What a journey it has been for ERIN KNIGHT. In January 2013, she happened to see ITV’s Lorraine Kelly announce the search for the next big thing in contemporary women’s fiction. She sent in her 1,000 words and beat over 2,000 entries, winning the competition live on national TV on Valentine’s Day. Her books have since gone on to be published in fifteen countries worldwide.

Away from the ITV sofa, she is currently surviving a hefty Victorian renovation in Staffordshire with husband Jim, their three boys and badly-behaved Hungarian Vizsla.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Anouska Knight 2018

Anouska Knight asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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

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

Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008180249

Version: 2018-02-26

For Sarah, Emma, Kirsty and Steph, who loved our girl too.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

CHAPTER 75

CHAPTER 76

CHAPTER 77

CHAPTER 78

CHAPTER 79

CHAPTER 80

CHAPTER 81

CHAPTER 82

CHAPTER 83

CHAPTER 84

CHAPTER 85

CHAPTER 86

CHAPTER 87

CHAPTER 88

CHAPTER 89

CHAPTER 90

CHAPTER 91

CHAPTER 92

CHAPTER 93

CHAPTER 94

CHAPTER 95

CHAPTER 96

CHAPTER 97

CHAPTER 98

CHAPTER 99

CHAPTER 100

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

About the Publisher

1

The first lie Isobel told her parents was that she was going away to forget it all.

She lifted her face to the sun beating down on the armchair in which she’d stationed herself in the corner of the café window, the worn leather warm and hospitable beneath her forearms. The tourist board’s website had promised hospitality. Other promises included a flourishing cosmopolitan atmosphere and some of the best surf and lobster in the British Isles! Fallenbay looked good in writing, but then Isobel knew better than to be suckered in by anything she read online. If she’d learnt nothing else, she’d learnt that much.

Fallenbay . . . Bay of the Fallen. Aptly named by the pirates who’d once besieged it. Now Isobel’s holiday destination. Her time out. A pretty distraction. She’d pitched it to her parents with those very words. They’d tripped right off her tongue and into her mother’s hopeful ears, easily as a damning rumour. Fallenbay was a just lucky hit. A random spot on the map Isobel had stuck her pin into. That was the second lie she told.

Isobel straightened her back and drained the last of the tea gone undrinkably cold while she’d been carefully observing the world passing by the windows of Coast, one of the harbour’s many eateries jostling for position beneath an intense blue sky. It was almost too bright to look outside, but still she watched.

Come back refreshed, Isobel. Renewed! Uncle Keith’s job offer will still be here waiting for you. You were wasted in teaching anyway, love. Her mum had jollied this encouraging prospect around a chewed lip while they’d all pretended that proofreading orders of services at Uncle Keith’s printers wasn’t a cataclysmic sidestep from Head of English at St Jude’s secondary. The bottom line was, Uncle Keith wouldn’t ask for references.

She took a breath and cleared her thoughts. A young mottled seagull bobbed along the pavement outside the café, eyes beady and accusatory. Isobel looked out over the ocean instead.

The aroma of newly warming pastries reached through Coast. Metal kitchen equipment clanked and rattled in the background. The coming summer would be glorious here, and Isobel could stay that long if she wanted to; she had time and money to burn now. The universe’s idea of a laugh. All that effort and hard work to save for their mortgage deposit. Months of overtime and cheap food. Nathan’s motivational speeches when all Isobel wanted was a half-term in Mexico. Renting is so temporary! Turned out, so were they. Isobel scratched Nathan’s name from her head and let her lungs fill and release. Okey-doke, Isobel . . . you’re here. Now what?

She didn’t have to go through with it. Home was only two hours away. Two hours and she could be back in her parents’ semi, penning hopeless red circles around job adverts, or filling the spot left by Uncle Keith’s last tea girl.

The growl of a flashy little coupé across the promenade knocked her thoughts nicely off course. The driver confidently nipped into the last parking space beside the ocean lookouts, interrupting the view she’d been sporadically enjoying of a lonely sailboat marooned from the world. The driver hopped out, rounding the meaty nose of his sports car, and Isobel watched the thirty-something casually stride towards the sandy, bleached decking running up to the café doors. Perhaps he was older. A youthful forty-something with a nice, stress-free existence and resulting unhaggard complexion. He might’ve held her attention in her former life – Nathan shared a similar blend of chiselled features and casual corporate composure – but she’d already lost interest, her pen retracing the same letters over the notepad lying expectantly on the table in front of her.

BASE CAMP 1

Her hands felt clammy. She could do this. She would do it. She just had to take her time, decide on her next step. Just like Jenny said.

Baby steps, Isobel. One at a time. You feel you’ve a mountain to climb, let’s break that big, horrible bugger down into base camps, shall we? Now, Isobel . . . what are your goals? What’s waiting for you at Base Camp 1?

Therapists loved analogies. Isobel could’ve pulled a great lesson plan together for her Year 7s just borrowing from Jenny’s endless repertoire of similes and metaphors, only she didn’t have any Year 7s now. Baby steps. Anything was possible long term – getting back to work was absolutely realistic. Isobel hadn’t believed that any more than Jenny had.

A sharp voice shattered her thoughts. ‘Evie! Put down that mobile phone and tell me what I’ve done to this nightmarish till again, it’s spitting receipts!’

The pretty teenager hovering behind the counter had the same sunkissed curls as her mother. They both smiled a greeting as the man with the coupé made it to the welcoming display of pastries and vintage-style coffee-grinding equipment at the counter. The woman who’d served Isobel, with the wide smile and violently swinging earrings, pulled a pencil from her own piled up curls. She jabbed at the till with it as if poking a dead animal for signs of life. ‘Morning, Jon! Give us a sec, I’ve flummoxed the only thing back here I absolutely cannot manage without.’

