Traces of Her
Traces of Her
Amanda Brittany
‘Addictive! A twisty page-turner that had me on the edge of my seat from start to finish. ’ Roz Watkins ‘Rose. Rose. Pick up, please. I know who killed her. I know who killed my real mum. I’ve worked it out. ’ When Rose’s flighty stepsister Willow disappears to Cornwall, she can’t help but roll her eyes. Willow is always taking off and there is always some kind of emergency. But after Willow discovers that she was adopted and her birth mother died in tragic circumstances, her trip to the coast sparks a search into her past. Two days later, when a package arrives at Rose’s house containing a series of four polaroids of four different men, Rose knows that Willow is in trouble. Each photograph a possible murder suspect, their family life begins to unravel, leaving one crucial question unanswered… Who killed Willow’s mother and where is Willow now? * * * * * * * Readers LOVE Traces of Her! ‘What a ride, more twists and turns than a Formula 1 race track’ A. M. Castle ‘A whirlwind of a read. Just brilliant!’ Diane Jeffrey 'Addictive and fast-paced. Amanda Brittany is a name to keep your eye on. A brilliant thriller' Phoebe Morgan ‘An emotional thriller with a broad cast of characters who come alive on the pages of this addictive mystery. ’ Naomi Joy ‘Gripped me from start to finish… Definitely did not see the twist at the end coming!’ NetGalley reviewer ‘This was an amazing page turner. So many twists and turns and I was completely surprised by the ending. ’ Netgalley reviewer ‘A real page turner. This book had me hooked. ’ Netgalley reviewer
About the Author (#ud29ac251-9245-5fbc-adfc-7c249e36a0e2)
Amanda Brittany lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with family, travelling, walking, reading and sunny days. Her debut, Her Last Lie reached the Kindle top 100 in the US and Australia and was a #1 Bestseller in the UK. It has also been optioned for film. Her second psychological thriller Tell The Truth reached the Kindle top 100 in the US & was a #1 Bestseller in the US. All her ebook royalties for Her Last Lie are being donated to Cancer Research UK, in memory of her sister who lost her battle with cancer in July 2017. It has so far raised over £7,500.
Praise for Amanda Brittany (#ud29ac251-9245-5fbc-adfc-7c249e36a0e2)
‘Brittany reels readers in with this twisty, clever thriller that will have you second-guessing everything’
Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House
‘Brilliant, pacey, and will leave you suspecting everyone is involved!’
Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret
‘Totally gripping’
Reader Review
‘I had to keep turning the pages’
Reader Review
‘A lot of twists and turns … it didn’t disappoint’
Reader Review
Also by Amanda Brittany (#ud29ac251-9245-5fbc-adfc-7c249e36a0e2)
Her Last Lie
Tell The Truth
Traces of Her
AMANDA BRITTANY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Amanda Brittany 2019
Amanda Brittany asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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, downloaded, 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: 9780008331184
E-book Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008305406
Version: 2019-09-16
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue71df020-2053-5a2b-83fc-316c0d429e6a)
About the Author
Praise for Amanda Brittany
Also by Amanda Brittany
Title Page (#u960ddb12-23a2-5251-9147-11a1c5c0dc55)
Copyright (#u58341e8d-d860-56ea-a3ac-da9455f8e3de)
Dedication (#ua884d05e-cd3f-5da7-b0e5-3edab13d3852)
Prologue
Chapter 1: Rose
Chapter 2: Ava
Chapter 3: Rose
Chapter 4: Ava
Chapter 5: Ava
Chapter 6: Rose
Chapter 7: Ava
Chapter 8: You
Chapter 9: Rose
Chapter 10: Ava
Chapter 11: Rose
Chapter 12: Rose
Chapter 13: Rose
Chapter 14: Ava
Chapter 15: You
Chapter 16: Rose
Chapter 17: Ava
Chapter 18: Rose
Chapter 19: Ava
Chapter 20: Rose
Chapter 21: Ava
Chapter 22: You
Chapter 23: Rose
Chapter 24: Ava
Chapter 25: Rose
Chapter 26: Rose
Chapter 27: Rose
Chapter 28: Ava
Chapter 29: Ava
Chapter 30: Ava
Chapter 31: Rose
Chapter 32: Ava
Chapter 33: Rose
Chapter 34: Ava
Chapter 35: You
Chapter 36: Rose
Chapter 37: Rose
Chapter 38: Ava
Chapter 39: Rose
Chapter 40: Ava
Chapter 41: Rose
Chapter 42: Ava
Chapter 43: You
Chapter 44: Rose
Chapter 45: Ava
Chapter 46: Rose
Chapter 47: Rose
Chapter 48: Ava
Chapter 49: You
Chapter 50: Rose
Chapter 51: Rose
Chapter 52: Rose
Chapter 53: Rose
Chapter 54: Ava
Chapter 55: Ava
Chapter 56: Ava
Chapter 57: Rose
Chapter 58: You
Chapter 59: Rose
Chapter 60: Rose
Chapter 61: Ava
Rose
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
A Letter from Amanda
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
To Liam, Daniel, Luke, Lucy & Janni.
Prologue (#ulink_e02937b6-7e27-5946-bf24-9fe1269ef5f5)
2001
She lies on the sand dressed in yellow satin, a ring of sodden flowers clinging to her blonde hair like seaweed. The pendant around her slim neck says ‘Mummy’ – a gift from Willow.
Grasses stir in the howling wind and a mist rolls in from the Celtic Sea, moving over her lifeless body – ghosts waiting to take her hand and lead her away from this lonely place where seagulls cry.
A man will come soon. He walks his border collie at the same time each morning along the same sandy path that edges the sea in Bostagel, and today will be no different.
He will stride with the aid of his stick; grey hair flapping in the wind, calling after his dog. Content with his lot.
Then he will see her body, and her sister’s wedding dress folded neatly on the rocks. The shock will stay with him forever.
He will call the police.
Sirens will pierce the silent air.
The youngest Millar girl is dead. Stabbed repeatedly.
‘Rest in peace, young Millar girls,’ they will say.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_4c910456-d757-516f-ae03-29000b5c9545)
ROSE (#ulink_4c910456-d757-516f-ae03-29000b5c9545)
Now
‘Willow! Thank God,’ I say, my mobile pressed to my ear. She’s disappeared before. In fact, her ability to take off without explanation is something we’ve learned to live with over the last few years.
‘Rose,’ she says. ‘Rose I’m …’ Her voice is apprehensive, and I imagine her twirling a strand of her long blonde hair around her finger, something she’s done since childhood. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called before.’
‘Well, you’re calling now. That’s what’s important,’ I say, always aware how fragile she is. ‘And it’s good to hear your voice, Willow.’ It’s only been a month, but I’ve missed her.
I drop down onto the edge of the sofa, my eyes flicking to the photograph above my open fireplace: me at fifteen – lanky, with lifeless hair and acne; Willow, a beautiful child of three sitting on my knee, her expression blank, bewildered. It was the day I met her.
‘We had no idea if you were OK,’ I say, although there was nothing new there. In fairness, she put a couple of generic updates on Facebook about a week ago. ‘Where are you?’
‘Cornwall.’
‘Cornwall?’
‘I’m staying at a cottage in Bostagel near Newquay …’ She breaks off, and I sense she has more to say, but a silence falls between us.
‘Why didn’t you call or text?’ I ask.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘The signal’s erratic down here. And, if I’m honest, I needed to get my head straight before I spoke to any of you about …’ She stops.
‘About what, Willow?’ I clear my throat. ‘About what?’
‘It’s … well … the thing is, someone paid for me to stay here until August.’
‘Someone?’
‘I don’t know who, Rose. I got a message on Facebook and—’
‘You just took off?’ I can’t hide the irritation at her naivety. ‘Someone paid for you to stay in Cornwall, and you’ve no idea who?’
‘No, but, hear me out, Rose. There’s so much you don’t know,’ she says in a rush. ‘But I can’t tell you over the phone. You never know who’s listening.’
‘Who would be listening?’ I say. My voice cracks. I love her so much, but she has no self-awareness – no sense of self-preservation. ‘Listen come home. We can talk here.’
‘I can’t. I’m so close.’
‘Close to what?’ My anxiety is rising. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes. I’m fine. Gareth is here.’
‘Who’s Gareth?’
‘He’s been helping me.’ A pause. ‘Please come to Cornwall, Rose. Please. I’ll explain absolutely everything once you’re here.’
A lump rises in my throat, blocking my efforts to say no, and a sudden strangling fear she could be in some sort of danger grabs me. I rise and pace the lounge, raking my fingers through my hair. The sun beating on the windowpane hurts my eyes. I drag the curtains hard across the glass, and the room plunges into a depressive grey haze.
‘Rose?’
‘Yes. I’m still here.’
‘Well? Will you come?’ There’s a tremor in her voice. ‘I need you right now. Please.’
‘Come back home then,’ I try once more, but I know I’m losing.
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I just can’t, Rose. And I know I don’t deserve you – that I drive you all crazy. But I can barely sleep at night for all the stuff going on in my head.’
‘I’ve Becky to think of.’
‘Becky,’ she says, a whimsical ring to her voice at the mention of my teenage daughter. ‘Bring her too.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Please, Rose,’ she says again. ‘Come. I’m begging you.’ I hear tears in her words and feel myself weakening. She has a childlike quality, often seeming younger than Becky. I’ve felt protective of her from the day I arrived at Darlington House eighteen years ago, when she was all curls and big eyes. She needed me then, and she needs me now.
It’s over five hours from Old Stevenage to Cornwall, but I love driving. It won’t be a problem. And I know I could battle with her for ages, tell her ‘no’ over and over, but, in spite of myself, I will go. It’s impossible to ignore her cry for help – she’s always had that power over me. ‘OK, I’ll come,’ I say.
She sighs with relief. ‘Thanks. You’re amazing, Rose. I’ll explain everything when you get here. There’s so much to tell you.’
‘I can’t come until Saturday, Willow. I don’t break up for the summer until Friday. Will you be OK until then?’
‘Yes. That’s fine … brilliant. I’m so grateful. I can show you the note.’
‘What note?’
There’s a loud knock in the background. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, and drags in a breath. ‘I’ll email you my address, and see you at the weekend, yeah? I can’t wait. Love you, Rose.’
The phone goes dead before I can reply.
‘Love you too,’ I whisper, flopping back down on the sofa, and throwing my phone onto the coffee table.
After some moments, my eyes drift to the photo of Willow and me again, and I can almost feel her in my arms, smell the freshness of her golden hair.
*
Dad met Eleanor Winter in the August of 2002 at a conference about the destruction of the rainforest – something they both care about deeply, and bonded over.
I was pleased for Dad, really I was. When Mum died three years before, the weight dropped from his body like a jolly snowman facing the sun. I lost count of the times I caught him crying. He was a shadow of the strong dad who’d brought me up – and all that time I was grieving her loss too.
I liked Eleanor from the off. Softly spoken, tall with bobbed highlighted hair and small grey eyes, she was nothing like my chubby, tiny, fun-loving mum. It was as though Dad had gone out of his way to find Mum’s opposite.
I admit unwanted feelings reached into my head at first – ‘I want my dad to myself’; ‘What would Mum think?’ – that kind of thing. But mainly I was happy for him. At fifteen I was often out with friends, leaving him to wander lonely around our semi in Hitchin – the house I grew up in – feeling guilty I wasn’t there for him 24/7.
That day, the day of the photo, was the first time I’d visited Darlington House in Old Welwyn, an amazing detached house built in the eighteenth century, set in picturesque grounds. I remember it looked even more beautiful that day because of the sprinkling of snow we’d had. I knew it would be a culture shock when we moved in with Eleanor and Willow; that it would never feel like home. But I was prepared to do anything to bring my old dad back.
Dad put down the camera, and Willow shuffled from my knee, and trotted towards her Duplo scattered over the carpet near the French windows. She dropped down onto her bottom, her curls bouncing.
‘That’s a smashing picture of you two girls,’ Dad said, looking at the camera screen and smiling. ‘Take one of me and Eleanor, will you, Rose?’ he went on, handing me the camera. I felt awkward. Forced into another world I’d rather not be in. But still I rose and did as he asked.
As they leaned into each other, his arm around her waist, I knew they were in love. Dad had been through hell, and Eleanor was recently widowed; they deserved a second chance at happiness. I had to support them.
They headed into the kitchen to prepare lunch, and I padded over to Willow, and knelt next to her on the floor. ‘What are you building?’ I asked.
She looked up at me, her blue eyes seeming too big for her face. She’d lost her father six months before, and looked so fragile, as though she might break. She didn’t answer, and I found myself playing with her curls, twirling them around my fingers. ‘You’re so pretty,’ I said.
She looked up at me. ‘Uncle Peter lets me stand on his shoes when we dance.’ Her lips turned upwards.
‘Does he?’ I said, realising I knew nothing about Eleanor’s family. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Mummy’s gone now,’ she said. ‘Uncle Peter’s gone too.’
I glanced over my shoulder, to where laughter leaked from the kitchen. ‘Mummy’s here, she’s making lunch, sweetie,’ I said, stroking a wayward curl from her cheek.
‘No.’ She picked up two yellow bricks and stared at me through watery eyes. ‘Mummy’s an angel,’ she went on, clicking the bricks together.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_79d32b8d-fc38-5029-920a-0f14bf5aba1f)
AVA (#ulink_79d32b8d-fc38-5029-920a-0f14bf5aba1f)
1996
‘You can’t come with us, Ava.’ Gail laughed, and her two friends, all three dressed in skimpy tops and shorts, joined in. ‘Get the bus home.’ With a flick of her blonde ponytail, Gail linked arms with her friends, and in perfect step they made their way through the tourists towards the arcades, the sun beaming down on them.
‘Mum said …’ Ava began, but her sister was out of earshot. And what was the point, anyway? Gail never listened to her.
Mum always said they should meet up after school each day and catch the bus together. And they used to. They used to chat about their school day, as the bus weaved its way towards Bostagel. But their two-year age gap seemed to have grown bigger lately. Since Gail turned sixteen she hadn’t wanted Ava hanging on like a dead leaf on a beautiful oak.
Ava made her way into Kathy’s Café, the aroma of freshly cooked chips bombarding her senses. She couldn’t afford food, so grabbed a drink from the fridge and paid for it.
From a window seat she people-watched. To her, Newquay was just a nearby seaside town – to holidaymakers jostling on the pavement in their sun hats and beachwear, faces scorched from the sun, it was clearly magical.
She cracked open the can of cola and poured the fizzy liquid into a glass, her mind drifting back to Gail. She would start studying for her A-levels in September, and there was no doubting she would sail through them. She’d always been clever, and popular too. Mum’s favourite.
‘Is she your sister?’ The Welsh male voice came from the table behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see a boy of about sixteen. His light brown hair was parted in the middle, hanging like curtains about his pale face, as he played on his Game Boy.
‘Who?’ she asked, but she guessed he meant Gail. Had he watched them from the window?
He didn’t look up from his screen, his thumbs moving fast over the controls. ‘The girl who dumped you.’
‘She didn’t dump me.’
‘If you say so.’
But the boy was right, Gail had dumped her – she was always dumping her. Ava turned back to the window and sipped her drink, aware of the boy’s chair scraping across the floor. He was suddenly beside her, tall and thin, shoving the Game Boy into his jacket pocket. ‘She’s beautiful, your sister,’ he said, thumping down on the chair next to her. ‘My mate fancies her.’
‘Everyone does.’
‘Are you jealous?’
Ava shook her head, avoiding eye contact.
‘You’re pretty too, you know. She just makes more effort. How old are you?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘I bet you’re sick of living in her shadow.’
She felt herself flush. She always did when boys talked to her. ‘That’s complete bollocks.’ She gulped back the rest of her drink, slammed the glass on the table, and rose to her feet. ‘You don’t even know me. Move.’ She thumped his arm. ‘I need to catch my bus.’ She squeezed past him and grabbed her rucksack.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
She tugged at the hem of her school skirt, as she flung open the café door, the heat of the day warming her face. ‘None of your business,’ she said.
‘Well, I’m Maxen. And if you want my advice, don’t let your sister ruin your life,’ he called after her. ‘Don’t give her that power. Once she has it, you’ll never escape.’
*
A bus drew up at the shelter and Ava jumped onto it. It was empty, apart from an old lady talking to a cat in a crate. ‘We’re nearly there, sweetie,’ she was saying to the mewing feline, her voice too loud as if the cat was deaf. ‘We’ll soon be home.’
As the bus pulled away, Ava slid down in the seat. Perhaps Maxen was right. She needed to find herself – her own life – to move out from under her sister’s shadow. Grow up and get as far away from Bostagel as she could.
She was the youngest of three children, and often felt like the runt of the litter. Never quite belonging. Wishing she’d been born into another family – a family who cared about each other and didn’t spend most of their time arguing.
When she was ten, she’d dreamed of having a brand new mum who baked lemon drizzle cake, and a dad who made everyone laugh, and a golden retriever called Butler, that they walked every day. Ava’s life was a long way from her fantasy. Her mum was cold and unreachable, and her father had taken off just after Ava was born. Gail told her once that it was her fault they no longer had their dad with them – that she was the reason their mum was miserable most of the time.
The bus rocked and jolted on its way, and she looked through the window at the sea spreading endlessly. A flock of oystercatchers had gathered on the rocks and beach, wading through the shallow waves, dipping orange beaks into the sand for food.
Unexpected rain speckled the window like tears, blurring the view. That wouldn’t please the holidaymakers. Ava rested her head on the glass and closed her eyes, imagining the fun Gail and her friends would be having in the arcades, wishing she was there too.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_ae6c1fcc-7fcb-545e-ad3c-adee31b71fe9)
ROSE (#ulink_ae6c1fcc-7fcb-545e-ad3c-adee31b71fe9)
Now
I get up from the sofa and straighten the cushions and tartan throw. Willow’s call has unsettled me, and as I go over her words, trying to make sense of them, a shiver runs through my body.
I pad towards the window and pull back the curtains to let the sun fill the room once more. The small square of grass looks patchy. It hasn’t rained for some time and the plants are wilting. Our house is a new-build, and like most new-builds we haven’t got much garden to worry about. I feel guilty that I’ve neglected such a small area, but I never seem to have the time.
In fact, I’d been looking forward to the days stretched ahead of me once school closed for the summer. I’m fully aware it won’t be a complete break, as there are still lots of things to do that involve the school, but I’d seen it as time out; time to breathe and make up my mind if my school headship is exactly what I want from life.
I’d hoped for plenty of time to work on the garden too, time to paint the staircase, and buy curtains for Becky’s room. I’d hoped to go swimming, read more, and get in touch with old friends. But now my head is consumed with thoughts of going to Cornwall. A strange little laugh escapes me at the absurdity of driving all that way to see Willow, when she should come straight home.
Sudden memories of Willow storming out of Darlington House a month ago, without looking back, fill my head. The raised voices that day. Willow’s pale face as she opened the study door and ran out in tears, leaving Eleanor alone, her shoulders rising and falling in sobs.
Later, I tried talking to Eleanor, to Dad too, but they said together, as though they’d rehearsed it, that it was something and nothing. You know Willow.
I pick up my mobile, and head into the hallway where I pull on my black, low-heeled shoes I’d worn all day at the school and grab my keys.
‘I’m heading out, Becky,’ I call up the stairs, trying to make myself heard above my daughter’s music. ‘Back soon.’
She appears on the landing in black straight-leg jeans and a baggy, grey T-shirt. Her tightly curled black hair hangs to her shoulders. In some ways she reminds me of myself at almost fifteen. Thin and tall, a little awkward in her own skin. But she hasn’t inherited my youthful acne, or my lank, lifeless hair that still needs far too much product to make it even remotely bouncy. Her smooth, unblemished dark complexion and hair are like her father’s, her eyes as brown and appealing as his. There’s no doubt she’s inherited my ex-husband’s looks.
‘Where are you going?’ she says, nibbling her nails. She does that when she’s bored or anxious or just trying to annoy me.
I fiddle with my keys. I want to tell her about Willow later, when my partner Aaron gets home. I intend to call a family meeting, like the day the hamster looked to be on his last legs, or when I got the headship at Mandalay Primary. There will be a small window before Aaron flies out again, and that’s when I’m aiming for.
‘I’m popping over to see Grandpa and Eleanor. I thought we might grab a takeaway later, when Aaron gets home.’
‘Chinese?’ she says with a smile, the glint of her braces telling me she will soon have perfectly shaped teeth.
‘If you like.’ I turn and reach for the door latch, but her heavy footfalls on the stairs behind me tell me I’m going to have company.
‘Wait up!’ she calls. ‘I’m coming with you.’ I sigh as she thumps down on her bottom at the foot of the stairs and pulls her Doc Martens over mismatched socks. I have to turn away. Socks that don’t match unnerve me. ‘I haven’t seen Grandpa and Eleanor for ages,’ she goes on, getting to her feet with the aid of the banister.
She opens the door and I follow her onto the cobbled drive, slipping on my sunglasses.
We’re halfway to Darlington House when I say, ‘Can you look up from your phone for a second, sweetheart?’ I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.
‘Let me answer Tamsyn first, Mum,’ she says. She’s slumped in the passenger seat, thumbs racing over the screen. ‘George dumped her, and she’s thinking of eating her bodyweight in salted caramel ice cream.’ She looks up at me, and with a serious tone says, ‘I can’t let her do it. I don’t want her to get as fat as me.’
‘Why would you even say that? You’re perfect, darling.’ She is. Too thin if anything, and I worry about how she sees herself. Worry that Willow has been her role model for too long.
Moments later she drops her phone into her lap. ‘So, what’s up, Mother?’
‘It’s just, well … Willow called,’ I say, deciding to come straight to the point.
‘Oh my God. Is she OK?’
‘I think so, but—’
‘That’s amazing,’ she cuts in. ‘Is she coming home? Can we see her? Oh, please say we can see her.’ She presses her palms together as though praying. She adores Willow. ‘Please.’
I note how accepting she is. No questions about why Willow hasn’t been in touch for a month. But then she’s like the rest of us. We all know Willow.
‘She’s staying in Cornwall. I’m going down to see her at the weekend.’
‘O-M-G! That’s the best news ever. I can’t wait to see her. It will make the time go quicker until America.’
