AMANDA ROBSON
OBSESSION

Copyright

Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017

Copyright © Amanda Robson 2017

Amanda Robson 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: 9780008212216

Ebook Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 9780008212223

Version: 2017-03-07

Dedication

To my close family.

To my husband, Richard Gillis. My sons, Peter and Mark Gillis. My parents Shirley and Peter Robson, and my brother and his wife, Chris and Carol Robson.

There is a sharp intake of breath as the jurors are shown a photograph of the crime scene. Oh, the strange, strange fascination of death. The acrid smell of death that will never go away.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

One

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Craig ~

~ Carly ~

~ Craig ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Craig ~

~ Rob ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Craig ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Craig ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

Two

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Rob ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Craig ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Craig ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Craig ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Craig ~

~ Rob ~

~ Rob ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

Three

~ Rob ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

Four

~ Carly ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Carly ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Craig ~

~ Jenni ~

Five

~ Rob ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Craig ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Craig ~

~ Carly ~

~ Craig ~

~ Carly ~

~ Craig ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Craig ~

~ Carly ~

~ Craig ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Craig ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Craig ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Craig ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Craig ~

Six

~ Rob ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Rob ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Rob ~

~ Rob ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

Seven

~ Rob ~

~ Jenni ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

~ Carly ~

~ Rob ~

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

ONE

~ Carly ~

I am drunk; liquid-limbed, mind-pumping drunk, and so is my husband, Rob. Craggy features, softened by shadows, move towards me across the mosquito candle placed in the middle of the camping table, as he smiles at me and tops up my glass. I shiver a little and zip up my jacket. The low sky of this Breton night has brought the sort of chill that predicates frost. But although frost won’t happen in July in the south of Brittany, during this camping holiday, I have not felt warm enough. Not once. Not at night, curled up beneath my inadequate blanket, or in the day when I’m supervising our children around the unheated swimming pool. The extra layer of body fat, cultivated after the arrival of our third child, is not protecting me from the cold.

Our children are asleep in the tent behind us. I feel their silence and the exhalation of their breath, deep rooted and satisfying. At least I don’t have to watch their every movement until morning, as I do during the days. Holidays aren’t holidays any more. We just take our children to a different place to look after them. A place that is harder work.

Everything about this camping holiday is exhausting. Standing by the pool for hour after hour, checking that they’re not drowning. The boredom of watching and waiting for the occasional sight of a familiar head coming out from behind a plastic palm tree or poolside dolphin. Holding giggling toddlers as we are tossed down knotted plastic tubes, sliding along until we’re spewed out into the water, the movement almost breaking our backs. The endless cooking of barbecues – washing burnt gunk off the griddle. As far as I am concerned this is the best part of the day; the children are in bed and I have Rob to myself.

For this is what I like. Rob to myself. We married just over ten years ago, so we were alone for several years before our children were born. We met at the training hospital when I was a trainee nurse and he was a junior doctor. I will never forget the sight of him walking down the ward towards me, that first cracked smile. No doubt someone looking in would consider our relationship argumentative. Some of our friends say that they never have a cross word. How do they achieve that? Why do we argue? My mother says it is because we care. Whatever. It isn’t really a satisfactory day without the rumblings of a discussion.

Tonight, sitting opposite my husband, a surfeit of alcohol pounding through my veins, I am filled with a new kind of mischief.

‘Who else would you go for, if you could?’ I hear myself slur.

‘No one,’ he slurs back.

‘I don’t believe you. You tell me and I’ll tell you,’ I push.

Rob sits in silence.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s be really honest – to compound our relationship.’

He looks at me and puts his plastic wine glass on the metal table.

‘But Carly, we don’t need to compound our relationship.’

‘I think we do.’

Green eyes burn to emerald.

‘I don’t want to know who you fantasise about.’

‘But I want to know about you.’

A jawline held taut.

‘I don’t fantasise about anyone.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ I pause. ‘Anyway, I don’t need to know who you fantasise about. We’re just playing a game. Give me a name, someone you quite like.’

He shrugs his shoulders.

‘I quite like Jenni.’

‘Jenni?’

Jenni. NCT Jenni. Placid and peaceful with doe-like eyes. Endlessly, endlessly kind.

‘What about you?’

I don’t reply.