‘Thanks a lot, Mum.’

‘Sorry, Evie, but my mental arithmetic really is hideous. This flipping till!’

Isobel tuned out their conversation. She rubbed clammy hands over her jeans and tried blowing the tension away, the way Sophie had shown her two nights ago while she’d packed her holdall and committed to climbing that mountain. Listen to me, Is, I know what I’m talking about. I delivered Ella in the back of Mum’s Nissan, I’m the master of steady breathing. If you feel panicky, blow! Sophie had finished demonstrating the Lamaze technique before reverting to chewing her nails, recapping all the reasons Isobel shouldn’t leave.

Soph hated all this, but she’d like Coast at least. Sophie was into industrial light fittings and the beach-house look. She’d tried something similar at their parents’ semi. I want Sophie to feel at home, love, their mum had argued with Dad. Let her decorate the conservatory, this is our daughter and granddaughter’s home now too. Just while she worked off the store card balances that had seen her default on enough rent payments to trigger the eviction notice. Sophie would learn one day. Impulse cost.

Isobel traced the view stretching over the endless Atlantic and back down over the intimate clusters of gallerias and boutique bistros nearly enclaving the lobstermen working away on the trawlers. So far Fallenbay was living up to its online reputation. Like Sophie, their folks would love Coast too, would love Fallenbay. They would love it, but they would never know. Not that Ella could buy a four-scooper from the beach’s ice-cream hut or that Coast felt more like a cosy lookout point than an eatery (the universe having another laugh). They would never know because when the time came for truths, there would be nothing to tempt the Hedleys to visit this place, the bay of the fallen. Which was good. Because Fallenbay wasn’t a place to make memories. It was the place to bury them.

2

‘Ladies! Beautiful morning, isn’t it? Americano please. Woah, flapjack’s looking good, Cleo. Can I get a slice, for Sarah and Max too?’

Cleo hoped he didn’t mistake the flush in her cheeks for schoolgirl blushing. She always blushed a little for Jonathan Hildred. It was completely involuntary, like one of those hiccupping fits she sometimes suffered, or a flickery eyelid. She definitely didn’t fancy Jon – or no more than was acceptable for your best friend’s fiancé anyway. Jon just had that Daniel Craig thing going on, and a grin that could send grown women back to their teenage selves with little more than a compliment about a flapjack. He was going to look phenomenal in his wedding suit; Cleo could see him now, adjusting his cuffs at the altar, Bond style.

‘Sarah and Max on the beach?’ she trilled. Fancy schmancy. Of course she didn’t fancy Jon. Half the time she wondered if she was more excited about Sarah marrying Jon next summer than Sarah herself.

‘Nope, meeting them in half an hour at the . . .’ Jon dramatically fanned his hands, ‘. . . Marine Dinosaur Exhibition!’

‘Where?’

‘The aquarium. Max’s running an obsession with Godzilla. Sarah’s hoping to find something green and scaly in there to float his boat.’

‘I’ll get Mr Hildred’s Americano, Mum.’ Evie’s eyes were wide and lovely, and caked in too much bloody make-up again.

‘No! Don’t move from that spot until I can ring up an order, Eves. Kids are so techno-savvy nowadays, aren’t they, Jon?’ She banged the coffee grinds from the filter and a baby startled at the noise. Sam was always telling her she was too heavy-handed. This from an ex-boxer with knuckles like knees.

Evie made something bleep. ‘There,’ she declared. ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’

‘Julius Caesar,’ nodded Jon. Cleo fought not to mirror his smile.

Evie offered her smile freely. She looked like Cleo’s little girl again when she smiled like that. Cleo felt a burst of pride then resumed mourning the daughter who’d moved aside so this tempestuous, sulky, make-up-abusing pain-in-the-bum could steal her spot at the dinner table. She gave Evie a quick shoulder squeeze. ‘Well done, trouble. Heading for a B in maths too next month, aren’t you, my brilliant girl? There you go, Jon. Americano. Godzilla, did you say? You know, if Max wants to meet a grouchy green reptilian, I have a lounge-lizard with a snotty nose at home he can try shifting off my sofa.’

‘Mum,’ Evie groaned. ‘Dad can’t help getting ill when he’s laying bricks in the rain.’

‘Oh, Evie, I’m only playing.’ She wasn’t. ‘But I could’ve done with him looking at that microwave before he caught the lurgy. Keep your eye on it today, I think the timer’s on the blink.’

Jon handed Evie his money. ‘Makes for a nice change hearing one of our young adults defending their parent, Cleo. Usually it’s the parents who won’t hear a bad word. Loyalty’s admirable, right, Evie? Shows maturity.’

‘Right, Mr Hildred,’ beamed Evie.

‘And a B in GCSE maths? Great stuff. You know there are extra evening revision classes if you fancied really stretching yourself? Maybe see about pushing for an A if you’re up for a challenge? Elodie Inman-Holt’s enrolled; you two are pals aren’t you, you could buddy-up?’

Cleo felt a mild stab of competition. On Evie’s behalf, obviously. Why would Elodie even need extra classes? She was fluent in everything already. Languages . . . music . . . Elodie was like her God-awful mother Juliette, fluent in bloody life. And just to make things worse – okay, probably the part that really got up Cleo’s nose – Juliette’s daughter was one of the few teenage girls at that high school who didn’t feel compelled to daub herself with those horrendous eyebrows Evie couldn’t slather on garishly enough. Harry had recently made the mistake of comparing his twin sister to Sam the Eagle from The Muppets. Evie had given him a dead leg for it.

