Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Avon 2019

Copyright © Claire Allan 2019

Cover design © Henry Steadman 2019

Claire Allan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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

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

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook 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: 9780008275082

Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008275099

Version: 2018-11-06

Praise for Claire Allan:

‘Amazing. I read it in one go.’

Marian Keyes

‘Utterly addictive! Literally couldn’t put it down all day! Compulsive, twisty, tense. And LOVED the ending.’

Claire Douglas

‘A powerful and emotional psychological thriller that will keep you guessing and leave you breathless.’

C.L. Taylor

‘SUCH a good read! It made me feel so uncomfortable, but I still kept gobbling up the pages.’

Lisa Hall

‘Her Name Was Rose is heck of a read! It’s a psychological thriller with a heart; it’s taut, emotionally challenging and, unlike so many thrillers, each twist and turn is here because it deserves to be and not for the sake of it.’

John Marrs

‘An exciting debut that I couldn’t put down, Her Name Was Rose got under my skin in a way I wasn’t expecting. An intriguing and menacing page turner.’

Mel Sherratt

‘The depth of characterisation and its fast pace is what makes Her Name Was Rose stand out as a thriller. It had me hooked until the end.’

Elisabeth Carpenter

‘A tight and twisted tale with a set of seriously complex characters – kept me guessing right ’til the end. This is going to be one of 2018’s smash hits.’

Cat Hogan

‘All I can say is wow! Such a great concept, expertly delivered to keep you turning the pages. This book toys with the reader until the last page. Trust me, this will be THE book of 2018!’

Caroline Finnerty

‘A brilliantly paced, intriguingly plotted and thoroughly enjoyable story. One of the best psych thrillers I’ve read this year.’

Liz Nugent

‘I devoured it in a couple of days. Claire Allan managed to maintain an unsettling sense of unease that started at the very beginning and didn’t let up at all.’

Elle Croft

‘A superior psychological thriller with an intriguing set-up, a flawed heroine and some great twists. Recommended!’

Mark Edwards

‘Claire Allan’s transition into crime writing is seamless. Her Name was Rose brings all the emotional heft and depth of characterisation her readers would expect, but with a taut, menacing plot line. A compulsively thrilling read from start to finish.’

Brian McGilloway

‘Mesmerizing to the point of complete distraction. I was totally engrossed in this book.’

Amanda Robson

‘I loved it. The plot is twisty and the issues being dealt with here are big scale but told beautifully through Emily. Her envy and confusion is so real as to be palpable and of course, all too relatable. Creepy and weepy.’

Niki Mackay

Dedication

In memory of my grandmother, Mary McGuinness, who raised ten children with a fierce love and pride and who always had time and love in abundance for every one of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Especially the bookworms x

Epigraph

The king said, ‘Bring me a sword.’ So they brought a sword before the king. And the king said: ‘Divide the living child in two, and give half to one, and half to the other.’

