Copyright

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017

Copyright © Tracy Buchanan 2017

Cover Design © Lisa Horton 2017

Tracy Buchanan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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

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

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

Source ISBN: 9780008175177

Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 978000817514

Version: 2017-05-22

Dedication

For Dad, who told me to dream big

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Extract from Section 7 Report on Estelle Forster prepared by social worker Jean Biden

2 May 1994

This report has been prepared for the court and should be treated as confidential. It must not be shown, nor its contents revealed, to anyone other than the party or a legal adviser to such a party.

4.1 Description of the child’s daily life and experience at the time harm was identified

Estelle is a seven-year-old white British girl born to parents with long-standing drug addiction issues. Estelle lives with her parents in a two-bedroom local authority flat.

My observation during visits is that the flat is kept in an untidy state. Unclean plates are often left out, carpets are stained and filled with debris, and discarded bottles of alcohol can be seen. Estelle’s bedroom is kept in a reasonably tidy state with a small single bed and a wardrobe. On closer inspection, however, her duvet appears to have not been cleaned for several weeks.

Estelle has informed me in private on several occasions that her parents are still asleep when she wakes. She learnt to dress and feed herself in the morning from the age of six. A typical breakfast is toast and butter, or leftover dinner from the evening before. Estelle noted that she would prefer cereal, but the milk she finds is often sour.

Estelle attends school at Greyswood Primary, a ten-minute walk from her home. Her head teacher, Mrs Jenny Pyatt, informs me Estelle is rarely accompanied by her parents on the short walk from her flat, and parents report having seen her walking to the school alone since she began at the age of four, something Estelle’s mother denies.

Mrs Pyatt informs me Estelle arrives at school dishevelled and unclean on a regular basis. On first starting school at the age of four, she arrived wearing a nappy. But with the help and care of her teachers, she is now able to go to the bathroom.

Estelle’s attendance rate is below average and her parents have only attended one parents’ evening. On this occasion, the police had to be called due to Mr Forster’s abusive behaviour towards the teachers.

In the evenings, Estelle informs me she eats dinner – often chips bought from the local fish and chip shop by her parents or a microwave meal – while watching TV. As detailed in previous reports, there have been two occasions where she has been reported as being left alone while her parents were at the local pub. Her average bedtime is 11 p.m. This continues into the weekend where Estelle spends the majority of her time indoors watching TV or reading.

Estelle does not benefit from any extended family due to both her parents being solo children and her grandparents having passed away.

Estelle has struggled to form friendships due to her low attendance rate at school and her generally shy and reserved nature. Her teachers inform me she takes comfort in retreating to the school library during breaks and has shown a keenness in improving her reading and writing skills. She takes particular joy in any lessons involving food.

The last time I visited Estelle before the distressing incident that led to her being removed from her parents, she was attempting to teach herself how to bake a chocolate cake. It is clear she is a bright girl who could thrive given the right circumstances. But when I mentioned this to her, she informed me her father laughed at her when she told him she wanted to be a chef, and told her the closest she’d get would be ‘working at the local chippie’. I detected a real sense of sadness and pain when she said this.

Combined with the terrible recent incident, I strongly recommend Estelle is permanently removed from her parents before long-lasting emotional damage occurs. It is my professional opinion that we may already be too late.

Chapter One

Tuesday, 2 May

Estelle’s dinner party was going perfectly. A soft breeze filtered in through the chiffon curtains, lifting the corners of the organic cotton napkins she’d so carefully chosen. There was the distant tinkle of a police siren above the acoustic guitar music drifting out from her speakers, adding to the ‘sophisticated get-together in the city’ ambience.

On the wall was the painting she’d bought with some of the advance she’d received for her book: a minimalist canvas featuring a simple apple tree against brilliant white. And, of course, laid out on the large misshaped driftwood table were her signature dishes: a vast cauliflower pizza sprinkled with locally sourced lamb cubes; zucchini fritters with Greek yoghurt; carrot quinoa muffins; and chunky chickpea dips with crunchy vegetable crisps.