The camping holiday continues but it doesn’t improve. Our two-day conjugal hangover doesn’t help. The swimming pool and the weather are growing colder. Cloud gathers and hangs along the coastline, releasing a clinging sea mist which sticks to the headland, making our nightly walk along the cliff path to the nearest restaurant border on suicidal. The rain starts on Tuesday evening. On Wednesday morning I wake up and hear its soft drum beat still pounding against the canvas. At first the sound is comforting. A ‘let’s stay in bed and make love because it’s cold and wet outside’ sort of sound. I snuggle up to Rob and then reality hits me. Camping. Rain. Bored children about to wake up. I escape to the shower block.

By the time I reach the shower block I am so wet I’m not sure why I’m bothering to have a shower. The lukewarm dribble of water from the showerhead slightly raises my body temperature, but not my mood as I struggle to pull my clothing back across my damp skin and worry about my weight. I shouldn’t have eaten pizza yesterday. Or chips the day before. And what about the beer? Soft and delicious and brimming with calories.

Forget about alcohol. It’s the only thing I’m enjoying about this holiday.

At least I am not like Jenni, so thin after childbirth that her breasts have disappeared. I look at myself in the mirror, cup my breasts with my hands, think of her boyish figure, and laugh. Jenni.

Rob and Jenni. Who would have thought of that?

When I return to the tent it has come to life. Rob is starting to prepare breakfast and the children are playing a shouting game, or, as I listen harder, a roaring game. Our seven-year-old daughter, Pippa, is crawling on the floor on all fours, head back and growling. She’s trying to frighten her younger brothers, Matt and John, shaking her long blonde hair and attacking them with fingernail claws. They are crawling away from her and laughing, too innocent to realise that if she could, she would hurt them. Rob, seemingly deaf to the noise, is putting cereal on the table.

As soon as I enter the tent, Rob’s face lights up and he moves towards me, kisses me on the lips.

‘Hey you. Do you want to play?’ he asks.

‘Mummy, Mummy,’ Pippa roars. ‘You can be a tiger.’

‘A tiger that needs morning coffee before it can growl,’ I say, planting myself firmly on a chair.

‘The swimming pool closes when it rains. What are we going to do today?’ Rob asks as the kettle whistles.

‘Go home?’ I suggest hopefully.

Being back home has many advantages, warmth being one of them, temperature control at the touch of a button preferable to the vagaries of weather. Regular sex without worrying that the children can hear is another positive. But the biggest advantage is sitting at the breakfast bar on Monday morning sipping coffee, waiting for my mother, knowing I have a child-free day in front of me.

My triangular-shaped mother, Heather, arrives, straight from her flat just around the corner. She steps into the hall, wearing her favourite floral dress and her M&S cardigan. Her shoulder-length curly hair looks as if it needs combing. It always looks as if it needs combing, but it’s just the way her curls frizz. Some remaining brown hair peppers her grey like drizzled dirt. Mother, when are you going to improve your appearance? It doesn’t seem to make any difference to how much our children love her. Pippa thunders down the stairs, two at a time, and falls into her grandmother’s arms.

‘Gwandma, Gwandma,’ John shouts, bumbling downstairs in his Gruffalo pyjamas which Gwandma has bought him, launching himself into the hug. Before long Matt has joined the love-in too. I tip the rest of my coffee down the waste disposal, place my mug in the dishwasher and sidle towards the front door. I manage to kiss my mother as I pass her; the children have left a patch of skin on her cheek accessible.

‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll be late tonight.’

‘That’s fine, dear. I won’t be in any hurry to leave. Are you working late?’

‘Going for a drink with Jenni.’

I close the front door and step into watery sunshine. My mother looks after the children for us three days a week, so that I can work for Rob in Riverside Surgery. Rob. The most popular GP in Stansfield. I hear it from our receptionists, from the school-gate mums, from the neighbours, and have no reason to doubt that it’s true. Our surgery list is full. I can’t compete with his popularity. Why would I want to? I’m just one of his practice nurses. All I do is give injections, take blood, and perform breast and gynae checks. Although aspects of my job are boring, I enjoy my three days at work more than my weekdays at home with the children. Weekends at home are fine because Rob is so very helpful. But my weekdays with the children are just plain hard work. Stopping fights, making too many peanut butter sandwiches (Matt’s favourite), wading through burial mounds of laundry. The worst part is Pippa’s school-gate pick-up. Mother seems to relish it, enjoys talking to the school-gate mafia. She fits in. But I don’t. The school-gate mafia; women who are living through their children. Women who don’t have anything else.