The Judgement of Solomon – 1 Kings 3:16–28

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Claire Allan

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue: Louise

Chapter One: Eli

Chapter Two: Eli

Chapter Three: Eli

Chapter Four: Louise

Chapter Five: Eli

Chapter Six: Eli

Chapter Seven: Louise

Chapter Eight: Eli

Chapter Nine: Eli

Chapter Ten: Louise

Chapter Eleven: Eli

Chapter Twelve: Eli

Chapter Thirteen: Eli

Chapter Fourteen: Louise

Chapter Fifteen: Eli

Chapter Sixteen: Eli

Chapter Seventeen: Louise

Chapter Eighteen: Eli

Chapter Nineteen: Eli

Chapter Twenty: Louise

Chapter Twenty-One: Eli

Chapter Twenty-Two: Eli

Chapter Twenty-Three: Louise

Chapter Twenty-Four: Eli

Chapter Twenty-Five: Eli

Chapter Twenty-Six: Louise

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Eli

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Eli

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Louise

Chapter Thirty: Eli

Chapter Thirty-One: Eli

Chapter Thirty-Two: Louise

Chapter Thirty-Three: Eli

Chapter Thirty-Four: Eli

Chapter Thirty-Five: Louise

Chapter Thirty-Six: Angela

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Angela

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Angela

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Louise

Chapter Forty: Angela

Chapter Forty-One: Angela

Chapter Forty-Two: Louise

Chapter Forty-Three: Angela

Chapter Forty-Four: Angela

Chapter Forty-Five: Louise

Chapter Forty-Six: Angela

Chapter Forty-Seven: Angela

Chapter Forty-Eight: Louise

Chapter Forty-Nine: Angela

Chapter Fifty: Angela

Chapter Fifty-One: Angela

Chapter Fifty-Two: Louise

Chapter Fifty-Three: Angela

Chapter Fifty-Four: Eli

Chapter Fifty-Five: Louise

Chapter Fifty-Six: Eli

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Eli

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Eli

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Angela

Chapter Sixty: Louise

Chapter Sixty-One: Angela

Chapter Sixty-Two: Eli

Chapter Sixty-Three: Eli

Chapter Sixty-Four: Angela

Chapter Sixty-Five: Louise

Chapter Sixty-Six: Eli

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Louise

Chapter Sixty-Eight: Eli

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Angela

Chapter Seventy: Angela

Chapter Seventy-One: Eli

Chapter Seventy-Two: Angela

Chapter Seventy-Three: Eli

Chapter Seventy-Four: Angela

Chapter Seventy-Five: Eli

Chapter Seventy-Six: Angela

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Eli

Epilogue: Eli

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Prologue
Louise

As soon as I saw her I knew that she didn’t deserve to be a mother. She was squeezed in behind a table in the café, her face pale, drawn. She rubbed her stomach for the briefest of seconds, as if it were something she’d just remembered she was expected to do. Act the part of the happy mum-to-be; rub your expanding stomach, push it out, flaunt your fecundity to the world.

Everything about her body language screamed that this wasn’t a wanted or loved baby. That she didn’t appreciate what she had. What a gift she’d been given.

She looked like a woman who saw pregnancy as an ordeal. Something to be endured. If only she knew.

When it was me, I’d welcomed every pregnancy symptom. Every single one. The sickness. The sore and swollen breasts. The bleeding gums. The swollen ankles. The backache. Even the acid reflux. It was proof I was doing something miraculous. Making a new life and bringing a new soul into this world.

I’d gone to sleep every night with my hands on my bump, whispering stories and hopes and dreams to my baby. Telling him or her of the life they’d have. Of the love that would be showered down on them. God, I was never as happy as I was when I could feel my baby wriggle and kick. I felt more alive with every movement. The symbiosis of my child and me as we shared each breath.

I deserved to be a mother.

This woman, tired and worn out and miserable, didn’t. Not as much as I did, anyway.

Holding my breath, I watched her across the café as she pushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, listened as she sighed loudly.

The thing is, babies don’t really need their mothers. Once they’re delivered, all they want is someone to see to their every need. To feed them, change them, pat them gently on the back to bring up their milky-scented burps. To bathe them and dress and rock them gently to sleep.

Other people could do that.

I could do that.

CHAPTER ONE
Eli

The crisp white envelope sticks out from where it’s been stuffed into my pigeonhole. I lift it, along with the rest of my post, and make my way to the staffroom.

It’s probably a note from one of my families. I both love and hate receiving them. A note or thank-you card of course means I’ve done my job well, but it also usually follows a death. One of my patients will have gone, and a thank-you note will mark part of the admin for a poor family to complete while they’re still shaken from grief.

My name’s printed neatly on the cover. Almost as if it’s been typed, but there’s a small smudge of ink that betrays its handwritten status.

Eli Hughes

Senior Staff Nurse

Cherrygreen Hospice

I don’t think much of it at first. I’m focusing on getting fifteen minutes to compose myself. To try to eat something before my hunger turns to nausea. Drink some coffee before my fatigue overwhelms me. Put my feet up before my ankles swell further. Yes, I’m at the retaining-water stage of pregnancy – seven and a half months – and still waiting for the sickness to pass. I’ve long ago given up on the notion that it’s just morning sickness. Hyperemesis is beyond morning sickness. They should call it pregnancy poisoning. I’m only able to function because of anti-sickness medication, and even then …

There’s a plain ham sandwich – white bread, thin layer of real butter – wrapped in tinfoil in the fridge. My stomach turns at the thought. I’ll try a coffee, even though I shouldn’t. Even though the smell makes me feel woozy and I’ve had my one daily cup already. I need caffeine.