In the middle of it all, taking pride of place, was the first edition of Estelle’s book, fresh off the printers. On the cover was an apple tree, much like the one on the canvas, plain and simple against a blue cloudless sky. Beneath the tree stood Estelle beside a wooden table filled with fresh vegetables, fruit and meat, her short blonde hair swept across her forehead, her slim body casting a shadow on the grassy knoll behind her. She was dressed in her signature white, this time a plain white cotton dress, highlighting her subtle tan. She smiled into the sun, her oval brown eyes looking at the camera. Held up in the palm of her hand was an apple. And above it all, four letters in glossy white: PURE. The name of her first book.

Estelle took a photo of the table with her phone, and uploaded it to Instagram with the caption: Early copies in of my book! Let the celebrations begin … #Pure #foodie #nom

Her editor Silvia leaned over and smoothed her fingertips over the book cover. ‘I always love the feel of a first edition,’ she said, smiling at Estelle.

‘And the smell,’ Giles, her husband, another eminent editor, said, leaning down for a quick sniff.

Everyone laughed and Estelle joined in. God, it felt good to be here with her closest friends, celebrating the success she’d worked so bloody hard for.

‘Everyone dig in,’ Estelle said, standing up. ‘I’ll just get some more wine; can’t believe you’ve already polished off three bottles!’

She walked away from the table smiling to herself, the bottom of her long white skirt swishing around her ankles as she padded barefoot into her large state-of-the-art kitchen. When she was out of sight, she closed her eyes, leaning her head against the large cool fridge, taking in a deep breath. She’d spent half the day cooking; she was exhausted. But it was worth it. She turned back around, taking in the happy scene in the room next door. Yes, it was worth it. She’d fought so hard for this. She deserved to celebrate.

Didn’t she?

She clenched her hands into fists, silently berating herself. Yes, she did deserve this. Look where she’d come from.

She took in each of her friends. Had they had to battle so hard to get where they were? She doubted it. Her guests were a mixture of people from her publishing house, a few fellow bloggers, plus her boyfriend Seb, his brother Dean and Dean’s pregnant wife Laura. All born to well-off families; privileged with happy innocent childhoods. Only Christina had come from what Estelle would call a ‘normal’ family. They’d met at a foodie awards event three years ago, just as both their blogs were gaining traction: Estelle’s focusing on healthy ‘pure’ recipes, Christina’s on balancing motherhood with crafting. Out of all the people sitting around the table, it was Christina she felt most herself with, even more so than her own partner Seb.

But even Christina didn’t know much about Estelle’s background … and Estelle wanted to keep it that way.

‘You okay, gorgeous?’

She looked up to see her boyfriend frowning at her, his muscular frame filling the doorway of the kitchen, a serving spoon in his right hand.

She forced a smile onto her face. ‘I’m fine! Just thinking how lucky I am.’ She pulled her phone from her pocket and pointed it at him. ‘Hold that pose.’

She took a photo then shared it with her followers on Instagram with the caption: A new paddle for my Olympic rowing darling.

Seb rolled his eyes. ‘I’m just social media fodder for you.’

She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘You need to stop looking so cute then, don’t you?’

She grabbed two bottles of wine from their fridge then walked into the dining room.

‘Who’s for some more wine?’ she asked. Everyone cheered in approval. She went around the table, topping up everyone’s glasses. When she got to her own glass, she added a dribble. She didn’t much like drinking, just the odd sip here and there.

‘Might want to calm down there, darling,’ Silvia said to her husband as he took a huge sip.

‘Oh please. We have a child-free night; I’m making the most of it,’ he replied.

‘Not a child-free morning though,’ Silvia reminded him.

‘Don’t remind me. Honestly, the stress of getting that girl up in the morning. You wait until you have a teenager,’ Giles said, quirking an eyebrow at Dean. ‘Nightmare.’

