked up to see Greg smiling down at me.

‘Maybe.’

A quick look at my cleavage, quelle surprise, then back up to my face. ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on him,’ he said, jutting his chin towards the man painting in the cave.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘And why might that be?’

‘Hanging around with teenagers. Looks like we have a resident paedophile on our hands.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Honestly, Greg, talk about jumping to conclusions.’

‘Really? So you’d let Becky near him? He’s clearly slept in that cave overnight,’ he added, pointing to a sleeping bag I hadn’t noticed before, lying at the side of the cave.

‘Just because he’s sleeping in a cave, that doesn’t make him a paedophile. There are a lot of people out of jobs thanks to this recession. Haven’t you been reading the papers?’ I walked past Greg and headed to the wooden path. I really wasn’t in the mood for him, especially after he interrupted my rare moment of inspiration.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Greg asked as he fell into step beside me.

I couldn’t help but sigh. ‘Aren’t you working today?’

‘Day off. Told Julie I’m getting nappies.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘Not now,’ he said, pushing his Ray-Bans onto the top of his head and smiling at me. ‘Needed to get out. All she talks about is babies, babies, babies.’

‘She has just had one.’ I peered at him sideways. ‘As have you.’

‘Yeah but it’s different for men.’

‘How?’

‘You know,’ he said, openly staring at my breasts.

‘No, I don’t actually.’ I stopped, crossing my arms. ‘How is it different?’

He gave me a sly grin. ‘You going to make me say it?’

Here it comes …

‘Fine,’ he said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Breasts. Babies need breasts and we can’t provide that, can we?’

‘Ah, breasts,’ I said. ‘Breasts, breasts, breasts, that’s all men talk about.’

‘Can you blame us?’ he asked playfully.

‘Yes, yes I can. They are mounds of flesh, their primary function being to feed babies.’

He laughed. ‘This is why I like you, fire in your belly. What do you say to a cheeky vino at the café?’

‘At this time of the morning?’

‘Why not?’ He grabbed my shoulders in excitement. ‘Seize the day! Let’s do something crazy! I know you’re like me, Selma, I can tell.’

I felt an overwhelming desire to slap him. But instead I pulled away from him, making my face cold. ‘I’m nothing like you. And if you think drinking wine at nine in the morning is seizing the day, then you really need to get a life.’

His face dropped, his dark eyes flashing with anger. ‘Clearly I was wrong about you. I thought you were the adventurous type.’

‘I have a call with a producer who’s interested in turning my book into a film,’ I lied. ‘I think that’s a tad more adventurous than sharing a bottle of wine with a married man, don’t you?’ Then I stalked off.

That run-in with Greg hung over my head like a dark cloud all weekend, making me tetchy with Mike and Becky. I’d like to say it was because I felt bad for his wife, but mainly it was because he’d stopped me from writing. I hadn’t felt so inspired in ages and now that sudden fizz was gone again. It wasn’t much better when I walked into the office on Monday morning to get on with my copywriting day job. I only had to endure the place three days a week: Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. But it was still painful.

I walked to my desk, feeling more of a black cloud than usual hovering over my head, my lack of word count still playing on my mind. Something needed to change and quick, otherwise I’d be back to working five days a week, even if Mike wasn’t made redundant. It had been hard enough convincing him I needed to go down to three days a week so I could write another novel. The problem was, I wasn’t writing it! How could I when I was forced to have all the creativity drained out of me three days a week by this soul-destroying job?

I ignored the voice inside that told me past soul-destroying jobs hadn’t stopped me from writing. The same voice that told me there had to be another reason.

I peered at my notepad in my bag, a sense of resolve filling me. I was going to write this novel. I had to.

‘Selma!’

I looked up to see Monica waving at me from across the room, people gathered around her desk. ‘Selma was there,’ Monica explained to the colleagues gathered around her. ‘She saw everything. Come over and tell them!’

I didn’t say anything, just put my bag on my desk and switched my computer on.

‘Selma!’ Monica called out again.

I battled with the desire to continue ignoring her, but then I remembered the look on Monica’s face as she saw her son in the ocean, that awful fear.

I sighed, making myself smile. ‘Nathan okay, is he?’ I called over.

‘Fine. Shaken up but fine!’ Monica called back. ‘Come tell everyone what happened.’

‘I’m sure you have given a better account than I could.’ I sat at my desk, noticing my colleague Matthew smirking at me from over our divider. I smiled back at him. He was the only person in the place I could tolerate. On my first day six years ago, he’d handed me some headphones. ‘You’ll need these, trust me,’ he’d said wryly.

‘Best day of her life, her son nearly drowning,’ Matthew said now in a quiet voice.

My smile deepened. ‘Naughty boy,’ I whispered back.

We both went quiet when our boss, Daphne, approached. ‘Good weekend, Selma?’ she asked.

‘Lovely, thanks,’ I replied. ‘Apart from the barbeque catching fire,’ I added.

Daphne put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh no!’

It was a lie, of course. Anything to ease the pain of the predictable Monday morning ‘How was your weekend?’ ritual.

‘I heard your book’s being made into a film,’ Daphne said. ‘I hope we’re not going to lose you to the glitz and glam of Hollywood.’

I felt my face flush. How quickly rumours spread in this town. A mere mention to Greg and now everyone knew.

‘Oh, it was just a call,’ I replied. ‘Might come to nothing.’

‘It’s exciting either way! Better get back to work, no film deal for me to pay the mortgage. Chat later!’

I narrowed my eyes at her. Was that a dig? My boss was the queen of passive aggressiveness.

As Daphne walked off, Monica strolled over.

‘Oh God, she’s coming over,’ Matthew said, quickly putting his headphones back on.

‘Did you hear the man who saved Nathan is living in one of the caves?’ Monica asked, sitting on my desk, which was something I detested people doing.

‘I heard something about it,’ I replied as I yanked some proofs of an advert I’d written from under her bum.

‘I left a bottle of wine outside to thank him with a note,’ Monica said excitedly. ‘He wasn’t there though, so I hope nobody nicks it. There were a couple of strange characters in there. I think they’d spent the night.’

I frowned. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I saw sleeping bags. One of the girls was still in her nightie.’

‘Girls?’ Matthew asked with a raised eyebrow.

Monica turned to him, nodding. ‘She looked young, maybe sixteen, seventeen.’

‘I bet he’s having fun,’ Matthew drawled.

Was it was one of the schoolgirls from the other day?

‘There was even a little table with tea and stuff on it,’ Monica added. ‘A few floor cushions as well. It looked rather comfy.’

‘You thinking of moving in, Monica?’ Matthew asked her.

‘Oh gosh, no!’ she said, raising her voice and getting flustered.

Daphne peered over at the sound of Monica’s raised voice.

‘Better go!’ Monica said, waving at them both and walking off as she frowned at Daphne.

‘She wants that guy’s babies,’ Matthew said.

‘Probably. He’s every frustrated housewife’s dream.’

‘So you like him too?’

I threw a pen at Matthew. ‘You know I’m not like the rest of them.’

‘Never, Selma, never,’ he said, winking at me before looking back at his computer.

As I tried to write copy for a leaflet for a local gym, I found my mind drifting off towards that cave. Tea. Cushions. Teenage girls in nighties. How strange.

How wonderful.

I peered around me to check nobody was looking then discreetly pulled out my notepad and started writing, suddenly inspired again.

He smelt of tea leaves, of the forest and the snow. The girl watched him, finger flicking to her flimsy white nightie, breath heavy …

I crossed through the line in frustration. Too Mills & Boon.

‘Right everyone, time for our weekly team meeting!’ Daphne said, clapping her hands.

I squeezed my pen in frustration. Why did this have to happen just as I was all fired up to write? I watched everyone trudge into the stuffy meeting room, ready to waste an hour discussing milk being stolen from the fridge, reduced budgets due to the recession and early booking for the Christmas party. I thought of all the other meetings I’d been in, nodding my head at something someone had said while screaming inside, drawing doodles of desperate eyes and gaping mouths around the edges of the paper as I pretended to take notes.

How much longer could I endure it?

I thought of the man painting at the cave. The freedom of it. The creativity.

I shoved my notepad in my bag then slung it over my shoulder, striding over to Daphne.

‘Everything okay?’ she asked me.

‘No actually. The school called shortly after I got to the office. Becky’s ill.’

Daphne faked sympathy. ‘Poor thing.’ But I could see she was thinking of the deadline that day.

‘I’m afraid I have to go,’ I continued. ‘Mike’s out of town.’

‘You’ll miss the meeting. We’re discussing the Christmas do this year.’

‘I know, such a shame,’ I replied with an exaggerated sigh as I backed away. Then I hurried out, breathing in the fresh air as it hit me. I truly felt as though I’d been suffocating in there. But now I felt free, even if it was just for one illicit day.

What should I do?

I looked towards the sea. What else?

When I approached the cave there were more people milling outside. A young man was strumming a guitar, with a girl dancing in circles to the music. They weren’t just teenagers either. There was a tall black man who looked to be in his early forties, and a woman in her fifties too.

Monica had been right. People were living there with the man. Maybe they were homeless, with no choice but to live in the cave after losing their jobs. Or was there more to it than that?

I moved into the shadows of the chalk stacks and pulled a cigarette out from my bag, lighting it and drawing in the intoxicating smoke before blowing it out. I always kept a packet handy. Officially, I gave up just before I got pregnant. But every now and again, I felt the need.

‘They won’t kill you, you know,’ a voice said from behind me.

I turned to see a teenage girl with long, white-blonde hair watching me, a smile on her pretty face. It was one of the schoolgirls from the other day.

‘Do you mean they will kill me?’ I asked.

The girl shook her head. She had bare feet and I could see her nipples through her white summer dress. ‘Contrary to what people say, the cigarette won’t kill you. The disease will have been there for a while.’

My eyes alighted on the girl’s nipples then I looked away, towards the cave. ‘Thanks for that little fact.’

‘You’re the writer, aren’t you?’

I looked back at her in surprise. ‘How do you know?’

‘Idris knows everything.’

‘Idris?’