‘Are you running revision classes, Mr H?’

Jon patted his hard, flat stomach. ‘Not a chance, Evie. I need my evenings to keep the middle-aged spread at bay.’ Cleo could vaguely remember Sam’s washboard stomach. Vaguely.

‘You look fine to me, Mr Hildred.’ Was Evie blushing?

‘Evie and some of the girls saw you surfing down at The Village a few weeks ago, Jon. I think you have a fan club,’ teased Cleo.

‘Muum, shut up!’

‘What was it again? Gorgeous . . . well fit . . .’

‘Oh my God, Mum, that was Cassie, not me! You are so embarrassing.’

Jon scratched his nose. ‘Well fit, huh? Good to know, Evie.’

Cleo chuckled under her breath. Crap. Lorna Brooks was heading for the counter wielding something green and organic-looking in a Tupperware tub, Marnie crying that hungry baby cry from her hip. The school mothers all adored Jonathan Hildred, and Lorna would stand here all day gushing over him while Marnie screamed the place down.

Cleo swung into action. ‘Your change, Jon. Say hi to Godzilla! Ooh, and tell Sarah I’ll call her later. I’ve seen some am-az-ing canapés in Beautiful Bride mag. Lorna! What can I get for you?’

Lorna jiggled in that way fraught new mothers on three hours’ sleep jiggle their babies. Except Marnie was closer to nine months and already sturdy enough that she made Lorna, with her skinny arms and delicate pale chest, look like a waify big sister. Lorna readjusted her floaty neck scarf and Cleo braced herself. The woman always seemed to be on the brink of asking something profound but difficult to follow about global warming or, worse, the exact ingredients of Coast’s ‘organic’ biscuits. (The oats were organic, the butter was not. It had given Cleo sleepless nights.)

‘Cleo, help! Any chance you could throw Marnie’s lunch in your microwave? She’s so hungry at the mo, I can’t fill her up.’

Marnie gnawed on her mother’s shoulder. Lunch? At 10am? ‘Have you tried steak and chips?’ She was joking, obviously. Lorna’s clearly wasn’t a meat and deep-fried-anything kind of household.

‘I daren’t try her on anything too challenging, Cleo. Is that brie and cranberry baguette vegetarian? No bacony bits or surprises?’ Lorna reached a pale freckled hand over the counter and presented Marnie’s pot.

Evie had already been sucked back into the beam of her smartphone. ‘Evie?’ Cleo jabbed her with Marnie’s lunch. ‘Completely meat-free, Lorna. Would you like it toasted?’

Lorna glanced towards Jon, talking to the blonde girl still sitting on her own near the window. ‘No thanks, Cleo. It’s a real sun trap in that window, don’t think I could manage a hot sandwich.’

Blinds. There was another job Sam hadn’t gotten around to. Marnie cooed at the sight of Lorna’s baguette. The little girl shared her mother’s pale skin, and it was hot in that window; maybe they’d be more comfortable if they sat over by—

A loud bang exploded behind them.

‘Evie! I told you to watch that thing today!’

‘I did! I only put it on for twenty seconds! Hotspots and babies . . . I know the twenty-second rule, Mum.’

Cleo launched towards the microwave. ‘If you would just stop goggling that flipping phone and concentrate!’

‘The timer counted up instead of down, Mum. I swear, look . . . ’

A green crime scene waited inside the microwave. Customers were craning necks. ‘Lorna, I’m so sorry. Marnie’s lunch . . .’

Lorna grimaced. ‘It’s fine, Cleo. That was the last of Mummy’s homemade pesto pasta, wasn’t it, Marnie-Moo? But it’s fine. I have milk, she can have milk, until we get home.’

‘I’m so sorry, but the microwave . . . I won’t be able to warm a bottle.’

Lorna was already weaving through the tables back to her own spot in the window. ‘We have it covered, Cleo.’ She settled herself into her chair and began fumbling at her blouse.

‘Oh. Sure.’ Cleo’s eyes left Lorna’s pale bosom and clocked a couple of the kids on the terrace outside stop inhaling their food just long enough to grin at each other. She glared through the glass. ‘Keep that up, you little sods, and you can clear off.’ Getting Harry and Evie to feed from her had been all kinds of awful. Hell hath no fury like a nipple with mastitis.

Evie tensed. ‘Uh-oh, geriatric storm brewing, table 4.’

Cleo recognised something in the posture of the man at the table neighbouring Lorna’s. That incensed-embarrassed-unreasonable look that Cleo had once seen in a lunching corporate’s face just before she’d been dispatched from the department store’s restaurant to the ladies’ changing rooms. The manager thinks you’ll be more comfortable somewhere private, madam. Her neck burned at the memory. Harry and Evie’s need for sustenance had got in the way of a grown man’s need to finish his jacket potato without having to wrestle any of life’s big questions, such as whether or not boobs really were just for groping.

The woman at table 4, face grey and puckered, twisted in her chair to face Lorna. ‘My brother doesn’t know where to look!’

‘Sorry?’ blinked Lorna.

Cleo bristled. ‘Right.’

Evie caught Cleo’s elbow ‘Mum! What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to offer Lorna a free drink and a seat out of that blazing sun. Then I’m going to inform table four that Coast welcomes breast-feeding mothers, even if they are members of Juliette Inman-Holt’s PFA cult.’