I make a cup and sit down, a plain Rich Tea biscuit in front of me. Lunch. Once this baby’s born, I’ll never, ever eat plain biscuits again.

I turn my attention to the post, the neatly handwritten envelope first. It contains just one sheet of paper: small, blue, lined – the kind on which I’d have written pages and pages of letters to my pen pals when I was a teen. Unfolding it, I see just two lines of text, written in the same neat print:

YOU SHOULDN’T BELIEVE

EVERYTHING HE TELLS YOU

I look at the words and read them again. I turn the page around to see if I’m missing anything on the back page to put these words in context. I even check inside the envelope, peering in, shaking it out. A strange feeling washes over me. Is this some silly joke, or meant for someone else, or a clever marketing scheme for something? I hadn’t the first notion what that could be, but wasn’t that the whole point with clever marketing schemes these days? Get everyone talking. Then bam! The big reveal …

I shouldn’t believe whom? What? I put the note down, then gingerly bite on my biscuit, which crumbles into sawdust in my mouth. I know I won’t finish it.

I don’t have the patience for silly games or puzzles. But I can’t deny my inner nosiness.

Rachel arrives, walks to the fridge, mutters about it being a long day and stares at the wilted salad she’s brought in with her, closing the fridge door in disgust.

‘I think I might run out and grab something from the shop. A sandwich or something. Can I tempt you?’

Rachel does this a lot. Brings in a healthy lunch and forsakes it for something laden with mayonnaise and cheese when push comes to shove. Still maintains an enviable figure – one I envy even more now that I’m expanding at an exponential rate.

‘There’s a ham sandwich in there you can have. It’s good ham. I’m not going to eat it. Will save you nipping out.’

‘And take food from a pregnant woman? Do you think I’m some sort of monster?’ She laughs but opens the fridge anyway and lifts out my tinfoil parcel. She points it in my direction. ‘Are you sure you don’t want it?’

My stomach turns in response and the involuntary face I pull answers her question.

‘You poor thing. You know, Eli, maybe you really should think of starting maternity leave early.’

I shake my head. ‘Nonsense.’ Keen to change the conversation, I push the note in her direction. ‘Look at this note I got. Did you get one like it? Have you any idea what it’s about?’

Sitting down, she takes the note and looks at it. I watch for a reaction on her face. Her eyebrows rise just a little but she shakes her head.

‘I’ve no idea,’ she says. ‘But no, I didn’t get one. Ooh! Eliana Hughes, have you got a stalker?’

She laughs but I don’t. I force a smile but feel my chest tighten. She must notice my expression.

‘Eli, I’m kidding. I’m sure it’s nothing. Someone’s idea of a joke or something. Or mistaken identity. Sure, it’s bound to be that. Who would you have to mistrust? You and Martin have the most solid marriage I’ve ever seen. There’s no way he’d play away.’

Martin.

It didn’t even cross my mind it could be about Martin. Until now. I want to nod and say yes, we’re the most solid couple people know. Because we were … but lately … There’s a disconnect there that I can’t quite put my finger on.

The coffee I’ve been drinking tastes bitter. Of bile. Just like everything else tastes off that I’ve had to eat or drink over the last seven months. Just like everything in my life feels off.

We’d tried so hard to have this baby. Months of disappointment and finally tests. Then ‘There’s nothing we can find, just give it time,’ and more disappointment until, finally, two lines.

It should be the happiest time of our lives. Certainly the happiest time of my life; nurturing a new human life deep within me, bonding with this kicking, wriggling person made of love about to become our baby.

I expected to love every moment of pregnancy, but I realise now I’d been naïve. This kicking, wriggling person who seems to be made of right angles, jabs and pokes at my stomach muscles, which are permanently aching from the daily retching. It makes me feel sorry for myself. I feel angry that I’ve been robbed of a positive pregnancy experience that most women get. And I feel guilty that I resent this pregnancy not being what I wanted it to be. Sure, won’t the end result be the same? Isn’t that what’s important?

And Martin, try as he might, can’t understand how I feel. I suppose I’ve been taking that anger and frustration out on him a little.

I feel tears prick at my eyes. Swear at myself. I can’t cry again today.