I walk towards the surgery. Left at the end of our road, along Stansfield High Street, past the Chinese restaurant, past the fish shop. I cross the road at the traffic lights and enter the surgery through the side door, away from the receptionists and the patients. I hang up my raincoat and open the door to the nurses’ station. Sitting at my desk, I switch the computer on to check my patient list. Eight patients this morning. Two breast checks. Three blood tests. Three sets of travel injections. As I press the buzzer for my first patient, the shadow that started following me on holiday begins to darken.

The shadow is no lighter when I finish at the surgery and am on my way to meet you, Jenni. You are waiting for me after work at the coffee shop, by the bus stop in the centre of town. I see you through the window as I move past the bus queue – sending a text from your iPhone, your glossy hair tumbling across your face. As soon as I enter the coffee shop you look up and beam at me, as if seeing me is the most important part of your day. Jenni, you always try to make people feel like that. As if they are important. It is one of your tricks. I know that now. When we first met, I fell for it.

We knew each other at nursing college, didn’t we, Jenni? But only from a distance. You weren’t really my type. Christian Union. No make-up. Didn’t look men in the eye. Rumour had it you didn’t go out on Saturday nights, stayed in to prepare your mind for the Lord on Sunday. Jenni. What were you like?

Our paths crossed again on a couples’ night nearly six years ago at our local NCT co-ordinator’s house, stranded together like beached whales on a low-slung sofa, so heavily pregnant that we could hardly change positions. Mark and John incubating inside us, almost ready to be born. I was the expert because I already had Pippa. You were stick thin except for your bump, which overwhelmed you, looking so worried as the NCT co-ordinator droned on about Braxton Hicks contractions and TENS machines and whether they worked. I looked at you as you listened, chocolate brown eyes closed in fear, and wanted to protect you. To hold you against me and tell you it’s not as bad as it sounds. (Even though with Pippa it was far worse.)

At the end of the meeting we went to the pub, I can’t remember which one of the four of us suggested it, but we all thought it was a good idea. We went to the White Swan, down by the river at the end of our road. A cold October night, sitting by the fire drinking orange juice and tonic water whilst the men cradled their pints. We were so engrossed in our own conversation, we didn’t talk to them much. It took me so long to find you, Jenni, the first female friend I really cared about. All through school and university, men had been my companions. Women can be so bitchy, don’t you think? So temperamental. Men are kinder. Simpler. I had up to this point socialised with them more as a rule. But then came the female-dominated world of pregnancy and early childhood that led me to you.

Today, with Mark and John at school, and another birth behind each of us, we hug clumsily across a small wooden table in the coffee shop opposite the surgery. Across the coffee you are already halfway through drinking. Across the crumbs of someone else’s cake. I sit down on an uncomfortable wooden stool, which scrapes across the floor as I position it.

‘How was your holiday?’ you ask.

‘Awful.’

‘That wasn’t what Rob said.’

Your words punch into me.

‘When did you see Rob?’ I ask.

‘I didn’t. He texted me.’

‘Texted you?’

‘Because he was worried about you.’

You wave and smile at the waitress, who starts to weave towards our table.

We order fresh coffee for you, and chocolate cake and cappuccino for me. The waitress presses our order into a small handheld machine and disappears to the next table.

‘Why is Rob so worried about me?’

‘He said you weren’t yourself on holiday. You didn’t seem to enjoy spending time with the children, apparently.’

‘Well, did you when you were on holiday?’

Your toffee brown eyes widen as you look at me.

‘Yes.’

Yes?

Jenni. You sanctimonious, husband-stealing bitch.

When I arrive home, chicken nuggets and chips are beginning to sizzle in the oven as my mother listens to Pippa read. The boys are making strange shapes with Play Doh. From the moment I open the door I feel superfluous. A feeling I do not like. A feeling I frequently have to live with these days.

‘Hello, Mummy,’ the boys say without turning from their Play Doh shapes.

‘Good day?’ Heather asks me, without lifting her eyes from Pippa’s reading book. Pippa continues reading in a strange monotone, high-pitched and proud. Two monkeys are stuck in a tree. Who is going to help them down? The monkeys’ mother, apparently. Uninterested in the antics of the monkeys, I go upstairs to my bedroom to change. As I unbutton my nurse’s uniform to throw it in the laundry basket (which is full again), my mobile phone rings. I pick up.

‘Hi Carly. It’s Craig.’

Craig. Jenni’s husband. Craig. Handsome. Too handsome. The sort of good looks that I have difficulty trusting. He can have whatever he wants too easily, with too many of the opposite sex. Or so it seems to me. But you don’t think like that, do you, Jenni? You love him. You trust him. I mustn’t judge him by his looks. Just because he can, doesn’t mean he does. Or does it?