She stalked around the counter, her bottom accidentally clipping two chairs on the way, but she didn’t care. ‘Lorna? Sorry to interrupt, I was just wondering, would you and Marnie like to use the new sofas? It’s cooler over there, with no customers who—’

Lorna reared like a snake, eyes wide and wild. ‘No customers to watch my baby feeding, is that it? Consuming the food Mother Nature intended for her?’ Lorna’s breast yanked free of Marnie’s lips, Marnie’s protestation immediate.

Cleo opened her mouth but her voice abandoned her, Lorna’s boob staring straight at her, the gypsy blouse risen defiantly over the top of its fullness.

Lorna stood. ‘It’s alright my five-year-old son has to look at filthy girly mags every time I take him to the newsagents, isn’t it? Absolutely fine when he flicks a music channel on that hordes of disco bimbos shake their thonged backsides at him? But . . .’ Lorna cupped a hand to her mouth . . . ‘Good God! Someone call the modesty police if a mother nurses her child. Well I’ve got news for you, Cleo Roberts.’ Lorna’s face had gone quite red. ‘My daughter has a right to feed freely! I have a right to use my breasts!’

3

Isobel startled at the sound of the woman behind the counter banging away at the coffee machine. A baby began to cry over near the other window. She felt a wave of purpose wash through her, then noted the Free Wifi sign framed and hanging on the far brick wall like a gift waiting to be stolen. All those thoughts swelled somewhere at the bottom of her like a rising threat. The doubt. The ridiculousness of her goals.

She clasped her writing pad like a religious scripture.

Base Camp 1. Simple enough. Home. Home was Base Camp 1.

She scribbled the next few lines of writing as if indenting them into the page made them more achievable somehow.

2 - Job

3 - Friends

4 - Partner/Family

5 - Reputation

6 -

The pen flicked free of her grasp, skittering to the floor.

‘Whoops, nearly.’ A pair of expensive deck shoes arrived where Isobel reached. Their owner scooped up her biro and offered it back to her with a smile. She noticed it now, his boyish handsomeness, but still it didn’t matter. She mustered a polite smile in return.

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem. A woman after my own heart.’

‘Sorry?’ He was older than Isobel but only a decade or so, and in that way that seemed to benefit the male sex and leave the females worrying about crows’ feet and dermal fillers.

He nodded at her notepad. ‘A list-maker. The world is divided into us and them, you know. The list-makers and the billionaires, according to Forbes.’

Isobel grimaced. She would definitely be worrying about crows’ feet one day. Probably very soon. ‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’

‘Forbes. According to them, the ultra-successful tend not to make lists. I can’t function without them myself. Good luck with yours, maybe you’ll buck the trend?’ Isobel watched his eyes travel to the tabletop. Oh no, was he? Bugger, he was, he was skim-reading her list. She fought against slapping a hand over her pad like a child hiding the answers to a test and glugged another mouthful of tepid tea instead. ‘Looks pretty aspirational. Hope you get to tick it all off soon.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I moved to Fallenbay with similar goals. It’s a great place.’ Isobel went with another smile. ‘See you then.’

‘Bye.’ Her breathing relaxed as soon as he turned. She studied her list, the blank spot waiting next to Base Camp 6. Was it a base camp? Or was it the summit? What was it she was hoping to achieve here in Fallenbay exactly? A Happily Ever After? She was thinking on this point very carefully when something blew up in the kitchen.

‘Evie! I told you to watch that thing today!’

Isobel stopped listening to the crisis over the exploding microwave. She was zoned out. Focused. Determined again.

Home. Job. Friends. Partner/Family. Reputation.

It was an aspirational list, he was right. It was just missing one final and integral point. Item 6. She penned it in without hesitation and a wave of calmness washed over her. If Sophie was going to watch her go down this route, then this would be Isobel’s consolation prize. The best she could shoot for. The second summit. This would be what she wouldn’t leave this shiny, clean, brochure-ready town without having first crossed off her list.

She clamped her pen between her fingers.

Base Camp 6.

SUMMIT: Criminal record.

4

‘Muuum? I can’t see, this water is dirty, I can’t see!’

‘You’re breathing all over the glass, Maxy. Look,’ Sarah grinned and pointed Max’s rolled-up activity sheet, ‘there’s your nose print.’

Max drummed his finger against the tank. ‘How is Pete the Pleth-io-thaur going to fit into this tank though, Mummy? When they are bigger than our house?’

Sarah’s heart leapt for the occasional lisp Max had adopted. It only caught here and there, she would be robbed of it altogether once his big teeth came through. She swept the blonde hair from Max’s eyes. He could be a poster child for Fallenbay’s surf culture. People were always mistaking him for Jon’s child. Unlike Will, Max looked nothing like their father. Yet. Will had been blonder at five too though. In a heartbeat he’d become a teenager, Patrick’s dark waves steadily trampling Sarah’s genes into submission. Will had inherited most of his dad’s brooding features now; they were all Patrick Harrison had bothered leaving of himself for his children to hang on to.

‘I wish Will came to the aquarium,’ sighed Max. ‘I need a piggyback so I can see in this tank.’

‘You know, you’re pretty lucky having your very own fifteen-year-old, Maxy.’ Max was the centre of the Harrison-Hildred household, everything seemed to orbit him like a crudely evolved planetary system. Football tournaments, swimming lessons, Sarah, Jon, Will – each spinning about Max at differing rates of significance. Max’s footings were solid; it was Will always on the periphery. Why was it so tricky? Fathoming out a rhythm that worked equally for the four of them? It felt like bobbing for apples sometimes: the closer Sarah tried moving Jon and the boys towards a common centre, the further away Will bobbed.

You’ll get him back, darling! her mother had reassured. He’s a teenager, let him get his angst out of his system. Only, Will wasn’t showing any angst. She’d quite like for Will to have a blow out, break something, slam a few doors. Instead of always being on the other side of one.