‘Eli.’ Rachel’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

I look up at her, her eyes filled with concern. Her hand reaches across the table and takes mine.

‘Eli, you do know Martin would never, ever cheat on you. This isn’t about Martin. This is somebody’s idea of a stupid joke, or it’s about something else we’ve just not figured out yet. But we will.’

I nod, two fat tears rolling down my cheeks. My nose running, I sniff loudly, grab a tissue from the box on the table and roughly rub at my eyes.

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Of course you’re right.’

I look at the letter again. It doesn’t reveal anything new, so in a rage I crumple it up and throw it into the bin beside the fridge.

Rachel smiles. Tells me I’ve done the right thing and gives my hand a rub before her pager calls her back to a patient.

When she’s gone, I take it back out and thrust it deep into the bottom of my handbag.

CHAPTER TWO
Eli

By the time my shift is done, I’m exhausted and I’m pretty sure my ankles have doubled in size. I can’t wait to get home, kick off my shoes and feel the cool marble floors of our living space under my tired feet.

But my car’s in the garage and I have to wait for Martin to collect me. As usual, he’s late. Probably stuck on a work call he can’t get out of.

I’m standing with my coat on, looking out at the rain falling onto the hospice car park, when Rachel asks if I need a lift.

‘It’s not on your way home,’ I tell her. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

‘You didn’t. I offered,’ she says with a smile. ‘It’ll save that husband of yours coming out on a night like this and sure, it’s not that far out of my way. The kids are at their dad’s, so it’s not like I’m in a rush to get home anyway. You’ve had a long day,’ she says, and I want to hug her.

‘If you’re sure?’ I ask. ‘I’ll just check Martin hasn’t left.’

‘I’m sure,’ she smiles.

I dial my husband, who answers after two rings, apologises and says he’ll be with me shortly. I can hear from the background noises that he’s still at home.

‘Rachel’s going to drop me over. You’ve no need to come out,’ I tell him.

He sounds relieved. ‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘I can get on with some work while dinner’s cooking. It’s been a mad day, so busy. But look, I’ll talk to you about it when you get home.’

Work has been ‘mad’ for months now. Longer hours. More trips away. A big project that could bring a lot more work his way. When he wants to talk about it, it generally means he’ll tell me about another ‘vital’ trip away. It’s a good thing I’m not the suspicious type.

Or wasn’t.

I end the call and tell Rachel I’ll take her up on her offer.

‘Are you okay?’ she asks as she leads the way to her car. ‘You’re not still mulling over that silly note, are you?’

I force a smile. Shake my head. Lie and say I’m fine and that I’m just tired. Change the conversation to something less likely to make me feel tightness in my chest. We talk about who we’re rooting for in Strictly Come Dancing until we pull up outside my house.

I feel as if I should invite her in, but I’m too tired to play the gracious host.

‘We must get you round for dinner some time,’ I say to her. ‘Have a proper catch-up outside work, when we aren’t both so tired.’ I hope that makes up for the lack of invite tonight.

‘That’d be lovely,’ she says with genuine warmth.

I give her a quick hug then climb out of the car and walk to the front door of my dream home, nervous about what my husband will tell me.

When we first moved to this house just over eighteen months ago, after several years of enduring a three-hour commute between Belfast and Derry, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. There were certain perks to marrying an architect, not that it really mattered to me what Martin did for a living. I’d fallen head over heels in love within weeks of meeting him.

Set on the banks of Enagh Lough, just outside Derry city, Martin had overseen the renovation of the old farmhouse himself. It had taken a year – and lots of blood, sweat and tears – but he’d made our home magnificent.

The rear of the house, which looked out over the lake and the surrounding woods, was mostly glazed. Large plate glass windows set in natural wood frames. Bifold doors onto wooden decking, leading to our own personal jetty – it was stunning in all seasons.

It had felt like our home from the moment we’d walked over the threshold of that ramshackle farmhouse; of course, it felt more so now. It was our bubble in a hectic world that moved at a breakneck speed.

It feels less of a bubble these days. Pregnancy has made me feel vulnerable in a way I never did before. Reliant, not so much on Martin as an individual but on Martin and I as a team. A couple. Ready to work together on this next scary chapter. I’d watched my mother struggle as a single parent. I don’t want that struggle. I don’t want my child to grow up not knowing their father. I think of the note, that stupid piece of paper, and a shiver runs through me.