‘I’m planning a surprise birthday party at the pub for Jenni on Friday night. Can you and Rob make it?’ Craig asks.

‘That sounds great.’

Dancing to please Jenni. Great, Craig, great. We all dance to please bitch-whore Jenni.

Friday night. Walking to the pub, arm in arm with Rob, carrying the lilies I bought for Jenni. A chilly summer evening, the pavement still wet from earlier rain, making my world look grey – grey upon grey. The lilies make me think of my father’s funeral, of the curved petals crawling across his casket – soon to be destroyed by the heat of the furnace. My mother standing next to the casket, trying not to cry. Mother, still so bereft without my father, seven years since his death just before Pippa was born. Seven years of centring her life on us.

As soon as I enter the pub, I push death away. We are wrapped in noise and warmth. Jenni moves towards me, smiling. So pleased to see me. Trying to make me feel warm. Trying to make me feel special.

I hand her the lilies, and the card I have chosen, and she shrieks with delight. A small shriek from the back of her throat.

Jenni. They are only lilies.

A few minutes later we can’t get near Jenni and Craig; so many well-wishers have turned up. I sit at a small rickety table by the log fire, which the landlord has lit even though it’s summer, while Rob heads for the bar. Jenni is surrounded by people, her head is thrown back. She’s laughing. I stare at her: Jenni looking so good, chestnut hair falling in waves across her shoulders, a simple dress extenuating her slimness, her fragility. The fragility which makes people want to protect her.

‘I thought it was just Craig and me, coming for a quick drink,’ I overhear her explaining to yet another person I don’t recognise.

Rob returns from the bar with a glass of red wine and a pint of Doombar.

‘She knows so many people,’ Rob says, his eyes following mine as I watch.

‘It’s the choir thing.’

‘It’s the church thing.’

‘Maybe it’s because she’s nice,’ Rob says.

‘Nice is such an ordinary word.’

‘There is nothing ordinary about Jenni.’

‘Don’t start that again.’

‘I didn’t start it in the first place.’

Saturday morning. I’m in the car with John and Matt. Pippa is out for the day at a friend’s house, doubtless being drowned in pink. Pink-walled bedroom, pink ballet dresses, a selection of dolls all dressed in pink. Suffocation by candyfloss.

‘Where are we going, Mummy?’ Matt asks.

‘Snakes and Ladders.’

‘Why isn’t Daddy coming with us?’

‘His turn for a lie-in.’

‘What about Jenni and the other Gospels?’ John suggests hopefully.

Wincing at the use of the word Gospels, the cheesy nickname Jenni has coined for our children – Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, the conjoined products of our NCT friendship.

‘I thought we could enjoy some time on our own,’ I reply.

‘Please, Mummy. Phone Jenni. You can talk to her while we all play on the slides,’ Matt begs.

Jenni. Holding my hand and laughing. Jenni. Before she started making cow eyes at Rob. I push the memory away.

‘You’ll have to make do with Mummy,’ I snap.

I signal to pull off the main road, and turn into the car park of the state-of-the-art climbing facility. Brightly coloured plastic slides and climbing nets, all hidden from parental sight by giant yellow plastic walls. It’s simple, and expensive. You pay for your children to go in. They take their shoes off, leave them with you and disappear. You sit and drink coffee. You read a book or a newspaper. They reappear several hours later, hot, sweaty and requiring drinks, but too tired to give you any more trouble for the rest of the day. A perfect way to keep children amused on a Saturday morning. Maximum expense. Minimum effort. My favourite treat for them.

After I have flashed my credit card, my sons disappear through the yellow and blue plastic doorway that leads to the gargantuan play frame. I buy a large cup of coffee and a shortbread biscuit from the café and set myself up at a table. I plug my earplugs in (small foam ones that I bought at Boots yesterday), spread my newspaper out on the table, and home in on the magazine supplement.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, I open my eyes to find John shaking my arm. He is red-faced, blond curls plastered to his head with sweat.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ I say dutifully.

‘When we’ve found Matt.’

‘Found him? I thought he was with you.’

‘He was, Mummy, but when I went down the wiggly slide, I thought he was behind me but he never arrived.’

‘He’s probably just in another part of the slide complex. Let’s go and ask the staff.’