You’re looking a gift horse in the mush! Cleo had snorted over their breakfast at Coast last week. Be glad Will’s not into skimpy clothes and warpaint. Have you seen Evie’s eyebrows lately? I’m not kidding, Sar, I’m thinking of hiding her stash. Why can’t I have a normal teenager? Who does alco-pops or ciggies? Why does mine have to do kohl?

Sarah felt a tug on her sleeve. Max steered her to the next exhibit. Maybe she should be more grateful for Will’s nonchalance instead of analysing it like a mad scientist, pinning it on all the change she was inflicting on him. The house move. The wedding. The intricacies of a second marriage.

Her stomach lurched. It did that rather a lot lately. You are not pregnant, she reassured herself. You’re just a liar.

‘Mummy, you’re ringing.’

‘Careful, Max, you’ll pull my arm off.’ She fumbled through her bag, ‘maybe it’s Will, changing his mind about meeting us?’ It would be nice knowing where Will was spending any of his free time nowadays. She glanced at the caller ID, flicked off the volume and slid the phone into her jacket pocket.

‘Was it Will?’ Great orbs of light and shadow slid from the aquarium walls over Max’s hopeful face.

‘Nope. Only the estate agents, kiddo. Today’s a family day, they can wait.’

A new vibration thrummed over her chest. Resistance was futile. ‘Just a second, Max. They probably want to organise the For Sale sign. Hello?’

‘Hello, Mrs Hildred?’

She forgave him his mistake. Mothers in their mid-to late-thirties normally were married, weren’t they? Normally. It was all she’d ever wanted for the boys, a bit of normality. Positive role models. Love. Honesty. ‘Speaking.’

‘Hello, Tom here, Thacker and Daughters estate agents. I’m delighted to be ringing you with great news! We’ve received an offer on Milling Street.’

‘An offer?’ She could hear that almost-laughter thing her voice did when something ominous was coming and she needed to buy time before it hit. Like Ofsted declaring they were about to spring an inspection on Hornbeam. ‘But . . . but we’ve only just gone on the market, we’ve had one viewing!’

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

‘Yes . . . But I’m afraid we’re not taking anything less than the asking price.’

‘More good news, Mrs Hildred! The purchasers have offered the full asking price.’

Sarah winced. ‘But we haven’t even got our For Sale board up!’ Think. Were they in a chain? ‘We don’t want to be in a chain. Not even a short one.’ She felt sweaty. She was useless at bluffing.

‘Cash buyer, Mrs Hildred. Super, hey?’

Acceptance settled swiftly. She’d always been the accepting sort. ‘Can I get Jonathan to call you back, I’m just in the middle of something important with my son?’

Max buried his finger in his ear and began twisting it back and forth. She made a mental note to check if that crusty old bottle of hand sanitiser was still lurking in the bottom of her bag.

‘I’ll look forward to his call, Mrs Hildred. Cheerio.’

She shut off the phone. ‘Stupid estate agents, working on bank holidays.’ Max looked a question at her. They weren’t allowed to say stupid. ‘Sorry, kiddo. Come on, let’s see if we can find any of Godzilla’s cousins anywhere in the other tanks. Oh, look, Cretaceous Asia. Godzilla’s a Japanese dinosaur, right?’

Max looked up at her. ‘Godzilla isn’t a normal dinosaur, Mummy.’

‘Isn’t he?’

‘No. He’s made up from different bits of different dinosaurs.’

‘I see.’ She hadn’t got boxes. Sarah and the boys hadn’t even viewed any of the properties on the flashy cliffside development Jon had all the glossy brochures for. Compass Point. Navigate your family to a better lifestyle. Sarah cringed inwardly every time Jon pulled one out. Now he’d put an eye-watering deposit down. It was happening. Already. When everyone, everyone, said house sales dragged out, how they’d be on the market for months. Will’s GCSEs were starting soon, they couldn’t move now. Should’ve made more of a stand then, shouldn’t you? Now it’s too late.

‘What’s do you think my favourite bit is, Mummy?’

‘Hmm?’

‘My favourite Godzilla bit? Guess, Mummy.’

Sarah rubbed her forehead. ‘Tail?’ How was she going to break it to Will? He loved Milling Street. He loved his room, school ten minutes away by bike, the beach and harbour shops not even that.

‘Teeth!’

‘Hmm? Oh, his teeth. I see.’

‘No, look Mummy, teeth!’

She looked through the water. Something grimaced back at them. Max squealed with delight. ‘Jon! I know it’s you, Jon, I touched a shrimp with my actual finger!’ Max ran around the water tube, slamming into Jon’s legs.

‘Hey, big fella! Having fun? What did I miss? Where have you been? What did you see? Ready for flapjack?’

Jon had caught the sun over the weekend. Sarah had stifled a giggle last night when he’d shown her his new wetsuitshaped paler parts. Her body still reacted to him of course. It was her brain currently finding its role uncertain. Jon was handsome, charismatic, kind. Just because her mind was cautious didn’t mean her eyes didn’t enjoy what they could feast on. It was no different to Cleo tempting her with a fat slice of tiramisu when she was watching her calories. See how delicious it looks, Sarah, any sane woman would fancy a slice of that! Jon inspected Max’s crumpled activity sheet attentively, head furrowed in concentration, eyes bright and serious. Yes. Any sane woman would.