‘Oh come on, don’t exaggerate,’ Silvia countered. ‘She’s a dream compared to most teenagers …’ Her face darkened. ‘Like that TV presenter, Chris O’Farrell’s daughter. Did you hear about her running away?’ she asked.

Estelle thought of the brief glimpse of news she’d seen, the silver-haired presenter pleading to camera for his daughter to return.

‘I did,’ Estelle said with a sigh. ‘He must be so worried.’

‘I wish Annabelle would run away,’ Giles drawled.

‘Giles!’ Silvia exclaimed, flicking her serviette at her husband. ‘How could you?’

Estelle smiled at the banter between the couple. They were the publishing world’s most celebrated couple; it was still blowing her mind they were sat at her dinner table.

‘Admit it,’ Giles said. ‘She’s a nightmare at the moment.’

Silvia shook her head. ‘She’s a teenager. They’re supposed to be nightmares.’

‘Much like writers,’ Giles said with a raised eyebrow. ‘Bar present company, of course!’

‘I do apologise for my husband, Estelle,’ Silvia said. ‘He’s had particularly bad luck with his writers. He never quite believes it when I say mine are a dream to work with, especially you.’

Estelle quirked an eyebrow. ‘You weren’t thinking that when I made those changes to the proofs at the last minute.’

Silvia pretended to scold Estelle and Estelle laughed.

‘I’m intrigued, what bad luck have you had with your writers, Giles?’ Seb asked.

Giles leaned back into his chair, resting his glass on his rotund belly, clearly pleased to be the centre of attention. ‘You must’ve heard about Krishna Sandhill?’

‘I remember reading something about her,’ Seb’s brother said. ‘Wasn’t she some meditation guru?’

Giles nodded. ‘The Queen of Calm, we called her. Advocating a new form of meditation that promised calmness and clarity after just five days of following her little regime. Just before we signed off the final copy of her book, we received news she’d spent several months in prison for aggravated bodily harm to an ex. So much for calm.’

‘No!’ everyone around the table exclaimed.

‘The book was cancelled at the last moment,’ Giles said with a sigh. ‘It was a complete fucking mess. You can’t publish a book claiming to calm people down when it’s been written by someone so angry they beat up their husband.’ He shook his head. ‘We lost tens of thousands of pounds thanks to her dark past.’

Estelle felt a tremor of fear inside at his words. Her dark past. But she trampled it down.

‘Ah,’ Kim, Estelle’s publicist, said.

‘What’s wrong?’ Estelle asked her.

‘I hate to tell you this, but the journalist who exposed Krishna is the one who’s interviewing you tomorrow.’

‘Which one?’ Dean asked. He presented a radio show called Outing Rogues, which investigated cowboy builders and dishonest businessmen, so knew lots of journalists.

‘Louis Patel?’ Kim said.

Dean raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh yes, he can be quite tough.’

‘Don’t, you’re making me nervous,’ Estelle said. This was her first proper profile with a national newspaper. All her other interviewers had focused more on either her book deal or cooking tips.

Silvia put on a mock-serious face. ‘I hope our Queen of Clean doesn’t have any skeletons in her closet?’

Estelle forced a smile.

‘Okay, I admit it,’ she said, putting her hands up. ‘I might have taken a bite of a Disney princess cake at my goddaughter’s birthday last week,’ she said, referring to Christina and Tom’s five-year-old.

‘Yep,’ Christina said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘I can confirm she did. But only because my daughter insisted.’

Everyone laughed and, to Estelle’s relief, they soon moved onto a lighter subject – Seb’s new radio documentary about aspiring rowers, which was airing the next day.

But Estelle felt herself retreating, thoughts of the previous conversation stirring around her mind. She’d deliberately glossed over her childhood when she’d written the introduction to her book. What if the journalist she was meeting tomorrow had done some digging?

She played with the stem of her wine glass. Outside, the stars twinkled mischievously, the sound of laughter from the streets below drifting towards her on the breeze. She peered towards her book again and tried to draw comfort from it. Look how far she’d come! She refused to let anything ruin that. She had so much to be proud of and so much to look forward to.