Holding John’s hand, I venture through a yellow and blue doorway, into a world where toddlers tumble and twist through nets and tubes, thundering towards me at frightening velocities. But it’s only me that is intimidated, not the toddlers. They are laughing and smiling as their chubby bodies slide and bounce. At the bottom of every tube or net there is a substantial amount of blue matting and a Snakes and Ladders guard; a young adult wearing a canary yellow sweat shirt. I approach the nearest guard, clinging tightly to John’s hand to keep him with me.

‘Excuse me,’ I say to him, a boy of about sixteen. A boy with a pulpy face, a rash of spots on his right cheek. ‘I can’t find my other son.’

‘What’s he wearing? I’ll look out for him.’

I hesitate.

‘Black jeans and a T-shirt,’ John replies before I can remember.

‘And his name?’

‘Matthew Burton. Matt for short,’ I reply.

‘Tell me a bit more about what he looks like.’

‘He looks about five – but he’s only three and a half. And his hair is blond, like his brother’s.’

‘That’s me,’ John proudly informs the pimply youth.

‘Wait in the café, I’ll go looking for him and bring him to you as soon as possible,’ he replies, a little sharply. He is looking at me critically, but I ignore him.

By the time he has finished his sentence John has freed himself from my hand and is climbing up a purple net. Before I have returned through the plastic door to the café for another cup of coffee, John is already halfway up the giant play frame.

Half an hour later, a man wearing a suit and an earpiece is standing in front of me holding John’s hand. Attached to his shirt is a plastic badge telling me that he is the manager of Snakes and Ladders. Only his badge and his earpiece prevent him from looking like a funeral director, so low are his eyes, so dark his grimace.

‘I’m sorry to say we can’t find your son Matt on the main play frame,’ he announces.

My stomach tightens in annoyance.

‘He went in. He must be there,’ I reply.

‘We’ve checked every camera for twenty-five minutes.’ There is a pause. ‘Is it possible he ran past you and went outside?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought he would have done that.’

‘Is it possible?’

‘I fell asleep. So it’s possible. Unlikely, but possible.’

‘We have another play complex outside. Maybe he went there.’

‘Why would he do that without telling anyone? He’s never been there before.’

John starts to cry. ‘I want my baby brother.’

I lift him into my arms.

‘We’ll find him. He can’t have gone far,’ I tell him.

We follow the manager out of the Snakes and Ladders indoor arena, across the car park towards a large wooden climbing frame built in the shape of a fortress with boardwalk walls. The castle teems with children racing around the walls. I stand next to the manager, clinging on to John who is still crying, and a fist of panic suddenly squeezes me inside. Where is my son? Where has he gone? What’s happened to him? Then almost as soon as I start to panic, in the edge of my vision, like a speck of dust irritating me, something makes me turn to the corner of the climbing frame, and for a split second I think I see a boy of about Matt’s size, with blond curly hair.

‘What is it?’ the manager asks. ‘Did you see something?’

‘I thought I saw him.’ I shake my head. ‘But maybe I didn’t.’

And then I see him again. Matt. Matt’s hair. Matt’s red face. Matt’s black jeans and new flashing trainers running down the steps of the castle towards me. I manage to keep calm in front of the manager – who no longer looks funereal – the swarming children, and their over-vigilant parents who are hovering anxiously by the play frame. But as soon as I strap him into his car seat to drive him home I smack him, hard on his cheek. He cries. John starts to cry in sympathy. I drive home with two crying boys who are howling and bellowing, wishing I knew where I’d put my earplugs. As soon as I have pulled the car into the drive and switched off the engine, I lean into the back of the car and smack Matt again. Hard, on the opposite cheek.

~ Jenni ~

‘Why have you invited them midweek?’ Craig asks as he loads the dishwasher. ‘It’s my early shift. I’ll be exhausted.’

‘I’m worried about Carly. I need to talk to her.’

‘Because?’

‘She’s always been edgy – in a fun sort of way. But the balance has tipped. Now she’s just edgy.’

‘Well, it must be hard work being married to the local GP who works every hour that God sends, working herself, and bringing up three small children. So I do sympathise but’ – he shrugs his shoulders – ‘can’t you talk to her by yourself?’

‘I wanted to show her some hospitality. Hospitality at home. A deeper sort of friendship. You know how much she means to me. I can make dinner.’

I kiss him and he pulls me towards him, wrapping me in his arms and holding me against him.

‘Can’t you put it off until next week? Give us a bit of time on our own when the children are in bed?’

‘I told you, next week I’m going to see my mother.’

‘Not again,’ he complains gently.

I shrug my shoulders.