I still have doubts about her going to the US alone in a few weeks’ time. Her dad is directing a film out there and has invited her over. At first my motherly instincts kicked in. I wanted her to stay at home where she’s safe, and I know Aaron has doubts too. But then he can be a bit overprotective at times. Eventually I agreed she could go, knowing how much she adores her dad. And he’s a good man. He’ll take care of her.
‘The thing is, Becky,’ I say as we make our way down the motorway, ‘I thought I’d go and see Willow alone. Maybe you could stay with Grandpa and Eleanor.’
‘What? Why?’ She folds her arms across her chest, and her glare burns my cheek.
‘Because it will be easier, that’s all.’
‘How? How will it be easier? I can’t believe you would just dump me.’
‘I’m not dumping you.’ I glance at her, but she’s flicked her gaze to the front window, her face set in a scowl.
‘Then let me come,’ she says. ‘Or give me one good reason why not.’
I can’t. My head spins as I indicate and turn left.
‘Stop!’ Becky yells, and I slam my foot on the brake, almost hitting the car in front.
‘Jeez, Mother, it looks as if you pretty much need me to come to keep an eye on you.’
I’m losing the battle. And the truth is I want to spend time with her. ‘OK,’ I say.
‘OK?’
‘You can come.’
‘Fab!’
‘Hang on though, there’s something you need to know first.’ I think out my next words carefully. ‘The thing is, Willow sounded worried about something. I don’t know how she’ll be when we get there.’
Her phone pings, and she picks it up, and reads the screen. ‘For God’s sake, has Tamsyn any idea how many calories there are in three tubs of ice cream?’
I’ve lost her once more.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_edd0a0b1-f655-5bab-8736-d1fdabb8856c)
AVA (#ulink_edd0a0b1-f655-5bab-8736-d1fdabb8856c)
1998
It had become a habit, following Gail and her friends to the arcade. Watching them flirt with boys – laugh – have fun. Although Ava only ever stayed long enough for the thump of the music to get under her skin, for the games machines – clunking and whizzing and flashing coloured lights – to heighten her senses.
Despite Maxen’s advice, she was still hiding – too self-conscious, her self-esteem low, getting her thrills from watching Gail enjoy life. Wishing she was like her.
It was September, and the holiday season had dialled down a notch ready for winter – the arcade seemed empty compared to previous months, and there weren’t so many places to hide. Gail had left school after her final exams in May, but, so far, she’d made no attempt to get a job. ‘She worked so hard on her exams,’ Mum had said. ‘She needs some time out.’
Ava had left school too, with no qualifications. ‘You need to get a job, Ava,’ Mum had said. ‘Pay your way.’
Today she watched from behind a slot machine, ‘Candle in the Wind’ playing loud through the speakers as she sipped cola from a plastic cup. Suddenly Gail looked in her direction and she stepped backwards, bashing into someone. She spun round to see a handsome lad of around eighteen, with cold blue eyes and tousled dark hair.
‘Christ!’ he said, brushing cola from his black leather jacket. He had a confident air about him, his jaw set tight. ‘Watch where you’re fucking going next time! Idiot!’
‘Sorry,’ she said, as he pushed past her, almost knocking her over as he headed towards her sister.
‘Hey, beautiful,’ he said as he flung an arm around Gail’s shoulders, and she planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘His name’s Rory Thompson.’ It was Maxen, appearing beside her. She’d seen him about, but he hadn’t spoken to her since that day in the café two years ago. ‘He’s going out with your sister,’ he said. ‘Did you know?’
Ava shook her head. Gail hadn’t mentioned him, but then she never told her anything anymore.
Maxen’s eyes were fixed on the couple, who were now kissing as though they were in a blockbuster movie. ‘He gets his looks from his Italian mother,’ he said. ‘He’s rich too, just inherited three international IT companies and several properties from his father who kicked it a couple of months back.’
She stared up at Maxen – at the splattering of acne across his pale cheeks, the way he was huddled into his khaki jacket, various badges pinned to the pockets.
‘And now he’s going out with your sister,’ he said.
She clenched her fists. Why did everything good happen to Gail?
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ she said. But she didn’t wait for an answer – she turned and rushed from the arcade and out into the dull grey day.
She hurried along Cliff Road, eventually turning a corner towards the sea, and shuffled a packet of cigarettes from her denim jacket pocket.
The cliff edge was deserted, apart from a teenager with his back to her looking out to sea, his hands in black trouser pockets. She dropped down on a bench and stared at him as she lit a cigarette. He turned as though sensing her there. She vaguely recognised him from school – although he hadn’t been in any of her classes. He looked somehow wrong in a creased white shirt that had clearly been taken straight from the packet, and a black tie.
‘Hey,’ he said, raking his fingers through white-blonde hair. ‘Couldn’t spare one of those, could you?’
She threw him the packet, and he took one and threw it back. ‘Got a light?’ he said, approaching. She handed him her lighter as he sat down beside her. He smelt of cheap aftershave.
He dragged on the cigarette and blew smoke circles upwards. ‘My mum died,’ he said after some moments. ‘I’ve just been to her funeral. Carried the coffin. Life’s shit, don’t you think?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ was all she could think to say.
‘Me too.’ He sniffed, looking up and into her eyes. ‘You look a bit like one of those china dolls,’ he said. ‘My mum used to have one. It freaked the life out of me when I was little.’
‘Oh …’ She touched her face.
He laughed. ‘You’re all right. I didn’t mean you’re freaky or nothing. Just pale and fragile, and your hair’s all curly and that.’ He smiled. ‘Do I know you?’
She shrugged. ‘I think we went to the same school.’
‘Yeah, that’s it. And you live in Bostagel, don’t you?’
She nodded. ‘Ocean View Cottage.’
‘Yeah, I thought I’d seen you about. I live in Cranberry Close.’ Another sniff.
‘How did your mum die? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Fucking cancer,’ he said. ‘She’d been ill for ages. We all knew it was terminal, but it was still a shock, you know.’
She met his blue, watery eyes. Her family was useless, but at least they were alive. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Cheers for that.’ He turned from her gaze. Kicked a stone. ‘Dad’s taken it bad. She was his rock – mine too.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again. She felt an urge to lean over and hug him, but beat it down.
They sat for a while, looking out. The sea and sky were the same shade of grey. It was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Boats bobbed on the waves and a feeling of peace washed over Ava, and her stomach twisted as she looked at the lad, and quickly looked away again. She liked him.
Nearby seagulls wailed, breaking the quiet.
‘What’s your name?’ he said, and she turned back to see his eyes were fixed on her.
‘Ava.’
‘Nice – suits you. I’m Justin.’ He rose. ‘Well, Ava, I’d better get back to the wake. Dad’s been necking the spirits, so I need to keep an eye on him. I reckon he’s full of grief and guilt and shit.’ He threw the cigarette to the ground and pummelled it with his trainer. ‘Maybe I’ll see you in the village sometime.’
‘I hope so,’ she said, as he walked away, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, not looking back.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_4440c690-9b8d-532e-8e1e-59d736627055)
AVA (#ulink_4440c690-9b8d-532e-8e1e-59d736627055)
1999
Ava stared at the ceiling, eyes wide. She hadn’t slept for two nights. Not since she bought the pregnancy test on Thursday. Not since it told her she was having Justin’s baby.
It had been a weak moment – that night they went back to Cranberry Close when Justin’s dad was out. She hadn’t meant for things to go so far.
‘She’s seeing Justin Havers, Mum.’ It was Gail’s voice – her tone high-pitched, carrying up the stairs. Ava sat up. She’d kept her relationship with Justin from her mum for almost four months, knowing she would disapprove of him. Think he wasn’t good enough. How the hell had Gail found out?
‘Ian Havers’ son?’ Jeannette cried.
‘Aha. That’s the one. Talk about scraping the barrel.’
‘Oh my God, no.’ Jeannette’s voice was high and tense. ‘She can’t go out with him. For goodness’ sake, that girl will be the death of me. Whatever is she thinking?’
Ava dived from her bed, and raced down the stairs in her pyjamas to where Jeannette and Gail sat in the lounge drinking coffee. They looked up.
‘I love him,’ Ava blurted from the doorway.
‘You have no idea what love is, Ava. You’re only seventeen,’ her mother cried, slamming down her mug. ‘And Ian Havers’ son of all people – sometimes I think you go out of your way to upset me.’ She sniffed, pulled a tissue from her sleeve, and dabbed her nose.
Ava stepped into the room and sat down on the chair, glaring at her mum and sister. She took a deep breath and blurted, ‘I’m pregnant.’
Jeannette gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.
‘Jesus, Ava,’ Gail said. ‘Just when I thought you couldn’t stoop any lower.’
‘You failed all your exams, you smoke, you drink …’ Jeannette released the slide clipping her fair hair back, as though it might relieve her tension. ‘And now you’re pregnant,’ she continued. ‘You’ll have an abortion. There’s no doubt about that. I’ll book you in privately. And don’t for goodness’ sake tell anyone.’
‘No!’ Ava yelled.
‘No?’
‘I’m keeping the baby. I know when I tell Justin he’ll be pleased, and we can move in together.’
‘Ava, for Christ’s sake stop being so naïve,’ Gail said. ‘He’s seventeen. And not only that, he’s a total loser. I saw him with one of the Bristow brothers the other day, and they’re a bad lot – into drugs and joyriding and—’
‘You’re lying,’ Ava cried.
‘No, Ava, I’m not lying. And a baby will ruin your life. Think of your future, you must have an abortion.’ She sounded almost kind. ‘Rory could get you a little job in admin where I work.’ She leaned forward and placed her hand on Ava’s. ‘Let me talk to him.’
‘No!’ Ava snatched her hand away. ‘I’m going to be a mum, and I’ll live with Justin. He’s not into drugs. He’s going to be a singer, and we’ll be rich one day.’
‘A singer?’ Jeannette laughed, a hard, fake laugh.
‘He’s got a great voice, Mum.’ He had. He’d even written a song for her.
Jeannette rubbed her face and with a deep sigh said, ‘You need to see a doctor, Ava. He could have given you something awful.’
‘Like a baby,’ Gail muttered.
Ava shook her head. ‘I’m his first, Mum.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, wake up, Ava,’ Gail snapped. ‘Please.’
Ava rose. ‘I’m keeping this baby,’ she said, holding her stomach, a feeling of nausea swirling. ‘Whether you like it or not.’ And with that, she turned and left the room, leaving Gail to comfort their mother who burst into tears.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_6a92e1a9-2d71-59f1-bdc2-1e0b5ab14304)
ROSE (#ulink_6a92e1a9-2d71-59f1-bdc2-1e0b5ab14304)
Now
My phone rings as we pull onto the drive outside Darlington House. It’s Aaron.
‘Go ring the bell, sweetheart,’ I say to Becky, and she clambers from the passenger seat and hurtles towards the front door. I answer the call.
‘Just landed,’ Aaron says, as though he is a passenger on a flight, rather than the pilot. I admit it’s what hooked me in when I met him a year ago. Although I’m not sure if, at the time, I equated a pilot’s uniform with being alone so often. But when he is home he’s the best partner there is, so I mustn’t complain.
‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘I thought we might have a takeaway tonight. I’ve picked up wine.’
‘Sounds good. I should be home in a couple of hours.’
I will only see him for two days before he takes off again. I don’t like it, but I guess I’m getting used to it. I love him and the times we spend together mean everything. And there’s always the bonus that absence is a great aphrodisiac.
‘I’m at my dad’s at the moment,’ I say into the phone. ‘But I need to tell you something when I see you.’
‘What?’ He sounds alarmed. ‘You can’t leave me hanging. Nothing’s wrong, is it? Is Becky OK?’
‘She’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that … well, Willow called.’
‘Willow? Is she OK?’ He’s met Willow several times, and they seem to get on well, although he does find her a bit flaky, and frankly I’m not surprised.
‘Yes. Yes, I think so. I’ll tell you everything when you get home.’
‘Did she say why she hasn’t been in contact?’
‘Of course.’ I don’t want to get into a conversation about it right now. ‘She’s staying in Cornwall, apparently. I’m going down there when school breaks up.’
‘What’s she doing in Cornwall?’
‘It’s a long story, Aaron.’ I bite down on my bottom lip. ‘Listen, can we talk at home? I’m at my dad’s,’ I repeat.
‘OK, yes, I’ll see you soon,’ he says.
He rings off, and I drop my phone into my bag.
As I climb from the car and stride towards Darlington House, I notice Eleanor’s jeep isn’t on the drive. Dad will be alone. The house is too big for two people, but Eleanor refuses to sell up and move somewhere smaller – she says her memories are here. She told me once she still hears Willow’s childhood laughter echoing around the walls.
Becky has left the front door ajar, and I step inside out of the bright day, and into the dimly lit hallway that feels cold, whatever the weather.
‘Hi,’ I call out, placing my bag on the antique cabinet by the door.
‘In here, Mum,’ Becky calls back, and I make my way into the lounge, where three sofas – that have been there since we moved in and are now a little worn – hug an open fireplace that hasn’t been lit since last winter. Sun pours in through the huge bay window, and I blink, my eyes adjusting to the sudden light. Becky and Dad sit in the middle of one of the sofas, her head on his shoulder.
He peers at me over his glasses, ‘Rose, darling. It’s lovely to see you. How’s the headship going?’ He’s so proud – part of the reason I accepted it. ‘I was telling the boys at the Fox and Hound how well you’re doing.’
‘Fine,’ I say, looking about me. It isn’t strictly true –I’m not sure I’m cut out to manage a school. ‘Where’s Eleanor?’
‘Shopping with the girls,’ he says, with a small laugh. ‘They call themselves “the girls” and yet they’re almost sixty.’
I want to say I know. That he tells me that every time I visit. I bend and kiss his silver-grey hair, his familiar aftershave tickling my nostrils, making me smile. ‘Shall I make some tea?’
‘Not for me, dear,’ he says, and Becky shakes her head, giving me a look as if to say tell him, tell him Willow called.
‘It’s such good news,’ Dad says once I’ve told him. His irises look far too blue, as though he might cry, showing however many times Willow takes off, it still worries him. He loves Willow as though she is his own daughter.
Becky takes her grandpa’s hand in hers and squeezes. ‘We’re going to see her at the weekend. We’ll bring her back. Promise.’ She fumbles in her pocket for a tissue and dabs his cheeks. ‘Everything is going to be just fine, Grandpa. You’ll see.’
*
Aaron’s Mercedes is on the drive when we get home, and a fizz of excitement runs through me.
‘Call me when the Chinese is here,’ Becky says once we’re inside and she’s unlacing her Doc Martens and tugging them free. She jumps to her feet and bobs her head around the lounge door. ‘Hey, Aaron,’ she calls, raising her hand in a wave.
‘Hey, Becky,’ he says, waving back.
‘I’ll have beef and broccoli with boiled rice.’ She’s done her research online for the healthiest Chinese takeaway options, and always has the same thing.
She drops her boots and heads up the stairs. I bend to pick them up and stand them neatly on the shoe shelf.
I enter the lounge. Aaron is watching The One Show. He looks up, points the remote control at the TV, and presses pause.
‘Hey, beautiful,’ he says, rising and heading towards me, taking me into his arms. He’s showered – smells of Jimmy Choo. He’s worn it ever since I bought him a bottle at Christmas.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ I say, nuzzling into his shoulder, breathing him in. I suppose the only consolation of this difficult way of life is we never seem to get bored with each other. My heart still races when I see him, and he says his does too. I’m guessing if we’d seen each other every second of the last year, things might be different – more static, normal. But I guess I’ll never know. He suggested once that he could change careers, said he hated that we were apart so often, but I knew how much he loved his job – still does. It wouldn’t have been fair to ask him to throw it in for me.
‘It’s so good to see you too,’ he says, placing a kiss on my forehead, and releasing me. He sits back down, patting the seat next to him.
I grab my laptop, and as I lean back, opening it up, his arm falls loosely around my shoulders, and I feel safe. ‘I’d better order the Chinese,’ I say with a smile.
‘Pork in black bean sauce for me, please’ he says, pointing the remote control at the TV again and unfreezing Matt Baker, his smile dimpling his cheek as he glances at the menu with me.
An email notification appears in the corner of my laptop screen. I click on it. It’s from Willow, telling me her address in Cornwall – and a brief message:
I can’t wait to see you, Rose. I need you so much, Willow. X
Chapter 7 (#ulink_f323bba2-4bc7-5279-90fb-90ec2e68abbe)
AVA (#ulink_f323bba2-4bc7-5279-90fb-90ec2e68abbe)
2001
Ava screwed up her face and wiggled so the bridesmaid dress rustled. It was floor-length, yellow satin, like her daughter’s – although Willow looked like child-sized sunshine, and Ava most definitely did not.
But in seven weeks Gail was getting married to Rory, and Ava would be their bridesmaid.
‘I look stupid, Mum,’ Ava said, strutting around the lounge, bashing her leg on the coffee table, as her mum looked on. ‘This headdress would look better on our front door this Christmas.’
‘You look fine, Ava. Now stop with your whinging,’ Jeannette said, pinning her with a stare.
Ava pulled the fake floral headdress over her eyes. ‘Ah, I can’t see.’ She held out her arms like a zombie and took pigeon steps across the room. ‘I reckon Gail pinched this thing off a gravestone.’
‘Enough. Stop that stupid talk.’ Her mum reached up and straightened her daughter’s headdress. ‘Your sister wants you and Willow to look beautiful. Why would she go out of her way to make you look stupid on her wedding day?’ She took short, sharp strides away from Ava, retreating into the kitchen.
‘Because she hates me, that’s why.’ Ava had no doubt of that. ‘She’s only having me as her bridesmaid because you told her she had to, and Rory wants Willow as their flower girl.’
Her mother reappeared in the lounge, and folding her arms across her slim body, said, ‘She doesn’t hate you, Ava. She despairs of you, as we all do. There’s a difference. And this is Gail’s big day, not yours. So can you please stop thinking about yourself for once, and be happy for her?’
The words stung. Ava rarely thought about herself.
Ava followed her mum as she headed back into the small, impeccable kitchen. ‘I’m pleased for Gail, really I am,’ she said. It wasn’t true. She wasn’t pleased for her sister. The only plus she could see was that Gail had finally moved out of the cottage. It had taken a while for the move to happen, as Rory had had problems getting rid of his lodger, but now her sister had moved into Rory’s Edwardian detached in Newquay.
Gail and Ava had always shared the bigger room – neither wanting to sleep in their brother Peter’s old room when he left for Australia when he was eighteen. They both claimed it smelt funny. When Willow was born, the young women had fought over the limited space. Gail had never had any patience with Willow – said she wasn’t cut out to be an auntie and didn’t want kids herself. But now Gail had gone, and it was bliss for Willow and Ava to have the room to themselves.
‘Do you like Rory, Mum?’ Ava asked, taking two mugs from the cupboard. She wasn’t sure what she felt about her soon to be brother-in-law. He had the looks, the charm, but she’d seen him grip Gail’s arm a little too tightly on occasions, and the aggressive way he’d treated her in the arcade two years back when she’d bumped into him, still stayed in her mind. ‘You’re sure Gail’s making the right decision marrying him?
‘For Christ’s sake, stop, Ava.’ Her mum raised her hand. ‘Rory is handsome, intelligent, witty, well-off—’
‘Too good to be true?’
‘He’ll make your sister happy.’ She turned and shoved the kettle under the streaming tap. ‘Sometimes I think you’re jealous of Gail.’
‘Maybe I am,’ Ava whispered, out of her mother’s earshot. Gail was marrying a rich, handsome man, while Ava struggled to hold on to Willow’s father. Some days she felt as though she might lose her mind stuck in this isolated part of Cornwall, with no means of escape.
But she had her beautiful daughter. Willow made things right.
And while she didn’t have many friends, she drew comfort from being close to the sea. From her bedroom window she would watch the tides rise and fall, and could be on the beach within moments; smell the salty air, feel sand between her toes. It kept her sane. Gave her hope. Hope that one day everything would be different. One day she would give her daughter a perfect life – the life she’d never had.
She looked down at the yellow dress once more. ‘Right,’ she said, putting the mug back in the cupboard, deciding she didn’t want a hot drink. ‘I’m getting out of this.’
She climbed the stairs, unzipping the dress as she went, and once in her room, she pushed it from her shoulders, letting it drop in a heap around her ankles. She stepped from it, and grabbed her robe, and pulled it on over her bra and pants, and flopped onto her bed wishing she was a million miles from away.
‘I’m heading out, Ava,’ her mum called up the stairs later. ‘Do you need anything from the shop?’
‘No, thanks,’ she called back.
The door slammed shut, and a cry came from the bed in the corner of the room. Willow was stirring.
As Ava padded over to her, she glanced out of the window to see her mum, wrapped in her winter coat, hurrying down the uneven road towards the local shop – her head down. She always avoided eye contact with dog walkers, neighbours, holidaymakers, and now she was quickening her step as she passed a lad with a yellow baseball cap pulled low. He stopped, turned, and watched her mum dash onwards until she was out of sight. Suddenly his gaze flicked up to the window where Ava stood. Before she could register his face, she moved out of sight with a jolt. When she looked again, he’d gone.
Willow had drifted back to sleep, lids closed over blue eyes, her thumb in her mouth. Ava stroked a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. ‘You deserve so much more, darling girl,’ she whispered. ‘One day your life will be perfect, you’ll see.’
Chapter 8 (#ulink_3cec2e9f-e839-530a-a35e-6dcdbe96862b)
YOU (#ulink_3cec2e9f-e839-530a-a35e-6dcdbe96862b)
Always surrounded by friends – so popular – but then you had a charm, didn’t you? A charisma that drew people in, so much so you could make them do almost anything.
When I was young I imagined, as I watched you from a distance, what it would be like to be part of your network of friends. What did you all do when you went into the woods at night?
Mystery and darkness shrouded you and I suppose that made you all the more intriguing, fascinating – made me want to be a part of your world even more.
You didn’t see me following you everywhere. See me watching you.
I thought about you constantly – wished for the day when you would wrap your arm around my shoulders, pull me close, and kiss me.
But you never did. Well, not at first anyway.