Christina leaned over, putting her hand on her arm. ‘You okay, Estelle?’ she asked quietly.

‘I’m perfect,’ Estelle said, taking a sip of wine and smiling at her friend. ‘Everything’s perfect.’

As she said that, the doorbell rang out.

‘Bit late for more visitors,’ Seb said. He stood up and walked down the hallway, unsteady on his feet now, the bottle of wine he’d consumed showing. Once a teetotaller, he’d been drinking a lot since the injury that had taken him out of competitive rowing. Estelle’s heart went out to him. It must be tough, not being able to do what he loved.

Christina topped up Estelle’s untouched glass. ‘Here, more wine for the superstar author. Let’s raise a toast,’ she said, raising her wine glass.

‘An organic toast,’ Silvia said.

‘Of the finest gluten-free variety,’ Kim added with a raised eyebrow.

‘All wines are gluten-free, silly,’ Estelle said.

They all laughed.

‘To Estelle!’ they all said, holding up their glasses. She looked at each of them. Her friendships with them might not be very old, but they were all she had and she was so grateful.

She thought then of one of her few friends from childhood, and saw an image of a girl with long red hair biting into a rotting apple against a stormy sea.

She forced the image away as Seb appeared in the hallway with a small bouquet of bright red flowers. ‘Flowers for the hotshot writer,’ he said, bringing them over to Estelle.

‘What a strange time for flowers to be delivered,’ Silvia declared, peering at the clock.

Estelle followed her gaze. Nearly ten at night.

‘It is a weird time,’ she said. ‘Maybe they got ten at night mixed up with ten in the morning.’

She took the flowers from Seb, breathing in their scent, then picked out the card that came with them.

To Stel. Congratulations on the birth of your book. x

Estelle felt a shiver run through her. She hadn’t been called Stel for many years. That was another lifetime, another world, long before she became the person everyone around this table now saw. The memory filled her with anxiety.

‘What flowers are these?’ Silvia asked, brushing her finger over one of the crimson petals.

‘Poppies,’ Christina said. ‘How unusual.’

Seb took them from Estelle. ‘I’ll put them in water,’ he said.

As he walked to the kitchen, one of the poppies tumbled to the floor, where it was trampled by Seb’s foot.

Chapter Two

Wednesday, 3 May

Estelle stared out at the Thames in the distance, watching as the bricks from the new development being built there crumbled onto the river’s banks.

The doorbell went. Estelle cursed, realising her fingers were gooey from the honey she’d been using for a recipe. How long had she been stood there in her kitchen, staring into space? She peered at the clock. Ten minutes wasted. She wiped her hands on a damp cloth and took a deep, nervous breath. She knew who would be at the door: the national newspaper journalist who’d once exposed the ‘Queen of Calm’.

Estelle took a deep breath then jogged to the door, opening it to see a young dark-haired man smiling at her. She smiled back, feeling a little relieved. He seemed nice enough.

‘Louis?’ she asked.

He nodded.

‘Come in!’ Estelle said, holding the door open wide.

‘Gorgeous place,’ he said, looking around him at the stark white hallway as he walked inside. It was actually Seb’s house, but she’d moved in the year before, renovating it from a run-down mews house near the South Bank to a contemporary home for them.

‘Yes, we adore it here,’ she said, leading him to the kitchen. ‘People always seem surprised; I think they expect me to live in a cottage in Wales or something!’

‘No, that’s what I love about you,’ Louis said. ‘Clean city living. It’s realistic. Not everyone is able to up sticks and move to the country.’

‘Nor indeed wants to,’ Estelle said, gesturing to a row of stools by an oak-topped kitchen island. ‘I love the city.’

‘Baking something?’ the journalist asked, looking around at the busy kitchen surfaces.

‘When am I not? I thought you’d like to take something away with you.’

He slung his bag onto the island’s surface, pulling his laptop out. ‘I’m in heaven. Looks like flapjack mix?’

Estelle nodded. ‘With a twist. But I’ll leave it up to you to guess what that twist is.’