Dropping my bag on the marble floor in the hall, I hang up my coat and call out to Martin that I’m home.

He walks out of the kitchen, apron on, wine glass in hand, and says hello with a smile. His smile still has the power to make me feel weak at the knees. Even now, ten years after we first met. I smile back, for a moment feeling comforted by his presence.

But even from several feet way, the smell of wine makes me feel nauseous. I take a deep breath, try to swallow down the sickness. If I just take a few minutes to settle myself, take another anti-sickness pill, I might be okay to sit with him for dinner.

‘Did you not invite Rachel in with you?’ he asks, looking behind me.

‘Erm, no. I thought you wanted to talk, and I’m so tired. I didn’t think …’

‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘She’s good company.’

I tense. Am I not good company on my own? ‘Well, I said we’ll have her over for dinner sometime soon.’

‘That’ll be nice,’ Martin says, moving towards me and pulling me into a hug.

‘I’m just going to grab a bath,’ I say, pulling back a little. The smell of garlic is assailing my nostrils. ‘Do I have time?’

‘If you’re quick. Maybe twenty minutes. Perhaps you’d be better waiting until you’ve eaten before you have a soak.’

‘I really need to freshen up. My stomach’s churning, too. Not sure I’ll eat much.’

‘I’ve made a pasta bake. It’s quite light. Not creamy or cheesy. You should try some at least, Eli,’ he says, his face filled with concern. As if he sees me as more vulnerable now, too. No longer an equal partner.

‘You’re very good to me,’ I say.

‘Of course I am,’ he smiles. ‘I even left mushrooms out of the recipe because I know you can’t so much as look at them at the moment.’

I smile. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I say and continue upstairs, where I run the bath and lie in the water, watching my baby wriggle under my skin, feet and elbows pushing outwards.

I wonder how something so small and innocent can make me feel so sick all the time. I stroke my stomach, whispering, ‘I love you,’ hoping if I say it enough I’ll start to really, really feel it.

After climbing out of the bath, I wrap myself in my fluffy dressing gown and I’m just about to get dressed into my pyjamas, when I hear my phone ring. I look at it and see ‘Mum’ on the screen. I’m so happy to see her name and I wish, not for the first time, that she lived closer.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I say.

‘What’s wrong, pet?’ Her reply is immediate. She can always read my mood. Name that emotion in one.

‘Ah, it’s been a long day,’ I say, trying my hardest not to cry.

How is it that talking to my mother instantly brings all my emotions to the fore? I want to tell her about the note but decide not to. She’d only worry and one of us worrying is enough.

‘And the baby? Everything’s okay there?’ she asks, her voice soft but thick with concern.

‘Still making me throw up on a regular basis,’ I say, a hiccup of self-pity ending my sentence for me.

‘You poor pet,’ she soothes. ‘It’ll be worth it. And sure, isn’t sickness a sign of a healthy pregnancy?’

‘This one’ll come out like Superman then,’ I say, forcing a laugh.

‘And Martin? Is everything okay with you both?’

I nod, make some sort of affirmative noise. I don’t want to go down that particular conversational route.

‘Look, Mum, I’ve just got out of the bath. I need to get dried off and into my pyjamas. Martin’s making dinner. I’m planning to get something to eat and go to bed. Work was so busy.’

‘You’re doing too much,’ she says and I feel myself bristle.

This is something she and Martin agree on. They don’t realise that right now, work is the one place I feel in control.

‘I can handle it, Mum. It’s just been a long day,’ I tell her.

‘Well, I don’t like the sound of you one bit,’ she says. ‘I’m going to come and visit on Saturday and I’ll hear no arguments.’

There’s no way I’m going to argue. I could use some maternal TLC. I tell her I’ll look forward to it and that I love her and then I hang up, lie back on the bed and promise myself just five minutes of rest before dinner.

I wake, of course, much later, as Martin comes up to bed. Blinking and stretching, shivering a little, I ask him what time it is.

‘It’s gone eleven. You should just go back to sleep.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep. I was planning to come down for dinner.’

My stomach grumbles to reinforce my point.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it into the laundry hamper. ‘I’ve plated some up for you. It’s in the fridge.’