I was so young when I made it my mission to infiltrate your world. You were so beautiful to me – I had to be close to you. But it was later – much later in fact – when you finally noticed me. You glanced over and smiled, and I don’t mind admitting, my stomach flipped. You had such a winning smile – those dimples making you look so innocent. No one could have imagined what was beneath that smile – not even me. Not back then.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_ff246164-5620-54d1-9fa3-90b71888a3f2)
ROSE (#ulink_ff246164-5620-54d1-9fa3-90b71888a3f2)
Now
I stand in the corner of the staffroom gripping the stem of my wine glass, the sun beaming through the small Georgian windows behind me, bringing on the makings of a migraine. I’m exhausted. It’s been a difficult first year at Mandalay Primary School. Some days I feel like running back to my old school and begging them to take me back. I loved being a teacher. I hate being a head.
And secret-gift swapping with staff is far from my idea of fun. In fact, as I said to Aaron when he picked me up for lunch earlier, the whole thing is quite bizarre.
‘It’s like a Secret Santa, but in the summer,’ the school secretary told me a few weeks back, coming into my office brandishing a too-bright smile. She thrust a tartan cap full of pieces of paper towards me. ‘We’ve been doing it for years,’ she went on. ‘It was John’s idea.’ It was an obvious nod to the previous head who I knew she preferred. ‘We normally give gifts around the ten-pound mark.’
It was one of those many moments when I wanted to say, ‘I think some of these silly traditions need changing.’ But instead I pulled out a name and smiled politely.
I’d studied to be a teacher when Becky was young, after Seb left. I was living with Dad and Eleanor at the time, and I know, without their support, I wouldn’t be where I am. I guess that’s why I’m here, in this role, continually trying to prove their faith in me was worth it.
A shriek of laughter brings me out of my daydream, and I stare at the gift collection box in the middle of the room. It has stood outside my office for the last month, with staff dropping parcels off, and children and parents nosing inside. Even Becky, when she met me last week after work, asked who the gifts were for. ‘Sounds cool,’ she said when I explained. But then at fourteen, it probably did.
I sip red wine and wince. Not one for drinking in the day, I put the glass down, deciding not to touch any more. I’ll be driving soon, so shouldn’t anyway, and I know it won’t help a migraine.
Several members of staff are red-cheeked already, enjoying the fact the children have gone home to their families for six weeks, and chatting and laughing together after a long term.
I’m struggling to fit in here, and I try telling myself that being a headteacher isn’t about making friends. I must accept I will be slightly removed from the staff – on the outside looking in.
Ralph Martin, a trainee teacher who looks young enough to be brought to school by his mum, stands up and claps his hands. My heart sinks as the chatter fades. I hate surprises. They make me feel out of control.
‘It’s pressie time,’ he says, sounding upbeat, clearly enjoying the excitement. ‘Do you want to do the honours, Rose?’
‘No!’ The word shoots from my mouth sharper than intended, and everyone looks at me. ‘You go for it, Ralph,’ I say, trying to smooth the edges from my words.
The presents are distributed quickly. Wrappings are ripped off, flying everywhere, and the room fills with laughter and overexcited ‘oohs’. The gifts range from saucy pink, furry handcuffs to sensible silk scarves.
The teaching assistant who receives my gift doesn’t look too thrilled by a book of poetry, but I didn’t know what to get a man I barely know. And he is attached to literacy after all.
‘Rose,’ Ralph says. ‘This one’s for you.’
I take it with a fake smile, and pull free the gold wrapping paper, like I’m ripping off a plaster. Inside is a set of body oils. ‘Thank you,’ I say, flicking my eyes around the room, wondering who sent me such a thoughtful gift.
‘Just one left,’ Ralph says, lifting out another parcel. I see the tag is torn. ‘Another one for you, Rose,’ he says, arching his eyebrow.
‘That can’t be right, can it?’ I look at everyone in turn. ‘Wasn’t it one for each of us?’ I take it from him, feeling too warm in my short-sleeved polo neck top. The room’s too noisy. Too crowded.
In my hand is a green box, tied with a yellow silk ribbon. I feel a slight dizziness, a need for air. ‘Betsy,’ I whisper.
‘Sorry?’ Ralph says.
‘Listen, I’m just going outside for a moment,’ I say, turning to head for the door, unsure what’s wrong with me. Is it the stress of the long term? The worry I’m not cut out for a leadership role? Thoughts of Willow?
‘Aren’t you going to open it first?’ someone says, and an echo of ‘Go on,’ follows.
‘OK,’ I say. My fingers tremble as I run them over the lid. I’m being ridiculous.
Ralph takes the box from me. ‘Shall I open it for you?’
‘OK,’ I say. I have no choice. Everyone’s eyes are on me.
‘Chocolate biscuits,’ he says, lifting the lid, and handing it back to me. ‘They look delicious.’
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. ‘Biscuits,’ I whisper, placing the box on the table next to my barely touched glass of wine. ‘Just biscuits.’ But who sent them? I’ve already received my gift.
I go to leave, and as I head for the door I glance over my shoulder just once. Why did I react so stupidly? Am I on high alert? Fight or flight mode because I’m in a situation I’d rather not be in?
‘Help yourselves, everyone,’ I say, raising my hand and fluttering my fingers. ‘And enjoy the holidays.’
A chorus of goodbyes follow me from the staffroom as I dash down the corridor, the walls stripped of the children’s colourful paintings, making the school feel a little sad.
I fling open the door and breathe in fresh air, before heading for my car. Once inside, with the doors central-locked, I stare through the front window at the school, my mind drifting to the day we buried Betsy.
*
Willow had been five when she gripped my hand and looked up at me with sad eyes. The rain had poured down earlier, and the grass squelched under our feet as we walked down the garden, the moisture still in the air formed tiny bubbles on Willow’s curls.
‘Will Mummy look after Betsy when she gets to heaven?’ she asked me.
I’d known her for two years now, and over that time she had mentioned her mummy being an angel a few times, but it was always put down to her over-active imagination. Willow would make up the most outlandish stories even then. ‘My daddy is a bad man,’ she told me once, and I’d wondered if she was talking about Eleanor’s first husband – she certainly couldn’t have meant my dad.
We’d put Betsy the guinea pig in a green box tied with a yellow ribbon, and now Dad was saying a few words, as Eleanor lowered the little coffin into the ground.
‘We all loved Betsy,’ he said. ‘She lived a long and happy life with Willow caring for her so well.’
I swallowed down tears, as Eleanor sprinkled soil over the box, and Willow squeezed my hand. She looked up at me bewildered, and within moments released my hand and ran into the house. She cried in her room for hours.
I slip the key into the ignition and start the engine. I’m about to put the car into gear when a knock on the window startles me. It’s Ralph dangling a torn gift tag close to the glass.
From Jasmine Year 3 x
I buzz down the window and stare at it for some moments, before taking it from him, and turning it over in my hands. It’s the other half of the tag that was on the biscuits.
‘It was in the bottom of the box,’ he says. ‘Jasmine must have put your end of term gift in there by mistake.’ He pauses. ‘Are you OK, Rose? You seem a little—’
‘I’m fine,’ I cut in, snapping to my senses and smiling. ‘Just glad to be breaking up from school for a while, that’s all. It’s been a long term.’
‘Yes. Yes, it has.’ He scratches his head. ‘It’s just you seemed bothered by the biscuits.’
I shake my head, putting the tag down on the passenger seat. ‘I’m fine,’ I repeat. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.’
‘Of course, you’re off to Cornwall tomorrow, aren’t you? Have a wonderful time.’ He raises his hand in a wave and steps backwards.
‘Thanks. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.’ The site manager is locking up later than usual because I want to get home, and don’t want to spoil the end of term fun.
‘Thanks, Rose.’ He takes another step away from the car, as I pull away.
Chapter 10 (#ulink_d706d331-5c80-51ef-a537-91fd0797dd01)
AVA (#ulink_d706d331-5c80-51ef-a537-91fd0797dd01)
2001
Peter stood at the foot of the stairs, his holdall at his feet, looking at Ava through round-rimmed glasses. The siblings weren’t close in age, and he’d taken off for Brisbane when he was eighteen, almost ten years ago. The void between them was that of strangers.
His dark, tangled hair rested on his shoulders, his colourful striped trousers were creased, the fur collar of his purple jacket matted. She felt sure he hadn’t looked so dishevelled when he left home. In fact, the photos of him on the dresser in the lounge, that Mum had put out just before he arrived, showed a cute kid, and a good-looking teenager.
Peter lifted his holdall and climbed the stairs, knocking pictures as he went. He was almost at the top when he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Grab my rucksack, will you, Ava, and bring it up?’ he said, disappearing from view. She looked about her, spotting a tatty rucksack covered in sewn-on badges, by the front door. She picked it up and headed up the stairs.
Peter stood in the doorway of his old room, which was rammed with junk – his old guitar, a music centre, massive speakers. In fact, it was just as he’d left it: posters of wrestlers pinned to the wall, and dust-covered models of horror movie villains lining the shelves.
He threw his holdall on the bed and Ava dropped his rucksack to the floor.
‘Ta,’ he said, looking about him. ‘It hasn’t changed at all, has it?’ he added, and she picked up his Aussie twang for the first time.
‘Mum keeps the door shut, mostly,’ she said, her eyes flicking over the dusty surfaces, vague memories of Peter spending most of his time alone here, floating in. There had been arguments too between her mum and her brother – lots of arguments.
He took off his jacket and threw it on the bed next to his holdall. He gave the room one last scan, and left. She followed, closing the door behind her.
‘So tell me, little sis,’ he said, lumbering down the stairs, knocking another picture with his shoulder. ‘What have you been up to since I’ve been away? Gail told me you got pregnant. Bit careless of you. Never heard of condoms?’
She followed him into the lounge. ‘Her name is Willow.’
‘You what?’ he said, dropping into the armchair.
‘My daughter – your niece – her name is Willow. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’
‘Whatever you say,’ he said, tipping a cigarette from a box and lighting it. He dragged hard on it, and blew smoke towards her. ‘Want a ciggie?’ he said, offering the packet.
‘I don’t smoke anymore,’ she said. She’d given up when she found out she was pregnant with Willow. ‘And Mum doesn’t allow smoking in the house. You should stand on the doorstep, or in the back garden.’
‘Mum’s not here though, is she?’ He jokingly glanced under the chair. ‘Take it easy, Ava, you’re like a wound-up spring. It’s just the one. I need it after that bloody long flight.’
‘So what made you travel all this way for Gail’s wedding?’
‘Rory paid for the trip. Gail wants me to give her away. So I thought I’d make a long break of it. Nothing much keeping me in Australia.’ He took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Rory seems like a great bloke.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘You don’t like him?’
She coiled her hair around her finger. Sometimes, in her darkest moments, she thought she might like him too much – hated that he could get inside her head like that. ‘He’s OK. Seems to make Gail happy.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’ He took another long drag on the cigarette, eyeing Ava. ‘So, are you pleased to see me?’
‘I barely remember you,’ she said, her voice void of emotion. ‘You pissed off when I was a kid.’
‘Cheers for that,’ he said with a sarcastic tone. ‘I remember you. You were always bawling as a toddler.’
‘I was not.’
‘Yeah you were.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Christ, I’m knackered,’ he said, his cigarette burning between his fingers. ‘Bloody jet lag.’
‘So what have you been up to in Australia?’ she said, sitting down on the sofa.
His eyes sprung open. ‘This and that.’ He stubbed his cigarette out on one of Jeannette’s ornamental dishes, and Ava cringed. ‘I was married for a bit. Still am legally, I guess.’
‘What? You never let us know.’
‘It only lasted six months, Ava. I wanted kids. She wanted to wait a few years. That was that.’
‘Did you love her?’
‘Yeah. Still do. But we’re on different pages. Couldn’t make it work.’
‘Maybe you should have waited for her to catch up. Maybe she needed to know the time was right to have kids.’
‘You know nothing about it,’ he said. ‘You’re just a kid yourself, forced to be a grown-up.’
‘I’m nineteen, and I know marriages are give and take – any good Disney film tells you that much,’ she smiled.
‘Perhaps,’ he answered her smile. ‘I bet you’re a good mum, aren’t you, Ava?’ His tone had softened, his bravado falling away. ‘I remember you playing happy families with your dolls.’
‘And do you remember Gail stabbing them all with a kitchen knife?’ It had scarred Ava for months – perhaps longer. ‘She was never maternal even then.’
‘Yeah, I remember.’ He shook his head. ‘She was pretty feisty at times.’
‘I can think of better words to describe her.’ Ava looked down at the palms of her hands, remembering. ‘I only wanted to play with her – be part of her world. But she rarely let me. Always blamed me for Dad leaving.’ Tears burned behind her eyes. ‘Anyway, enough about the past,’ she said in a rush. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure I’m going back.’
‘You’re staying in Cornwall? Here? With us?’ She couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice.
‘Yeah, for a bit anyway.’
‘What do you do? For a job, I mean? My wages won’t stretch to another person, Peter, and you know Mum hasn’t worked since Willow was born.’
Jeannette had been in a high-powered position in forensics before Ava was born, but when their father left, she never returned to it. Instead she took a part-time job in a factory office, working alone most of the time – which she said she preferred – and rarely socialised out of work. When Willow was born she insisted it was Ava’s turn to work – that she’d done her bit for this family. She would stay home and look after the baby. Ava had tried to argue, wanting desperately to be with Willow. But her mother was firm. ‘You work, or you leave.’
‘Well, I’ve been doing a bit of plumbing,’ Peter said. ‘A bloke over in Australia took me on as an apprentice. I’m pretty good, so once I get a bit of freelance work, it’ll take the pressure off you a bit.’ He broke off for a moment before saying, ‘So you’re going to be Gail’s bridesmaid?’
‘Mmm, only because Rory wants Willow to be their flower girl – apparently he loves kids. Not sure he’s twigged Gail doesn’t,’ she laughed.
‘So where is Willow?’
‘Upstairs asleep … in fact, I’d better check on her.’ She rose, studying her brother once more. As her eyes met his, another memory invaded. She could see herself huddled against the kitchen wall, gripping her knees, and Peter is yelling, his body shaking, his eyes bloodshot, face streaming with tears. ‘I hate you. I hate this house. I’m leaving,’ he spat. ‘And I’m never coming back.’
Chapter 11 (#ulink_82ae4799-120e-5378-884c-3fe565387c0a)
ROSE (#ulink_82ae4799-120e-5378-884c-3fe565387c0a)
Now
‘Hi beautiful,’ Aaron calls from the lounge as I lumber through the front door, and dump my briefcase, laptop, and the gift I received onto the table at the foot of the stairs. ‘Bet you’re glad that’s over until September.’
I am, although I know I will be in and out of school working throughout the holiday. I take off my shoes, and slip my feet into my slippers – sighing with relief as I pad through to the kitchen.
Aaron appears from the lounge, and kisses my cheek before sitting down in front of his open laptop.
‘You OK?’ he says, smiling, and I think, as I always do, how handsome he is, never fully shaking the feeling he’s out of my league.
We met a year ago. I was out with friends when he walked into the bar in his pilot’s uniform. Confident, tall, dark-haired – perfect. Us girls were giddy on wine that night, and gave a collective swoon, followed by a flurry of laughter. He looked over and smiled. But it was me he focused on – staring for a long moment. And it was me he chatted to later, when I pushed my way to the bar to order more drinks.
‘Fancy escaping?’ he said, and I looked over at my friends who were now up on the dance floor, giggling – happy.
‘I can’t,’ I said, although I desperately wanted to, despite not knowing him. ‘It’s a friend’s hen night.’
‘Another time?’ he suggested.
We exchanged numbers. A week later he called. He was landing in Luton again.
‘So, tell me about yourself,’ he said, when we met up at a bar on Old Stevenage High Street, and sipped wine.
‘Well, I’m a teacher. I have a thirteen-year-old daughter.’ I took a gulp of wine. It seemed funny to sum up my identity with two short sentences. But that was my life. Still is. Although now I’m with a man I love – who loves me back.
I went on to tell him about Willow, and waffled on about how wonderful Eleanor was. How I loved my dad more than the world.
‘I’m a tiny bit OCD,’ I continued after another sip of wine, straightening some beermats into a neat row for effect, and he laughed. ‘I’m kind to animals, and hate surprises.’ It was nerves causing my inability to shut up. Nerves because somehow, in less than an hour, I knew I was falling for him.
‘I’ll keep that in mind when I want to send you surprise roses,’ he said. ‘Or want to whisk you off to Paris.’
I laughed. ‘Well, there are exceptions to every rule.’ I felt myself blushing, my stomach tipping. ‘So tell me about you,’ I said, and drained my glass.
‘Well, I’ve travelled a lot,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived in Paris, Stockholm, Naples, Sydney, New York – the list goes on and on.’ He paused and with a smile added, ‘I’m presently living in Luton.’
I laughed at the contrast, as he got to his feet and took my glass. ‘Let me get you another one of those,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it when you hear more of my life story.’
Once back at the table, he told me how his father died when he was young. That he was close with his mum. That he hadn’t had any serious relationships ‘because of my job’.That his favourite film was, and still is It’s a Wonderful Life. ‘Oh, and I can’t get enough of Frank Sinatra, and enjoy a bit of classical if the mood is right,’ he concluded.
Now he closes down his laptop, rises and takes me in his arms.
‘I’m glad I got to see you before you take off again,’ I say, laying my head against his chest.
‘Me too.’ He lifts my chin and kisses me tenderly, before releasing his grip. ‘This is so bloody hard,’ he says, not for the first time.
‘Well, I knew what I was getting into when I met you. I don’t know what your excuse is.’ I laugh, and he laughs too.
‘I just wish … well … you know what I wish.’
I head for the kettle. ‘Coffee?’ I ask, picking it up and filling it, but when I glance over my shoulder he’s shoving his laptop into his bag.
‘I haven’t got time,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
My heart sinks. ‘You’re going already?’ It’s a daft question. I know his schedule. Planes don’t fly themselves.
‘Sorry,’ he says, putting on his jacket. He’s always sorry. ‘I’ll call you when I get there, like always,’ he continues, approaching, and his lips brush against mine once more. ‘I hope all goes well with Willow.’
He moves towards the door, grabbing the handle of his pull-along case.
‘I’ll give her your love, shall I?’ I call after him.
‘Yes, please do.’ His tone is upbeat, as he looks back again before leaving. ‘Bye, Becky,’ he yells up the stairs to no answer.
As he closes the front door behind him, a sudden sadness creeps in. I head for the window and wave until his car disappears around the corner. Am I kidding myself that I’m used to this life?
Once I’ve made some coffee, I sit down at the kitchen table, and blow on the steaming mug before taking a sip. I need a caffeine jolt before I finish packing. I’m unsure how long we will stay with Willow, but I need to be prepared for a week, just in case. I look beyond the windowpane into the back garden, where washing blows in a light breeze.
I walk to the bottom of the stairs. It’s silent above me, no music blaring out. Perhaps Becky is out. I grab my laptop and head back into the kitchen to print off a map of the area. I’ll use my satnav to get to Cornwall, but I want to get an idea where Willow’s staying.
I key the address into Google maps. It’s about twenty miles north of Newquay, near the sea, and one of a handful of cottages just outside the village of Bostagel.
‘Hey, Mum.’ I jump, not hearing Becky’s approach. She sits down, opens a bottle of black nail varnish, and begins painting her nails. It hardly seems worth it. Her nails are almost bitten away. ‘I’ve been packing a few things,’ she says. ‘Will I need stuff for America too?’
‘No, we’ll be back before then. Take enough for about a week, and we’ll see how things go. We may only stay overnight.’ I close Google maps, and nod towards the garden. ‘Thanks for hanging out the washing.’
‘Wasn’t me. Must have been Aaron.’
‘Ah!’
‘He’d done it before I got home, Mum. I would have hung it out.’
‘I know, love.’ I pat her arm, unsure if she would have. She’s going through a lazy stage. But I know she could be a lot worse, so I’m rolling with it.
‘Have you seen the parcel?’ she says, screwing the lid back on the bottle of varnish, and blowing on her nails.
‘What parcel?’ I glance around the kitchen, which Aaron has cleaned until it sparkles. Sometimes I think he’s the one with OCD.
Becky races into the lounge, and I follow. ‘I opened it, sorry,’ she says. ‘It was addressed to Ms R Lawson. I thought it was the Blu-ray I ordered, but it isn’t. It must be for you.’ She picks up a cardboard box from the coffee table – the kind Blu-rays come in – and hands it to me. ‘I glanced inside,’ she says. ‘It’s photos.’
‘Photos?’
‘Mmm. Did you order any?’
I shake my head and, sitting down on the edge of the sofa, I look inside the box. She’s right. It’s photographs. I pull them out one at a time, and lay them in a row on the coffee table. There are four – all of men I’ve never seen before.
‘Who are they?’ Becky says, sitting down by my side. ‘Do you know them?’ She tucks her wayward curls behind her ears as she stares down at them.
I shake my head again. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘So who sent them?’ I hear a twang of apprehension in Becky’s voice. ‘Why have you been sent them, Mum?’
‘I’m sure there’s an explanation, sweetheart,’ I say, although I don’t know what it is. I turn the photos over one at a time, looking on the backs, hoping to find names.
There’s a colour photograph of a boy of about seventeen, with white-blonde hair styled back from his face with gel, and blue eyes that seem a little too close together. I take in his baggy pale blue jeans, the way his hands are stuffed in the pockets of a black bomber jacket. I turn it over. ‘It says Justin, 1999.’
‘No surname?’ Becky asks, and I shake my head. ‘He looks a bit spaced out to me,’ she goes on, taking the photo. ‘A bit like Foggy Marsden in my class when he’s high on coke.’
‘Please tell me you’re talking about the brown fizzy stuff.’
She rolls her eyes.
‘You mean cocaine?’ My heart, already thudding at the sight of the curious photographs, picks up speed.
‘It’s OK, Mother. I would never touch the stuff. My body is a temple.’ She puts the photo down.
I pick up another photograph. This man looks like a throwback from the Sixties. He’s nice looking enough, but too pale with dark shadows under eyes framed with Harry Potter style glasses. He’s in his late twenties, I would think, with dishevelled hair to his shoulders. ‘Peter Millar,’ I read from the back of the photo.