‘Yes, Idris,’ the girl said, a lazy smile on her face as she nodded over towards him as he painted on the cave walls. ‘He told us you’re a writer.’

I felt my heart hammer like a thunderclap. ‘He told you?’

‘He says it’s important that people like us – creatives – stick together.’

‘Is it now?’ I tapped some ash into a nook in the cliff, trying to appear casual. ‘So how does Idris know I’m a writer then?’

‘It’s like I said, he knows everything.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me he walks on water too.’

‘Of course not. But there are more interesting things than walking on water.’ The girl smiled a dreamy smile as she twirled her hair around her fingers. Was she stoned? ‘I write poetry,’ she said, ‘Idris let me write a line on the cave. I live there now. My friend came too but I think she’ll go home tonight, she doesn’t like the fact there’s no shower.’

‘Can’t blame her.’ I looked the girl up and down. She was small-boned. Tiny. Face of a child. But something told me she wasn’t as young as she looked. ‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’ She bit her lip, still smiling. ‘My dad’s gone ballistic.’

‘I bet he has.’

‘Mum’s living with us in the cave now though, and my little brother too. Can I have some?’ the girl asked, gesturing towards my cigarette.

I took a final drag then handed it over to the girl. ‘Finish it. How old’s your brother?’

‘Eight.’

The same age as Becky.

The girl leaned against the rock right next to me, her arm brushing against mine. She put her bare foot up behind her and took a drag.

‘Maybe I’d like to write a novel one day,’ the girl said. ‘Idris told me I need to grow first, mature.’

‘Plenty of people publish novels at your age. Mary Shelley came up with the idea for Frankenstein when she was eighteen.’

The girl rolled her eyes. ‘He meant spiritually, not literally. People are so obsessed with age, with numbers full stop. If people stopped fixating on numbers and statistics, the world would be a better place. I mean, take this recession. All this obsessing with money and numbers, and we’re back to square one. All we need to do is to get into the current.’

‘The current? You mean like the sea?’

The girl smiled mysteriously and shook her head. ‘Nope.’

‘What do you mean then?’

‘You’ll need to come to the cave to find out. Idris explains it best.’

I suddenly felt an irrational anger at the girl, at her dreamy expression, her big nipples and free-living. ‘Might be worth you formulating some of your own thoughts before believing every word of some stranger,’ I snapped.

The girl frowned.

I looked at my wrist for the time. ‘The numbers on my watch are telling me I should go. But enjoy the ciggie!’

I went to walk away but the girl ran after me and grabbed my elbow. ‘Why do you have to go? Come visit the cave! It’s a haven for writers. Maybe you’ll end up living there like me?’

‘Let me think,’ I said, pretending to ponder things. ‘I have a mortgage to pay, a child to support. Plus my husband might have a heart attack at the prospect of no second income.’

The girl let my wrist go, looking at me with sympathy. ‘All numbers. Don’t you see? That sentence you just uttered is all numbers. What if you just left it behind, came to the cave with me right now?’ She put her hand out to me again. ‘Come.’

I hesitated; something inside me was tempted. Then I took in the girl’s stained dress, the dark circles under her eyes. ‘No thanks. The numbers beckon.’

A few minutes later, I was back at the office. It was time I stopped dreaming and faced reality. I was thirty-eight, for God’s sake, not eighteen. I couldn’t just bunk off work.

‘Did you forget something?’ Daphne asked as I walked into the meeting room.

‘Mike turned up in the end so I could come back.’

‘Wonderful!’ My boss turned back to the rest of the room. ‘So, about the milk that was stolen …’

The rest of the week was miserable; the weather was moody and the atmosphere in the house reflected it. Mike was having a tough time in his job, working long hours to prove his worth in the face of more redundancies. He was clearly growing more and more resentful of the fact I worked part-time. I usually let his irritation wash over me, but that week was different. Maybe it was the cave and the encounter with that silly girl … and the fact I wasn’t writing much. Maybe the girl was right. Maybe that cave was a haven for writers and all I needed was a few hours there?

It was certainly attracting a lot of attention in town – in particular the mysterious Idris, with more and more rumours circulating about him. According to one woman, who I’d overheard at the café one lunchtime, he was a millionaire from Canada who’d turned his back on his fortune after his wife died. Monica reckoned he was an Australian artist on the run after forging masterpieces. Perhaps my favourite rumour was that he was a rock star from New Zealand.

When the morning of Haley’s son’s party arrived, Mike took Becky out so I could focus on the cake I’d promised to bake. I stared at the recipe I’d found in a library cookbook. A cake in the shape of a monkey, for God’s sake. What had possessed me to offer to do it? I looked at the clock. I had four whole hours before Mike was due back with Becky. Four whole hours of baking … or four hours of writing?

‘Screw this,’ I said out loud.

I grabbed my keys and ran outside, jumping into the car. I’d seen a gorgeous cake shop a few towns down with lots of children’s cakes on display. I headed straight down there, and when I stepped inside, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The first cake to greet me was in the shape of a monkey face. No monkey body but it was close enough. In fact, it was fate!

When Mike and Becky got back, they were amazed when they saw it.

‘Oh my gosh, Mummy, this looks amazing,’ Becky declared.

I smoothed down my apron, the flour and chocolate I’d scattered over it earlier falling to the floor.

‘It does,’ Mike said, brow creased slightly. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘It was easier than I thought actually,’ I said, wiping the sides down.

‘Then you’ll have to do it more often,’ Mike murmured, wrapping his arms around me as Becky skipped out into the garden. I froze. He rarely touched me nowadays. Clearly the domestic goddess vibe turned him on.

I peered at the clock. ‘We better start getting ready, the party’s in an hour.’

‘Wear something sexy for me,’ Mike said.

I looked at him in surprise. ‘What’s got into you?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I guess you’ll find out tonight if Becky goes to sleep on time.’

I smiled but, inside, I felt nothing. Shouldn’t I feel something for my husband? A thrill, or some millimetre of warmth? There was nothing.

I squeezed out from his embrace. ‘I’ll go and transform from domestic goddess to sexy fox then.’

Half an hour later, I stood staring at myself in the mirror. I was wearing a crimson lace dress with a plunging neckline. It wasn’t quite right for a child’s party but I didn’t care. It would give the other parents something to talk about!

I stepped closer to my reflection, putting my fingers to my eyes and pulling at the delicate skin around them. I was getting wrinkles. The odd grey hair or two under my dye job.

I thought of the young girl I’d encountered by the cave a few days ago, so young and smooth with those pert nipples of hers. I lifted my breasts, noticing the fine lines between them. I knew I was attractive, had been told it all my life, just as my mother had. But lately, I’d been less confident of it.

I suddenly got a flash of my mother staring at herself in the mirror with the same disappointed look on her face.

No. I’m nothing like her.

I grabbed a patterned scarf, winding it around my neck to cover the fine lines on my cleavage, then I smeared some red lipstick on and twisted my long dark hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, pulling some locks down to frame the front of my face.

‘Gorgeous,’ Mike said as he walked into the bedroom. He wrapped his arms around me. I resisted a moment, then leaned into him. He loved me, found me attractive. Wasn’t that what mattered?

‘What if we just forget about the party?’ I said. ‘Get Julie and Greg to look after Becky, go on an impulsive weekend away like we used to?’

Mike laughed. ‘What about the cake?’

‘What about it? Julie can come and collect it. We’ll say we’re ill. Food poisoning …’

Mike shook his head, unwinding his arms from my waist and turning around to check his checked shirt in the mirror. ‘You’re being ridiculous. Come on, we’ll be late.’

I felt disappointment roar through me. ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ I said.

When Mike walked out, I looked at myself in the mirror again, saw the smile drop instantly from my face. For a moment, I was sure I could see the four walls of the room behind me shifting inwards.

‘Trapped,’ I whispered to myself. ‘I feel trapped.’

‘Why are you trapped, Mummy?’

I jumped, putting a hand to my chest as I noticed Becky standing in the hallway, watching me. I walked over to my daughter and pulled her into a hug, burying my nose in her soft sweet hair and drawing comfort from her.

‘No, darling, Mummy’s not trapped. Come on, let’s go to this party.’

Ten minutes later, we were at the village hall, the monkey cake held up at my chest as Becky looked on proudly.

Haley jogged over when she saw us, blowing a wisp of hair from her eyes.

‘Stressed?’ I asked her.

‘Organising a library event for a hundred dignitaries was less stressful than this.’ She looked down at the cake in my hands, her pretty face lighting up. ‘But so what, I have a monkey cake! You are a genius, Selma!’

‘She is, isn’t she?’ Mike said proudly.

‘My mummy’s very clever!’ Becky added, jumping up and down in excitement. So this was how it felt to be the wonderful mother and domestic goddess Mike wanted. Why did it make me feel so empty?

‘Oh Selma, how do you do it?’ I peered up to see Cynthia approach, looking at the cake in awe as she elbowed Donna out of the way. ‘Working, writing … and cake-making! I’m pre-booking you for Elijah’s first birthday.’

So now suddenly I was flavour of the month. What measures these people judged success on!

‘Sorry but I’m never making a cake again,’ I declared, forcing myself to be jolly. ‘I’m still emotionally scarred from this experience.’

‘So’s the kitchen,’ Mike said with a laugh. ‘It looks like a bomb hit it.’

Other mums jogged over, cooing over the cake, but I felt numb. I was hoping I’d enjoy it, the secret deception. But I felt nothing, not even guilt. In fact, as I watched Haley carry the cake over to the large food table, I hoped she’d slip over, and that the cake would tumble through the air before landing face-down on the hard floor, sickly sweet monkey skull caving in, sugar bananas flying everywhere.

Music started blaring from some speakers as a sprightly-looking woman in a ‘Monkey Fun Children’s Entertainment’ T-shirt bounded into the room. Behind her, Julie and Greg walked in. My stomach sank at the sight of Greg. I’d hoped he wouldn’t be there. I wasn’t sure I could take much more of that man.

‘Gather around, children!’ the entertainer cried out as the children rushed over.

I retreated with Mike to the back of the hall as the party games unfolded. Over the next hour, I gulped down warm wine, growing hot in the stifling hall. I went to unwind my scarf but Mike put his hand on my arm. ‘Best keep it on.’