Is it my imagination or is his tone not as soft as it was? He sits on the edge of the bed, looking out of the window over the blackness of the lake. I feel the need to be close to him.

‘C’m’ere,’ I say, reaching my arms out to him.

He turns, gives me a soft smile and climbs under the covers, pulling himself across to me and allowing me to hold him. His hand slips under my dressing gown, to my still naked body. I shiver again, only this time in anticipation. But his hand moves directly to my growing stomach.

‘All this’ll be worth it,’ he says. ‘I know you’re feeling rotten, but this little one’s going to bring us so much happiness and I just know you’re going to be the best mum in the world.’

With his words, our house feels like our bubble again and I smile at him, place my hand on top of his and feel calm. He kisses the top of my head and squeezes my hand.

Tempted as I am to fall back to sleep there and then beside him, I know I need to eat something or the nausea will be much worse when it swoops in again.

I sit up, tell him I won’t be long.

‘I just need a bit of toast or something.’

‘Are you shunning my pasta bake for the second time in one night?’ he asks with a crooked smile.

I stick my tongue out at him. ‘Might be too much considering it’s so late, but it’ll do tomorrow night.’

‘Ah, that might be good, actually,’ he says, sitting up. ‘I still need to talk to you about that.’

I pull on my pyjama bottoms and look around to him while putting on my oversized maternity pyjama top.

‘Yeah?’

‘I need to go to London again.’

My heart sinks. It’s been just a week since his last trip. I know it’s a big job, but I hadn’t expected him to have to travel quite so much.

The note in my bag niggles at me again.

‘A snag with the communal play area,’ he says. ‘And the landscaper wants to discuss the garden plans with me. Boring stuff, but I have to be on site. I need to feel the space to see how it would work. They want doors moved from the original plan – which means moving the storage area and redesigning the mezzanine slightly.’

There’s little point in arguing. What would it look like, anyway? I really would be the Wicked Witch of the West if I asked him to pass the work to one of his colleagues at this stage. This project has been his baby, long before we had an actual baby of our own to worry about.

‘How long will you be away for?’ I ask.

Last time it was just two nights, which wasn’t so bad; even if, by the second night, I found myself increasingly anxious without him close by.

‘That’s the kicker,’ he says. ‘I need to be there for a meeting on Tuesday and, realistically, to get the plans done and drawn up … There’s not much point in me coming back until Tuesday night.’

Friday to Tuesday – four nights – over the weekend.

‘I know that means the weekend …’ he says as if reading my thoughts. ‘I thought maybe you could go and see your mum.’

‘I’m working on Saturday,’ I mutter. ‘But Mum was planning to come and visit anyway. See how I am.’

‘Well that’s perfect, then,’ he says, smiling widely. ‘You’ll be well looked after and I won’t have to worry about you so much.’

‘You don’t have to worry about me anyway,’ I say, my tone sharper than I’d like. I cringe at how petulant I sound.

‘But I do, because I love you,’ he enunciates slowly as if to make the point extra clear.

‘If you loved me …’ I start, the words out of my mouth before I’ve had time to think.

‘If I loved you? Really? And what? I’d quit my job? I’m too tired to go over this again, Eli. I know you’re pregnant. I know it’s tough. I know your hormones are raging, but …’ He shakes his head. ‘No. I’m not doing this. Not now. Goodnight, Eli.’

Our earlier exchange feels soured.

All I can think is how, despite the nice dinner and the hugs and the smiles, things are far from right between us.

CHAPTER THREE
Eli

I leave him to sleep. A couple of slices of toast and a cup of decaf tea later, my brain still doesn’t want to switch off. I sit in the living room, trying to distract myself from my thoughts by watching some American TV show in which a bride-to-be has to choose between a brand-new wedding gown or having her mother’s wedding dress remade into something more suitable for a modern bride.

But, of course, my mind keeps drifting back to my own wedding and my own marriage. To my husband lying upstairs resting before his next work trip. I know I should trust him. I think I do trust him. Mostly. But I wonder, should I be asking more questions?

Maybe if I have a look at his emails. His phone. His wallet. Would I find something to confirm my worst fears or would finding nothing reassure me?