The next picture is of a man with dark brown hair. He’s good-looking, and kitted out in an expensive suit. I move the photo closer to my face, before flicking the photo over. ‘Rory Thompson.’
The final picture isn’t as clear as the others. It’s taken from a distance, possibly without the man’s knowledge. He’s wearing a yellow baseball cap pulled low over what looks like brown hair, and a white hooded sweatshirt over black jeans. There’s no name on the back.
‘Why has someone sent you these?’ Becky asks. ‘Are you two-timing Aaron?’ She tries for a laugh – she knows that would never happen. She’s trying to make light of it. It isn’t working.
I pick up the cardboard box once more, and search inside. Squashed at the bottom is a sealed envelope. I pull it free and rip it open. Inside is a piece of paper. I recognise Willow’s handwriting instantly.
My eyes widen as Becky and I read her words.
Dear Rose,
I’m sending you these photos because one of these men killed my mother eighteen years ago. Her name was Ava Millar. I’ve been asking questions, and now someone is hanging about the cottage. They want me to leave, but I’m not giving up.
I’ll explain everything when you arrive. But Rose – if anything happens to me, please keep digging until you find the truth.
Love, Willow X
My hands shake, and my heart bounces in my chest, as I try to push the letter back in the envelope. I’m in shock that Willow would send me a letter with such potency. That she would worry me that something could happen to her – tell me to take the baton if it did.
‘Christ! What’s going on, Mum?’ Becky says. She’s nibbling her nails, and her eyes look browner and wider than ever.
‘I have no idea,’ I say, the words of the letter jumping around my head, ‘but the sooner I get to Cornwall the better.’
‘This is so freaky.’ Becky pulls her phone from her pocket. ‘I need to tell Tamsyn.’
‘No! Don’t tell anyone.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘OK, Mother.’ A pause. ‘But I just can’t believe we’re going to Cornwall to catch a killer.’
‘You’re not going at all,’ I say. ‘It’s no place for you. You can stay with Grandpa and Eleanor.’
‘But Mum!’
I raise my hand like I’m the traffic police. ‘And I don’t want to hear any more about it.’
Chapter 12 (#ulink_24561de2-4be3-58eb-81fa-c037f1beb70e)
ROSE (#ulink_24561de2-4be3-58eb-81fa-c037f1beb70e)
Now
Becky thunders up the stairs and slams her bedroom door. With a deep sigh, I plonk down on the sofa and grab my laptop. Trying to block out her teenage tantrum, I open it up.
I key in ‘murder’ and ‘Cornwall’ into the search engine. There are almost 100,000 hits. As I scroll down the websites: unsolved murders, mysterious murders, frenzied killings, sadistic killings, my stomach turns over – and I pray nobody ever looks at my search history.
I spot an article about a rape and attempted murder of a young woman near Crantock in 2001, but Willow said her mother was murdered.
With determination, I do the same search and include Ava Millar.
Oh God, it’s there in front of me within moments. Ava Millar. Murdered in 2001.
With shaking hands, I press the link. It takes me to a newspaper article:
The Cornwall Journal
December 22
2001
The body of nineteen-year-old Ava Millar was discovered early this morning by sixty-year-old Stephen Patterson while he was walking his dog along Beach Road, Bostagel.
Stephen told the Cornwall Journal that the attack on Ava was horrific, and finding her would live with him forever. It has now been confirmed that she was stabbed eight times.
Near the body a bride’s dress, thought to belong to Ava’s sister, Gail Thompson, was found folded neatly with what appeared to be a suicide note.
The last sightings of Ava and Gail were at Bostagel Village Hall yesterday evening. Police are keen to talk to anyone who may have seen Ava or Gail between ten o’clock and midnight last night to get in contact on the numbers below.
Ava leaves behind her two-year-old daughter Willow.
‘Oh God,’ I whisper, covering my face with my hands. Trying to comprehend the terrible tragedy. Imagining Willow doing the same online search. Reading this article. I can’t bear to think of the effect it would have had on her. Why didn’t she turn to me sooner?
I struggle to believe that Eleanor isn’t Willow’s real mother, that she kept it from us all. But as the idea settles, I wonder if there were signs I missed over the years. Mummy is an angel.
Later, as I stir fry chicken and vegetables, I try calling Willow, the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder as the food sizzles and spits in the wok, but her phone rings and rings, finally going to voicemail. I leave a short message. ‘Call me, Willow. Please.’
‘Becky, dinner’s ready,’ I call, as I serve.
She thumps down the stairs. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, disappearing into the lounge. So I sit alone, pushing food around my plate, unable to eat, my mind full of Willow.
Later, I grab my jacket from the rack, and call my dad. ‘Hey! Is Eleanor home?’ I say when he picks up.
‘She’s right beside me, love. Do you want to speak to her?’
‘I thought I might come over, if that’s OK. It’s just I really need to chat with her in person.’
‘Of course, is everything OK? You have that tell-tale wobble in your voice.’
‘Do I?’ He knows me so well. ‘I’m fine, honestly. It’s just … well I’ll tell you when I get there.’
‘OK, love. Drive carefully.’
‘Yes, will do. Love you.’
I end the call and tug on my jacket, slipping the phone into my pocket. ‘I won’t be long,’ I say to Becky, who is sprawled on the sofa, her long legs stretched out in front of her, a throw around her shoulders. She’s watching a dark series on Netflix, and grunts, still sulking.
‘Should you be watching that?’ I say.
She keeps her eyes on the screen. ‘How old do you actually think I am, Mum? No wait – I remember – you think I’m a baby.’
I glance at the TV and catch sight of a blood splattered wall, a decapitated body on a factory floor. I cringe and squeeze my eyes closed. ‘I know how old you are, Becky.’
‘Well stop treating me like a kid then.’
I duck out of the doorway, before we start bickering again, or I see another gruesome scene. I’m sure she shouldn’t be watching disturbing programmes, but if I say anything she’ll claim Aaron and I are overprotective. She doesn’t seem to realise it’s an awful world out there and we need to keep her safe.
*
I drive towards Old Welwyn, the sun setting behind the trees. Dusk has settled on the warm day by the time I pull onto the drive at Darlington House.
The grounds are still and quiet and, probably due to my mood, I feel uneasy. Dad and Eleanor have had a few offers over the years from film directors wanting to use the place as a setting for horror or supernatural movies, but they’ve always declined, insisting this is a happy house. And it is. Mostly.
I knock, and Eleanor answers the door within moments. She turned sixty at Christmas, but could easily pass as forty-five.
‘Rose, darling,’ she says, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around me – coating me with her expensive perfume. She’s softly spoken, pronounces her vowels. ‘Your father said you wanted to talk to me.’
Once she’s released me, I follow her into the lounge. There’s no sign of Dad, and as though sensing me searching for him, Eleanor says, ‘He’s popped to the Fox and Hound. Said he thought you wanted to see me. Decided to give us space. Drink?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m driving.’
‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
I spot two cases in the corner, and suddenly remember. ‘Oh, I forgot you’re going away.’
‘Yes.’ She aims the remote control at the TV, muting a wildlife programme. ‘We’re heading for Scotland in the morning. Your dad said we shouldn’t go. That we should be here for Willow.’ She stares deep into my eyes as though asking me what she should do.
‘Dad needs a break,’ I say. He’s been suffering with angina, needs some time out to relax.
‘Yes, and we’re only going for the weekend. We could be back in a flash if needed.’
‘You must go,’ I insist, sitting down on one of the sofas opposite her. ‘Dad’s never been to Scotland. And let’s be honest, if we stopped living every time Willow took off we’d never go anywhere.’ She still looks a little unsure. ‘She’s got me, Eleanor. I’ll keep you both updated.’
‘Yes, of course you will. Thank you, Rose,’ she says.
Photographs in silver frames of the family are everywhere. Expensive ornaments, mostly wild animals, are displayed in an oak cabinet. A bookshelf full of hardbacks – non-fiction mainly: biographies, books about birds, the rainforest – stretches across one of the walls.
‘So what did you want to see me about?’ she says. She cups her chin with her left hand, places her index finger on her cheek. ‘Is everything OK?’
Deciding to come straight to the point, I say, ‘Do you know why Willow took off like she did?’
She moves her hand from her cheek and examines her neat nails for some moments. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘Are you her biological mother, Eleanor?’
Tears appear on her lower lashes. ‘You know about that?’
‘That her real mother was murdered? Yes, I know.’
‘I brought her up, Rose. She is my daughter.’
‘You adopted her?’
‘She’s had a far better life with me – us – than she ever would have.’ She sucks in a sigh, as a resting tear zigzags down her cheek. ‘You may as well know how it came about.’
‘Go on.’ I lean back, feeling a tension in my shoulders, and the beginnings of a headache forming.
She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘So you know Willow’s mother was murdered.’
I nod, feeling fuzzy, as though I’m not in my own body. As though none of this is real.
‘Her name was Ava Millar,’ she goes on, and I don’t stop her, even though I know that much. ‘I knew the Millars from my time as a social worker. In the early Nineties Ava’s older brother was a difficult boy, and her mother couldn’t handle him. There was concern for the safety of Ava and her sister, Gail. They were eight and ten when I was assigned their case.
‘Although things calmed down when the brother took off to Australia, I kept the family on my radar, and heard when Ava got pregnant at seventeen with Willow – the father was a useless article.
‘When Ava was killed, I visited her mother. Jeannette Millar was a mess. Anyone would be after losing two daughters. Gail killed herself you see, after supposedly killing Ava.’
‘Supposedly?’
‘I never quite believed she was capable. She was a self-centred girl but, in my opinion, not a killer. Although the evidence was there – the note – her wedding dress folded neatly – the knife.’
My mind drifts to the photographs I was sent. ‘So if you don’t think she killed her sister, who did?’
She shrugs. ‘There were other theories. Ava’s brother-in-law, Rory, was suspected for a short time, but he had a sound alibi.’
I think back to the photos. ‘So Rory was Gail’s husband?’
She nods. ‘It happened on the night of their wedding.’
I cover my mouth. ‘Oh God,’ I say into my hand. ‘That’s awful.’
‘It was, yes.’ She shakes her head. ‘A terrible tragedy.’
‘And the other theories?’
‘Well … there was Justin, Willow’s father.’
‘Her father?’ My mind is racing. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘I’ve no idea. He was a useless man. I hope Willow never meets him if he is.’ She takes a deep breath, and fiddles with her earring – a simple sleeper, she never wears fancy jewellery. ‘There were so many stories kicking around that part of Cornwall at the time, Rose. But I doubt we’ll ever know the truth, not after all these years.’
‘So when Ava Millar died, you adopted Willow,’ I say, bringing the conversation back to where we began.
‘Not right away – as I said Jeannette Millar couldn’t cope, and Willow’s father was useless. Willow ended up in care. I fostered her, and being part of social services, pushed for a quick adoption.’
It doesn’t seem possible we are talking about my stepsister – the young woman staying in Cornwall hunting for a killer.
I stare at Eleanor for some moments, before reaching over and taking her hand. ‘So why tell Willow now?’
‘I didn’t. Someone contacted her on Facebook. Told her everything.’
‘Who?’
‘Willow didn’t recognise the name, and there was no profile photo. They attached an article about the murder of her mother. Willow didn’t believe it, of course. She came to me, hoping I would tell her it was an elaborate lie.’ She lifts her head, dashes a tear from the corner of her eye, her voice crumbling. ‘But I couldn’t lie to her. I always said I would tell her one day, and it felt like the right time. But she took it so badly.’
I can’t believe I don’t know any of this, that Eleanor kept it a secret all these years. ‘Did Dad know? Does Dad know?’
‘He does now. He wishes I’d told him sooner.’
‘Maybe you should have.’
A silence falls, as she rises to pour a brandy. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one?’
I shake my head and get up too. ‘I should go,’ I say.
‘You do understand why I didn’t tell Willow, don’t you, Rose?’ she says, ‘Why I kept it quiet for so long. What good would have come of her knowing her mother was murdered?’
It seems vital to her that I understand. ‘Of course,’ I say, and turn to leave.
*
By the time I get home, I’m emotionally drained. What I’m not up for is a full-on argument with my daughter, who, going by her stance as she stands in the hallway, is ready for one.
‘OK,’ I say, before she can say anything.
‘OK?’
‘You can come,’ I go on, as I tug off my shoes. What I don’t say is her grandpa and Eleanor are going away, so I have no choice but to take her to Cornwall. That the last thing I want is her hanging about at home without supervision. ‘But if things get tough, Becky, we’re coming straight home.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she says, lunging at me, and hugging me. ‘Yay!’
At that moment it hits me that I need her with me.
Chapter 13 (#ulink_c2e467cc-320d-599d-87f3-768d54cc46b0)
ROSE (#ulink_c2e467cc-320d-599d-87f3-768d54cc46b0)
Now
My eyes are closed, but I’ve barely slept, my mind far too busy with thoughts of Willow – the nips of guilt that I should already be in Cornwall waking me on the hour, every hour; the heat of the night making it difficult to drop back off.
I reach across the bed. I know Aaron isn’t here, but I imagine he wraps his hand tightly around mine, and wallow for a few moments thinking of him, before prising open my eyes and pulling myself to a sitting position.
My mouth is dry from the fan whirring on my bedside table. I click it off, knocking a photo of Aaron to the floor. I pick up my phone, and rub sleep from my eyes, trying to focus. It’s 6 a.m.
I grab the glass of water that’s been standing on my bedside table all night and swallow a gulp of the warm liquid before trying to call Willow. It goes straight to voicemail.
‘Hey, Willow,’ I say into the phone. ‘Can’t wait to see you later. Call me as soon as you can.’ I end the call, trying not to worry. She’s a late riser. That’s all.
I need coffee, always my go-to first thing in the morning. And then we need to get going as early as possible.
But still I sit, my eyelids drooping.
The sun’s fingers reach in through a gap in my flimsy pale-blue curtains, picking out Becky’s life so far in photos that jostle for space on the far wall. My daughter is beautiful. I wish she could see what I see when she looks in the mirror.
My eyes fall on a study of Willow at sixteen, her naturally curly hair straightened to shiny sheets of gold – the face of an angel.
She was spotted by a scout and picked up by a big modelling agency at sixteen. In no time her beautiful face was bounced from magazine cover to magazine cover. Her tall, slim body shuttled from fashion show to fashion show.
At first she revelled in it. Enjoyed the attention. Her eyes sparkling as cameras flashed. Although thrilled for her, it was strange seeing her face everywhere – from billboard posters to national newspapers – not looking quite like the Willow we knew and loved. We were worried too. Worried about the effect it was having on her.
‘I wish I looked like Willow,’ Becky would say, just nine years old at the time.
Willow was almost seventeen when I took one of my monthly trips by train to London to meet up with her. She was renting a huge apartment with three other models, which looked out over the River Thames.
We met in an Italian restaurant in Leicester Square, and as we hugged hello, I felt how dangerously thin she was, noticed how sallow her cheeks were, how the sparkle had disappeared from her eyes that now rested on dark cushions of flesh.
‘So how’s it going?’ I said, trying for upbeat as we studied the menus.
‘Great,’ she said, not looking up.
‘You look tired, Willow.’ I reached across the table, rested my hand on hers.
‘I am,’ she said. ‘I barely sleep.’
‘Have you tried lavender?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve tried everything from hypnosis to sleeping tablets. Nothing works.’
‘Then take a break? Come home for a bit.’
‘I can’t, Rose. They’ve got so much lined up for me over the next few months. Anyway, I love it. I love everything about it.’ Her words didn’t match her lifeless tone. ‘Let’s order, shall we?’
She barely ate that day, and it was a couple of weeks later she disappeared. It was all over the tabloids. We were in such a state.
She was found a week later in a motel in Scotland. A wreck. A mess. Addicted to prescription drugs. Suicidal. The whole experience had been too much.
I cried so hard when we got her back, holding her tightly, never wanting to let her go. Blaming myself that I hadn’t done something when I’d seen her last. That despite spotting how dreadful she looked, I’d done nothing.
She gave up modelling and came home, and seemed her usual upbeat self far too quickly, but there was something different I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then she took off again, refusing to tell anyone where she was – saying she needed to escape, needed time out. It was the first of many escapes. Something we’ve got used to over time. It’s what Willow does.
Even now I sometimes Google her name and they are still there – thousands of images of Willow Winter. I want to rip them all down. Stop people ogling. Tell them to leave her alone. Leave her in peace.
*
Once we have showered and dressed, Becky and I load our holdalls into the boot of the car, and climb in.
Becky plugs her earphones into her ears, and her thumbs tap her phone screen. I start the engine, but before I pull away, I notice a voicemail on my phone from Willow. She must have called when I was getting ready.
I listen to her strangled voice. ‘Rose. Rose. Pick up, please.’ A pause. ‘I know who killed her. I know who killed my real mum. I’ve worked it all out.’ The message ends, and despite the warm day, my body goes cold.
I try to call back, but it goes straight to voicemail. ‘Willow, I got your message. Is everything OK? We’re on our way now but call me when you get this. Please.’
‘What’s up, Mum?’ Becky says, pulling free one of her earbuds.
‘Nothing,’ I say. Deciding not to worry her, I put the car into gear with a shaky hand and pull away.
*
We are halfway to Cornwall, when I pull into a service station. My head is throbbing and although I’d rather keep driving, I know I have to take a break, have something to eat to up my sugar level.Becky’s feet are up on the seat and she’s cradling her knees, listening to music. I find a space and kill the engine.
I take off my sunglasses and put them in the well between us. The sun has disappeared behind fluffy white clouds, after streaming through the window for most of the journey. The tell-tale zigzags and blurs of a migraine niggle. I’ve no doubt it has partly been brought on by the stress of Willow’s call.
‘Shall we have some coffee?’ I say, nudging Becky, who removes her other earbud, and looks up at me.
‘What?’
‘I said, shall we get a drink or a cake or something?’
Becky straightens up in the seat and lowers her feet to the floor. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘But no cake for me, I’ll have some fruit or something.’
Once we’ve collected a cup of coffee and a chocolate muffin for me, an apple and a bottle of mineral water for Becky, we find a table in the corner. Once seated, I give it a quick clean with a wet wipe, and take a couple of migraine tablets.
‘Are you going to be OK to drive, Mum?’ she asks, as I massage my temples. ‘You’re, like, really white.’
‘Once the tablets kick in, I’ll be fine,’ I say, leaning over the table to twirl a straying curl over her ear. She bats me away with her hand and I laugh. ‘Are you looking forward to seeing Willow?’ I ask.
‘Yep. You?’
‘Of course.’ It’s true, but I feel jittery about the photos, and her message is playing in a loop in my head.
Becky smiles, and a dimple forms in her cheek, disappearing as quickly as it came. ‘You know I still can’t get my head round Willow sending you those photos,’ she says.
‘Nor me. I’m hoping she’ll explain more when we get there.’
She pushes sugar granules across the table with the tip of her finger, her earphone back in, and hums a tune I don’t recognise. I realise how glad I am that she’s with me, and watch her, trancelike, for several moments, before saying, ‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’
She looks up. ‘Mega worried about Willow, is all. You don’t think she’s in danger, do you?’
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ I say, trying not to think about her last voicemail. ‘It’s Willow, don’t forget, we know what she’s like. And we’ll see her in a couple of hours, won’t we? She can tell us everything.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it from her pocket. Her face lights up. ‘It’s Dad,’ she says, answering it. ‘Hey, Dad.’
Her eyes sparkle, and I know already what he’s telling her. He called me a few days ago to let me know he was getting married. That he wanted to tell Becky himself and would ring her soon.
‘Oh my God!’ Becky squeals into the phone. ‘That’s fantastic.’
Her dad has been serious about his latest partner Jack, a lawyer from Florida, for a while now, and I smile. They are good together. I’m happy for them – but my head is spinning.
‘Do you think he’ll let me be their bridesmaid?’ Becky says, once the call has ended, her face lit up by a wide smile.
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘Will he let me wear my DMs, do you think?’
‘Probably.’ Becky could wear a sack and he would let her get away with it.
‘We should get going.’ I glance at my watch, a sense of urgency bringing me to my feet.
She rises too, and links arms with me. As we head across the café I glance back at her uneaten apple.
Chapter 14 (#ulink_94ff4b5a-157c-5784-b3ca-48a263813764)
AVA (#ulink_94ff4b5a-157c-5784-b3ca-48a263813764)
2001
From the moment Gail and Rory pulled up outside Ocean View Cottage in his red Ferrari, tension had crawled across Ava’s shoulders.
Although Gail had finally moved out, it was as though she was still there. Constantly visiting to discuss the wedding with their mum, over and over and over. And now they were having a family gathering to welcome Peter – the prodigal son – back from Australia.
Gail sat on the two-seater sofa next to her brother, scooping her blonde curls behind her ears as she turned the pages of her bridal book. Peter swigged beer from a bottle, his eyes closing briefly each time he swallowed.
‘We’re having the reception at the Jester Hotel in Newquay. It’s five-star with Jacuzzis in every room and everything. But we can afford it, can’t we Rory?’ She sounded like a spoilt child.
‘Of course,’ he said, looking up from shuffling through a pile of CDs.
‘And I’ll be expecting you to get a new suit, Peter,’ Gail continued. ‘And you’ll need a haircut.’
‘I’m up for a new suit,’ he said, ‘but nobody touches my hair.’
‘Well, you’ll need to put a comb through it,’ she said, reaching up and ruffling it.
‘Get off,’ he said, smacking her hand away and laughing. Was Peter really as absorbed as he seemed by her wedding plans?