‘But you wanted me to look sexy,’ I whispered, smiling at him, the wine making my head whir.

He glanced at the fine lines between my breasts. ‘It’s a bit low cut.’

I felt my cheeks flush again and caught sight of Donna, who was watching from nearby with her son Tom.

I suddenly felt the urgent need to be the person she thought I was. So I yanked my scarf off.

‘Well, I’m hot so I’m taking it off,’ I said defiantly to Mike. ‘I’m also getting another wine.’

Donna smiled.

By the end of the party, children were running around, hyper from a mixture of E numbers, exhaustion and excitement. Becky’s pink tutu and white top were filthy, her cheeks red from all the fun. The party entertainer started singing an off-key version of ‘HappyBirthday’ and everyone joined in, including Becky, who screamed the lyrics at the top of her lungs as she bobbed up and down. I felt my heart surge as I looked at my daughter. There’s never been anything fake about Becky, especially back then. It was all pure and unadulterated joy. As I watched her, I wished I could be like that.

‘Pub?’ Greg said to Mike as the party wrapped up. ‘Few of us going to The Kingfisher next door.’ I noticed he didn’t look at me this time, even with my low-cut top.

‘Yay, pub!’ Becky said, clapping her hands.

Greg and Julie burst out laughing. ‘It gets Becky’s vote,’ Mike said. ‘That okay?’ he asked me. ‘Just one pint.’

I shrugged. ‘Go on then.’

That one pint turned into many and one hour turned into three as several sets of parents gathered around two pub benches in the setting sun. The pub had a pretty garden surrounded by trees, with benches littered all over. As I sipped my gin, a welcome reprieve from the warm wine, I grew quiet, watching the others chat, enjoying the way the gin made my head swim.

‘Right, listen up everyone,’ Cynthia said dramatically, clapping her hands like a headmistress, the sun dipping into the sea behind her. ‘I’ve started a petition to get rid of that homeless man.’

I looked at her over the top of my sunglasses. ‘Idris, you mean?’

Mike frowned. ‘Is that his name?’

‘That’s what I’ve heard,’ I replied casually, taking a quick swig of gin and sweeping my dark fringe from my eyes.

‘If we get enough signatures,’ Cynthia said, ‘our local councillor has agreed to look into it, get the man evicted from that cave.’

‘Isn’t it owned by the Petersons?’ Haley asked.

‘Not any more. It was taken over by someone else years ago,’ Greg said.

‘No one can get hold of the new owner,’ Cynthia added. ‘But the councillor I know says he’s found a way of getting around it. He’ll have the man out within the week if we add some pressure as local parents.’

‘He’s not doing any harm though, is he?’ Donna said softly.

‘Of course he is, Donna!’ Cynthia exclaimed. ‘He’s dealing drugs from that cave.’

‘We don’t know that,’ I said, irritation ticking at the core of me. ‘The country’s in the middle of a recession, Cynthia. He might have just lost his job.’

‘But it’s obvious something’s going on,’ Cynthia’s husband Clive said, a man who held himself in that straight-backed way that suggested he wanted to let everyone know he was in charge. ‘All those kids hanging around.’

‘Kids,’ Greg said. ‘That’s the operative word here. I don’t think drugs is the real issue. The man clearly has a thing for young girls.’

Everyone nodded apart from me and Donna.

Donna frowned. ‘I don’t think that’s very fair.’

‘Speak up, love!’ Clive said, Cynthia laughing.

‘She said it isn’t fair!’ I said in a loud voice. ‘Can you hear yourselves?’

Mike put a warning hand on my leg but I shoved him away.

‘There’s no evidence of these allegations,’ I continued, feeling all the frustrations of the past few days building up inside. ‘Just rumours and speculation.’

‘Rumours should be enough when it comes to our children, Selma,’ Cynthia said, the lines around her mouth tight. ‘As a mum, you should—’

‘Oh yes, as a mum,’ I replied, taking another swig of gin. ‘I should be perfect in every single fucking way, shouldn’t I?’

Cynthia shut her mouth as Greg raised an eyebrow, everyone around the table going quiet. Only Donna smiled slightly.

‘Selma,’ Mike hissed, hand now painfully squeezing my knee.

I closed my eyes, felt something boiling and frothing within. Part of me wanted to contain it, but the other part wanted to let it explode and roar. Mike could sense it – I felt it in the firmness of his hand on my leg.

‘You do like defending the man, don’t you?’ Cynthia asked.

I opened my eyes, looking right into Cynthia’s cunning green ones.

‘And you like defending your husband, don’t you?’ I snapped back. ‘Despite the fact everyone knows he fucked the nanny?’

Everyone’s mouth dropped open, even Donna’s. Cynthia’s cheeks flushed and her husband’s face went white.

‘Jesus, Selma,’ Mike said.

I looked at them all, at all the shocked and wounded faces around the table. I knew I’d gone too far, but I realised I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all.

I stood up. ‘I need to get away from here.’

‘Yes, I think you do,’ Mike said, grabbing my arm and standing with me.

I pulled my arm away from him, glaring at him. ‘No, you stay.’

I peered at Becky who was playing with her friends at the back of the pub garden. Then I walked away, my heels grappling with the gravel in the car park, my mind full of a heady mixture of emotions: guilt, embarrassment, pride and exhilaration.

‘Fuck them all,’ I said to myself, forcing the guilt and embarrassment away. I quickened my step, heading towards the sea, chest feeling like it might explode. The sea roared around me, the darkening skies above regarding me as though to ask: ‘What next, Selma? What next?’

In response, I started running, my dark hair untangling from the high bun I’d ended up putting it into, streaming behind me. When I finally got to the sea, I grabbed onto the edge of one of the chalk stacks, leaning over and gasping for breath. Then I stumbled to the water’s edge, sinking to the ground, the smell of sand and seaweed clogging my nostrils.

‘I can’t,’ I said, grabbing onto handfuls of sand. ‘I can’t do this any more. I just can’t.’

I closed my eyes and saw the faces of all the people who’d made up my social world the past few years. And then I saw Mike … and Becky.

My beautiful Becky.

They were the walls with which I’d built my life lately.

They are my prison.

I imagined those walls falling one by one, a glimpse of light in the distance. Just some space, that was all I needed. A few days would give me a chance to catch my breath and get away from it all. It had worked another time, many years ago, when Becky was a newborn. Why wouldn’t it work now?

I let out a sob as I thought of Becky. No! What was I thinking? I couldn’t just run away, I had responsibilities …

Or could I?

‘I can’t,’ I whispered.

‘You can,’ a voice said.

I froze. Someone had spoken, a voice carried over on the breeze. I explored the darkness behind me then noticed a figure. Of course, I knew who it was before he stepped into the moonlight.

Idris.




Chapter Five (#ulink_15ae9365-5401-5964-ac26-b16e5d1b6ca3)


Becky

Sussex, UK

1 June 2018

Becky has to sit down when she hears her mum’s voice at the end of the phone, grasping at the arm of the chair she’s in, trying to control her breathing.

Ten years.

It has been ten years since they last spoke. They’d had an argument over her mum’s reluctance to send money to help Mike after a walking accident in France. Not that they’d talked much before then anyway, just the occasional awkward dinner for some birthdays, the odd letter. Of course, the cheque had arrived the next day for her dad. But the words her mum had spoken as she’d tried to defend herself, the bitterness and hatred she’d directed at Mike, the lies, had been the final straw.

Until now.

Her mum clears her throat. ‘He said I ought to call.’

‘Who said?’

‘The annoying nurse standing over me right now. Honestly, you should see the look he’s giving me.’ There’s a voice in the background, some laughter.

‘You’re in hospital?’ Becky asks.

A sigh. ‘It seems so.’

Fear bubbles at Becky’s core but she swipes it away. She can never be sure with her mum. She must wait, see what she says, before she allows herself to react.

Summer pads over, nudging her nose into Becky’s lap as though sensing her discomfort. She pats her dog’s head, drawing strength from her.

‘Are you okay?’ Becky asks politely, like she’s asking an acquaintance.

‘I’m dying.’

Becky drops the phone. She scrambles to grab it before it hits the wooden floor. The other dogs bounce in, crowding the hallway. Becky stands, pressing the phone to her ear.

‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Just … wait. What’s wrong with you?’ she asks, voice trembling.

‘Cancer. Of course it’s cancer. When isn’t it cancer?’

‘Jesus.’ Becky paces up and down the hallway as the dogs trot after her. ‘Have they actually told you you’re dying? The doctors, I mean?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Becky’s medical training suddenly rushes to the fore. She grasps at it like it’s an anchor stopping her from drowning. ‘What type of cancer?’

‘Breast cancer.’

‘Have you had chemo? There are new advances, new treatments being developed. You have money, they can—’

‘Oh Becky, sweetheart, I’m a lost cause.’

Becky feels tears spring to her eyes. She looks up at the ceiling. It doesn’t matter what her mum has done really. She’s Becky’s flesh and blood. The person who gave birth to her, who had her curled up inside of her for nine months.

And now she’s dying. She will be gone,the person she wakes each morning thinking of despite all her attempts not to.

Becky takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. ‘How long?’

‘Days, they’re saying.’

Becky suddenly feels sick. How could it be days?

‘Are you still there, Becky?’ Her mum’s voice cracks then. The first hint of vulnerability. It strikes such sadness in Becky’s heart, she can hardly breathe.

‘Sorry, Mum, just trying to get a handle on things,’ Becky whispers.

They’re silent for a few moments. Just breathing together, mother and daughter.

‘Will you come?’ her mum eventually asks, her voice small like a child’s. ‘I don’t want to die alone.’

Becky puts her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. ‘Of course. Where are you? I’ll be right there.’