Louis peered around the kitchen. ‘Hmmm, are those chia seeds?’ he asked, pointing to a mason jar of small seeds.

Estelle laughed. ‘I’ve hidden the evidence. Here, have a sniff.’

She handed the bowl of gooey mixture to him and he took in a deep inhalation. ‘Dates, banana, honey.’ Estelle smiled. He seemed to know his stuff. Louis frowned, then added, ‘Is that a spice in there?’

She snatched the bowl away, laughing. ‘You’ll have to wait. I have another batch on the go that will be ready in five minutes, so you can do a taste test then.’

He smiled to himself, flipping open his laptop. ‘Woman of mystery,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.

Estelle shot him a nervous smile before slathering the mixture into a ceramic dish and placing it in the oven. She loved the baking and the writing. But the publicity, not so much. She hated talking about herself. It had to be done though; that’s what her editor and publicist had told her.

‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked Louis. ‘Water? Green tea? Organic beer?’ She leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘Or we do have normal drinks that Seb keeps stowed away in a cupboard somewhere.’

He laughed. ‘Water would be perfect, thank you.’

She poured them both some water from the jug she kept in her fridge, then sat down across from him, brushing her blonde fringe from her eyes.

Louis peered towards the oven. ‘Don’t you use a timer?’

‘No. I’ve been baking so long I have an instinct for time.’

He laughed. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? So, just a month until your book launch. How are you feeling?’

Estelle felt a tremor of nerves. She’d been waiting so long for this moment and thought she was ready for it, but the closer she got, the more she felt like a fraud. Did she really deserve this? A friend of hers who’d had a novel published said she’d felt the same. Despite the fact she knew how hard she’d worked, it still felt alien, unearned. She called it ‘imposter syndrome’ and Estelle had it bad.

‘Nervous,’ she admitted. ‘Excited too though.’

‘No need to be nervous. So, let’s start at the very beginning. Where do you think your interest in food first came from?’

Estelle hesitated a moment. She could tell the journalist it had all started with how scarce good food was when she was a child, pale meals shoved in a microwave, cheap takeaways bought by her parents. She could tell him how, when she went into care and foster homes, it wasn’t always much better so she’d had to learn from an early age how to prepare food, the simple things like making scrambled eggs. She could tell him about how she paid attention in cooking classes at school because of this, unlike her peers, because she had no choice if she wanted to feed herself. She could then go on to tell him about Lillysands and the Garlands. Finally a place where food was something to be treasured and enjoyed, making dishes with her foster mother Autumn, helping to serve up business lunches for her foster father Max.

But she didn’t.

‘I really don’t know,’ she said instead. ‘It’s just always held a fascination for me.’

‘And that’s why you chose to study food science?’

It was almost tempting to tell him the truth here too – that it was one of her last foster parents who’d suggested this subject to her, a gentle chemistry professor called Justin. He’d noticed her interest in food, and the way she’d take notice when he talked about the chemicals in food. But she didn’t even want to tell the journalist about Carol and Justin Hall, the lovely couple she’d gone to live with just before she turned sixteen, because that might lead to more questions, to more delving into her past, and that was something she needed to avoid.

‘My teachers at school,’ she said instead. ‘They helped steer me towards food science as a degree subject.’

‘And after your university course,’ Louis asked, looking at his notes, ‘you decided to do a short accredited nutrition course?’

‘That’s right. But I was very naïve back then.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’d been so full of hope. I presumed the more I learnt, the more success I’d have. But the truth was, it was a tough time.’ She didn’t mind talking about this. Each writer needed their rags to riches story and this was hers. And it was less complicated than the real story, the one where she was a neglected little girl dragged through the care system. She wanted to keep that to herself.

‘Tell me more,’ Louis said, leaning forward.

She sighed. ‘I moved out of uni digs into a small flat of my own. I’d saved up money for rent while working at a patisserie nearby during uni. I knew my savings wouldn’t cover me for more than three months if I didn’t get a job, but I was hopeful it wouldn’t be long before I’d have a steady stream of income as a nutritionist.’