I’ve never snooped on Martin before. I’ve never felt the need and I do feel guilty. I actually feel like an actor in a soap opera as I walk to the dining table, where his suit jacket is draped over the back of a chair. Delving into the pockets, I pull out a receipt for a single cup of coffee and a chicken salad sandwich. A half-empty packet of chewing gum. Assorted small change amounting to seventy-eight pence and some fluff.

Not even Columbo could find evidence of foul behaviour in that. Chiding myself, I put everything back as I found it, feeling like I’m the one who’s betrayed him. I suppose I have. I’ve doubted him.

I probably still do, a little.

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself to be mindful. To be in the moment. It’s a method we use with our patients to help with anxiety. Our patients who have real problems. Mine are nothing in comparison.

I focus on the ticking of the clock. The gentle hum of the fridge freezer. The sound of the rain tapping on the windows. I close my eyes and lie down on the sofa, where I think of everything I can feel and smell, pushing all other thoughts away until my eyes start to droop and I can feel sleep wash over me.

When I wake, the house is silent and there’s a blanket draped over me. I blink, look around. The jacket’s gone from the back of the dining room chair. I see a note propped on the coffee table beside a fresh glass of water, informing me my husband’s left for the airport and didn’t want to wake me as I looked so peaceful. He’s ordered me a taxi as he had to take his car and mine’s still off the road. He loves me, he says. He’ll miss me. And the baby. No mention of the exchange we had last night.

I lift my phone, see that I have just thirty minutes until that taxi arrives, when I need to be in full possession of all of my senses and ready for a day at the hospice. Work will distract me, until home time at least. I wonder, would it be pathetic of me to text my mother and ask her to come down today instead of tomorrow? I know she won’t mind. In fact, she’ll probably jump at the chance to fuss around me more. So I send the text and I breathe a sigh of relief when, just minutes later, she replies that she’ll be with me by home time.

*

I never really believed it when people said they ‘didn’t have a minute to themselves’ before I started working in the hospice.

It’s not unusual for me to realise I’ve been trying to find five minutes to nip to the loo for the last few hours and haven’t found the chance. Our break room is filled with half-drunk coffee cups, the fridge with half-eaten lunches. We do what we can when we’re needed, because that’s what you do when you care for the terminally ill.

You don’t clock out for lunch while someone breaks down in pain or fear or grief. When they just need to tell you their story. That’s not how it works.

I grab a long overdue toilet break mid-shift, no longer able to ignore the baby kicking my bladder. I realise I’ve been so busy that I’ve not had time to think about anything but work. And that feels good.

But I’m still curious. I want to know where the note came from, if possible. I figure if anyone has information about the note, it’ll be Lorraine, our all-seeing admin officer, so I wash my hands, straighten my uniform and walk to reception, where she holds court.

‘A handwritten letter for you?’ she asks, gazing over the top of her purple-rimmed glasses at me as she sits sorting through the day’s mail. ‘I put a couple of things in your pigeonhole yesterday, but no, I don’t remember anything standing out from the norm.’

‘No one hand-delivered it?’

‘Not to my desk, no. There was some post in the box outside when I came in yesterday morning. It was probably among that.’

‘Right,’ I say, feeling disappointed that I’ve hit a dead end but wondering how many dead ends I need to hit before I accept there’s nothing more sinister to find.

‘Is it important?’ Lorraine asks. ‘Have you got the envelope there? Maybe if I saw it, it might trigger a memory.’

‘No, no, it’s not important. I’m just nosy,’ I lie.

‘Well, I hope it was something nice for you. A thank-you card or something.’

‘Something like that,’ I say and smile before excusing myself to get back to work.

Rachel is on shift, too, and we find ourselves together at lunchtime, with her eating my sandwiches while I make a piece of toast. It’s an improvement on some dry biscuits anyway.

‘I have to say, Eli, these sandwiches aren’t up to Martin’s usual standards. You must have words,’ she jokes.

‘Well, that’s because I made those. Martin’s away for a few days with work.’

‘Again?’ she asks, eyebrows raised for just a moment before she readjusts her expression. ‘I suppose the project will be nearly done now. Best he gets away before this baby comes, I guess.’

‘Yes, some last-minute glitches,’ I say, the toast losing its appeal.

We fall into an uncomfortable silence.