‘I don’t have a choice. You know that.’

Our dinner-party menu. Beetroot salad, followed by spinach and ricotta lasagne – which took too long to make as I had to cut all the stalks off the spinach. The kitchen looks as if it has exploded; there are pans and cutlery across every surface, as I didn’t have time to wash up before Carly and Rob arrived. I’m not sure why I’ve bothered to go to all this effort as so far I’ve had no meaningful conversation with Carly. She is behaving in a way I’ve never seen before, spending her time weighing up Craig, her eyes all over him when she hasn’t noticed me watching. Carly. Wearing a low-cut top and too much make-up. She has gone for the smoky-eyes look. Carly. Laughing too loud at Craig’s blokey jokes, and every time she does so Rob looks embarrassed. Rob, clean-cut and sensible in his stonewashed jeans and carefully ironed shirt. Even Craig looks surprised at the depth of Carly’s laughter.

I excuse myself and leave the room, walking back to our small galley kitchen to fetch dessert and put the kettle on for coffee. As I wait for it to boil, I look around at the culinary debris and sit on the low windowsill looking at the mess. Craig was right, entertaining like this is too much in the week. And he has to be up at five o’clock in the morning to start his shift at the fire station. He was recently promoted to leading fireman. I am so pleased for him. Craig, the only man I have ever loved. Unlike Carly, I haven’t had much experience with men. Craig is the only man I have slept with. I know that seems strange in this day and age of openness and overt sexuality, but it’s because of my religious convictions. My relationship with God. A relationship I am proud of. I don’t feel constrained or repressed because of it. God opens my life out.

Craig and I met late, and so the time we have had together was almost immediately shared with the children, which is why we have to guard our relationship so preciously. It can be such a struggle to try and find each other between sleepless nights and children’s tantrums. So far at least, I think we are managing.

But things are going to become more difficult.

My mother has been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Too late. As is all too frequently the case. When the consultant told her last week, I was there, holding her hand, looking into my father’s eyes.

The kettle boils and I pour water on top of the freshly ground coffee beans waiting in the cafetière. I reach for the Eton mess I messed up earlier, and return to the party – followed by the fear of suffering and loneliness. Followed by my father’s eyes.

Carly’s cheeks are slightly red and the tip of her nose is glowing.

‘Craig tells me you have to go on hospital duty next week without the kids. Can I be of any help?’ she asks as I serve her a generous portion of dessert. Perhaps a bit more food will sober her up.

Rob stirs in his seat uncomfortably.

‘Have you run that by your mother, Carly?’ he says.

She turns to him, eyes glazed.

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Nothing. Let’s talk about it later.’

‘I have other things in mind for later,’ Carly says, giggling and stabbing her fork towards a strawberry. She misses and bangs her fork onto her plate. Metal scrapes against china.

Rob looks across at me, his eyes speaking to me – see what I have to put up with. I do not reply with mine, because after all, no one ever sees inside someone else’s relationship.

~ Rob ~

The children are in bed. It took me an age to settle them. Carly, you are sitting in the easy chair in the kitchen, watching me cook a stir-fry with your piercing eyes of china blue. With your Marilyn Monroe looks and your volatile personality. Carly. So colourful. So challenging. You have put on a little too much make-up, as you always do just before I come home. Tonight it has smudged around your eyes.

‘Have you been crying, Carly?’ I ask.

‘No,’ you reply, taking a large slug of wine and crossing your legs, forcing me to admire a pair of shiny high heels I haven’t seen before.

I stir the sweet and sour noodles.

‘Are you sure?’

A flicker of the lines around your mouth.

‘Why?’

I take the stir-fry off the heat.

‘Well, your make-up’s smudged.’

‘Are you criticising me again?’ you ask with a smile. An over-egged smile that doesn’t quite work. Carly, sometimes your smile frightens me.

I serve the food into large china bowls and we sit opposite each other at the table, a lighted candle and the cruet between us. Without tasting my endeavours you take the salt and pepper and lash it across your food. I want to reprimand you. But I cannot. You are like an awkward teenager and I need to address one issue at a time. And tonight I have a more important mission. I take a forkful of food.

‘Carly, why did you slap Matt on the way back from Snakes and Ladders?’

‘He deserved it,’ you say violently. A pause. ‘Are you going to call the police?’

‘Of course not.’

I lean across the table and put my hand on your arm. ‘I just want to talk about it.’

‘I’m not one of your patients, Rob. Leave me alone.’

I remove my arm. We sit and eat in silence for a while. I can’t resist saying more.