The ward Becky’s mum is staying in isn’t bleak like Becky expected. Instead, there are sunny scenes painted on the walls. Becky can even see her old hometown’s quaint shops from the vast windows that line the back, including the charming little bookshop she remembers her mum doing a signing at once. It was three years after her mum had left. Becky was living in Busby-in-Sea with her dad then, settled at school … just. It had taken time to adjust to a life without her mum’s presence in it, without any woman’s presence, especially at certain times, like when she needed to buy her first bra. A chat over the phone or a quick lunch snatched in between her mum’s writing deadlines weren’t quite enough for occasions like that. She’d hoped a weekend stay with her mum to attend the launch of her novel would change things, but her mum had been so busy and flustered sorting out her party, practising her speech. Did that sound right to you, Becky? The part about writing being like the float keeping me above water? Would boat be better? It meant they barely spent time together to say hello, let alone talk about shopping for bras. An eleven-year-old Becky had attended that book launch resentful and sulky, the photos after showing not one smile from her.

Now that same bookshop displays a poster of a moody-looking novel called The Cave,described as a ‘gripping novel from debut author Thomas Delaney’, a photo beneath it of a slightly overweight man in his thirties with a walking stick.

It was strange coming back to the town she’d left all those years ago, seeing the familiar chalk stacks in the distance, the sandy bay and the quaint shops. Maybe part of her had known she’d be here for this one day, her mum ill or dying.

But not so soon.

She pauses at the entrance to her mum’s ward. The last time she was here would have been when she was a newborn on the maternity ward a floor down. She thinks of the photos she once pored over after her mum left, especially the one of her holding Becky in her arms, looking down at her with a frown, as though the tiny being was so confusing to her, so alien.

Becky sighs and peers at the sign at the front of the ward.

Ward 3. Oncology.

The sight of that sign makes her stomach turn. She is used to seeing that word on notes and in books. That word was for her patients, which was bad enough anyway, but now it is for her mum.

She takes a deep breath and walks in, past the smiling suns and fluffy clouds. She knows her mum would hate all that. Her old office in their first house was dark and brooding: an autumnal forest scene across one wall, brown paint on the others, mahogany furniture, the only sparks of colour in the form of deep purple cushions and scarlet pens. No doubt she is feeling out of sorts here in this hospital.

Maybe that’s why she needs me, Becky reasons. A familiar face.

Is she really so familiar though? It’s been ten years, after all. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in a window she passes: blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, her face makeup free. Old jeans peppered with muddy paw prints. At least her light blue T-shirt is fresh, pulled on from the top of the clean laundry pile in a rush. But it’s a contrast to her mum, who was always glamorous, always perfectly made-up. Would she be any different now? She was sixty-five, after all.

Becky searches the ward for her mum. There are ten beds squeezed in. People are dozing. Some have visitors. There are cards wishing them well, flowers bright and thriving as though to detract from the life seeping from their recipients’ bodies.

A male nurse passes. Becky wonders if it’s the nurse who was with her mum when she called.

‘Excuse me,’ she says, stopping him. ‘I’m looking for my mum, she’s—’

‘Oh yeah,’ he says, smiling. ‘You must be Miss Rhys’s daughter.’

Becky nods. It is strange that her mum has kept her married name all this time, but Becky is not surprised. It is the name her readers know her as.

‘Come through. She’s in the private room,’ the nurse says.

Private. Of course. She is an acclaimed author, after all.

‘Is it as bad as she says?’ Becky asks the nurse as they walk to her mum’s room.

‘I’m afraid so,’ he says with a sigh. ‘She does a good job of looking well, but it won’t be long.’ He pauses and puts a hand on Becky’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Becky takes a deep breath. ‘I just had no idea, that’s all. We haven’t talked in years.’

The nurse frowns. ‘She told me you were at her last book launch a few months ago.’

Becky tenses. No doubt one of her mum’s embellishments. ‘No, she must be getting confused.’

The nurse nods sympathetically. ‘It happens.’

He leads her down a small corridor lined with doors, knocking gently on one of them.

‘Oh, you don’t need to knock, Nigel,’ Becky hears her mum call out. ‘God knows you’ve seen it all already the past few days.’

It feels strange to hear her mum’s voice again, just a metre or so away instead of over the phone. Deep and gravelly like it’s scratched with sand.

The nurse laughs. ‘Your daughter’s here, Miss Rhys.’

Becky smooths her hair down, feeling nervous.

‘Come in then,’ her mum calls out. The nurse opens the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he whispers with a raised eyebrow. Then he walks away.

Becky stands at the threshold. She can’t see her mum properly, just the end of her bed and a large window that looks out to sea. Suddenly, she feels the urge to run away. Hadn’t her mum once, when Becky needed her the most? She was just eight, for God’s sake. And yet her mum had still turned on her heel and left, hadn’t she?

But she wasn’t like her mum.

She walks in, her mum gradually revealed with each step she takes. She’s lying in bed, head turned towards the window, her once lush dark hair now brittle and greying in parts. Her arms that were once plump and tanned are now thin, papery and white, and her apple cheeks are sunken.

She turns towards Becky. Even her blue eyes have changed. Once vivid but now pale and watery. The only sign of her old self is a kind of fierceness in those eyes. And, of course, the vividly coloured nightdress, bright green nightingales against navy skies.

Her mum smiles slightly and, for a moment, time stops. Becky’s that eight-year-old girl again, standing on a windswept beach, reaching her hand out to her mum as she smiles down at her.

‘You came,’ her mum says.

‘Of course.’ Becky walks over as her mum struggles to pull herself up, adjusting the top of her nightdress. Becky examines her mum’s face. There are folds and creases there she’s unused to. Her mum was never smooth-faced – a few pockmarks from childhood acne on her cheeks, crinkles around her eyes even when she was young – but they made her even more beautiful. But her age is really showing now. The torment of illness.

‘Not quite how you remember me, I imagine,’ her mum says as though reading Becky’s thoughts.

‘It has been ten years,’ Becky replies. She moves a book from the chair by her mum’s bed so she can sit down. Love by Angela Carter. She remembers her mum reading a lot of Angela Carter’s books.

‘Has it really been ten years?’ her mum asks.

‘Yes, that long.’ Becky leans forward. She feels like she ought to take her mum’s hand, kiss her cheek. But things feel so brittle between them, like one touch might break everything. ‘How long have you known?’

‘I’ve known about the cancer for years.’

Becky frowns. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I seem to recall you saying you never wanted to speak to me again the last time we talked.’

Becky’s cheeks flush.

‘Anyway, I’ve been managing fine until now.’ Her mum straightens her crisp white bedsheets with her fingers and shrugs. ‘Had to catch up with me sooner or later, I suppose.’

‘I presume it’s spread?’ Becky asks.

Her mum nods. ‘Brain. Bones. Liver. Cuticles and hair strands too, probably. The lot.’

Becky turns away, a tear trailing down her cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices her mum reaching her hand out for her.

Then there’s a knock on the door.

Her mum lowers her hand. ‘Come in!’ she calls out in a faux bright voice.

A doctor walks in; an Indian woman, tall and serious looking.

‘Ah, you have a visitor,’ the doctor says, smiling.

‘Yes, this is my daughter,’ Becky’s mum replies.

Becky stands, putting her hand out to the doctor. ‘I’m Becky.’

The doctor shakes it. ‘Doctor Panchal.’ She turns to her patient. ‘How are you today?’

‘Not dead yet,’ Becky’s mum replies.

Doctor Panchal gives her a stern look. She turns to Becky. ‘I’m pleased you’re here. Your mum may have explained that we’re making preparations to move her to a hospice, a very good one. They have an excellent reputation in palliative care.’

Becky blinks. Palliative care. End of life. End of her mum’s life.

‘My daughter’s one of you lot, you know,’ her mum says to the doctor.

‘You’re a doctor too?’ the doctor asks Becky.

‘No, a vet,’ Becky explains.

The doctor smiles. ‘Wonderful. I have two cats.’

‘What sort?’ Becky asks, clutching onto the familiar conversation to stop her whirling down a rabbit’s hole of grief.

‘Siamese.’

‘I had a Siamese cat in one of my novels,’ her mum says.

‘Oh yes,’ the doctor replied. ‘The Circle, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’ Becky’s mum sighs. ‘It’s actually my least favourite novel.’

‘Oh really?’ the doctor says. ‘I loved it!’

It still feels alien to Becky, hearing people fuss over her mum’s novels. She was used to those early years, when her mum was struggling to make a success of things. But now, her mum has several million book sales and awards under her belt. Of course, she’d watched it all happen from afar, reading articles in newspapers describing her mum as the ‘Sunday Times bestselling author’ and ‘book club favourite’, the publicity photo of her staring out to sea, trademark sunglasses on, all Greta Garbo-esque. Then she’d won a major book award a few months later, and foreign deals meant she made it big in the States too.

At first, she gave interviews that Becky would read and throw away in frustration when she saw the little white lies littered throughout them: ‘My divorce was amicable; I still see my husband.’ Or: ‘I see my daughter as much as I can.’

But the articles petered out after her mum started withdrawing from the public eye – no more inviting journalists into her home to chat. Becky had been surprised at how much she’d resented that. She was hungry for more details of her mum’s life outside the brief visits they had before they became estranged, so her mum’s new solitude made her angry.

And then her mum had moved to the vast house above the cave. Becky had found out about it a few years ago after reading a feature in one of the glossy Sunday magazines, a photo of the ‘reclusive author’ outside her new home, the cave sprawled out below it. Becky wanted to call the journalist who’d written the piece and scream: ‘That cave was where she ran away to! That was what she abandoned me for.’

But she hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. Instead, she tried to ignore any mention of her mum, of her growing book sales and accolades, glamour and enigma.

‘I think Becky could have been a good writer actually,’ her mum says now.

Becky laughs. ‘Seriously?’

‘You won that short story competition once, remember?’

Becky knows what she’s referring to. And she hadn’t won it, she’d got third place. She was still proud though, and had even brought it to one of the monthly meet-ups she’d had with her mum in those initial years after she’d left. Her mum had read the story, then peered up at her. ‘You’ll improve, with time.’ And that was it, nothing else.

‘I came third, Mum,’ Becky says now.

‘Oh, first or third, it doesn’t matter. It was a wonderful story.’

Becky frowned. ‘You didn’t give that impression when you read it!’