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Amanda Brittany
‘Addictive! A twisty page-turner that had me on the edge of my seat from start to finish. ’ Roz Watkins ‘Rose. Rose. Pick up, please. I know who killed her. I know who killed my real mum. I’ve worked it out. ’ When Rose’s flighty stepsister Willow disappears to Cornwall, she can’t help but roll her eyes. Willow is always taking off and there is always some kind of emergency. But after Willow discovers that she was adopted and her birth mother died in tragic circumstances, her trip to the coast sparks a search into her past. Two days later, when a package arrives at Rose’s house containing a series of four polaroids of four different men, Rose knows that Willow is in trouble. Each photograph a possible murder suspect, their family life begins to unravel, leaving one crucial question unanswered… Who killed Willow’s mother and where is Willow now? * * * * * * * Readers LOVE Traces of Her! ‘What a ride, more twists and turns than a Formula 1 race track’ A. M. Castle ‘A whirlwind of a read. Just brilliant!’ Diane Jeffrey 'Addictive and fast-paced. Amanda Brittany is a name to keep your eye on. A brilliant thriller' Phoebe Morgan ‘An emotional thriller with a broad cast of characters who come alive on the pages of this addictive mystery. ’ Naomi Joy ‘Gripped me from start to finish… Definitely did not see the twist at the end coming!’ NetGalley reviewer ‘This was an amazing page turner. So many twists and turns and I was completely surprised by the ending. ’ Netgalley reviewer ‘A real page turner. This book had me hooked. ’ Netgalley reviewer
About the Author (#ud29ac251-9245-5fbc-adfc-7c249e36a0e2)
Amanda Brittany lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with family, travelling, walking, reading and sunny days. Her debut, Her Last Lie reached the Kindle top 100 in the US and Australia and was a #1 Bestseller in the UK. It has also been optioned for film. Her second psychological thriller Tell The Truth reached the Kindle top 100 in the US & was a #1 Bestseller in the US. All her ebook royalties for Her Last Lie are being donated to Cancer Research UK, in memory of her sister who lost her battle with cancer in July 2017. It has so far raised over £7,500.
Praise for Amanda Brittany (#ud29ac251-9245-5fbc-adfc-7c249e36a0e2)
‘Brittany reels readers in with this twisty, clever thriller that will have you second-guessing everything’
Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House
‘Brilliant, pacey, and will leave you suspecting everyone is involved!’
Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret
‘Totally gripping’
Reader Review
‘I had to keep turning the pages’
Reader Review
‘A lot of twists and turns … it didn’t disappoint’
Reader Review
Also by Amanda Brittany (#ud29ac251-9245-5fbc-adfc-7c249e36a0e2)
Her Last Lie
Tell The Truth
Traces of Her
AMANDA BRITTANY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Amanda Brittany 2019
Amanda Brittany asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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, downloaded, 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: 9780008331184
E-book Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008305406
Version: 2019-09-16
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue71df020-2053-5a2b-83fc-316c0d429e6a)
About the Author
Praise for Amanda Brittany
Also by Amanda Brittany
Title Page (#u960ddb12-23a2-5251-9147-11a1c5c0dc55)
Copyright (#u58341e8d-d860-56ea-a3ac-da9455f8e3de)
Dedication (#ua884d05e-cd3f-5da7-b0e5-3edab13d3852)
Prologue
Chapter 1: Rose
Chapter 2: Ava
Chapter 3: Rose
Chapter 4: Ava
Chapter 5: Ava
Chapter 6: Rose
Chapter 7: Ava
Chapter 8: You
Chapter 9: Rose
Chapter 10: Ava
Chapter 11: Rose
Chapter 12: Rose
Chapter 13: Rose
Chapter 14: Ava
Chapter 15: You
Chapter 16: Rose
Chapter 17: Ava
Chapter 18: Rose
Chapter 19: Ava
Chapter 20: Rose
Chapter 21: Ava
Chapter 22: You
Chapter 23: Rose
Chapter 24: Ava
Chapter 25: Rose
Chapter 26: Rose
Chapter 27: Rose
Chapter 28: Ava
Chapter 29: Ava
Chapter 30: Ava
Chapter 31: Rose
Chapter 32: Ava
Chapter 33: Rose
Chapter 34: Ava
Chapter 35: You
Chapter 36: Rose
Chapter 37: Rose
Chapter 38: Ava
Chapter 39: Rose
Chapter 40: Ava
Chapter 41: Rose
Chapter 42: Ava
Chapter 43: You
Chapter 44: Rose
Chapter 45: Ava
Chapter 46: Rose
Chapter 47: Rose
Chapter 48: Ava
Chapter 49: You
Chapter 50: Rose
Chapter 51: Rose
Chapter 52: Rose
Chapter 53: Rose
Chapter 54: Ava
Chapter 55: Ava
Chapter 56: Ava
Chapter 57: Rose
Chapter 58: You
Chapter 59: Rose
Chapter 60: Rose
Chapter 61: Ava
Rose
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
A Letter from Amanda
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
To Liam, Daniel, Luke, Lucy & Janni.
Prologue (#ulink_e02937b6-7e27-5946-bf24-9fe1269ef5f5)
2001
She lies on the sand dressed in yellow satin, a ring of sodden flowers clinging to her blonde hair like seaweed. The pendant around her slim neck says ‘Mummy’ – a gift from Willow.
Grasses stir in the howling wind and a mist rolls in from the Celtic Sea, moving over her lifeless body – ghosts waiting to take her hand and lead her away from this lonely place where seagulls cry.
A man will come soon. He walks his border collie at the same time each morning along the same sandy path that edges the sea in Bostagel, and today will be no different.
He will stride with the aid of his stick; grey hair flapping in the wind, calling after his dog. Content with his lot.
Then he will see her body, and her sister’s wedding dress folded neatly on the rocks. The shock will stay with him forever.
He will call the police.
Sirens will pierce the silent air.
The youngest Millar girl is dead. Stabbed repeatedly.
‘Rest in peace, young Millar girls,’ they will say.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_4c910456-d757-516f-ae03-29000b5c9545)
ROSE (#ulink_4c910456-d757-516f-ae03-29000b5c9545)
Now
‘Willow! Thank God,’ I say, my mobile pressed to my ear. She’s disappeared before. In fact, her ability to take off without explanation is something we’ve learned to live with over the last few years.
‘Rose,’ she says. ‘Rose I’m …’ Her voice is apprehensive, and I imagine her twirling a strand of her long blonde hair around her finger, something she’s done since childhood. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called before.’
‘Well, you’re calling now. That’s what’s important,’ I say, always aware how fragile she is. ‘And it’s good to hear your voice, Willow.’ It’s only been a month, but I’ve missed her.
I drop down onto the edge of the sofa, my eyes flicking to the photograph above my open fireplace: me at fifteen – lanky, with lifeless hair and acne; Willow, a beautiful child of three sitting on my knee, her expression blank, bewildered. It was the day I met her.
‘We had no idea if you were OK,’ I say, although there was nothing new there. In fairness, she put a couple of generic updates on Facebook about a week ago. ‘Where are you?’
‘Cornwall.’
‘Cornwall?’
‘I’m staying at a cottage in Bostagel near Newquay …’ She breaks off, and I sense she has more to say, but a silence falls between us.
‘Why didn’t you call or text?’ I ask.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘The signal’s erratic down here. And, if I’m honest, I needed to get my head straight before I spoke to any of you about …’ She stops.
‘About what, Willow?’ I clear my throat. ‘About what?’
‘It’s … well … the thing is, someone paid for me to stay here until August.’
‘Someone?’
‘I don’t know who, Rose. I got a message on Facebook and—’
‘You just took off?’ I can’t hide the irritation at her naivety. ‘Someone paid for you to stay in Cornwall, and you’ve no idea who?’
‘No, but, hear me out, Rose. There’s so much you don’t know,’ she says in a rush. ‘But I can’t tell you over the phone. You never know who’s listening.’
‘Who would be listening?’ I say. My voice cracks. I love her so much, but she has no self-awareness – no sense of self-preservation. ‘Listen come home. We can talk here.’
‘I can’t. I’m so close.’
‘Close to what?’ My anxiety is rising. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes. I’m fine. Gareth is here.’
‘Who’s Gareth?’
‘He’s been helping me.’ A pause. ‘Please come to Cornwall, Rose. Please. I’ll explain absolutely everything once you’re here.’
A lump rises in my throat, blocking my efforts to say no, and a sudden strangling fear she could be in some sort of danger grabs me. I rise and pace the lounge, raking my fingers through my hair. The sun beating on the windowpane hurts my eyes. I drag the curtains hard across the glass, and the room plunges into a depressive grey haze.
‘Rose?’
‘Yes. I’m still here.’
‘Well? Will you come?’ There’s a tremor in her voice. ‘I need you right now. Please.’
‘Come back home then,’ I try once more, but I know I’m losing.
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I just can’t, Rose. And I know I don’t deserve you – that I drive you all crazy. But I can barely sleep at night for all the stuff going on in my head.’
‘I’ve Becky to think of.’
‘Becky,’ she says, a whimsical ring to her voice at the mention of my teenage daughter. ‘Bring her too.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Please, Rose,’ she says again. ‘Come. I’m begging you.’ I hear tears in her words and feel myself weakening. She has a childlike quality, often seeming younger than Becky. I’ve felt protective of her from the day I arrived at Darlington House eighteen years ago, when she was all curls and big eyes. She needed me then, and she needs me now.
It’s over five hours from Old Stevenage to Cornwall, but I love driving. It won’t be a problem. And I know I could battle with her for ages, tell her ‘no’ over and over, but, in spite of myself, I will go. It’s impossible to ignore her cry for help – she’s always had that power over me. ‘OK, I’ll come,’ I say.
She sighs with relief. ‘Thanks. You’re amazing, Rose. I’ll explain everything when you get here. There’s so much to tell you.’
‘I can’t come until Saturday, Willow. I don’t break up for the summer until Friday. Will you be OK until then?’
‘Yes. That’s fine … brilliant. I’m so grateful. I can show you the note.’
‘What note?’
There’s a loud knock in the background. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, and drags in a breath. ‘I’ll email you my address, and see you at the weekend, yeah? I can’t wait. Love you, Rose.’
The phone goes dead before I can reply.
‘Love you too,’ I whisper, flopping back down on the sofa, and throwing my phone onto the coffee table.
After some moments, my eyes drift to the photo of Willow and me again, and I can almost feel her in my arms, smell the freshness of her golden hair.
*
Dad met Eleanor Winter in the August of 2002 at a conference about the destruction of the rainforest – something they both care about deeply, and bonded over.
I was pleased for Dad, really I was. When Mum died three years before, the weight dropped from his body like a jolly snowman facing the sun. I lost count of the times I caught him crying. He was a shadow of the strong dad who’d brought me up – and all that time I was grieving her loss too.
I liked Eleanor from the off. Softly spoken, tall with bobbed highlighted hair and small grey eyes, she was nothing like my chubby, tiny, fun-loving mum. It was as though Dad had gone out of his way to find Mum’s opposite.
I admit unwanted feelings reached into my head at first – ‘I want my dad to myself’; ‘What would Mum think?’ – that kind of thing. But mainly I was happy for him. At fifteen I was often out with friends, leaving him to wander lonely around our semi in Hitchin – the house I grew up in – feeling guilty I wasn’t there for him 24/7.
That day, the day of the photo, was the first time I’d visited Darlington House in Old Welwyn, an amazing detached house built in the eighteenth century, set in picturesque grounds. I remember it looked even more beautiful that day because of the sprinkling of snow we’d had. I knew it would be a culture shock when we moved in with Eleanor and Willow; that it would never feel like home. But I was prepared to do anything to bring my old dad back.
Dad put down the camera, and Willow shuffled from my knee, and trotted towards her Duplo scattered over the carpet near the French windows. She dropped down onto her bottom, her curls bouncing.
‘That’s a smashing picture of you two girls,’ Dad said, looking at the camera screen and smiling. ‘Take one of me and Eleanor, will you, Rose?’ he went on, handing me the camera. I felt awkward. Forced into another world I’d rather not be in. But still I rose and did as he asked.
As they leaned into each other, his arm around her waist, I knew they were in love. Dad had been through hell, and Eleanor was recently widowed; they deserved a second chance at happiness. I had to support them.
They headed into the kitchen to prepare lunch, and I padded over to Willow, and knelt next to her on the floor. ‘What are you building?’ I asked.
She looked up at me, her blue eyes seeming too big for her face. She’d lost her father six months before, and looked so fragile, as though she might break. She didn’t answer, and I found myself playing with her curls, twirling them around my fingers. ‘You’re so pretty,’ I said.
She looked up at me. ‘Uncle Peter lets me stand on his shoes when we dance.’ Her lips turned upwards.
‘Does he?’ I said, realising I knew nothing about Eleanor’s family. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Mummy’s gone now,’ she said. ‘Uncle Peter’s gone too.’
I glanced over my shoulder, to where laughter leaked from the kitchen. ‘Mummy’s here, she’s making lunch, sweetie,’ I said, stroking a wayward curl from her cheek.
‘No.’ She picked up two yellow bricks and stared at me through watery eyes. ‘Mummy’s an angel,’ she went on, clicking the bricks together.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_79d32b8d-fc38-5029-920a-0f14bf5aba1f)
AVA (#ulink_79d32b8d-fc38-5029-920a-0f14bf5aba1f)
1996
‘You can’t come with us, Ava.’ Gail laughed, and her two friends, all three dressed in skimpy tops and shorts, joined in. ‘Get the bus home.’ With a flick of her blonde ponytail, Gail linked arms with her friends, and in perfect step they made their way through the tourists towards the arcades, the sun beaming down on them.
‘Mum said …’ Ava began, but her sister was out of earshot. And what was the point, anyway? Gail never listened to her.
Mum always said they should meet up after school each day and catch the bus together. And they used to. They used to chat about their school day, as the bus weaved its way towards Bostagel. But their two-year age gap seemed to have grown bigger lately. Since Gail turned sixteen she hadn’t wanted Ava hanging on like a dead leaf on a beautiful oak.
Ava made her way into Kathy’s Café, the aroma of freshly cooked chips bombarding her senses. She couldn’t afford food, so grabbed a drink from the fridge and paid for it.
From a window seat she people-watched. To her, Newquay was just a nearby seaside town – to holidaymakers jostling on the pavement in their sun hats and beachwear, faces scorched from the sun, it was clearly magical.
She cracked open the can of cola and poured the fizzy liquid into a glass, her mind drifting back to Gail. She would start studying for her A-levels in September, and there was no doubting she would sail through them. She’d always been clever, and popular too. Mum’s favourite.
‘Is she your sister?’ The Welsh male voice came from the table behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see a boy of about sixteen. His light brown hair was parted in the middle, hanging like curtains about his pale face, as he played on his Game Boy.
‘Who?’ she asked, but she guessed he meant Gail. Had he watched them from the window?
He didn’t look up from his screen, his thumbs moving fast over the controls. ‘The girl who dumped you.’
‘She didn’t dump me.’
‘If you say so.’
But the boy was right, Gail had dumped her – she was always dumping her. Ava turned back to the window and sipped her drink, aware of the boy’s chair scraping across the floor. He was suddenly beside her, tall and thin, shoving the Game Boy into his jacket pocket. ‘She’s beautiful, your sister,’ he said, thumping down on the chair next to her. ‘My mate fancies her.’
‘Everyone does.’
‘Are you jealous?’
Ava shook her head, avoiding eye contact.
‘You’re pretty too, you know. She just makes more effort. How old are you?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘I bet you’re sick of living in her shadow.’
She felt herself flush. She always did when boys talked to her. ‘That’s complete bollocks.’ She gulped back the rest of her drink, slammed the glass on the table, and rose to her feet. ‘You don’t even know me. Move.’ She thumped his arm. ‘I need to catch my bus.’ She squeezed past him and grabbed her rucksack.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
She tugged at the hem of her school skirt, as she flung open the café door, the heat of the day warming her face. ‘None of your business,’ she said.
‘Well, I’m Maxen. And if you want my advice, don’t let your sister ruin your life,’ he called after her. ‘Don’t give her that power. Once she has it, you’ll never escape.’
*
A bus drew up at the shelter and Ava jumped onto it. It was empty, apart from an old lady talking to a cat in a crate. ‘We’re nearly there, sweetie,’ she was saying to the mewing feline, her voice too loud as if the cat was deaf. ‘We’ll soon be home.’
As the bus pulled away, Ava slid down in the seat. Perhaps Maxen was right. She needed to find herself – her own life – to move out from under her sister’s shadow. Grow up and get as far away from Bostagel as she could.
She was the youngest of three children, and often felt like the runt of the litter. Never quite belonging. Wishing she’d been born into another family – a family who cared about each other and didn’t spend most of their time arguing.
When she was ten, she’d dreamed of having a brand new mum who baked lemon drizzle cake, and a dad who made everyone laugh, and a golden retriever called Butler, that they walked every day. Ava’s life was a long way from her fantasy. Her mum was cold and unreachable, and her father had taken off just after Ava was born. Gail told her once that it was her fault they no longer had their dad with them – that she was the reason their mum was miserable most of the time.
The bus rocked and jolted on its way, and she looked through the window at the sea spreading endlessly. A flock of oystercatchers had gathered on the rocks and beach, wading through the shallow waves, dipping orange beaks into the sand for food.
Unexpected rain speckled the window like tears, blurring the view. That wouldn’t please the holidaymakers. Ava rested her head on the glass and closed her eyes, imagining the fun Gail and her friends would be having in the arcades, wishing she was there too.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_ae6c1fcc-7fcb-545e-ad3c-adee31b71fe9)
ROSE (#ulink_ae6c1fcc-7fcb-545e-ad3c-adee31b71fe9)
Now
I get up from the sofa and straighten the cushions and tartan throw. Willow’s call has unsettled me, and as I go over her words, trying to make sense of them, a shiver runs through my body.
I pad towards the window and pull back the curtains to let the sun fill the room once more. The small square of grass looks patchy. It hasn’t rained for some time and the plants are wilting. Our house is a new-build, and like most new-builds we haven’t got much garden to worry about. I feel guilty that I’ve neglected such a small area, but I never seem to have the time.
In fact, I’d been looking forward to the days stretched ahead of me once school closed for the summer. I’m fully aware it won’t be a complete break, as there are still lots of things to do that involve the school, but I’d seen it as time out; time to breathe and make up my mind if my school headship is exactly what I want from life.
I’d hoped for plenty of time to work on the garden too, time to paint the staircase, and buy curtains for Becky’s room. I’d hoped to go swimming, read more, and get in touch with old friends. But now my head is consumed with thoughts of going to Cornwall. A strange little laugh escapes me at the absurdity of driving all that way to see Willow, when she should come straight home.
Sudden memories of Willow storming out of Darlington House a month ago, without looking back, fill my head. The raised voices that day. Willow’s pale face as she opened the study door and ran out in tears, leaving Eleanor alone, her shoulders rising and falling in sobs.
Later, I tried talking to Eleanor, to Dad too, but they said together, as though they’d rehearsed it, that it was something and nothing. You know Willow.
I pick up my mobile, and head into the hallway where I pull on my black, low-heeled shoes I’d worn all day at the school and grab my keys.
‘I’m heading out, Becky,’ I call up the stairs, trying to make myself heard above my daughter’s music. ‘Back soon.’
She appears on the landing in black straight-leg jeans and a baggy, grey T-shirt. Her tightly curled black hair hangs to her shoulders. In some ways she reminds me of myself at almost fifteen. Thin and tall, a little awkward in her own skin. But she hasn’t inherited my youthful acne, or my lank, lifeless hair that still needs far too much product to make it even remotely bouncy. Her smooth, unblemished dark complexion and hair are like her father’s, her eyes as brown and appealing as his. There’s no doubt she’s inherited my ex-husband’s looks.
‘Where are you going?’ she says, nibbling her nails. She does that when she’s bored or anxious or just trying to annoy me.
I fiddle with my keys. I want to tell her about Willow later, when my partner Aaron gets home. I intend to call a family meeting, like the day the hamster looked to be on his last legs, or when I got the headship at Mandalay Primary. There will be a small window before Aaron flies out again, and that’s when I’m aiming for.
‘I’m popping over to see Grandpa and Eleanor. I thought we might grab a takeaway later, when Aaron gets home.’
‘Chinese?’ she says with a smile, the glint of her braces telling me she will soon have perfectly shaped teeth.
‘If you like.’ I turn and reach for the door latch, but her heavy footfalls on the stairs behind me tell me I’m going to have company.
‘Wait up!’ she calls. ‘I’m coming with you.’ I sigh as she thumps down on her bottom at the foot of the stairs and pulls her Doc Martens over mismatched socks. I have to turn away. Socks that don’t match unnerve me. ‘I haven’t seen Grandpa and Eleanor for ages,’ she goes on, getting to her feet with the aid of the banister.
She opens the door and I follow her onto the cobbled drive, slipping on my sunglasses.
We’re halfway to Darlington House when I say, ‘Can you look up from your phone for a second, sweetheart?’ I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.
‘Let me answer Tamsyn first, Mum,’ she says. She’s slumped in the passenger seat, thumbs racing over the screen. ‘George dumped her, and she’s thinking of eating her bodyweight in salted caramel ice cream.’ She looks up at me, and with a serious tone says, ‘I can’t let her do it. I don’t want her to get as fat as me.’
‘Why would you even say that? You’re perfect, darling.’ She is. Too thin if anything, and I worry about how she sees herself. Worry that Willow has been her role model for too long.
Moments later she drops her phone into her lap. ‘So, what’s up, Mother?’
‘It’s just, well … Willow called,’ I say, deciding to come straight to the point.
‘Oh my God. Is she OK?’
‘I think so, but—’
‘That’s amazing,’ she cuts in. ‘Is she coming home? Can we see her? Oh, please say we can see her.’ She presses her palms together as though praying. She adores Willow. ‘Please.’
I note how accepting she is. No questions about why Willow hasn’t been in touch for a month. But then she’s like the rest of us. We all know Willow.
‘She’s staying in Cornwall. I’m going down to see her at the weekend.’
‘O-M-G! That’s the best news ever. I can’t wait to see her. It will make the time go quicker until America.’
I still have doubts about her going to the US alone in a few weeks’ time. Her dad is directing a film out there and has invited her over. At first my motherly instincts kicked in. I wanted her to stay at home where she’s safe, and I know Aaron has doubts too. But then he can be a bit overprotective at times. Eventually I agreed she could go, knowing how much she adores her dad. And he’s a good man. He’ll take care of her.
‘The thing is, Becky,’ I say as we make our way down the motorway, ‘I thought I’d go and see Willow alone. Maybe you could stay with Grandpa and Eleanor.’
‘What? Why?’ She folds her arms across her chest, and her glare burns my cheek.
‘Because it will be easier, that’s all.’
‘How? How will it be easier? I can’t believe you would just dump me.’