‘Are you still cross with me about Jenni?’ I ask softly.

‘It shocked me that you want to fuck her.’ You emphasise the word fuck almost jubilantly; its guttural ending spitting out of your mouth.

‘Fuck her? When did I say that?’

‘That’s what you meant, isn’t it?’

‘You twisted my words. You pushed me.’ I pause. ‘Please, Carly, stop this. I love you.’

~ Carly~

Rob is in bed before me; he always is. I slide in next to him and he moves towards me across our silken sheets.

My luck is in.

I know he wants sex.

Last night he was too tired, and as soon as I got into bed he told me, by rolling over into his sleeping position: on his side, elbow out. The position he always uses when he isn’t interested. But not so tonight.

He is hot.

I can smell it.

He moves towards me, erect. He pushes my hands behind my back with one hand, puts a pillow under my rear with his other and goes down on me. I love this. Every flick of his tongue is exquisite. Perfect. Delicious. Whipping me into a frenzy of lust so perfect that as soon as he enters me I am ready to climax. But I hold off because I want more – I want this to last forever. Wrapping my legs around him, I push him further into me, pressing my feet against his bum. Thrashing. Gyrating. Moaning uncontrollably. I reach for his balls and squeeze them, climaxing hard. This is beautiful. This is what I need.

Rob is a gentleman. A real gentleman. My joy is his aphrodisiac. Now I have finished he lets himself go; jerking, grunting in my ear and juddering. We fall apart exhausted, exhilarated. I am still so charged it will be a while before I sleep. He closes his eyes and I can sense the moment he slips into dreams. I wait until I am sure he is sleeping, then I get out of bed and head for the bathroom. I sit on the toilet in our compact en-suite, but my nervous system is still so charged that I cannot urinate. Instead, I play with my clitoris. Legs apart on the lavatory is a good position. I climax again.

This time I am thinking of Craig.

~ Jenni ~

I am living within my own personal nightmare, the sort we all have to wade through at some point in our lives. Nothing seems real. Nothing tangible. One day I will wake up to find that this is not really happening – that my sixty-six-year-old mother will carry on mothering me forever.

Craig has tried to comfort me. He held me in bed while I cried. He listened to me when I vented my anger – listened with his ears and with his eyes.

Rob came round to see me a few afternoons ago, when I was still at home on my own with the children. He fitted me in in the middle of his home visits. I made him a cup of tea and he stayed for an hour, making me feel guilty for taking up his time. When he left, he pressed his card with his mobile number on it into my hand in case I needed any advice – day or night. He told me the dire statistics for my mother’s stage of ovarian cancer and lectured me on pain relief. I asked how Carly was because I hadn’t seen her since our dinner party. He didn’t reply as he was too busy fussing over my mother.

Carly. I think of her blue eyes, the deep blue of the sea. I didn’t manage to pop and see her before I left, but I know from Craig that she is helping me, by helping him with the children while I stay with my father in Chessingfold, over an hour away. My mother is incarcerated in St Richard’s Hospital, laid low by her chemo, so I’m chauffeuring him between their bungalow and the ward. And Craig, my rock, my brick, is looking after the kids on his break between shifts. Even though I miss him and the children dreadfully, I don’t want the little ones here at the moment. They must not see my mother like this.

My parents’ bungalow is packed with family treasures and memories; photographs, ornaments, tarnished silver cutlery. A conch shell I found on the beach when I was three. When I hold it to my ear I can still hear the sea. I spend too much time looking into the past, not knowing who worries me more; Mum or Dad. They met at school when they were fourteen. A lifetime together. I don’t suppose they can remember a life apart. Dad hardly leaves my mother’s side. He sits with her while she has her chemo, watching its poison drip into her body. He sits with her as she sleeps.

~ Carly ~

Two days after Jenni has left to be with her mother, the object of my now regular late night masturbation is standing on my doorstep. In my fantasy, he is a cross between Jude Law and David Beckham. In reality, he is a slightly overweight thirty-eight-year-old man with a dimple, wearing jeans with holes in and a Canadian-style woodcutter shirt. Rob has been called out to an emergency; a suspected severe stroke in one of his elderly patients. Craig steps into the dull light of my hallway and towers above me. He is a big man. Much bigger than Rob.

‘Thanks for having the children,’ he says.

‘My pleasure. Did my usual. Another trip to Snakes and Ladders.’ I smile at him. ‘How’s Jenni getting on? I haven’t had a chance to ring her.’