Did it really matter that the butterflies never fully arrived? She wasn’t a teenager any more for goodness sake, she and Jon were still compatible. Conversationally. Physically. Just, no butterflies. No big deal. Okay, so there had very definitely been butterflies when Patrick first burst into her life. Great big swarming butterflies of epic proportions, like Mothra, Godzilla’s giant winged adversary. But then Patrick was a bit of a shit, and so a bit of a shitty yardstick. If it weren’t for Max and Will, she’d regret ever clapping eyes on him. Their one-time adorable how-we-met story made her shudder now. Patrick swanning into the Students’ Union, shiny new camera swinging from his neck, bracing his hands at her table declaring Sarah’s to be the most perfect profile on campus and he’d know, he’d been staring through his lens at beautiful girls all day. I’m not a pervert, he’d assured her. Well, maybe one part pervert to four parts decent chap. She should’ve taken that swinging camera and garrotted him with it. Instead, she’d made love to Patrick Harrison all afternoon and fallen hopelessly in love, becoming Mrs Harrison by the following summer.

She glanced at Jon, Max still talking him through the creatures they’d already spotted. Jon was not a Patrick. And even though she didn’t feel butterflies, she still felt something every morning when Jon walked out suited and booted for work, and even more so now, while he was at his absolute best in casual weekend T-shirt and jeans mode. With Max, who adored him. She was lucky to get another shot at this. A family for the boys. At times she wondered if there’d been some silly mix-up. As if she was the wrong suitcase Jon had mistakenly plucked off the airport conveyor belt and was now too embarrassed to return to its rightful owner because of his own sheer stupidity at getting something so utterly obvious so utterly wrong. But only dimwits like her did things like that – although in her defence, a surprise trip to Portugal with a ten-year-old and a colicky newborn had turned out to be a particularly disorientating experience.

Now here she was. Four years into her second chance and Jon still hadn’t decided he’d made a terrible mistake. He just kept on driving her and the boys towards a hopeful horizon. It was the strangest thing.

‘Whoa, Maxy . . . Who’s this beautiful creature you’ve found in the aquarium? Can we take her home and keep her?’

Sarah’s shoulders relaxed again. ‘You looked like one of those gurners through the water,’ she smiled. ‘Reminded me a little of my Aunt Linda.’ None of Sarah’s father’s side were much for smiling, too busy in-fighting over big egos and small inheritances.

Jon slipped his hand under the hem of her jacket. ‘And you looked like a siren.’ He pulled her into him. He was wearing the terrible Spiderman aftershave Max had bought him for Father’s Day last year. Sarah let him kiss her, hoping it might be enough to chase away the fresh doubt. ‘What do you think, Maxy, is Mum hiding a mermaid tail under this long dress, do you think?’

Max shrugged. He didn’t care for mermaids. Sarah took a deep breath. ‘The estate agent just called.’

‘I know, he left me a voicemail. So, what do you think?’

Seventeen years she’d lived in that house. Will and Max’s only home. ‘Bit scary, I guess.’

‘And a little bit exciting?’

‘Sure. It’s just . . .’

‘A big change?’ Jon kissed her on the head and gave the back of her neck a gentle, reassuring squeeze. ‘It’ll be okay, Sarah. I promise. This is going to be a great move for us. All of us. Especially Will.’ He nuzzled into her. ‘This is mine and Will’s chance to start a new chapter together. Not as a confused young boy and his school counsellor, or wary son and the guy who moved in, but as equals, Sarah. This is our chance to start from zero, as equals. A solid family unit.’

5

There were two of everything in Curlew Cottage. Two saucepans, two plump little sofas, each with nautically inspired cushions, two bistro chairs sitting on the shady path out front. Isobel was disjointing the cottage’s ethos, a conspicuously single entity in a setting made for two. It didn’t strike her as a much-used holiday let. Holidaying couples looking for a peaceful bolthole from which to explore Fallenbay were welcome, the ad said. Dogs and young children, friendly or otherwise, were not.

‘All settled then? Is it still quiet?’ Sophie’s voice crackled down the line. Isobel pressed the phone against her ear and heard her dad and Ella roaring with laughter in the background.

‘Quieter than there.’ She flexed her achy calf muscles. The hill that wound its way up here was a killer. Snaking and rising all the way up to where the cottage sat like a lost shoe under a gloomy canopy of evergreens. Isobel had smelled her clutch burning on her first crawl up the private road, but the price had been right and the particulars had promised privacy. Obscurity. Curlew Cottage had pretty much delivered.

Sophie shut a door and the laughter died. ‘Weather improved?’

‘Yeah, today was hot.’

Isobel had driven through sheeting rain to Fallenbay, the air inside the cottage musty when she’d first arrived. Bright, white plastered walls cold and cave-like to the touch. It didn’t feel lived in at all, but then she’d sussed how to light the log burner and eaten her first meal-for-one looking out towards the harbour in the distance.

One-bed cottage . . . Fronted by private woodland . . . Open aspect to the rear . . . Sea view . . . Yes there was, but to see it she’d eaten her dinner standing up, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, the distant boats bringing welcome specks of colour through the little square window over the bathtub.

Sophie fell quiet again. Isobel checked her reception while Sophie thought of something to say. ‘So what are you thinking to your new digs? Now you’ve been there a couple of days? Did you ask about a landline?’

‘There’s a landline here, in the cottage. But I’m not sure how they’d charge for any calls I make so I’m just gonna stick with my mobile.’

‘Great. A mobile with no reception. Here’s hoping you keep it charged, at least. What about the rest of it?’

Of course it was charged, she wasn’t stupid. She looked around the clean, compact cottage kitchen. ‘It’s okay. It’s cosy.’

‘Looked pokey on the photographs.’

‘No, not pokey. Just . . . enough. Plenty of space actually, for a loner.’