‘Probably because I was trying to hide the fact I was about to start crying.’ She looks at the doctor. ‘I get teary when I’m proud. What about art?’ she continues. ‘You were always so good at drawing, Becky. Remember that painting you did of the horse for my fortieth birthday?’

‘Dog.’

‘Ah yes, dog. Such a fabulous painting. If you’d just put your mind to—’

‘I did put my mind to something!’ Becky exclaims, her patience running out. ‘I’m a vet!’

The doctor raises an eyebrow. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you both to catch up.’ She backs out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

‘You’re a bit tetchy this evening,’ her mum says when the doctor leaves.

‘Discovering your mother’s dying kind of does that to a girl.’

Her mum smiles and Becky can’t help but smile back. She knows how spiky her mum can be. Why get upset about it now, when they have so little time left?

‘So the hospice your doctor mentioned sounds nice,’ she says, sitting down again.

Her mum makes a face. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘It’ll be the best place for you, really.’

She crosses her thin arms. ‘Nope. Not happening.’

‘But you can’t stay here,’ Becky counters as gently as she can. ‘Hospices like the one your doctor mentioned are there for a very specific reason. And many of them have lovely, beautiful grounds. They’re peaceful places, and more spacious.’

Her mum pulls at her sheets, biting her lip. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’d still feel trapped.’

Trapped.

Becky has a memory then, of her mum standing in front of the mirror at home. ‘Trapped, I feel trapped,’ she remembers her saying.

She pushes the memory away. ‘Look Mum,’ Becky says gently. ‘I think it’s important you—’

‘I said no!’ her mum shouts. Her voice bounces off the walls. She leans forward, grasping Becky’s hands. ‘I know where I want to die and I need your help to do it.’

‘Where?’

‘The cave. I want to die in the cave.’

Becky moves back. ‘It’s out of the question.’

‘Why?’

‘You don’t understand the care involved. Your priority soon will be comfort. Rest and comfort. And being in a cave will not provide that.’

‘It did once,’ her mum counters.

Becky feels anger bubble up. It’s so tempting to ask her mum where her eight-year-old daughter’s comfort was when she was lying in bed alone at night, wondering when her mum would return. But instead, Becky forces a soft smile, squeezing her mum’s hand.

‘I promise you won’t regret going to the hospice. Let me get more information about it, and some others too so you have options. I think you’ll come to realise it’s the right thing to do.’

Her mum shakes her head in frustration. ‘Please, you’re the only hope I have, Becky! These people here won’t chance it, all obsessed with health and bloody safety. What does it matter when I’m dying anyway?’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I couldn’t do that to you. Let me go and ask about those brochures. Is there anything you need me to get for you while I’m out there? Shall I go to the shop, get some chocolates, a magazine?’

Her mum’s face turns glacial and she looks away. ‘No. I’d like to be alone actually. Probably best if you go home. It’s late.’

Becky watches her mum for a few moments. ‘Are you sure? I can stay, really.’

Her mum folds the top of the bedsheet down, smoothing it. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Right.’ Becky stands up. ‘You know my number, just call if you need anything. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.’

Still no response.

Becky leans over, squeezing her mum’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be okay,’ she says softly. ‘Sleep on it. Things always seem clearer in the morning.’

Her mum’s forehead crinkles slightly. ‘Someone else said the opposite to me once. That clarity comes with darkness.’ Then she sighs and closes her eyes.




Chapter Six (#ulink_f1dc4641-2518-5c1b-918b-b66f7f775571)


Selma

Kent, UK

27 July 1991

Idris was wearing just shorts, holding a fishing line in his hands. His golden hair fell to his tanned shoulders, and his green eyes were so vivid they didn’t seem real. His bare chest was bathed in moonlight and, in that light, I saw scars tapering down his chest.

‘You can,’ he said again, stepping towards me. ‘Whatever the question in your mind is, you must answer yes.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘How did you know I even had a question?’

‘You’re on a precipice. I can sense it.’ He placed his rod down and sat beside me, looking out to sea. He smelt of the sea, salty and luxurious. ‘Your body screams it,’ he said. ‘Your posture, the expression on your face, everything.’

I crunched my hands into fists, watching as the sand squeezed out between my fingers. I wasn’t sitting on this beach to be preached to by someone like him, no matter how much he fascinated me.

‘I came here to be alone,’ I said.

‘Then I’ll leave.’ He went to get up.

‘Wait!’ I couldn’t let him go before asking something. ‘How do you know so much about me? My name? The fact I’m an author?’

He gestured towards the small bookshop in town. ‘You did a signing there.’

‘Ages ago.’

‘They still have a poster up at the back.’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘We’re all reading your book. It’s wonderful.’

‘The Queensbay Cave Dwellers’ Bookclub, is it now?’

He laughed. ‘Something like that. I’ll leave you to it then.’

He went to walk away but something inside me wanted him back. I was so curious about him. Why was I sending him away?

‘Wait. Stay. It’s fine. Now I know you have good reading taste anyway.’

He smiled, walking over and sitting next to me again. ‘Is that how you judge people, by what they read?’

‘Why not?’

We sat in silence for a few moments more, then I turned to him. ‘You said I should say yes to the question in my mind. What if yes means losing everything?’

He thought about it, brow creasing. ‘What is everything to you?’

‘My family. My husband and daughter.’

He explored my face. ‘No. I don’t think that’s everything.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘If that’s the case, that your family is everything, that it makes you whole, why are you looking so empty right now?’

I took in a deep breath then let it out.

‘Society tells you family is everything,’ he said, drawing a circle in the sand with his finger beneath the moonlight. ‘But for some, it’s not enough. For some, there needs to be more.’ He drew an oval around the circle, turning it into an eye.

‘What kind of more?’ I asked, feeling my heart thump against my chest, the hair on my arms stand on end. I did feel I was on the precipice of something. Idris was right.

‘You’re a writer,’ he stated. ‘How do you feel when you’re writing?’

I paused a few moments. ‘Right,’ I said eventually. ‘It just feels … right.’

‘It makes you feel whole?’

I nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘We have callings in life.’ I couldn’t help but scoff and Idris smiled. ‘I know how clichéd that sounds, but it’s the truth. We each have a role to play. Our true callings. Anything that takes us away from that makes us unhappy.’

‘That’s too simplistic a view! Idealistic too. Real life means we can’t dedicate all of our time to one thing.’

He looked me in the eye. ‘Whose version of real life?’

‘Everybody’s!’

‘No, it’s society’s view. It stifles us.’

‘So you recommend we all go live in a cave and write, paint, do whatever it is you and the others in your cave do?’

He shrugged. ‘Why not?’

I sighed. ‘Family. It comes back to my family.’

‘Bring them.’

I laughed. ‘I’m not sure my husband would really be up for that.’

‘Your daughter would. She’d love it.’

‘I’m sure she would until it rained and her dolls got wet.’

He smiled as he peered out to sea. ‘Children love a bit of rain.’

I took a moment to explore his face, to take in the golden bristles on his cheeks, the way his beard glowed white beneath the moonlight. ‘I can’t believe I’m even discussing this with you.’

‘What’s wrong with discussing it? In fact, take it a step further. Come and meet everyone.’ He jutted his chin towards the direction of the cave. ‘The cave is larger than it looks from the outside. We’re making quite a home of it.’

‘You’re seriously trying to recruit me?’

He tilted his head, examining my face. ‘Recruit. That’s an interesting word choice.’ There was an earnestness in his green eyes, a kindness in his expression. He didn’t seem deranged or weird like some said.

‘Who are you?’ I asked him.

He shrugged. ‘A painter. A sculptor.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Ah, I see, you’re a politician answering questions with more questions.’

He laughed. ‘Very far from it.’ His face grew serious. ‘It is an interesting question though. Who are you, Selma Rhys? Close your eyes, really think about it. Block out the light. Clarity comes with darkness. Who are you?’

I tried to grapple with the question. I saw Becky, Mike … then my mother. Her beautiful face. Those cold, cold eyes.

‘Who do you think you are, Selma?’ I remembered my mother once asking. ‘Just who do you think you are?’

Fast-forward twenty years, feeling the weight of my first novel in my hands after it arrived in the post. ‘A writer, Mother. I’m a fucking writer,’ I remembered saying out loud.

‘A writer,’ I said, snapping my eyes open. I realised tears were streaming down my face. I wiped them away, embarrassed. ‘Warm wine always makes me emotional,’ I said with a small laugh.

Idris stood up, putting his hand out to me. ‘Come on, come meet the others.’

I looked at his hand, hesitating. Then I found myself taking it and standing with him in the darkness.




Chapter Seven (#ulink_29fcd6fb-7c63-5e85-9f4f-8624a106aa57)


Becky

Kent, UK

2 June 2018

Becky stares into the darkness of her room. She hears the gentle snores of her dogs from the landing, trying to take comfort in the familiar sound of it. But she can’t sleep. Her mind is racing. All she can see is the desperation in her mum’s eyes as she pleaded to be taken to the cave. Then the bitter disappointment when Becky refused.

Becky looks at the time. Three in the morning. Not even light.

Clarity comes with darkness.

She sighs and gets up, walking to the window and staring out over the field. Summer senses her movement, as she always does, and contemplates her from the landing, her long face resting on her paws.

‘Oh Summer,’ Becky says to her. ‘What am I going to do?’

Summer rises and trots over, putting her face close to Becky’s leg. Becky strokes her soft head.

‘Clarity comes with darkness, apparently,’ she says. ‘So why haven’t I got a clue what to do about my mum?’

In response, Summer jumps up, her paws on the window sill as she peers out, tail wagging. She lets out a low whine, which Becky knows means ‘I want to go out’.

‘You want to go for a walk now?’ Becky asks.

At the mention of the word walk, Womble and Danny suddenly wake up, alert. Becky groans. She should have known not to use that word out loud.

‘I can’t believe this,’ she says as they pad over, wagging their tails. ‘I’m going to have to take you all out, aren’t I?’ They grow more excited and she laughs. ‘Fine. Come on then! Maybe the darkness will give me some clarity.’