‘I’m not dumping you.’ I glance at her, but she’s flicked her gaze to the front window, her face set in a scowl.
‘Then let me come,’ she says. ‘Or give me one good reason why not.’
I can’t. My head spins as I indicate and turn left.
‘Stop!’ Becky yells, and I slam my foot on the brake, almost hitting the car in front.
‘Jeez, Mother, it looks as if you pretty much need me to come to keep an eye on you.’
I’m losing the battle. And the truth is I want to spend time with her. ‘OK,’ I say.
‘OK?’
‘You can come.’
‘Fab!’
‘Hang on though, there’s something you need to know first.’ I think out my next words carefully. ‘The thing is, Willow sounded worried about something. I don’t know how she’ll be when we get there.’
Her phone pings, and she picks it up, and reads the screen. ‘For God’s sake, has Tamsyn any idea how many calories there are in three tubs of ice cream?’
I’ve lost her once more.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_edd0a0b1-f655-5bab-8736-d1fdabb8856c)
AVA (#ulink_edd0a0b1-f655-5bab-8736-d1fdabb8856c)
1998
It had become a habit, following Gail and her friends to the arcade. Watching them flirt with boys – laugh – have fun. Although Ava only ever stayed long enough for the thump of the music to get under her skin, for the games machines – clunking and whizzing and flashing coloured lights – to heighten her senses.
Despite Maxen’s advice, she was still hiding – too self-conscious, her self-esteem low, getting her thrills from watching Gail enjoy life. Wishing she was like her.
It was September, and the holiday season had dialled down a notch ready for winter – the arcade seemed empty compared to previous months, and there weren’t so many places to hide. Gail had left school after her final exams in May, but, so far, she’d made no attempt to get a job. ‘She worked so hard on her exams,’ Mum had said. ‘She needs some time out.’
Ava had left school too, with no qualifications. ‘You need to get a job, Ava,’ Mum had said. ‘Pay your way.’
Today she watched from behind a slot machine, ‘Candle in the Wind’ playing loud through the speakers as she sipped cola from a plastic cup. Suddenly Gail looked in her direction and she stepped backwards, bashing into someone. She spun round to see a handsome lad of around eighteen, with cold blue eyes and tousled dark hair.
‘Christ!’ he said, brushing cola from his black leather jacket. He had a confident air about him, his jaw set tight. ‘Watch where you’re fucking going next time! Idiot!’
‘Sorry,’ she said, as he pushed past her, almost knocking her over as he headed towards her sister.
‘Hey, beautiful,’ he said as he flung an arm around Gail’s shoulders, and she planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘His name’s Rory Thompson.’ It was Maxen, appearing beside her. She’d seen him about, but he hadn’t spoken to her since that day in the café two years ago. ‘He’s going out with your sister,’ he said. ‘Did you know?’
Ava shook her head. Gail hadn’t mentioned him, but then she never told her anything anymore.
Maxen’s eyes were fixed on the couple, who were now kissing as though they were in a blockbuster movie. ‘He gets his looks from his Italian mother,’ he said. ‘He’s rich too, just inherited three international IT companies and several properties from his father who kicked it a couple of months back.’
She stared up at Maxen – at the splattering of acne across his pale cheeks, the way he was huddled into his khaki jacket, various badges pinned to the pockets.
‘And now he’s going out with your sister,’ he said.
She clenched her fists. Why did everything good happen to Gail?
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ she said. But she didn’t wait for an answer – she turned and rushed from the arcade and out into the dull grey day.
She hurried along Cliff Road, eventually turning a corner towards the sea, and shuffled a packet of cigarettes from her denim jacket pocket.
The cliff edge was deserted, apart from a teenager with his back to her looking out to sea, his hands in black trouser pockets. She dropped down on a bench and stared at him as she lit a cigarette. He turned as though sensing her there. She vaguely recognised him from school – although he hadn’t been in any of her classes. He looked somehow wrong in a creased white shirt that had clearly been taken straight from the packet, and a black tie.
‘Hey,’ he said, raking his fingers through white-blonde hair. ‘Couldn’t spare one of those, could you?’
She threw him the packet, and he took one and threw it back. ‘Got a light?’ he said, approaching. She handed him her lighter as he sat down beside her. He smelt of cheap aftershave.
He dragged on the cigarette and blew smoke circles upwards. ‘My mum died,’ he said after some moments. ‘I’ve just been to her funeral. Carried the coffin. Life’s shit, don’t you think?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ was all she could think to say.
‘Me too.’ He sniffed, looking up and into her eyes. ‘You look a bit like one of those china dolls,’ he said. ‘My mum used to have one. It freaked the life out of me when I was little.’
‘Oh …’ She touched her face.
He laughed. ‘You’re all right. I didn’t mean you’re freaky or nothing. Just pale and fragile, and your hair’s all curly and that.’ He smiled. ‘Do I know you?’
She shrugged. ‘I think we went to the same school.’
‘Yeah, that’s it. And you live in Bostagel, don’t you?’
She nodded. ‘Ocean View Cottage.’
‘Yeah, I thought I’d seen you about. I live in Cranberry Close.’ Another sniff.
‘How did your mum die? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Fucking cancer,’ he said. ‘She’d been ill for ages. We all knew it was terminal, but it was still a shock, you know.’
She met his blue, watery eyes. Her family was useless, but at least they were alive. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Cheers for that.’ He turned from her gaze. Kicked a stone. ‘Dad’s taken it bad. She was his rock – mine too.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again. She felt an urge to lean over and hug him, but beat it down.
They sat for a while, looking out. The sea and sky were the same shade of grey. It was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Boats bobbed on the waves and a feeling of peace washed over Ava, and her stomach twisted as she looked at the lad, and quickly looked away again. She liked him.
Nearby seagulls wailed, breaking the quiet.
‘What’s your name?’ he said, and she turned back to see his eyes were fixed on her.
‘Ava.’
‘Nice – suits you. I’m Justin.’ He rose. ‘Well, Ava, I’d better get back to the wake. Dad’s been necking the spirits, so I need to keep an eye on him. I reckon he’s full of grief and guilt and shit.’ He threw the cigarette to the ground and pummelled it with his trainer. ‘Maybe I’ll see you in the village sometime.’
‘I hope so,’ she said, as he walked away, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, not looking back.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_4440c690-9b8d-532e-8e1e-59d736627055)
AVA (#ulink_4440c690-9b8d-532e-8e1e-59d736627055)
1999
Ava stared at the ceiling, eyes wide. She hadn’t slept for two nights. Not since she bought the pregnancy test on Thursday. Not since it told her she was having Justin’s baby.
It had been a weak moment – that night they went back to Cranberry Close when Justin’s dad was out. She hadn’t meant for things to go so far.
‘She’s seeing Justin Havers, Mum.’ It was Gail’s voice – her tone high-pitched, carrying up the stairs. Ava sat up. She’d kept her relationship with Justin from her mum for almost four months, knowing she would disapprove of him. Think he wasn’t good enough. How the hell had Gail found out?
‘Ian Havers’ son?’ Jeannette cried.
‘Aha. That’s the one. Talk about scraping the barrel.’
‘Oh my God, no.’ Jeannette’s voice was high and tense. ‘She can’t go out with him. For goodness’ sake, that girl will be the death of me. Whatever is she thinking?’
Ava dived from her bed, and raced down the stairs in her pyjamas to where Jeannette and Gail sat in the lounge drinking coffee. They looked up.
‘I love him,’ Ava blurted from the doorway.
‘You have no idea what love is, Ava. You’re only seventeen,’ her mother cried, slamming down her mug. ‘And Ian Havers’ son of all people – sometimes I think you go out of your way to upset me.’ She sniffed, pulled a tissue from her sleeve, and dabbed her nose.
Ava stepped into the room and sat down on the chair, glaring at her mum and sister. She took a deep breath and blurted, ‘I’m pregnant.’
Jeannette gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.
‘Jesus, Ava,’ Gail said. ‘Just when I thought you couldn’t stoop any lower.’
‘You failed all your exams, you smoke, you drink …’ Jeannette released the slide clipping her fair hair back, as though it might relieve her tension. ‘And now you’re pregnant,’ she continued. ‘You’ll have an abortion. There’s no doubt about that. I’ll book you in privately. And don’t for goodness’ sake tell anyone.’
‘No!’ Ava yelled.
‘No?’
‘I’m keeping the baby. I know when I tell Justin he’ll be pleased, and we can move in together.’
‘Ava, for Christ’s sake stop being so naïve,’ Gail said. ‘He’s seventeen. And not only that, he’s a total loser. I saw him with one of the Bristow brothers the other day, and they’re a bad lot – into drugs and joyriding and—’
‘You’re lying,’ Ava cried.
‘No, Ava, I’m not lying. And a baby will ruin your life. Think of your future, you must have an abortion.’ She sounded almost kind. ‘Rory could get you a little job in admin where I work.’ She leaned forward and placed her hand on Ava’s. ‘Let me talk to him.’
‘No!’ Ava snatched her hand away. ‘I’m going to be a mum, and I’ll live with Justin. He’s not into drugs. He’s going to be a singer, and we’ll be rich one day.’
‘A singer?’ Jeannette laughed, a hard, fake laugh.
‘He’s got a great voice, Mum.’ He had. He’d even written a song for her.
Jeannette rubbed her face and with a deep sigh said, ‘You need to see a doctor, Ava. He could have given you something awful.’
‘Like a baby,’ Gail muttered.
Ava shook her head. ‘I’m his first, Mum.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, wake up, Ava,’ Gail snapped. ‘Please.’
Ava rose. ‘I’m keeping this baby,’ she said, holding her stomach, a feeling of nausea swirling. ‘Whether you like it or not.’ And with that, she turned and left the room, leaving Gail to comfort their mother who burst into tears.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_6a92e1a9-2d71-59f1-bdc2-1e0b5ab14304)
ROSE (#ulink_6a92e1a9-2d71-59f1-bdc2-1e0b5ab14304)
Now
My phone rings as we pull onto the drive outside Darlington House. It’s Aaron.
‘Go ring the bell, sweetheart,’ I say to Becky, and she clambers from the passenger seat and hurtles towards the front door. I answer the call.
‘Just landed,’ Aaron says, as though he is a passenger on a flight, rather than the pilot. I admit it’s what hooked me in when I met him a year ago. Although I’m not sure if, at the time, I equated a pilot’s uniform with being alone so often. But when he is home he’s the best partner there is, so I mustn’t complain.
‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘I thought we might have a takeaway tonight. I’ve picked up wine.’
‘Sounds good. I should be home in a couple of hours.’
I will only see him for two days before he takes off again. I don’t like it, but I guess I’m getting used to it. I love him and the times we spend together mean everything. And there’s always the bonus that absence is a great aphrodisiac.
‘I’m at my dad’s at the moment,’ I say into the phone. ‘But I need to tell you something when I see you.’
‘What?’ He sounds alarmed. ‘You can’t leave me hanging. Nothing’s wrong, is it? Is Becky OK?’
‘She’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that … well, Willow called.’
‘Willow? Is she OK?’ He’s met Willow several times, and they seem to get on well, although he does find her a bit flaky, and frankly I’m not surprised.
‘Yes. Yes, I think so. I’ll tell you everything when you get home.’
‘Did she say why she hasn’t been in contact?’
‘Of course.’ I don’t want to get into a conversation about it right now. ‘She’s staying in Cornwall, apparently. I’m going down there when school breaks up.’
‘What’s she doing in Cornwall?’
‘It’s a long story, Aaron.’ I bite down on my bottom lip. ‘Listen, can we talk at home? I’m at my dad’s,’ I repeat.
‘OK, yes, I’ll see you soon,’ he says.
He rings off, and I drop my phone into my bag.
As I climb from the car and stride towards Darlington House, I notice Eleanor’s jeep isn’t on the drive. Dad will be alone. The house is too big for two people, but Eleanor refuses to sell up and move somewhere smaller – she says her memories are here. She told me once she still hears Willow’s childhood laughter echoing around the walls.
Becky has left the front door ajar, and I step inside out of the bright day, and into the dimly lit hallway that feels cold, whatever the weather.
‘Hi,’ I call out, placing my bag on the antique cabinet by the door.
‘In here, Mum,’ Becky calls back, and I make my way into the lounge, where three sofas – that have been there since we moved in and are now a little worn – hug an open fireplace that hasn’t been lit since last winter. Sun pours in through the huge bay window, and I blink, my eyes adjusting to the sudden light. Becky and Dad sit in the middle of one of the sofas, her head on his shoulder.
He peers at me over his glasses, ‘Rose, darling. It’s lovely to see you. How’s the headship going?’ He’s so proud – part of the reason I accepted it. ‘I was telling the boys at the Fox and Hound how well you’re doing.’
‘Fine,’ I say, looking about me. It isn’t strictly true –I’m not sure I’m cut out to manage a school. ‘Where’s Eleanor?’
‘Shopping with the girls,’ he says, with a small laugh. ‘They call themselves “the girls” and yet they’re almost sixty.’
I want to say I know. That he tells me that every time I visit. I bend and kiss his silver-grey hair, his familiar aftershave tickling my nostrils, making me smile. ‘Shall I make some tea?’
‘Not for me, dear,’ he says, and Becky shakes her head, giving me a look as if to say tell him, tell him Willow called.
‘It’s such good news,’ Dad says once I’ve told him. His irises look far too blue, as though he might cry, showing however many times Willow takes off, it still worries him. He loves Willow as though she is his own daughter.
Becky takes her grandpa’s hand in hers and squeezes. ‘We’re going to see her at the weekend. We’ll bring her back. Promise.’ She fumbles in her pocket for a tissue and dabs his cheeks. ‘Everything is going to be just fine, Grandpa. You’ll see.’
*
Aaron’s Mercedes is on the drive when we get home, and a fizz of excitement runs through me.
‘Call me when the Chinese is here,’ Becky says once we’re inside and she’s unlacing her Doc Martens and tugging them free. She jumps to her feet and bobs her head around the lounge door. ‘Hey, Aaron,’ she calls, raising her hand in a wave.
‘Hey, Becky,’ he says, waving back.
‘I’ll have beef and broccoli with boiled rice.’ She’s done her research online for the healthiest Chinese takeaway options, and always has the same thing.
She drops her boots and heads up the stairs. I bend to pick them up and stand them neatly on the shoe shelf.
I enter the lounge. Aaron is watching The One Show. He looks up, points the remote control at the TV, and presses pause.
‘Hey, beautiful,’ he says, rising and heading towards me, taking me into his arms. He’s showered – smells of Jimmy Choo. He’s worn it ever since I bought him a bottle at Christmas.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ I say, nuzzling into his shoulder, breathing him in. I suppose the only consolation of this difficult way of life is we never seem to get bored with each other. My heart still races when I see him, and he says his does too. I’m guessing if we’d seen each other every second of the last year, things might be different – more static, normal. But I guess I’ll never know. He suggested once that he could change careers, said he hated that we were apart so often, but I knew how much he loved his job – still does. It wouldn’t have been fair to ask him to throw it in for me.
‘It’s so good to see you too,’ he says, placing a kiss on my forehead, and releasing me. He sits back down, patting the seat next to him.
I grab my laptop, and as I lean back, opening it up, his arm falls loosely around my shoulders, and I feel safe. ‘I’d better order the Chinese,’ I say with a smile.
‘Pork in black bean sauce for me, please’ he says, pointing the remote control at the TV again and unfreezing Matt Baker, his smile dimpling his cheek as he glances at the menu with me.
An email notification appears in the corner of my laptop screen. I click on it. It’s from Willow, telling me her address in Cornwall – and a brief message:
I can’t wait to see you, Rose. I need you so much, Willow. X
Chapter 7 (#ulink_f323bba2-4bc7-5279-90fb-90ec2e68abbe)
AVA (#ulink_f323bba2-4bc7-5279-90fb-90ec2e68abbe)
2001
Ava screwed up her face and wiggled so the bridesmaid dress rustled. It was floor-length, yellow satin, like her daughter’s – although Willow looked like child-sized sunshine, and Ava most definitely did not.
But in seven weeks Gail was getting married to Rory, and Ava would be their bridesmaid.
‘I look stupid, Mum,’ Ava said, strutting around the lounge, bashing her leg on the coffee table, as her mum looked on. ‘This headdress would look better on our front door this Christmas.’
‘You look fine, Ava. Now stop with your whinging,’ Jeannette said, pinning her with a stare.
Ava pulled the fake floral headdress over her eyes. ‘Ah, I can’t see.’ She held out her arms like a zombie and took pigeon steps across the room. ‘I reckon Gail pinched this thing off a gravestone.’
‘Enough. Stop that stupid talk.’ Her mum reached up and straightened her daughter’s headdress. ‘Your sister wants you and Willow to look beautiful. Why would she go out of her way to make you look stupid on her wedding day?’ She took short, sharp strides away from Ava, retreating into the kitchen.
‘Because she hates me, that’s why.’ Ava had no doubt of that. ‘She’s only having me as her bridesmaid because you told her she had to, and Rory wants Willow as their flower girl.’
Her mother reappeared in the lounge, and folding her arms across her slim body, said, ‘She doesn’t hate you, Ava. She despairs of you, as we all do. There’s a difference. And this is Gail’s big day, not yours. So can you please stop thinking about yourself for once, and be happy for her?’
The words stung. Ava rarely thought about herself.
Ava followed her mum as she headed back into the small, impeccable kitchen. ‘I’m pleased for Gail, really I am,’ she said. It wasn’t true. She wasn’t pleased for her sister. The only plus she could see was that Gail had finally moved out of the cottage. It had taken a while for the move to happen, as Rory had had problems getting rid of his lodger, but now her sister had moved into Rory’s Edwardian detached in Newquay.
Gail and Ava had always shared the bigger room – neither wanting to sleep in their brother Peter’s old room when he left for Australia when he was eighteen. They both claimed it smelt funny. When Willow was born, the young women had fought over the limited space. Gail had never had any patience with Willow – said she wasn’t cut out to be an auntie and didn’t want kids herself. But now Gail had gone, and it was bliss for Willow and Ava to have the room to themselves.
‘Do you like Rory, Mum?’ Ava asked, taking two mugs from the cupboard. She wasn’t sure what she felt about her soon to be brother-in-law. He had the looks, the charm, but she’d seen him grip Gail’s arm a little too tightly on occasions, and the aggressive way he’d treated her in the arcade two years back when she’d bumped into him, still stayed in her mind. ‘You’re sure Gail’s making the right decision marrying him?
‘For Christ’s sake, stop, Ava.’ Her mum raised her hand. ‘Rory is handsome, intelligent, witty, well-off—’
‘Too good to be true?’
‘He’ll make your sister happy.’ She turned and shoved the kettle under the streaming tap. ‘Sometimes I think you’re jealous of Gail.’
‘Maybe I am,’ Ava whispered, out of her mother’s earshot. Gail was marrying a rich, handsome man, while Ava struggled to hold on to Willow’s father. Some days she felt as though she might lose her mind stuck in this isolated part of Cornwall, with no means of escape.
But she had her beautiful daughter. Willow made things right.
And while she didn’t have many friends, she drew comfort from being close to the sea. From her bedroom window she would watch the tides rise and fall, and could be on the beach within moments; smell the salty air, feel sand between her toes. It kept her sane. Gave her hope. Hope that one day everything would be different. One day she would give her daughter a perfect life – the life she’d never had.
She looked down at the yellow dress once more. ‘Right,’ she said, putting the mug back in the cupboard, deciding she didn’t want a hot drink. ‘I’m getting out of this.’
She climbed the stairs, unzipping the dress as she went, and once in her room, she pushed it from her shoulders, letting it drop in a heap around her ankles. She stepped from it, and grabbed her robe, and pulled it on over her bra and pants, and flopped onto her bed wishing she was a million miles from away.
‘I’m heading out, Ava,’ her mum called up the stairs later. ‘Do you need anything from the shop?’
‘No, thanks,’ she called back.
The door slammed shut, and a cry came from the bed in the corner of the room. Willow was stirring.
As Ava padded over to her, she glanced out of the window to see her mum, wrapped in her winter coat, hurrying down the uneven road towards the local shop – her head down. She always avoided eye contact with dog walkers, neighbours, holidaymakers, and now she was quickening her step as she passed a lad with a yellow baseball cap pulled low. He stopped, turned, and watched her mum dash onwards until she was out of sight. Suddenly his gaze flicked up to the window where Ava stood. Before she could register his face, she moved out of sight with a jolt. When she looked again, he’d gone.
Willow had drifted back to sleep, lids closed over blue eyes, her thumb in her mouth. Ava stroked a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. ‘You deserve so much more, darling girl,’ she whispered. ‘One day your life will be perfect, you’ll see.’
Chapter 8 (#ulink_3cec2e9f-e839-530a-a35e-6dcdbe96862b)
YOU (#ulink_3cec2e9f-e839-530a-a35e-6dcdbe96862b)
Always surrounded by friends – so popular – but then you had a charm, didn’t you? A charisma that drew people in, so much so you could make them do almost anything.
When I was young I imagined, as I watched you from a distance, what it would be like to be part of your network of friends. What did you all do when you went into the woods at night?
Mystery and darkness shrouded you and I suppose that made you all the more intriguing, fascinating – made me want to be a part of your world even more.
You didn’t see me following you everywhere. See me watching you.
I thought about you constantly – wished for the day when you would wrap your arm around my shoulders, pull me close, and kiss me.
But you never did. Well, not at first anyway.
I was so young when I made it my mission to infiltrate your world. You were so beautiful to me – I had to be close to you. But it was later – much later in fact – when you finally noticed me. You glanced over and smiled, and I don’t mind admitting, my stomach flipped. You had such a winning smile – those dimples making you look so innocent. No one could have imagined what was beneath that smile – not even me. Not back then.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_ff246164-5620-54d1-9fa3-90b71888a3f2)
ROSE (#ulink_ff246164-5620-54d1-9fa3-90b71888a3f2)
Now
I stand in the corner of the staffroom gripping the stem of my wine glass, the sun beaming through the small Georgian windows behind me, bringing on the makings of a migraine. I’m exhausted. It’s been a difficult first year at Mandalay Primary School. Some days I feel like running back to my old school and begging them to take me back. I loved being a teacher. I hate being a head.