‘No news is good news. Her mother’s holding on at the moment.’

I put my hand on his arm. ‘It must be awful for her.’

He follows me into the sitting room, which is superficially tidy, the usual litter of plastic toys thrown into the cupboard at high speed.

‘They’re all asleep,’ I continue. ‘Exhausted. You can leave them here tonight if you like. I’ll run them back in the morning.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. It’s not a problem.’ I smile. ‘But before you go, do sit down and relax for a bit. Would you like a glass of red wine?’

He sits on the sofa. The wine is already open on the mantelpiece and I pour us a glass each. As I hand Craig his glass, our fingers touch. I leave my fingers resting on his for as long as I can before he moves them away. I sit next to him on the sofa, pushing my leg against his. Again he moves away.

What is it, Craig? Are you frightened of me?

The door key rattles as it turns. Rob is home. His footsteps pad across the hallway. The sitting room door opens and he is standing in front of us, dripping with familiarity. I know from the shadows of sadness beneath his eyes that it hasn’t gone well for his elderly patient.

Craig jumps up from the sofa.

‘Thanks so much for looking after the boys. Great to see you both, but I must go. I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘You’re welcome to stay, mate,’ Rob tries to insist, but Craig is almost at the sitting room door.

‘No thanks. Stuff to do. Got to make the best of my opportunity while Carly has the children. It’s been rather hard work lately.’

‘Carly has the children?’

‘Yes. After a day out. Fast asleep upstairs.’

‘Wonders never cease.’

I give him my look. My ‘stop teasing me’ look.

‘I’ll drop them round after breakfast,’ I say, following Craig to the front door, leaving my husband to pour himself a glass of wine and sprawl across the sofa.

In the hall, Craig kisses my cheek. A dry, pastry-brush kiss.

‘Thanks again.’

I open the front door and he walks slowly down the front path. Halfway towards the gate he turns to look back. I give him my best smile, the one I practise in the mirror sometimes. My Scarlett Johansson look.

When I return to the sitting room, Rob is lying on the sofa, feet up on the arm, shoes tossed off in front of him. He moves his legs so that I can join him.

‘What was all that about?’ he asks.

‘Me being helpful with the children? Haven’t you noticed? I’m turning over a new leaf.’

‘Of course I haven’t noticed. I don’t notice anything except for my patients.’ He laughs as he waves the remote at the television. ‘If there really are five children upstairs let’s hope they stay asleep.’

~ Jenni ~

I hold her frail hand and comfort her. I lift water to her lips to ease her dry mouth. I keep to a routine: food supplements, anti-depressants, pain relief. Days and nights are dominated by medicine; morphine in higher and higher doses. Outside, beyond these four walls, other people’s lives continue. People rush past late for work, or laugh into their mobiles. The postman drops letters we no longer care about. Strangers stagger past the end of the road, late at night, after an evening at the pub. They are ignorant of the thin existence we cling to in here. The edges of their jovial conversations pull me towards happier times, but we each have one turn at life and I must accept hers is almost over. I have prayed and prayed to the Lord, and still she isn’t getting better. It must be her time.

Sometimes when she has enough energy, Mother still worries about small details, irrelevancies to me, given the state of her health. Whether the bins will be put out at the front on Wednesday. Whether the dishwasher has been emptied. Maybe the routine of minor details helps her hold on to life. But for the most now all she does is sleep.

I fear that I will lose my father almost immediately after she dies. He is not coping; when he isn’t staring at my mum, he stares into space, leaving me to run the household. He does not eat. I don’t know whether he sleeps. From time to time he clings to me and cries and cries.

I miss my family so much, stuck here in this prison of death. My husband, the musky sweet smell of him. The kindness in his eyes. My boys. The softness of their skin as I hold them at bedtime, cheek to cheek. Their energy. Their laughter. I hope everything will be all right when I’m back home with Craig. Lately, as I spend so much time sitting here, watching my mum sleeping, the rise and fall of her body beneath the counterpane, I feel my family moving away from me. Craig is coping so well without me. Better than I expected. Carly is being so helpful, which is unusual. She seems to have risen to the challenge of five children, coping better than she does with just her own. She has the constant support of her own mother, Heather – I hope it is not Heather who is bearing the brunt. A few months ago, I was worried about Carly; not enjoying her summer holiday, not enjoying her husband or her children. I was sad for her. But now, the tables are turned, Carly is on top of everything, and it is me who is sinking into quicksand.

Mum is calling me. A weak cry on the edge of the wind.

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