‘And that didn’t happen?’

‘Nope. I quickly learnt you can’t just create a reputation based on qualifications. Weeks then months went by with no income. I ended up having to move out of the flat into a room share in a rough part of town.’

Estelle shuddered as she thought of that time. She’d ended up sharing a filthy room with a skinny strung-out girl who reminded Estelle too much of her birth mother. There were dark times then, very dark times, all too familiar to Estelle.

‘I was just about to give up,’ Estelle continued, ‘when the blog stuff started paying off.’

‘You set the blog up eight years ago to help a friend, right?’

Estelle nodded. ‘Yes. My friend Genevieve was diagnosed with type two diabetes. It was a shock to her but not anyone else. Her diet was terrible. I basically took over her kitchen. The improvement in her health was amazing, so she convinced me to start blogging. With each post, I gained more followers and some advertising too.’

The income generated from those ads had been minimal but enough for Estelle to move from that grotty bedsit. She remembered crying in relief. It wasn’t just about the filthy surroundings, the noise and the anxious flatmate. It was about extracting herself from her past, moving herself as far away as possible from the destiny her childhood could have moulded for her.

‘And eventually, you set up on other channels such as YouTube and your social media platforms?’ Louis said. ‘Is that when it all really took off?’

Estelle nodded. ‘Yes, that’s when the clients really started to come in – so many I couldn’t keep up!’

Louis tapped away on his laptop. She watched him, trying to control her nerves. Was she coming across okay?

He looked up. ‘So why the pure-eating ethos?’

‘Studying food sciences at university gave me an insight into the chemicals you can find in everyday foods. I guess it became a bit of an obsession.’

‘And thus your crusade against toxics in foods, as you describe it in Pure, began?’

‘Oh, you’ve read the book?’ Estelle’s heart started to hammer. Was he leading up to telling her he hated it?

‘I got a review copy on Friday and devoured it in a few hours. I loved it.’

Estelle smiled, full of relief.

‘Have you managed to try out some of the recipes?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely! I loved the Rower’s Delight cocoa mousse. I presume your other half Seb inspired you with that one?’ he said, peering towards a photo of the couple on the fridge: Seb in his Team GB uniform, arm around Estelle, who was smiling into the camera.

Estelle nodded. ‘It’s his favourite.’

‘You met in 2015 after being brought in to assist a nutritionist advising Team GB in the lead-up to the Rio Olympics, right?’

Estelle nodded. She still remembered the day she got the call from the nutritionist she’d met a few months back during a friend’s party. She’d been having a down day, wondering when her career would go up a gear. It felt stagnant. Sure, she was getting clients, her social media channels were doing well. But something inside her – the desire to put her childhood well and truly behind her – yearned for more. That was the problem. When you knew how bad it could be – how vast and black having nothing was – you always lived with the fear you’d return to it again. So the scramble for more wasn’t about greed, it was about fear, pure and simple.

‘Was it love at first sight?’ the journalist asked.

Estelle thought back to that time two years ago when she’d arrived at the Olympic rowing team’s UK training camp where they were gearing up for Brazil the following year. She’d been overwhelmed. It was the accumulation of all she’d worked hard for, so she’d been so overtaken by emotion, she’d felt tears spring to her eyes.

‘You okay there?’ she’d heard a voice ask. And there was Seb, water dripping from his wet dark hair, shoulders broad and strong in contrast to his narrow waist. He looked so clean and so pure, the perfect specimen of health. Just being around him made her feel the same way too. So she’d taken a deep breath, forced the tears away and smiled. ‘Perfect,’ she’d said.

Estelle’s doorbell went, shattering the memory.

‘Do you mind just waiting a moment while I answer the door?’ she said, wondering who it might be.

Louis nodded. ‘Of course.’

She skipped down the hallway, adrenaline buzzing from her interview. It made it all feel even more real, having a national newspaper journalist in her kitchen, talking about her life. Maybe she wasn’t such a fraud after all.