She pulls on some jeans and a light jumper, then heads outside. She is surprised that it’s not pitch black, as the moon casts a silver light across the fields. The dogs leap ahead of her, excited at being out in the dark. Becky welcomes the cool air of night. But it doesn’t clear the cobwebs inside. Her mum is wrong, darkness doesn’t bring clarity.

‘Ah, another person who’s awake,’ a voice says from the darkness. She looks up to see David. He’s standing at his kitchen door, a mug in his hand. The dogs leap over the fence and bound over to him as he laughs.

‘Couldn’t sleep either?’ Becky asks him.

‘Never been a big sleeper. Not seen you out at this time of night before though.’

‘I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.’

‘Your mother?’

Becky nods. She’d told him about it as she’d hurriedly rushed to her car the evening before, asking him to let the dogs out if she wasn’t back within three hours or so.

‘Want to talk about it?’ he asks now.

‘Only if you have another one of those going,’ she says, gesturing towards his mug.

‘I can certainly arrange that for you.’

She smiles and lets herself into his garden through the gate, walking into the kitchen. There’s a lamp on, casting a soft glow around the room. She’s always liked his kitchen, full of knick-knacks picked up from his years running a pub in Ireland: ornate pint glasses, horses’ shoes, framed photos of racehorses. It feels comfortable in there, a contrast to the place she used to live in with her dad in Busby-on-Sea, which was always so sparse.

‘So, how is your mother?’ David asks, bringing a mug of steaming hot chocolate over to her.

‘Her usual defiant self. A few lies thrown in too, par the course.’

He smiles. She’s told him about her mum over the years – small details, but enough to form a picture.

‘I met her doctor,’ Becky adds, blowing on her drink, steam spiralling up from the mug. She takes a quick sip, feeling the tears start to come. ‘What she said is true. They think she only has a few days.’

David frowns, looking down at his own drink. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says with a heavy sigh.

‘She wants to die in the cave she ran away to.’

He peers up at Becky, his frown deepening. ‘Really?’

‘Yep. It’s impossible, of course. What with all the medication and equipment she needs.’

‘Is it?’ He looks into her eyes. ‘Or are you just hoping it’s impossible?’

‘What do you mean?’

David places his mug down and drags his chair to be closer to her. Under the light of the lamp, she notices how old he looks, how tired.

‘I mean maybe you don’t want to do as your mother asks because she’s been doing as she wants all her life. Maybe this time, you’re in control and that feels good.’

Becky shakes her head. ‘It’s not like that. You know I’m not like that!’

He shrugs. ‘I didn’t know the little girl who got left behind by her mother. This is bringing all that back, I bet.’

Becky frowns. ‘Maybe. But the fact still remains, a cave isn’t a nice place to die.’

‘Isn’t it? Just don’t rush into a decision you might regret. If she thinks she was happy there, for a while anyway, then it might be the best place for her.’

I think you’ll be happy here, Becks, I really do.

A memory comes to her of her mum smiling down at her, the cave behind her. Her mum had said that to her once.

David yawns.

‘Sorry, this isn’t exactly the conversation to have at three in the morning,’ Becky says.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘No, really,’ Becky replies, standing. ‘I’m tired anyway. We both are.’

‘You know I’m always here.’

‘I do.’ She squeezes his hand. That’s the thing with David, he is more than just a neighbour. She always finds it so easy to talk to him. It’s probably because he gives such sensible, sound advice.

A few minutes later, Becky is back in bed, the dogs flat out on the landing. She closes her eyes and sleep comes instantly, but it’s peppered with dreams of her mum, as she was back then. So beautiful, full of curves, those blue eyes, arms wrapping around Becky’s small body. The cave again, her mum’s words: I think you’ll be happy here, Becks, I really do.

Then the scene changes. Her mum’s sitting on a swing, crying. She peers up, sees Becky and smiles. ‘Only you make me smile,’ she hears her whisper. ‘Only you, Becky.’

Scenes from a party next, loud music, a cake in the shape of a monkey. Everyone is smiling, happy, apart from her mum.

Then finally, the sight of her mum running away into the darkness, a look of freedom on her face that Becky had never seen before, the cave beckoning her …

Just as the sun begins to rise the next day, Becky makes her way back to the hospital. When she gets there, it’s eerily quiet. The light from the sun outside the vast windows is white, blinding. She heads to her mum’s room but a nurse, tired and disapproving, stops her. ‘No visitors until nine.’

‘It’s important,’ Becky says.

The nurse holds her gaze. Something in Becky’s expression must make her change her mind. ‘Okay, just a few minutes,’ the nurse says.

Becky walks to her mum’s room. Her mum is sitting up in bed, as though she’s been expecting her.

‘You wanted me to live in the cave with you, didn’t you?’ Becky asks her.

Her mum nods, smiling slightly. ‘I left your dad, darling, not you. I wanted to take you with me. I fought to have you with me. Even went to court.’

Becky frowns. ‘Court?’ She vaguely remembers talking to official-looking people, but nothing about her mum going to court. Her dad must have kept it from her. Maybe that was a good thing. ‘Why didn’t I get to live with you then?’

Her mum’s face darkens. She sighs and looks out of the window. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

Becky walks to the chair by her bed, sitting down and taking her mum’s hand. ‘I’ll take you to the cave.’

Her mum’s face lights up. Then, for the first time in a long time, Becky sees her mum cry.

That evening, they arrive in the little car park near the cave. Becky peers behind her, anticipating a nurse chasing after them, maybe even the police. It feels so illicit, sneaking her mum out of hospital. Even more so grabbing all the medication and supplies Becky needed from the vet practice, telling Kay she’d explain everything but she needed a few days off.

She helps her mum out of the car, shrugging the large rucksack she’s brought onto her back. Her mum pauses, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looks out towards the bay. A hidden treasure, as the tourist website describes it. Stretches of golden sand. White cliffs. But the biggest draw: the white chalk stacks extending towards the sky. Perfect photo fodder, especially at sunset. Becky remembers being there as a child, walking on the sand, feeling it beneath her toes. Her mum posing against one of the rocks as her dad took photos. Click, click, click.

And then darker memories, glaring at the cave from a distance, its opening like the mouth of a monster who’d gobbled her mum up.

‘Good, the tide’s out. Let’s go,’ Becky says. Her mum nods and they step carefully onto the wooden pathway, Becky supporting her mum’s frail body.

The café is still there. Tired-looking. Quiet before the evening rush. Becky remembers they used to go there some evenings and weekends. She’d chase her friends around as her mum sat drinking gin, dark sunglasses over her eyes, Mike silent beside her. And then those times after her mum left; the awkward meet-ups that grew more and more infrequent as the months went by. The memories still cause her pain – how desperate she was to run to her mum and beg her to come back, but her childish insolence stopped her every time.

They step off the pathway and onto the sand, walking across the shadows of the chalk stacks slowly, surely. The next bay comes into view then. You don’t see them at first, the caves. Like hidden entrances in a labyrinth, they’re sliced into the sides of the white cliffs. The first one, smaller than the others, is strewn with rubbish, remnants of burnt-out candles. Becky wonders whether she’d have come here as a teenager if she had stayed with her mum, smoked things she shouldn’t have, curled up with boys instead of reading alone. It might have been a very different life to that she’d had in the town she and her dad had eventually moved to.

She helps her mum limp past the first cave, then the second, which is larger but so low you have to duck to get in. In the distance, her mum’s house, the hotel, stands grand above the last cave. Her mum’s step quickens, her breath too, as they draw closer to her cave, as she’s been calling it. It’s right at the end of the bay, away from the hustle and bustle of the more popular bay, cut off by a jagged plank of white cliff.

And then, there it is, in all its glory. The cave that swallowed her mum whole.

Glimmers of recognition rush through Becky as she stares at it. She hears flashes of laughter, a dog barking. Fish, slippery in her hands. The sun twinkling above. And then her mum, as she was all those years ago, looking down at her with love.

Why are they coming back now, all the good memories? Where were they when the bad ones crashed over her? The sight of her mum, tanned and strange, when she met her in the café all those times after she left them. Her dad’s anger, her mum’s nonchalance. The tears she shed when she was desperate for her mum’s arms around her, the hate that filled her when she realised she was never coming back.

As they draw closer to the cave, Becky sees a small one that has a notice at its front: Do not enter. Risk of falling rock. Her mum’s face darkens when she looks at it.

‘Is it safe?’ Becky asks, hesitating.

‘My one is.’

My one.

‘Sure?’ Becky asks.

‘Absolutely. Come on.’

They walk up to the cave and pause, taking it in. Large chalk boulders are littered here and there, painted an assortment of colours, some smashed, one charred. The white clay of the cave is mossy in parts, ledges jutting out. Becky remembers standing on one of those ledges, looking out to sea.

Painted around the edges of the cave’s entrance are different animals, and shells too. Even a child and a dog. The paint has faded slightly but it’s still discernible.

Her mum raises her hand, touching the clay. ‘Feel it,’ she says. ‘It’s softer than you think.’

Becky leans her hand against it and realises her mum’s right. It even crumbles beneath her palm. As she takes her hand away, she notices there are man-made dents down the length of the cave’s entrance, and a black metal plate drilled into it, as if there was once something hanging there.

Her mum peers into the cave, a sense of peace spreading over her face.

Becky notices her mum’s breath is laboured, her eyes hollow. ‘Come on then, let’s get you inside.’

She helps her mum step in, the sound and smell of the sea suddenly muffling all her senses. It’s as though the cave is absorbing everything but the sea … even absorbing her. The temperature drops, and Becky notices the damp moss on the walls, the slimy vegetation. Her feet sink into the sand, wet, cold, sand flies leaping around her shoes. Rubbish congeals around the edges of the cave, cigarette butts and rotting fish bones.

How could her mum have lived here? No wonder she wasn’t allowed to bring Becky to live here too. And how could she want to die here? But then she’s never quite understood her mum.

‘Look,’ her mum says, pointing to the wall at the back. Her eyes are alight, as if she’s seeing another place entirely.