And secret-gift swapping with staff is far from my idea of fun. In fact, as I said to Aaron when he picked me up for lunch earlier, the whole thing is quite bizarre.
‘It’s like a Secret Santa, but in the summer,’ the school secretary told me a few weeks back, coming into my office brandishing a too-bright smile. She thrust a tartan cap full of pieces of paper towards me. ‘We’ve been doing it for years,’ she went on. ‘It was John’s idea.’ It was an obvious nod to the previous head who I knew she preferred. ‘We normally give gifts around the ten-pound mark.’
It was one of those many moments when I wanted to say, ‘I think some of these silly traditions need changing.’ But instead I pulled out a name and smiled politely.
I’d studied to be a teacher when Becky was young, after Seb left. I was living with Dad and Eleanor at the time, and I know, without their support, I wouldn’t be where I am. I guess that’s why I’m here, in this role, continually trying to prove their faith in me was worth it.
A shriek of laughter brings me out of my daydream, and I stare at the gift collection box in the middle of the room. It has stood outside my office for the last month, with staff dropping parcels off, and children and parents nosing inside. Even Becky, when she met me last week after work, asked who the gifts were for. ‘Sounds cool,’ she said when I explained. But then at fourteen, it probably did.
I sip red wine and wince. Not one for drinking in the day, I put the glass down, deciding not to touch any more. I’ll be driving soon, so shouldn’t anyway, and I know it won’t help a migraine.
Several members of staff are red-cheeked already, enjoying the fact the children have gone home to their families for six weeks, and chatting and laughing together after a long term.
I’m struggling to fit in here, and I try telling myself that being a headteacher isn’t about making friends. I must accept I will be slightly removed from the staff – on the outside looking in.
Ralph Martin, a trainee teacher who looks young enough to be brought to school by his mum, stands up and claps his hands. My heart sinks as the chatter fades. I hate surprises. They make me feel out of control.
‘It’s pressie time,’ he says, sounding upbeat, clearly enjoying the excitement. ‘Do you want to do the honours, Rose?’
‘No!’ The word shoots from my mouth sharper than intended, and everyone looks at me. ‘You go for it, Ralph,’ I say, trying to smooth the edges from my words.
The presents are distributed quickly. Wrappings are ripped off, flying everywhere, and the room fills with laughter and overexcited ‘oohs’. The gifts range from saucy pink, furry handcuffs to sensible silk scarves.
The teaching assistant who receives my gift doesn’t look too thrilled by a book of poetry, but I didn’t know what to get a man I barely know. And he is attached to literacy after all.
‘Rose,’ Ralph says. ‘This one’s for you.’
I take it with a fake smile, and pull free the gold wrapping paper, like I’m ripping off a plaster. Inside is a set of body oils. ‘Thank you,’ I say, flicking my eyes around the room, wondering who sent me such a thoughtful gift.
‘Just one left,’ Ralph says, lifting out another parcel. I see the tag is torn. ‘Another one for you, Rose,’ he says, arching his eyebrow.
‘That can’t be right, can it?’ I look at everyone in turn. ‘Wasn’t it one for each of us?’ I take it from him, feeling too warm in my short-sleeved polo neck top. The room’s too noisy. Too crowded.
In my hand is a green box, tied with a yellow silk ribbon. I feel a slight dizziness, a need for air. ‘Betsy,’ I whisper.
‘Sorry?’ Ralph says.
‘Listen, I’m just going outside for a moment,’ I say, turning to head for the door, unsure what’s wrong with me. Is it the stress of the long term? The worry I’m not cut out for a leadership role? Thoughts of Willow?
‘Aren’t you going to open it first?’ someone says, and an echo of ‘Go on,’ follows.
‘OK,’ I say. My fingers tremble as I run them over the lid. I’m being ridiculous.
Ralph takes the box from me. ‘Shall I open it for you?’
‘OK,’ I say. I have no choice. Everyone’s eyes are on me.
‘Chocolate biscuits,’ he says, lifting the lid, and handing it back to me. ‘They look delicious.’
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. ‘Biscuits,’ I whisper, placing the box on the table next to my barely touched glass of wine. ‘Just biscuits.’ But who sent them? I’ve already received my gift.
I go to leave, and as I head for the door I glance over my shoulder just once. Why did I react so stupidly? Am I on high alert? Fight or flight mode because I’m in a situation I’d rather not be in?
‘Help yourselves, everyone,’ I say, raising my hand and fluttering my fingers. ‘And enjoy the holidays.’
A chorus of goodbyes follow me from the staffroom as I dash down the corridor, the walls stripped of the children’s colourful paintings, making the school feel a little sad.
I fling open the door and breathe in fresh air, before heading for my car. Once inside, with the doors central-locked, I stare through the front window at the school, my mind drifting to the day we buried Betsy.
*
Willow had been five when she gripped my hand and looked up at me with sad eyes. The rain had poured down earlier, and the grass squelched under our feet as we walked down the garden, the moisture still in the air formed tiny bubbles on Willow’s curls.
‘Will Mummy look after Betsy when she gets to heaven?’ she asked me.
I’d known her for two years now, and over that time she had mentioned her mummy being an angel a few times, but it was always put down to her over-active imagination. Willow would make up the most outlandish stories even then. ‘My daddy is a bad man,’ she told me once, and I’d wondered if she was talking about Eleanor’s first husband – she certainly couldn’t have meant my dad.
We’d put Betsy the guinea pig in a green box tied with a yellow ribbon, and now Dad was saying a few words, as Eleanor lowered the little coffin into the ground.
‘We all loved Betsy,’ he said. ‘She lived a long and happy life with Willow caring for her so well.’
I swallowed down tears, as Eleanor sprinkled soil over the box, and Willow squeezed my hand. She looked up at me bewildered, and within moments released my hand and ran into the house. She cried in her room for hours.
I slip the key into the ignition and start the engine. I’m about to put the car into gear when a knock on the window startles me. It’s Ralph dangling a torn gift tag close to the glass.
From Jasmine Year 3 x
I buzz down the window and stare at it for some moments, before taking it from him, and turning it over in my hands. It’s the other half of the tag that was on the biscuits.
‘It was in the bottom of the box,’ he says. ‘Jasmine must have put your end of term gift in there by mistake.’ He pauses. ‘Are you OK, Rose? You seem a little—’
‘I’m fine,’ I cut in, snapping to my senses and smiling. ‘Just glad to be breaking up from school for a while, that’s all. It’s been a long term.’
‘Yes. Yes, it has.’ He scratches his head. ‘It’s just you seemed bothered by the biscuits.’
I shake my head, putting the tag down on the passenger seat. ‘I’m fine,’ I repeat. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.’
‘Of course, you’re off to Cornwall tomorrow, aren’t you? Have a wonderful time.’ He raises his hand in a wave and steps backwards.
‘Thanks. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.’ The site manager is locking up later than usual because I want to get home, and don’t want to spoil the end of term fun.
‘Thanks, Rose.’ He takes another step away from the car, as I pull away.
Chapter 10 (#ulink_d706d331-5c80-51ef-a537-91fd0797dd01)
AVA (#ulink_d706d331-5c80-51ef-a537-91fd0797dd01)
2001
Peter stood at the foot of the stairs, his holdall at his feet, looking at Ava through round-rimmed glasses. The siblings weren’t close in age, and he’d taken off for Brisbane when he was eighteen, almost ten years ago. The void between them was that of strangers.
His dark, tangled hair rested on his shoulders, his colourful striped trousers were creased, the fur collar of his purple jacket matted. She felt sure he hadn’t looked so dishevelled when he left home. In fact, the photos of him on the dresser in the lounge, that Mum had put out just before he arrived, showed a cute kid, and a good-looking teenager.
Peter lifted his holdall and climbed the stairs, knocking pictures as he went. He was almost at the top when he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Grab my rucksack, will you, Ava, and bring it up?’ he said, disappearing from view. She looked about her, spotting a tatty rucksack covered in sewn-on badges, by the front door. She picked it up and headed up the stairs.
Peter stood in the doorway of his old room, which was rammed with junk – his old guitar, a music centre, massive speakers. In fact, it was just as he’d left it: posters of wrestlers pinned to the wall, and dust-covered models of horror movie villains lining the shelves.
He threw his holdall on the bed and Ava dropped his rucksack to the floor.
‘Ta,’ he said, looking about him. ‘It hasn’t changed at all, has it?’ he added, and she picked up his Aussie twang for the first time.
‘Mum keeps the door shut, mostly,’ she said, her eyes flicking over the dusty surfaces, vague memories of Peter spending most of his time alone here, floating in. There had been arguments too between her mum and her brother – lots of arguments.
He took off his jacket and threw it on the bed next to his holdall. He gave the room one last scan, and left. She followed, closing the door behind her.
‘So tell me, little sis,’ he said, lumbering down the stairs, knocking another picture with his shoulder. ‘What have you been up to since I’ve been away? Gail told me you got pregnant. Bit careless of you. Never heard of condoms?’
She followed him into the lounge. ‘Her name is Willow.’
‘You what?’ he said, dropping into the armchair.
‘My daughter – your niece – her name is Willow. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’
‘Whatever you say,’ he said, tipping a cigarette from a box and lighting it. He dragged hard on it, and blew smoke towards her. ‘Want a ciggie?’ he said, offering the packet.
‘I don’t smoke anymore,’ she said. She’d given up when she found out she was pregnant with Willow. ‘And Mum doesn’t allow smoking in the house. You should stand on the doorstep, or in the back garden.’
‘Mum’s not here though, is she?’ He jokingly glanced under the chair. ‘Take it easy, Ava, you’re like a wound-up spring. It’s just the one. I need it after that bloody long flight.’
‘So what made you travel all this way for Gail’s wedding?’
‘Rory paid for the trip. Gail wants me to give her away. So I thought I’d make a long break of it. Nothing much keeping me in Australia.’ He took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Rory seems like a great bloke.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘You don’t like him?’
She coiled her hair around her finger. Sometimes, in her darkest moments, she thought she might like him too much – hated that he could get inside her head like that. ‘He’s OK. Seems to make Gail happy.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’ He took another long drag on the cigarette, eyeing Ava. ‘So, are you pleased to see me?’
‘I barely remember you,’ she said, her voice void of emotion. ‘You pissed off when I was a kid.’
‘Cheers for that,’ he said with a sarcastic tone. ‘I remember you. You were always bawling as a toddler.’
‘I was not.’
‘Yeah you were.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Christ, I’m knackered,’ he said, his cigarette burning between his fingers. ‘Bloody jet lag.’
‘So what have you been up to in Australia?’ she said, sitting down on the sofa.
His eyes sprung open. ‘This and that.’ He stubbed his cigarette out on one of Jeannette’s ornamental dishes, and Ava cringed. ‘I was married for a bit. Still am legally, I guess.’
‘What? You never let us know.’
‘It only lasted six months, Ava. I wanted kids. She wanted to wait a few years. That was that.’
‘Did you love her?’
‘Yeah. Still do. But we’re on different pages. Couldn’t make it work.’
‘Maybe you should have waited for her to catch up. Maybe she needed to know the time was right to have kids.’
‘You know nothing about it,’ he said. ‘You’re just a kid yourself, forced to be a grown-up.’
‘I’m nineteen, and I know marriages are give and take – any good Disney film tells you that much,’ she smiled.
‘Perhaps,’ he answered her smile. ‘I bet you’re a good mum, aren’t you, Ava?’ His tone had softened, his bravado falling away. ‘I remember you playing happy families with your dolls.’
‘And do you remember Gail stabbing them all with a kitchen knife?’ It had scarred Ava for months – perhaps longer. ‘She was never maternal even then.’
‘Yeah, I remember.’ He shook his head. ‘She was pretty feisty at times.’
‘I can think of better words to describe her.’ Ava looked down at the palms of her hands, remembering. ‘I only wanted to play with her – be part of her world. But she rarely let me. Always blamed me for Dad leaving.’ Tears burned behind her eyes. ‘Anyway, enough about the past,’ she said in a rush. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure I’m going back.’
‘You’re staying in Cornwall? Here? With us?’ She couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice.
‘Yeah, for a bit anyway.’
‘What do you do? For a job, I mean? My wages won’t stretch to another person, Peter, and you know Mum hasn’t worked since Willow was born.’
Jeannette had been in a high-powered position in forensics before Ava was born, but when their father left, she never returned to it. Instead she took a part-time job in a factory office, working alone most of the time – which she said she preferred – and rarely socialised out of work. When Willow was born she insisted it was Ava’s turn to work – that she’d done her bit for this family. She would stay home and look after the baby. Ava had tried to argue, wanting desperately to be with Willow. But her mother was firm. ‘You work, or you leave.’
‘Well, I’ve been doing a bit of plumbing,’ Peter said. ‘A bloke over in Australia took me on as an apprentice. I’m pretty good, so once I get a bit of freelance work, it’ll take the pressure off you a bit.’ He broke off for a moment before saying, ‘So you’re going to be Gail’s bridesmaid?’
‘Mmm, only because Rory wants Willow to be their flower girl – apparently he loves kids. Not sure he’s twigged Gail doesn’t,’ she laughed.
‘So where is Willow?’
‘Upstairs asleep … in fact, I’d better check on her.’ She rose, studying her brother once more. As her eyes met his, another memory invaded. She could see herself huddled against the kitchen wall, gripping her knees, and Peter is yelling, his body shaking, his eyes bloodshot, face streaming with tears. ‘I hate you. I hate this house. I’m leaving,’ he spat. ‘And I’m never coming back.’
Chapter 11 (#ulink_82ae4799-120e-5378-884c-3fe565387c0a)
ROSE (#ulink_82ae4799-120e-5378-884c-3fe565387c0a)
Now
‘Hi beautiful,’ Aaron calls from the lounge as I lumber through the front door, and dump my briefcase, laptop, and the gift I received onto the table at the foot of the stairs. ‘Bet you’re glad that’s over until September.’
I am, although I know I will be in and out of school working throughout the holiday. I take off my shoes, and slip my feet into my slippers – sighing with relief as I pad through to the kitchen.
Aaron appears from the lounge, and kisses my cheek before sitting down in front of his open laptop.
‘You OK?’ he says, smiling, and I think, as I always do, how handsome he is, never fully shaking the feeling he’s out of my league.
We met a year ago. I was out with friends when he walked into the bar in his pilot’s uniform. Confident, tall, dark-haired – perfect. Us girls were giddy on wine that night, and gave a collective swoon, followed by a flurry of laughter. He looked over and smiled. But it was me he focused on – staring for a long moment. And it was me he chatted to later, when I pushed my way to the bar to order more drinks.
‘Fancy escaping?’ he said, and I looked over at my friends who were now up on the dance floor, giggling – happy.
‘I can’t,’ I said, although I desperately wanted to, despite not knowing him. ‘It’s a friend’s hen night.’
‘Another time?’ he suggested.
We exchanged numbers. A week later he called. He was landing in Luton again.
‘So, tell me about yourself,’ he said, when we met up at a bar on Old Stevenage High Street, and sipped wine.
‘Well, I’m a teacher. I have a thirteen-year-old daughter.’ I took a gulp of wine. It seemed funny to sum up my identity with two short sentences. But that was my life. Still is. Although now I’m with a man I love – who loves me back.
I went on to tell him about Willow, and waffled on about how wonderful Eleanor was. How I loved my dad more than the world.
‘I’m a tiny bit OCD,’ I continued after another sip of wine, straightening some beermats into a neat row for effect, and he laughed. ‘I’m kind to animals, and hate surprises.’ It was nerves causing my inability to shut up. Nerves because somehow, in less than an hour, I knew I was falling for him.
‘I’ll keep that in mind when I want to send you surprise roses,’ he said. ‘Or want to whisk you off to Paris.’
I laughed. ‘Well, there are exceptions to every rule.’ I felt myself blushing, my stomach tipping. ‘So tell me about you,’ I said, and drained my glass.
‘Well, I’ve travelled a lot,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived in Paris, Stockholm, Naples, Sydney, New York – the list goes on and on.’ He paused and with a smile added, ‘I’m presently living in Luton.’
I laughed at the contrast, as he got to his feet and took my glass. ‘Let me get you another one of those,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it when you hear more of my life story.’
Once back at the table, he told me how his father died when he was young. That he was close with his mum. That he hadn’t had any serious relationships ‘because of my job’.That his favourite film was, and still is It’s a Wonderful Life. ‘Oh, and I can’t get enough of Frank Sinatra, and enjoy a bit of classical if the mood is right,’ he concluded.
Now he closes down his laptop, rises and takes me in his arms.
‘I’m glad I got to see you before you take off again,’ I say, laying my head against his chest.
‘Me too.’ He lifts my chin and kisses me tenderly, before releasing his grip. ‘This is so bloody hard,’ he says, not for the first time.
‘Well, I knew what I was getting into when I met you. I don’t know what your excuse is.’ I laugh, and he laughs too.
‘I just wish … well … you know what I wish.’
I head for the kettle. ‘Coffee?’ I ask, picking it up and filling it, but when I glance over my shoulder he’s shoving his laptop into his bag.
‘I haven’t got time,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
My heart sinks. ‘You’re going already?’ It’s a daft question. I know his schedule. Planes don’t fly themselves.
‘Sorry,’ he says, putting on his jacket. He’s always sorry. ‘I’ll call you when I get there, like always,’ he continues, approaching, and his lips brush against mine once more. ‘I hope all goes well with Willow.’
He moves towards the door, grabbing the handle of his pull-along case.
‘I’ll give her your love, shall I?’ I call after him.
‘Yes, please do.’ His tone is upbeat, as he looks back again before leaving. ‘Bye, Becky,’ he yells up the stairs to no answer.
As he closes the front door behind him, a sudden sadness creeps in. I head for the window and wave until his car disappears around the corner. Am I kidding myself that I’m used to this life?
Once I’ve made some coffee, I sit down at the kitchen table, and blow on the steaming mug before taking a sip. I need a caffeine jolt before I finish packing. I’m unsure how long we will stay with Willow, but I need to be prepared for a week, just in case. I look beyond the windowpane into the back garden, where washing blows in a light breeze.
I walk to the bottom of the stairs. It’s silent above me, no music blaring out. Perhaps Becky is out. I grab my laptop and head back into the kitchen to print off a map of the area. I’ll use my satnav to get to Cornwall, but I want to get an idea where Willow’s staying.
I key the address into Google maps. It’s about twenty miles north of Newquay, near the sea, and one of a handful of cottages just outside the village of Bostagel.
‘Hey, Mum.’ I jump, not hearing Becky’s approach. She sits down, opens a bottle of black nail varnish, and begins painting her nails. It hardly seems worth it. Her nails are almost bitten away. ‘I’ve been packing a few things,’ she says. ‘Will I need stuff for America too?’
‘No, we’ll be back before then. Take enough for about a week, and we’ll see how things go. We may only stay overnight.’ I close Google maps, and nod towards the garden. ‘Thanks for hanging out the washing.’
‘Wasn’t me. Must have been Aaron.’
‘Ah!’
‘He’d done it before I got home, Mum. I would have hung it out.’
‘I know, love.’ I pat her arm, unsure if she would have. She’s going through a lazy stage. But I know she could be a lot worse, so I’m rolling with it.
‘Have you seen the parcel?’ she says, screwing the lid back on the bottle of varnish, and blowing on her nails.
‘What parcel?’ I glance around the kitchen, which Aaron has cleaned until it sparkles. Sometimes I think he’s the one with OCD.
Becky races into the lounge, and I follow. ‘I opened it, sorry,’ she says. ‘It was addressed to Ms R Lawson. I thought it was the Blu-ray I ordered, but it isn’t. It must be for you.’ She picks up a cardboard box from the coffee table – the kind Blu-rays come in – and hands it to me. ‘I glanced inside,’ she says. ‘It’s photos.’
‘Photos?’
‘Mmm. Did you order any?’
I shake my head and, sitting down on the edge of the sofa, I look inside the box. She’s right. It’s photographs. I pull them out one at a time, and lay them in a row on the coffee table. There are four – all of men I’ve never seen before.
‘Who are they?’ Becky says, sitting down by my side. ‘Do you know them?’ She tucks her wayward curls behind her ears as she stares down at them.
I shake my head again. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘So who sent them?’ I hear a twang of apprehension in Becky’s voice. ‘Why have you been sent them, Mum?’
‘I’m sure there’s an explanation, sweetheart,’ I say, although I don’t know what it is. I turn the photos over one at a time, looking on the backs, hoping to find names.
There’s a colour photograph of a boy of about seventeen, with white-blonde hair styled back from his face with gel, and blue eyes that seem a little too close together. I take in his baggy pale blue jeans, the way his hands are stuffed in the pockets of a black bomber jacket. I turn it over. ‘It says Justin, 1999.’
‘No surname?’ Becky asks, and I shake my head. ‘He looks a bit spaced out to me,’ she goes on, taking the photo. ‘A bit like Foggy Marsden in my class when he’s high on coke.’
‘Please tell me you’re talking about the brown fizzy stuff.’
She rolls her eyes.
‘You mean cocaine?’ My heart, already thudding at the sight of the curious photographs, picks up speed.
‘It’s OK, Mother. I would never touch the stuff. My body is a temple.’ She puts the photo down.
I pick up another photograph. This man looks like a throwback from the Sixties. He’s nice looking enough, but too pale with dark shadows under eyes framed with Harry Potter style glasses. He’s in his late twenties, I would think, with dishevelled hair to his shoulders. ‘Peter Millar,’ I read from the back of the photo.
The next picture is of a man with dark brown hair. He’s good-looking, and kitted out in an expensive suit. I move the photo closer to my face, before flicking the photo over. ‘Rory Thompson.’
The final picture isn’t as clear as the others. It’s taken from a distance, possibly without the man’s knowledge. He’s wearing a yellow baseball cap pulled low over what looks like brown hair, and a white hooded sweatshirt over black jeans. There’s no name on the back.
‘Why has someone sent you these?’ Becky asks. ‘Are you two-timing Aaron?’ She tries for a laugh – she knows that would never happen. She’s trying to make light of it. It isn’t working.
I pick up the cardboard box once more, and search inside. Squashed at the bottom is a sealed envelope. I pull it free and rip it open. Inside is a piece of paper. I recognise Willow’s handwriting instantly.