She opened the front door, surprised to see the son of her local butcher on the doorstep. Then she remembered she had a delivery due that day. ‘Of course! Come in, William,’ she said, leading the young red-cheeked teenager to her vast kitchen. He smiled shyly as he carried in the large wooden crate, various meats wrapped in white crinkly paper inside it. ‘Just here will be great,’ she said, gesturing to the kitchen top closest to the fridge. He placed it down and Estelle pulled out a five-pound note, handing it to him as a tip.

Louis smiled. ‘You get your meat delivered?’

‘They don’t usually do deliveries, but it’s impossible to lug around all the meat on the back of my pedal bike,’ she said. ‘So I sweet-talked the owner of the local butcher to do a weekly delivery. I think it’s important to support independent businesses whenever possible, and I’m lucky enough to be able to do so. Plus, it’s mega cheap,’ she added with a wink.

Louis turned to the butcher’s son. ‘How does it feel delivering meat to a soon-to-be published chef?’

‘Cool,’ William replied as he took the money. ‘Dad’s going to the book launch too, he’s really looking forward to it. Even got a new suit and everything.’

Estelle smiled, hiding the slight note of worry she felt. Her publicist Kim had been the one to come up with the idea of inviting her local suppliers to the launch. What better way to highlight just how clean and local Estelle was by having her butcher and greengrocer at her launch party to mingle with journalists? But now she was wondering if it would seem a bit contrived. Would people see through it?

Would they see through her?

After William left, Estelle started placing the meat in her large American-style fridge.

‘So do you do all the cooking in the household?’ Louis asked.

‘Yes, of course.’ She caught Louis raising an eyebrow. ‘This isn’t about being an obedient housewife,’ she quickly added. ‘It’s pure selfishness on my part. I love cooking.’ And she really did. The whole sensory experience of it, the feel of food on her fingertips, a thousand different textures. The smells and the colours, the sound of sizzling meat and whisking flour. The taste too, of course. It was a form of therapy for her: kneading, mixing, slicing everything away, all thoughts, all memories gone until it was just her at her simplest in that kitchen, focused on making the best dishes she could.

She pulled away the white paper from a large slab of beef ready to put it in the fridge. Then she frowned. There was something on top of the meat, square and white.

She looked over at Louis who was busy tapping away at his laptop at the other end of the large island, then she grabbed a fork and lifted the item off the meat. It was an envelope, a name scrawled on the front.

Stel.

She peered at the windowsill, where the poppies she’d received the evening before had been placed in a vase. The note that had come with them had been addressed to Stel too.

She quickly opened the envelope and pulled out a Polaroid photo. It was a close-up photo of a teenage girl. Sad brown eyes. Freckled button nose. Dyed red hair … red hair that made her think of another girl, another time.

Alice.

But it wasn’t Alice. In fact, Estelle had no idea who the girl in the photo was. But as she looked into her eyes, she still felt a flare of recognition.

She looked at the bottom of the photo, where a message had been scrawled, droplets of blood from the beef blossoming around the words.

They say you’re as pure as the driven snow. But I know you’re not.

I’m watching you. I know everything about you.

Estelle dropped the photo with trembling fingers, watching as it floated to the floor, the blood from the beef congealing in her nails.

Who the hell had sent this to her?

Chapter Three

You’ve changed. You’re barely recognisable from the girl I first met.

All fake though. An attempt to cover the real you. The dirty you.

Did the people you were with last night see it, the charade?

I wanted to storm in, smash all those glasses, rub all that food in your face.

But I didn’t. I kept my anger in check and watched as everyone’s eyes poured all over you: especially the men.

I know the truth. I know you’re spoilt goods and soon they will know too.

That terrifies you, doesn’t it? People seeing the real you.

I can see the fear in your face as you look at the photo – at my message.

Good.

Time you were taken down a peg or two. Time you learnt this new life you’ve created for yourself is a sham.

A sham that will soon be smashed to smithereens.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.