Becky gasps. It’s covered with people, sculpted from the rocks then painted. These faces smile out at her: a girl wearing a white dress with a book in her hand; a black man with a dog at his feet, a hammer in his hand. More and more people, nearly a dozen, including children – one tiny one with her eyes ominously scratched out. And then there she is, Becky’s mum, her dark hair a cloud around her head as she stares into the distance, pen poised over her notepad. Next to her is a half-finished painting of a man with long, blond hair.

‘Did Idris do these?’ Becky asks. His name echoes around the cave, making her shiver. She often heard his name that summer her mum left, whispered first in awe then in anger by people in the town, often spat down the phone by her fuming dad.

‘He did paint them. There,’ her mum says as she points to the back of the cave. ‘I want to be there.’

Becky helps her over. Broken wood criss-crosses the sand, pages torn from books strewn over it, a discarded soiled cup on its side. Becky sweeps it all away and unrolls the thick sleeping bag she brought with her along with a small pillow.

‘I wish I’d brought more to cover the damp sand now,’ she says. ‘I didn’t think.’

‘It’s fine. This is perfect.’

‘How did you sleep here?’

‘On wooden planks,’ her mum replies, eyeing the broken panels.

‘What about the damp?’

Her mum shrugged. ‘We didn’t mind.’

‘Come, sit.’ She leads her mum to the sleeping bag and helps her sit down. Her mum stares around her, a small smile on her face.

‘I’ll just set some things up,’ Becky says, unloading the heavy rucksack from her back with relief, pulling all the items out: some fruit, water, a flask of tea, crackers, pads, flannels. And then the pain relief. Becky takes a deep breath. Will it be enough? She pops two pills out, pours some water into a plastic cup. Then she takes it all over to her mum.

‘Do you want tea?’ she asks her mum after she swallows the pills.

‘Not right now.’

‘Are you comfortable?’

Her mum closes her eyes and sighs. ‘I’m very tired.’

‘Why don’t you lie down? It’s all set up.’

Her mum looks at the sleeping bag. ‘It does look rather tempting.’

‘Come on,’ Becky says. She unzips the sleeping bag and helps her mum into it, so aware of how thin her arms are. ‘Is it okay?’

‘Lovely, thank you. Though I have to admit, the pillow’s a bit lumpy.’

‘Here,’ Becky says, lifting her mum’s head and shuffling under her so she can lean on Becky’s lap. ‘Better?’

Her mum smiles. ‘I knew the Rhys thunder thighs would come in handy one day.’

‘Charming!’

Her mum laughs, but then her laugh turns into a cough. Becky gives her more water.

‘I don’t know how you lived here,’ Becky says, looking around her. She realises she’s absent-mindedly stroking her mum’s hair as she says that, as she is so used to stroking her dogs as they lie on her lap. She remembers her mum doing the same when she was young, singing her a lullaby as she fell asleep.

‘Oh, it was better equipped back then,’ her mum says. ‘There was a toilet and a makeshift shower over there,’ she says, gesturing to the corner opposite to her. ‘A kitchen at the front, with a huge table. Anyway, it didn’t really matter. It was more about the space to write, the people. At first, anyway.’

Her eyes stray over to the half-finished painting of Idris, pain flittering across her face.

‘You loved him, didn’t you?’ Becky says simply.

Her mum nods. ‘The first time I saw him was the day the boy nearly drowned …’

As she begins to tell Becky about those first few days, Becky tries to find the anger she once felt at her mum for falling in love with someone else. Not just someone else, but a ‘bloody hippy’ as her dad referred to him. But as her mum lies with her head in Becky’s lap, eyes alight with memories, Becky finds it impossible to be angry. Instead, it feels like her love for her mum has never been stronger. It swells inside her as she strokes her hair.

But as her mum continues with the story, the sound of her voice grows increasingly slurred and panic clutches at Becky’s heart. It’s as though coming here has made her mum feel safe enough to slowly loosen her grip on life. Becky is desperate for her to hold on a little longer, this woman who gave birth to her, who held her in her arms, who protected her despite all that came after. The past twenty-four hours have reminded her of the good memories. They crowd in, suffocating the bad that have so dominated thoughts of her mum all these years. Instead, they’re replaced with the smell of her mum’s warmth when Becky crept into her parents’ bed at night. And the love, so much love, that she saw in her mum’s eyes.

How could she have forgotten that?

One of her tears splashes onto her mum’s cheek but her mum doesn’t notice. She is lost in her own memories, words barely making sense now as she recounts her story, so wrapped up in her past that she is beyond caring if Becky can understand what she says.

Over the next few hours, as darkness creeps into the cave, the only light provided by a flickering candle, Becky leans against the damp wall, legs out flat, her mum’s head now heavy in her lap. She watches a bird glide across the sky outside under the moonlight, another pecking at oysters that have washed up ashore with its distinctive orange beak. It peers up at her, noticing her watching, holding her gaze.

‘You always had a way with animals,’ her mum croaks.

The bird takes flight at the sound of her voice, its wings spread wide against the dark skies.

Then her mum closes her eyes again, mumbling something incoherent under her breath. Becky knows the end is nearing. Her mum is delirious now, breath rasping, chest rising so slowly, too slowly.

Becky holds her mum closer and silently sobs. She sobs for all the lost years, but anger starts filtering in again now too. She can’t help it. Anger at her mum, the dying woman in her arms, the most important woman in her life who walked away. The woman whose lies even now might be being whispered in the dark, surrounding her, pressing into her.

As though hearing her thoughts, Becky’s mum grows silent. She blinks up at Becky and Becky recognises the dimming of light she has seen so many times in the eyes of the animals she cares for.

‘Are you comfortable?’ she whispers, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. She doesn’t want to scare her mum.

Her mum nods, clutching onto her daughter’s hands which are crossed over her thin heaving chest. ‘I am, darling, thank you. Will it be soon?’

Becky purses her lips, trying not to sob. She could lie. Tell her mum there will be many more hours, days, weeks. But she isn’t like her mum. She can’t lie.

‘Yes. I think so,’ she replies.

Her mum closes her eyes, tears squeezing out from the corners. When she opens them, there is a new vitality. This often happens just before death, a final fight for life. It fills Becky with terror.

Not long now …

‘I don’t think you know how much I love you, darling,’ her mum says. ‘Always have. Every moment of every day, you’ve both been in my thoughts.’

Becky frowns. ‘Both? You mean Dad too?’

‘No, you and your sister.’

Becky goes rigid. ‘Sister?’ She looks at the empty packet of pills. ‘You’re delirious.’

‘No,’ her mum says, peering towards one of the paintings of the child, the one with the eyes scratched out. ‘I had another child, with Idris.’

Becky shakes her head, heart thumping so painfully against her chest she can barely breathe. Her mum’s head suddenly feels like lead in her lap.

‘Idris took her,’ her mum whispers. She is growing weak again. She looks ahead of her, towards the wall of the cave, eyes glossy with tears. ‘He took her from this very cave.’

‘Are you telling the truth?’ Becky asks.

A faint crinkle in her brow as her mum’s eyes begin to close. ‘Why would I lie about such a thing?’ she whispers. And then she is gone.




Chapter Eight (#ulink_00486b9b-06df-5ee3-b5ab-15af31ddec17)


Selma

Kent, UK

27 July 1991

Idris led me to the cave, his hand still wrapped around mine. A campfire flickered outside it, and the sound of guitar music, laughter, even a child giggling was carried along with the breeze. As we drew closer, I could see seven people sitting around the fire on colourful chalk boulders, listening to a young tanned man dressed in just shorts playing a soft tune on his guitar. The girl I’d met a few days before was sitting beside him with her arms wrapped around him, her fingers hungry in his hair. A tall black man sat beside her, dressed smartly in chinos and a white shirt, his fingers tapping gently on his knee, his eyes closed. A brown and white Jack Russell lay with its furry chin on the man’s foot.

Behind the group sat a woman in her fifties wearing an oversized kaftan dress, paper flowers in different colours scattered around her. She was doing something I couldn’t see, her arms moving erratically, her back bent over. Swaying to the music nearby was a slim, attractive woman with short, blonde hair, the flames of the fire dancing on her tanned skin. I recognised her as being a local yoga teacher, and thought it no surprise that someone like her had been drawn there. But what was a surprise was seeing timid Donna among the group, with her son Tom. She must have come directly from the pub just after I left. What on earth was she doing there?

Then there, beyond them all, was the cave and the old hotel looming dark and abandoned above it. The cave was too dark to properly see inside but I caught glimpses of colour on the walls. Idris’s paintings?

When we approached the group, everyone seemed to sense him, growing quiet as they peered up. The young man even stopped strumming his guitar and Tom stopped giggling.

Weird.

‘Please, continue Caden,’ Idris instructed him. The young man smiled and continued playing his guitar as he glanced over me.

The girl I’d spoken to before jumped up, rushing over. ‘You came!’ she said, enveloping me in a hug. She smelt musty, as if she hadn’t showered for a few days. It wasn’t unpleasant though. ‘I’m Oceane by the way.’ She pronounced it Osh-ee-anne.

‘Is that the author?’ Caden asked over his music.

‘Yes, the author!’ Oceane exclaimed.

‘That’s so cool,’ Caden said. He started singing. ‘Sifting over the sands of my mind, trying to find treasures that never existed.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘That’s a line from my book!’

‘Of course,’ Idris said. ‘We’ve all been reading it. Can’t ignore our local author, can we?’

‘I hope you’re working on something new,’ the yoga teacher said, eyes sparkling as she continued to sway. ‘Reading it really touched my soul.’

I opened my mouth then closed it. I didn’t know what to say. Part of me was delighted. The book had barely sold so I hadn’t had any feedback from readers beyond my editors and friends. But the other part thought it was bloody bizarre, all these people fawning over me.

‘Come, sit with us,’ Idris said, gently putting his hand on the small of my back and leading me towards the fire. I looked over my shoulder towards the town. Maybe this was a bad idea, but something propelled me forward anyway and I sat down on a straw mat, looking at the flickering orange and yellow of the flames, feeling their warmth on my skin.

I suddenly felt exhausted. I closed my eyes, breathing in the battle between the fire’s ash and salt of the sea, my actions at the pub and the subsequent conversation with Idris still playing on my mind.