‘You’re not a loner. Well, you’re not alone, anyway. Agh, I hate thinking of you there by yourself, Isobel.’

‘I’ll probably be back next week.’

‘No you won’t,’ Sophie said certainly. ‘You looked different when you left here, Is. Determined. And just as I was getting used to stealing your clothes again.’ Sophie was trying for upbeat. ‘Come back. Please? I’ll bunk with Ella, you can have the big room. We can come up with a brilliant plan – a bucket list! Everything you want to do with your life. I’ll help you, however I can, which probably won’t be much, granted. You’re the smart one, but I got the bigger boobs so it’s fine. Just . . . come home, Isobel. Please?’

She hovered next to the stable door, trying to catch another bar of signal. The sun was dying over the edge of the neighbouring woodland. These sessions are to help you make your way out of the woods, Isobel. Therapy speak. But it had been Sophie who’d led her through at the time, not Jenny and her analogies. If there had been any hint of a silver lining to the nightmare, Sophie had been it. They’d had a lifetime of lukewarm sisterhood, but then the blip, as their dad called it, had brought them together. The constant stream of unrelenting spite, the horrendous trail of filth and hate, it had somehow flowed out to something good right down at the core of them, forging their sisterhood into a solid, iron-like thing. They’d become a team Isobel could trust in, a message Sophie still hammered home at every given opportunity. And it was tempting. Despite everything Isobel knew now, Sophie’s suggestion to go home and pretend was just so achingly tempting.

‘I can’t.’

‘But what if you dip again, Is? You’re so many miles away from us.’

‘I’m not that far.’

‘Have you taken anything there with you?’

‘No.’

‘Not even for emergencies?’

‘No. That’s what phones are for. I’ll be fine.’

‘I have a bad feeling about this.’

‘You have a bad feeling about changing brands of shampoo, Soph. I can’t just pop a pill every time I struggle with something. I need a better mechanism than that.’

‘But . . .’

‘Sophie, relax. Really, it’s quite pleasant having a bit of thinking time. It’s kind of lovely here actually. There’s a sea view and everything. I walked down into the harbour this morning, had breakfast. It was good.’

‘So . . . does it feel like you’re kind of on holiday, sort of?’

Isobel’s eyes followed a darting movement outside, a squirrel skittering up into the branches. Perhaps she should’ve found somewhere less treed. She wouldn’t tell Sophie about the woodland just yet. She would keep that one in her pocket for now. Sophie’s brain already worked overtime thanks to natural sisterly concern and too much Most Evil on Discovery HD. Knowing there was woodland next to the cottage would freak her out entirely. It had been Isobel’s first thought when she’d seen the cottage ad. What would Sophie think? They both believed in big bad wolves.

Isobel held her cup of tea to her chest and breathed this new and foreign air. ‘I guess it does. It’s weird how quickly you get used to staying somewhere new.’ It was the staying alone bit that felt alien, not the waking up beneath gnarled timber beams or the super-soft mattress or the different brands of cleaning products left for her in the cupboard under the sink. She made a mental note to restock the cottage’s provisions before she left, whenever that would be.

‘I don’t want you to get used to it. Spend a few more days down there in Freaksville if you have to, read some books, eat some seaside shit . . . and come home?’

‘Everyone’s been fairly normal so far, Soph. No webbed feet or anything.’ Which wouldn’t have been that odd really, given the whole town’s thirst for watersports.

‘Who have you met? Where have you been? Male or female?’ There was a lilt of agitation to Sophie’s tone.

‘Sophie, relax. Just the old chap who owns this place, and a local coffee shop owner. She seemed quite nice, friendly.’ Isobel felt for the woman in Coast. The spat she’d witnessed hadn’t involved Isobel but her anxiety levels had still spiked. An actual real-life verbal altercation. Where people gesticulated and threw insults face-to-face, not hidden behind a computer keyboard. Or a username. A stupid username, like DEEP_DRILLERZ.

‘Did you just say coffee shop?’

‘Sophie, it’s fine—’

‘You promised you’d keep me in the loop!’

‘I am keeping you in the loop.’

‘No you aren’t. You went there. You went straight to Coast without telling me!’

‘Actually I walked past three times first. What a wimp, huh?’

Sophie made an exasperated sound. ‘You’re not a wimp, Isobel. Definitely not that. You’re just a bit . . . mental.’

Sophie had no idea. ‘Jenny thinks mental isn’t constructive terminology, Soph.’

‘She thought this little holiday idea of yours was legit, so let’s not kid ourselves that Jenny’s with the programme.’ A silence stretched between them. Across the yard the owner of the cottages loaded his wolf-dog into his battered Land Rover. ‘So you’ve met the owner of Coast. Fine. What about the old chap? The landlord?’

‘Arthur? He lives in the smallholding, sort of next door. The two cottages share the track, he lives in the bigger one with his massive dog. You should see it, Soph.’ The dog both scared and reassured Isobel. Anyone coming up that hill was announced by deep warning barks. Anyone who walked through the wrong boundary fence when they got up here was probably going to lose a leg. It wasn’t young kids and dogs Arthur didn’t want, it was a lawsuit.

‘So is he an “old chap” as in silver-fox? Or dentures-nextto-the-bed?’

‘Because I’m here to pull, Soph?’

‘I was only asking.’

Isobel rolled her eyes. Sophie, always the sucker for a good-looker. Start batting those eyelashes at the nice, decent boys for a change, Sophie Hedley, instead of all the slick-looking wild ones, their mum had yelled up the stairs many, many times. You won’t bring half the trouble back to this house!

‘Well?’