My eyes widen as Becky and I read her words.
Dear Rose,
I’m sending you these photos because one of these men killed my mother eighteen years ago. Her name was Ava Millar. I’ve been asking questions, and now someone is hanging about the cottage. They want me to leave, but I’m not giving up.
I’ll explain everything when you arrive. But Rose – if anything happens to me, please keep digging until you find the truth.
Love, Willow X
My hands shake, and my heart bounces in my chest, as I try to push the letter back in the envelope. I’m in shock that Willow would send me a letter with such potency. That she would worry me that something could happen to her – tell me to take the baton if it did.
‘Christ! What’s going on, Mum?’ Becky says. She’s nibbling her nails, and her eyes look browner and wider than ever.
‘I have no idea,’ I say, the words of the letter jumping around my head, ‘but the sooner I get to Cornwall the better.’
‘This is so freaky.’ Becky pulls her phone from her pocket. ‘I need to tell Tamsyn.’
‘No! Don’t tell anyone.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘OK, Mother.’ A pause. ‘But I just can’t believe we’re going to Cornwall to catch a killer.’
‘You’re not going at all,’ I say. ‘It’s no place for you. You can stay with Grandpa and Eleanor.’
‘But Mum!’
I raise my hand like I’m the traffic police. ‘And I don’t want to hear any more about it.’
Chapter 12 (#ulink_24561de2-4be3-58eb-81fa-c037f1beb70e)
ROSE (#ulink_24561de2-4be3-58eb-81fa-c037f1beb70e)
Now
Becky thunders up the stairs and slams her bedroom door. With a deep sigh, I plonk down on the sofa and grab my laptop. Trying to block out her teenage tantrum, I open it up.
I key in ‘murder’ and ‘Cornwall’ into the search engine. There are almost 100,000 hits. As I scroll down the websites: unsolved murders, mysterious murders, frenzied killings, sadistic killings, my stomach turns over – and I pray nobody ever looks at my search history.
I spot an article about a rape and attempted murder of a young woman near Crantock in 2001, but Willow said her mother was murdered.
With determination, I do the same search and include Ava Millar.
Oh God, it’s there in front of me within moments. Ava Millar. Murdered in 2001.
With shaking hands, I press the link. It takes me to a newspaper article:
The Cornwall Journal
December 22
2001
The body of nineteen-year-old Ava Millar was discovered early this morning by sixty-year-old Stephen Patterson while he was walking his dog along Beach Road, Bostagel.
Stephen told the Cornwall Journal that the attack on Ava was horrific, and finding her would live with him forever. It has now been confirmed that she was stabbed eight times.
Near the body a bride’s dress, thought to belong to Ava’s sister, Gail Thompson, was found folded neatly with what appeared to be a suicide note.
The last sightings of Ava and Gail were at Bostagel Village Hall yesterday evening. Police are keen to talk to anyone who may have seen Ava or Gail between ten o’clock and midnight last night to get in contact on the numbers below.
Ava leaves behind her two-year-old daughter Willow.
‘Oh God,’ I whisper, covering my face with my hands. Trying to comprehend the terrible tragedy. Imagining Willow doing the same online search. Reading this article. I can’t bear to think of the effect it would have had on her. Why didn’t she turn to me sooner?
I struggle to believe that Eleanor isn’t Willow’s real mother, that she kept it from us all. But as the idea settles, I wonder if there were signs I missed over the years. Mummy is an angel.
Later, as I stir fry chicken and vegetables, I try calling Willow, the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder as the food sizzles and spits in the wok, but her phone rings and rings, finally going to voicemail. I leave a short message. ‘Call me, Willow. Please.’
‘Becky, dinner’s ready,’ I call, as I serve.
She thumps down the stairs. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, disappearing into the lounge. So I sit alone, pushing food around my plate, unable to eat, my mind full of Willow.
Later, I grab my jacket from the rack, and call my dad. ‘Hey! Is Eleanor home?’ I say when he picks up.
‘She’s right beside me, love. Do you want to speak to her?’
‘I thought I might come over, if that’s OK. It’s just I really need to chat with her in person.’
‘Of course, is everything OK? You have that tell-tale wobble in your voice.’
‘Do I?’ He knows me so well. ‘I’m fine, honestly. It’s just … well I’ll tell you when I get there.’
‘OK, love. Drive carefully.’
‘Yes, will do. Love you.’
I end the call and tug on my jacket, slipping the phone into my pocket. ‘I won’t be long,’ I say to Becky, who is sprawled on the sofa, her long legs stretched out in front of her, a throw around her shoulders. She’s watching a dark series on Netflix, and grunts, still sulking.
‘Should you be watching that?’ I say.
She keeps her eyes on the screen. ‘How old do you actually think I am, Mum? No wait – I remember – you think I’m a baby.’
I glance at the TV and catch sight of a blood splattered wall, a decapitated body on a factory floor. I cringe and squeeze my eyes closed. ‘I know how old you are, Becky.’
‘Well stop treating me like a kid then.’
I duck out of the doorway, before we start bickering again, or I see another gruesome scene. I’m sure she shouldn’t be watching disturbing programmes, but if I say anything she’ll claim Aaron and I are overprotective. She doesn’t seem to realise it’s an awful world out there and we need to keep her safe.
*
I drive towards Old Welwyn, the sun setting behind the trees. Dusk has settled on the warm day by the time I pull onto the drive at Darlington House.
The grounds are still and quiet and, probably due to my mood, I feel uneasy. Dad and Eleanor have had a few offers over the years from film directors wanting to use the place as a setting for horror or supernatural movies, but they’ve always declined, insisting this is a happy house. And it is. Mostly.
I knock, and Eleanor answers the door within moments. She turned sixty at Christmas, but could easily pass as forty-five.
‘Rose, darling,’ she says, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around me – coating me with her expensive perfume. She’s softly spoken, pronounces her vowels. ‘Your father said you wanted to talk to me.’
Once she’s released me, I follow her into the lounge. There’s no sign of Dad, and as though sensing me searching for him, Eleanor says, ‘He’s popped to the Fox and Hound. Said he thought you wanted to see me. Decided to give us space. Drink?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m driving.’
‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
I spot two cases in the corner, and suddenly remember. ‘Oh, I forgot you’re going away.’
‘Yes.’ She aims the remote control at the TV, muting a wildlife programme. ‘We’re heading for Scotland in the morning. Your dad said we shouldn’t go. That we should be here for Willow.’ She stares deep into my eyes as though asking me what she should do.
‘Dad needs a break,’ I say. He’s been suffering with angina, needs some time out to relax.
‘Yes, and we’re only going for the weekend. We could be back in a flash if needed.’
‘You must go,’ I insist, sitting down on one of the sofas opposite her. ‘Dad’s never been to Scotland. And let’s be honest, if we stopped living every time Willow took off we’d never go anywhere.’ She still looks a little unsure. ‘She’s got me, Eleanor. I’ll keep you both updated.’
‘Yes, of course you will. Thank you, Rose,’ she says.
Photographs in silver frames of the family are everywhere. Expensive ornaments, mostly wild animals, are displayed in an oak cabinet. A bookshelf full of hardbacks – non-fiction mainly: biographies, books about birds, the rainforest – stretches across one of the walls.
‘So what did you want to see me about?’ she says. She cups her chin with her left hand, places her index finger on her cheek. ‘Is everything OK?’
Deciding to come straight to the point, I say, ‘Do you know why Willow took off like she did?’
She moves her hand from her cheek and examines her neat nails for some moments. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘Are you her biological mother, Eleanor?’
Tears appear on her lower lashes. ‘You know about that?’
‘That her real mother was murdered? Yes, I know.’
‘I brought her up, Rose. She is my daughter.’
‘You adopted her?’
‘She’s had a far better life with me – us – than she ever would have.’ She sucks in a sigh, as a resting tear zigzags down her cheek. ‘You may as well know how it came about.’
‘Go on.’ I lean back, feeling a tension in my shoulders, and the beginnings of a headache forming.
She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘So you know Willow’s mother was murdered.’
I nod, feeling fuzzy, as though I’m not in my own body. As though none of this is real.
‘Her name was Ava Millar,’ she goes on, and I don’t stop her, even though I know that much. ‘I knew the Millars from my time as a social worker. In the early Nineties Ava’s older brother was a difficult boy, and her mother couldn’t handle him. There was concern for the safety of Ava and her sister, Gail. They were eight and ten when I was assigned their case.
‘Although things calmed down when the brother took off to Australia, I kept the family on my radar, and heard when Ava got pregnant at seventeen with Willow – the father was a useless article.
‘When Ava was killed, I visited her mother. Jeannette Millar was a mess. Anyone would be after losing two daughters. Gail killed herself you see, after supposedly killing Ava.’
‘Supposedly?’
‘I never quite believed she was capable. She was a self-centred girl but, in my opinion, not a killer. Although the evidence was there – the note – her wedding dress folded neatly – the knife.’
My mind drifts to the photographs I was sent. ‘So if you don’t think she killed her sister, who did?’
She shrugs. ‘There were other theories. Ava’s brother-in-law, Rory, was suspected for a short time, but he had a sound alibi.’
I think back to the photos. ‘So Rory was Gail’s husband?’
She nods. ‘It happened on the night of their wedding.’
I cover my mouth. ‘Oh God,’ I say into my hand. ‘That’s awful.’
‘It was, yes.’ She shakes her head. ‘A terrible tragedy.’
‘And the other theories?’
‘Well … there was Justin, Willow’s father.’
‘Her father?’ My mind is racing. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘I’ve no idea. He was a useless man. I hope Willow never meets him if he is.’ She takes a deep breath, and fiddles with her earring – a simple sleeper, she never wears fancy jewellery. ‘There were so many stories kicking around that part of Cornwall at the time, Rose. But I doubt we’ll ever know the truth, not after all these years.’
‘So when Ava Millar died, you adopted Willow,’ I say, bringing the conversation back to where we began.
‘Not right away – as I said Jeannette Millar couldn’t cope, and Willow’s father was useless. Willow ended up in care. I fostered her, and being part of social services, pushed for a quick adoption.’
It doesn’t seem possible we are talking about my stepsister – the young woman staying in Cornwall hunting for a killer.
I stare at Eleanor for some moments, before reaching over and taking her hand. ‘So why tell Willow now?’
‘I didn’t. Someone contacted her on Facebook. Told her everything.’
‘Who?’
‘Willow didn’t recognise the name, and there was no profile photo. They attached an article about the murder of her mother. Willow didn’t believe it, of course. She came to me, hoping I would tell her it was an elaborate lie.’ She lifts her head, dashes a tear from the corner of her eye, her voice crumbling. ‘But I couldn’t lie to her. I always said I would tell her one day, and it felt like the right time. But she took it so badly.’
I can’t believe I don’t know any of this, that Eleanor kept it a secret all these years. ‘Did Dad know? Does Dad know?’
‘He does now. He wishes I’d told him sooner.’
‘Maybe you should have.’
A silence falls, as she rises to pour a brandy. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one?’
I shake my head and get up too. ‘I should go,’ I say.
‘You do understand why I didn’t tell Willow, don’t you, Rose?’ she says, ‘Why I kept it quiet for so long. What good would have come of her knowing her mother was murdered?’
It seems vital to her that I understand. ‘Of course,’ I say, and turn to leave.
*
By the time I get home, I’m emotionally drained. What I’m not up for is a full-on argument with my daughter, who, going by her stance as she stands in the hallway, is ready for one.
‘OK,’ I say, before she can say anything.
‘OK?’
‘You can come,’ I go on, as I tug off my shoes. What I don’t say is her grandpa and Eleanor are going away, so I have no choice but to take her to Cornwall. That the last thing I want is her hanging about at home without supervision. ‘But if things get tough, Becky, we’re coming straight home.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she says, lunging at me, and hugging me. ‘Yay!’
At that moment it hits me that I need her with me.
Chapter 13 (#ulink_c2e467cc-320d-599d-87f3-768d54cc46b0)
ROSE (#ulink_c2e467cc-320d-599d-87f3-768d54cc46b0)
Now
My eyes are closed, but I’ve barely slept, my mind far too busy with thoughts of Willow – the nips of guilt that I should already be in Cornwall waking me on the hour, every hour; the heat of the night making it difficult to drop back off.
I reach across the bed. I know Aaron isn’t here, but I imagine he wraps his hand tightly around mine, and wallow for a few moments thinking of him, before prising open my eyes and pulling myself to a sitting position.
My mouth is dry from the fan whirring on my bedside table. I click it off, knocking a photo of Aaron to the floor. I pick up my phone, and rub sleep from my eyes, trying to focus. It’s 6 a.m.
I grab the glass of water that’s been standing on my bedside table all night and swallow a gulp of the warm liquid before trying to call Willow. It goes straight to voicemail.
‘Hey, Willow,’ I say into the phone. ‘Can’t wait to see you later. Call me as soon as you can.’ I end the call, trying not to worry. She’s a late riser. That’s all.
I need coffee, always my go-to first thing in the morning. And then we need to get going as early as possible.
But still I sit, my eyelids drooping.
The sun’s fingers reach in through a gap in my flimsy pale-blue curtains, picking out Becky’s life so far in photos that jostle for space on the far wall. My daughter is beautiful. I wish she could see what I see when she looks in the mirror.
My eyes fall on a study of Willow at sixteen, her naturally curly hair straightened to shiny sheets of gold – the face of an angel.
She was spotted by a scout and picked up by a big modelling agency at sixteen. In no time her beautiful face was bounced from magazine cover to magazine cover. Her tall, slim body shuttled from fashion show to fashion show.
At first she revelled in it. Enjoyed the attention. Her eyes sparkling as cameras flashed. Although thrilled for her, it was strange seeing her face everywhere – from billboard posters to national newspapers – not looking quite like the Willow we knew and loved. We were worried too. Worried about the effect it was having on her.
‘I wish I looked like Willow,’ Becky would say, just nine years old at the time.
Willow was almost seventeen when I took one of my monthly trips by train to London to meet up with her. She was renting a huge apartment with three other models, which looked out over the River Thames.
We met in an Italian restaurant in Leicester Square, and as we hugged hello, I felt how dangerously thin she was, noticed how sallow her cheeks were, how the sparkle had disappeared from her eyes that now rested on dark cushions of flesh.
‘So how’s it going?’ I said, trying for upbeat as we studied the menus.
‘Great,’ she said, not looking up.
‘You look tired, Willow.’ I reached across the table, rested my hand on hers.
‘I am,’ she said. ‘I barely sleep.’
‘Have you tried lavender?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve tried everything from hypnosis to sleeping tablets. Nothing works.’
‘Then take a break? Come home for a bit.’
‘I can’t, Rose. They’ve got so much lined up for me over the next few months. Anyway, I love it. I love everything about it.’ Her words didn’t match her lifeless tone. ‘Let’s order, shall we?’
She barely ate that day, and it was a couple of weeks later she disappeared. It was all over the tabloids. We were in such a state.
She was found a week later in a motel in Scotland. A wreck. A mess. Addicted to prescription drugs. Suicidal. The whole experience had been too much.
I cried so hard when we got her back, holding her tightly, never wanting to let her go. Blaming myself that I hadn’t done something when I’d seen her last. That despite spotting how dreadful she looked, I’d done nothing.
She gave up modelling and came home, and seemed her usual upbeat self far too quickly, but there was something different I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then she took off again, refusing to tell anyone where she was – saying she needed to escape, needed time out. It was the first of many escapes. Something we’ve got used to over time. It’s what Willow does.
Even now I sometimes Google her name and they are still there – thousands of images of Willow Winter. I want to rip them all down. Stop people ogling. Tell them to leave her alone. Leave her in peace.
*
Once we have showered and dressed, Becky and I load our holdalls into the boot of the car, and climb in.
Becky plugs her earphones into her ears, and her thumbs tap her phone screen. I start the engine, but before I pull away, I notice a voicemail on my phone from Willow. She must have called when I was getting ready.
I listen to her strangled voice. ‘Rose. Rose. Pick up, please.’ A pause. ‘I know who killed her. I know who killed my real mum. I’ve worked it all out.’ The message ends, and despite the warm day, my body goes cold.
I try to call back, but it goes straight to voicemail. ‘Willow, I got your message. Is everything OK? We’re on our way now but call me when you get this. Please.’
‘What’s up, Mum?’ Becky says, pulling free one of her earbuds.
‘Nothing,’ I say. Deciding not to worry her, I put the car into gear with a shaky hand and pull away.
*
We are halfway to Cornwall, when I pull into a service station. My head is throbbing and although I’d rather keep driving, I know I have to take a break, have something to eat to up my sugar level.Becky’s feet are up on the seat and she’s cradling her knees, listening to music. I find a space and kill the engine.
I take off my sunglasses and put them in the well between us. The sun has disappeared behind fluffy white clouds, after streaming through the window for most of the journey. The tell-tale zigzags and blurs of a migraine niggle. I’ve no doubt it has partly been brought on by the stress of Willow’s call.
‘Shall we have some coffee?’ I say, nudging Becky, who removes her other earbud, and looks up at me.
‘What?’
‘I said, shall we get a drink or a cake or something?’
Becky straightens up in the seat and lowers her feet to the floor. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘But no cake for me, I’ll have some fruit or something.’
Once we’ve collected a cup of coffee and a chocolate muffin for me, an apple and a bottle of mineral water for Becky, we find a table in the corner. Once seated, I give it a quick clean with a wet wipe, and take a couple of migraine tablets.
‘Are you going to be OK to drive, Mum?’ she asks, as I massage my temples. ‘You’re, like, really white.’
‘Once the tablets kick in, I’ll be fine,’ I say, leaning over the table to twirl a straying curl over her ear. She bats me away with her hand and I laugh. ‘Are you looking forward to seeing Willow?’ I ask.
‘Yep. You?’
‘Of course.’ It’s true, but I feel jittery about the photos, and her message is playing in a loop in my head.
Becky smiles, and a dimple forms in her cheek, disappearing as quickly as it came. ‘You know I still can’t get my head round Willow sending you those photos,’ she says.
‘Nor me. I’m hoping she’ll explain more when we get there.’
She pushes sugar granules across the table with the tip of her finger, her earphone back in, and hums a tune I don’t recognise. I realise how glad I am that she’s with me, and watch her, trancelike, for several moments, before saying, ‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’
She looks up. ‘Mega worried about Willow, is all. You don’t think she’s in danger, do you?’
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ I say, trying not to think about her last voicemail. ‘It’s Willow, don’t forget, we know what she’s like. And we’ll see her in a couple of hours, won’t we? She can tell us everything.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it from her pocket. Her face lights up. ‘It’s Dad,’ she says, answering it. ‘Hey, Dad.’
Her eyes sparkle, and I know already what he’s telling her. He called me a few days ago to let me know he was getting married. That he wanted to tell Becky himself and would ring her soon.
‘Oh my God!’ Becky squeals into the phone. ‘That’s fantastic.’
Her dad has been serious about his latest partner Jack, a lawyer from Florida, for a while now, and I smile. They are good together. I’m happy for them – but my head is spinning.
‘Do you think he’ll let me be their bridesmaid?’ Becky says, once the call has ended, her face lit up by a wide smile.
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘Will he let me wear my DMs, do you think?’
‘Probably.’ Becky could wear a sack and he would let her get away with it.
‘We should get going.’ I glance at my watch, a sense of urgency bringing me to my feet.
She rises too, and links arms with me. As we head across the café I glance back at her uneaten apple.
Chapter 14 (#ulink_94ff4b5a-157c-5784-b3ca-48a263813764)
AVA (#ulink_94ff4b5a-157c-5784-b3ca-48a263813764)
2001
From the moment Gail and Rory pulled up outside Ocean View Cottage in his red Ferrari, tension had crawled across Ava’s shoulders.
Although Gail had finally moved out, it was as though she was still there. Constantly visiting to discuss the wedding with their mum, over and over and over. And now they were having a family gathering to welcome Peter – the prodigal son – back from Australia.
Gail sat on the two-seater sofa next to her brother, scooping her blonde curls behind her ears as she turned the pages of her bridal book. Peter swigged beer from a bottle, his eyes closing briefly each time he swallowed.
‘We’re having the reception at the Jester Hotel in Newquay. It’s five-star with Jacuzzis in every room and everything. But we can afford it, can’t we Rory?’ She sounded like a spoilt child.
‘Of course,’ he said, looking up from shuffling through a pile of CDs.
‘And I’ll be expecting you to get a new suit, Peter,’ Gail continued. ‘And you’ll need a haircut.’
‘I’m up for a new suit,’ he said, ‘but nobody touches my hair.’
‘Well, you’ll need to put a comb through it,’ she said, reaching up and ruffling it.
‘Get off,’ he said, smacking her hand away and laughing. Was Peter really as absorbed as he seemed by her wedding plans?
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Amanda Brittany
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: ‘Addictive! A twisty page-turner that had me on the edge of my seat from start to finish. ’ Roz Watkins ‘Rose. Rose. Pick up, please. I know who killed her. I know who killed my real mum. I’ve worked it out. ’ When Rose’s flighty stepsister Willow disappears to Cornwall, she can’t help but roll her eyes. Willow is always taking off and there is always some kind of emergency. But after Willow discovers that she was adopted and her birth mother died in tragic circumstances, her trip to the coast sparks a search into her past. Two days later, when a package arrives at Rose’s house containing a series of four polaroids of four different men, Rose knows that Willow is in trouble. Each photograph a possible murder suspect, their family life begins to unravel, leaving one crucial question unanswered… Who killed Willow’s mother and where is Willow now? * * * * * * * Readers LOVE Traces of Her! ‘What a ride, more twists and turns than a Formula 1 race track’ A. M. Castle ‘A whirlwind of a read. Just brilliant!’ Diane Jeffrey ′Addictive and fast-paced. Amanda Brittany is a name to keep your eye on. A brilliant thriller′ Phoebe Morgan ‘An emotional thriller with a broad cast of characters who come alive on the pages of this addictive mystery. ’ Naomi Joy ‘Gripped me from start to finish… Definitely did not see the twist at the end coming!’ NetGalley reviewer ‘This was an amazing page turner. So many twists and turns and I was completely surprised by the ending. ’ Netgalley reviewer ‘A real page turner. This book had me hooked. ’ Netgalley reviewer