Something cold nudged against my bare knees and I looked down to see the Jack Russell peering up at me, its tail wagging.

Was the dog going to tell me it loved my book too?

It went to lick my hand and I leaned away from it.

Idris laughed. ‘Not a dog person?’

‘No, not really. Sorry,’ I said. ‘One of my stepdads had one. Let’s just say, we didn’t get on.’

‘Stepdads?’ the yoga teacher asked with a raised eyebrow.

‘My mum got remarried a couple of times,’ I replied.

‘Come, Mojo,’ the man in the white shirt said, patting his thigh. The dog bounded over to him, and I assumed he must be the owner.

I turned to Donna. ‘Did you come from the pub?’

Donna nodded. ‘I was getting fed up with the conversation. Apart from your bit anyway,’ she added with a raised eyebrow.

‘I think I might have gone too far.’

‘It brought you here,’ Idris said. ‘That can only be a good thing.’

‘Wine? Beer?’ Donna asked, a shy look on her face.

‘I don’t suppose you have any gin?’ I asked her.

Donna frowned. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

Caden laughed. ‘There will be soon though, now you’ve mentioned it. Donna can’t let anyone go without. She’s our angel.’

‘She sure is,’ Idris said, walking over and putting his hand on Donna’s shoulder.

Donna peered up at him, a child-like look of awe on her face.

I looked between them both, trying my best not to raise an eyebrow.

‘How long have you been here?’ I asked Donna.

‘Just a few days,’ she replied.

‘Long enough to make a difference,’ Idris said.

Oceane smiled. ‘Mum’s a supercook.’

I looked between Donna and Oceane in surprise. ‘Oceane’s your daughter?’

Donna nodded and my eyes widened in surprise. I had no idea Donna had an older daughter … and they seemed so different. Or were they? Donna had come to live here, hadn’t she? And she’d called her daughter Oceane.

I was suddenly seeing her in a very different light.

‘Will wine do?’ she asked me.

I shrugged. ‘Sure.’

Donna stood and pulled a half-empty bottle of white wine from a cooler box, sloshing some of it into a small ceramic bowl. I took the bowl, feeling its weight and coolness.

‘Interesting drinking device,’ I said.

‘Maggie made it,’ Donna replied, gesturing to the woman by the cave with her back to us.

‘What’s she doing?’ I asked.

Idris looked towards Maggie. ‘She’s in the current at the moment. Got into it quicker than most.’

‘What is this current?’ I asked. ‘Oceane mentioned it to me.’

‘You’ll see,’ Idris said mysteriously.

‘I’m Anita,’ the yoga teacher said, touching her hand to her chest. ‘I think you might know that already? I saw you in one of my classes once.’

‘Yep,’ I said, taking a sip of wine. ‘I learnt a valuable lesson, that lesson being I’m very unbendy.’

Everyone laughed.

‘Easily remedied,’ Anita said, waving her hand about. ‘We’ll sort it during the sunrise salute tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh, I won’t be here in the morning,’ I said. ‘Just a fleeting visit.’

Everyone exchanged knowing looks. Some sizzling chicken from the fire was passed my way. I took it without question, suddenly ravenous.

‘As you know, I’m Caden,’ the boy with the guitar said. ‘Guitarist, song scribe, lover,’ he added, wiggling his eyebrows at Oceane who laughed in response.

‘I believe you know Donna,’ Idris said, gesturing to her. ‘And her son Tom.’

‘Yes,’ I said, smiling at Donna. She returned my smile, turning another chicken wing in the fire.

‘And Julien,’ Idris said, gesturing to the man sitting quietly on the rock with the dog. Julien examined my face then he nodded at me. I nodded back. Already I could tell there was something about him, a calmness that was slightly uncomfortable. ‘That’s everyone. So far, anyway,’ Idris said with a contented smile.

‘Tell us about your next novel,’ Anita asked.

‘Never ask an author that!’ Oceane said.

I smiled at her. ‘Oceane’s right. It strikes the fear of God into us.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Anita said. ‘I thought you’d want to talk about writing?’

‘I adore talking about writing,’ I said. ‘But I feel talking about a new idea might jinx it.’

‘I get it actually,’ Julien said in a cut-glass accent. ‘When I start a new piece of furniture, I’d rather wait until it’s finished before telling someone about it. Just in case it flops spectacularly.’

‘It’s fear,’ Idris said.

Everyone turned to him, going very quiet. It was as if, when he spoke, everything else was wiped away.

‘Fear that people won’t like what you’ve created,’ he continued, sitting down cross-legged on the sand across from me. He was looking right into my eyes. I held his gaze. ‘That fear plagues artists like all of us. It’s the main reason we can’t get into the current,’ he continued. ‘We’re constantly thinking of this person and that person and a dozen people, a hundred, a thousand people who might hate what we’re working on. Numbers, when we should be looking beyond numbers.’

‘What’s so dreadful about numbers?’ I asked.

‘They cloud the judgement,’ Donna said.

I looked at her. ‘But they’re essential to everyday living. We use them to tell the time, to take measurements, count money …’

Donna smiled. ‘I don’t use them to take measurements when I’m cooking. I use my instincts.’

‘And we have no money kept here, no clocks either. In fact, watches aren’t allowed,’ Julien said, peering at my watch. I looked down at the watch that had once belonged to my mother.

‘We wake with the sun and sleep when we’re tired,’ Anita added.

‘Or don’t sleep if we’re in the current,’ Caden said.

They all nodded. It was as though they were seamlessly weaving a story together … and yet they’d only lived with each other for a few days. Maybe it was this ‘current’ they all talked of. The same current they refused to tell me about.

‘So how do you pay for all this if numbers aren’t your thing?’ I asked, gesturing to the wine and food.

‘Money,’ Donna said simply.

I laughed. ‘That’s numbers.’

‘But we don’t pay for it here, do we?’ Julien said. ‘We get money out when we’re in town and use it at the shops, giving any change which remains to the charity shops.’

‘Money clouds the creative juices,’ Oceane said. ‘All numbers do. It’s impossible to get into the current if we’re surrounded by them.’

‘What’s the bloody current?’ I shouted out, the loudness of my voice surprising me.

Julien frowned but Idris laughed. ‘I like your intensity.’

‘Then bloody tell me what it is,’ I said, leaning towards him and smiling to show him I wasn’t being too serious. But the fact was, I really did want to know.

He stood up, putting his hand out to me. ‘Come and see.’

I let him lead me to Maggie, very conscious of his warm hand around mine, intimate, soft. I felt drunk, not just from the gin and the wine but from his proximity too. It reminded me of being drunk as a teenager, night swimming with an old boyfriend, the heady freedom of it, like the night was infinite.

The dark cave unfolded before me like I was in a dream; slightly hazy, very warm. ‘The infamous cave,’ I whispered, suddenly feeling dizzy with the smell of salt and seaweed, ashes and barbecued chicken.

Idris came to a stop. Maggie was sitting before us, folding petals at an amazing speed, her fingers flexing and bending as she pressed the delicate flowers together. Her head was down, her brow knitted, her face in complete concentration. She seemed totally oblivious to our presence.

‘Maggie is a craftswoman,’ Idris explained in a quiet voice as we watched her. ‘She excels at a variety of crafts, from pottery to sewing to making masks. But it’s the paper flowering that she’s truly able to find the current with.’

‘So, being in the current is basically being in the zone?’ I asked.

He thought about it. ‘In a sense. But it goes deeper than that. Entering the current has a physical effect on the brain, deactivating the prefrontal cortex.’ He gently tapped the bottom of my forehead. ‘It controls elements like reason, logic, problem-solving …’

‘And numbers,’ I said, raising an eyebrow.

He smiled. ‘Yes. When we’re not dominated by those elements of our psyche, we can truly give into creativity.’

‘I get it. When I’m really into writing, everything around me disappears.’

‘It goes beyond that. It’s hard to explain until you’ve experienced it. But when you do, the work you produce will be the best you ever have.’

I thought about it. That was certainly a tempting prospect considering how utterly useless I’d been at writing lately. It amazed me sometimes, how I could get lost in my writing, hours passing without me realising. And yet Idris was saying it was possible to go even deeper than that. Maybe that was just what my writing needed?

We grew silent, watching as Maggie smoothed the petals of a pink flower, examining it for imperfections before placing it with the others.

‘So what’s this all about?’ I said after a while, gesturing to the group. ‘Why are all these people here? It can’t be just about getting into the current, as you call it,’ I said, making quotation marks with my fingers.

‘It is,’ he replied. ‘Everything we do here is about getting into the current. It’s our sole aim. Individually and as a group. Specifically to reach the point of being in the current together for as long as possible. Then great things will happen.’

‘Like what?’

He smiled, his face lighting up. ‘That’s all to discover. But for you? Maybe you’ll write your second novel.’

I had to admit it was appealing, even if it did sound a bit woo-woo. I peered at my wine. Clearly I’d drunk too much.

‘You’ve achieved a lot in less than two weeks,’ I said.

‘Anyone can, when they put their mind to it.’

‘Minus the prefrontal cortex.’

He laughed. ‘Want to see inside?’ he asked, gesturing towards the cave.

‘Why not?’

We walked towards the cave. It was long and narrow, stretching back for what I’d imagine was over a hundred metres. Paintings dotted the entrance: blue fish; white birds, wings spread wide; starfish and shells.

‘You did these?’ I asked Idris.

He nodded.

‘Is that what you did, before you came here?’

‘I’ve always painted,’ he replied, not really answering my question.

We stepped into the cave. At the front were two barbecues, three cooler boxes, plus two small white cupboards that appeared to have been ripped from a kitchen. Just beyond it was a long, narrow table made of thick driftwood with several mismatched chairs around it.

‘Julien made that table,’ Idris said.

‘Nice.’ And it really was nice, the kind of table I might have looked at with Mike, desperate to buy but way above our budget. The place was surprising me, making me feel strangely at home.

We stepped further into the cave and the atmosphere suddenly changed, my senses overwhelmed by the sound of the sea, as if I was holding a shell up to my ear. It felt intimate in there, like I was cut right off from it all, our own private little world apart from the rush of the sea outside.





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