‘I didn’t mean anything,’ she says. ‘With the “again”. Me and my big mouth – you know what I’m like.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘He’s been away a lot.’

I know Rachel isn’t trying to be insensitive. I know she’s still sore from the break-up of her own marriage, which ended after her husband had an affair. Or, to be more accurate, numerous affairs.

I change the subject. I don’t feel comfortable falling down this particular rabbit hole with her.

‘I have to nip out to pick up my car from the garage,’ I tell her.

‘Let me run you there in my car,’ she offers. ‘I’ll pick us up something nice for afternoon break.’

I notice the sandwich I made has barely been touched. It would be churlish of me to refuse her offer of a lift, so I smile and thank her, and we grab our things and climb into her car.

‘Excuse the mess,’ she says as she throws an empty McDonald’s paper into the back seat, which is strewn with empty drinks bottles, a dog lead and a pair of rather smelly football boots.

‘It’s no messier than it was last night, don’t be worrying,’ I tell her.

‘At least last night the darkness hid the worst of it,’ she laughs.

As we drive to the garage, I know I’m too quiet. My head’s full of words, but I don’t know how to say them without sounding like I’m a paranoid wreck. I hate this feeling. Normally, conversation flows really easily between Rachel and me, and we can share each other’s worries and concerns.

‘He loves you very much, you know,’ Rachel says as we drive over the Foyle Bridge towards the garage. ‘That’s what’s on your mind, isn’t it? That stupid note. But you really shouldn’t worry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more devoted husband. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn yesterday. He’s one of the good guys.’

And he is. Without doubt. I remind myself not to make problems where none exist.

*

At 3.43 p.m., we watch a sixty-three-year-old man hold his fifty-nine-year-old wife’s hand as her chest stills. The rattle that’s come with each breath for the last twelve hours slows then stops, and the grip she’s held on his hand releases. I watch a man, still alive in every physical way that matters, die a little in front of me as he kisses his wife of thirty years on her lips before they have the chance to turn cold.

Then, very tenderly, Rachel and I do what we need to with his wife who we’ve cared for over the course of the last week. We remove the tubes and wires. We tidy the bed sheets around her. We open the window, an old hospice tradition, believed to let the spirit of the deceased move on. Then we stand back and let her family begin their grieving process.

‘Some are tougher than others,’ Rachel says as we leave.

‘Yes,’ I reply. I can’t bring myself to say more. I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep it together.

‘Almost home time,’ she says.

‘And we get to do it all again tomorrow,’ I respond, too worn out to say anything else.

CHAPTER FOUR
Louise

I’d told myself if I saw her again before the end of the week, it’d be a sign from God that I was right. This baby was the one I’d been waiting for.

I’d been on edge since I first saw her. Always looking at the door of the café, watching every person come in, feeling frustrated when it’d been someone else.

But then, I was in the supermarket, half-heartedly throwing a sad selection of meals for one, to be washed down with a bottle of wine, into my basket, when I saw her hovering around the fresh fruit aisle.

She looked more tired than before. The dark circles under her eyes only highlighted her pallor. She probably needed iron, I thought. She had apples and grapes in her basket, but really she should’ve been stocking up on leafy greens, red meat. That kind of thing. I was tempted to talk to her, but what would I have said?

What would it have looked like? A mad woman in the supermarket telling her that she needs more iron in her diet.

I followed her from a distance. Watched as she put some fresh bread into her basket. Wholemeal. That was good at least. As was the fresh orange juice she chose. It was good to see she could make some decent choices for her baby. The chocolate biscuits, the tinned soup – neither of those were particularly nutritious. Not for an expectant mother. I shook my head.

Her baby needed to be well. I needed this baby to be well.

I wasn’t one of those crazies who thought a woman became nothing more than an incubator when she fell pregnant, but the baby always had to come first. Anything else was selfish. A mother shouldn’t just eat what she wanted, do what she wanted without considering the life she was growing inside her.

Every baby deserved the best start in life.

That’s how it had been with me. Not that it mattered in the end.

Maybe I knew nothing. Maybe this woman with her tinned soup and her packet of biscuits knew more than I did. It wouldn’t matter in a few months’ time anyway. I’d be able to feed my baby all the healthy food they needed.

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