‘Somewhere between the two, I guess? He has grey bristles, wears a neckerchief and shouts a lot.’

‘Who to? The dog?’

‘I’m not sure, maybe. “Danny Boy”, he calls. I haven’t seen anyone else up here though. Maybe it is to the dog? Or to himself. Maybe he’s a touch—’

‘Mental too?’

‘Here’s hoping. It would be nice to be the normal one again.’

‘You are normal.’

‘Inconspicuous, then.’ Another silence. ‘I like him. He’s old-fashioned. Chops his own logs, mends his own gate . . . slowly . . . bit like dad.’ Arthur probably fed his dog the old-fashioned diet of postmen, too.

‘Good he’s just next door then.’ Sophie exhaled, long and slow. ‘So how was it in the café? Were you okay in there by yourself?’

That first trip into Coast had been a bit of a non-experience other than the eruption about the breast-feeding mother. Isobel had known roughly what to expect though before even setting foot inside the door. She’d done her homework and Googled it. To death. It was the people who’d thrown her. A steady stream of normal, everyday people enjoying the warm drinks and atmosphere. Not a monster in sight.

Isobel sighed. ‘Yeah, of course. All good, all good.’

‘So what did you do in there? I have a picture in my head of you sitting behind a newspaper, two eyeholes cut out of it.’ Sophie waited for a laugh.

‘Nothing really. Ordered a few pots of tea, a really good flapjack and just . . . thought about everything. About what I’m aiming for. One step at a time, like Jenny said.’

Name-dropping her therapist was a poorly veiled attempt to pretend any of this was a good idea. Jenny didn’t matter, only Sophie mattered. Sophie being on board was integral. This was all about them, Isobel and Sophie, sisters with their secrets.

‘And have they changed any? Those things you’re aiming for?’

Isobel let a strand of text run through her mind like the credits of a disturbing film. Clear as reading it onscreen again, his words crisp and sharp and penetrative.

Filthy little bitch. Dirty, filthy little bitch. Didn’t think of the consequences did you, bitch?

Consequences. Now there was a word. Isobel swallowed. ‘You think I’m on a wild goose chase, don’t you?’

Sophie hesitated. ‘No. I think you’re on a journey, Isobel. I’m just not sure it’ll lead you anywhere you really want to go.’

6

‘Then she says, “I have a right to use my breasts! My daughter has a right to be fed!”’

Cleo stopped for air. It was exhausting sounding like Lorna. Sarah seized her chance to speak. ‘This is the same Lorna we’re talking about here, isn’t it? Pretty head scarves, porcelain skin? Lovely but hyper son in Max’s class?’

Cleo nodded into the phone, resuming her Lorna impersonation full-fury. ‘ “First I’m harassed by that battleaxe” – that was when Lorna turned her baguette on me, Sarah – “and now YOU are discriminating against me too! Against my baby! You, Cleo Roberts . . . a mother!”’

Lorna had launched into an impressive tirade about ‘women like Cleo’, busy types too self-centred to fully appreciate the nutritional needs of their own babies, cheeky mare! But it had been hard enough for Cleo to hear all that guff; she wasn’t about to inflict it on Sarah too. Sarah’s battle with the boob had been worse than Cleo’s after Patrick ditched Sarah and the boys. She’d tormented herself over the whole horrendous thing, of course. Poor girl.

‘Do you know what she said then, Sar? “You’re supposed to support other women, not knock us down when we’re vulnerable!’’ ’

Sarah was about to play devil’s advocate, Cleo could smell it. Sarah always so annoyingly fair-handed, Cleo a raving madwoman by comparison.

‘Maybe she was feeling just a bit vulnerable? Gosh, I remember what I was like after Max was born. I don’t think I stopped crying for the first six months. I was a snotty, tired, milky mess. Poor Will. Stuck with a mum like that.’

‘Vulnerable? Lorna? Ha! I could see the whites of her eyes, Sarah. I braced myself for a sandwich-related injury. I’d have been splashed all over that hideous Fallenbay Dartboard page . . . BAGUETTE RAGE! Local businesswoman floored by fake brie! And anyway, your situation was unique. You had every reason to cry for six months, and more. Awful man.’

‘I think it’s Fallenbay Pinboard.’

‘I know. But it’s more like a dartboard. Who even takes part in those awful anonymous Facebook pages? Complaining about the street lighting, ripping the high school to shreds, negative, negative, negative. People are hideous. No wonder kids misbehave online, the parents are just as antisocial.’ Sam wandered into the kitchen, silently prodding at the leftovers. Max began yelling in Sarah’s background, something about a bloody finger. ‘The brie’s not fake, by the way.’

‘I have to go, Cle. Max’s trying to pull another tooth out, the tyrant. Sebastian Brightman has told him baby teeth are for babies. Seb only wants to be friends with boys who are growing their big teeth.’

‘Sounds like something Olivia Brightman’s offspring would say. Anyway, ew. I hate blood. Makes my buttocks go funny. I’ll leave you to it. Catch you in the week. Oh! And tell the school crazies not to boycott me, would you?’

‘Like they’d listen to me, Cle. A lowly teacher. See you.’

Cleo put the phone down. Sam was still foraging. Leave him long enough and the dishes wouldn’t need scraping at all. This was how their paths crossed now, Cleo at some mundane task, Sam quietly rooting nearby. They were like a night-vision segment on Countryfile. Two nocturnal creatures fumbling around the same hidden camera, occupying the same insignificant part of the ecosystem independently of one another. Except when they were fighting. Or feeding.

Sam popped something into his mouth and flicked on the kitchen TV. ‘Good quiche, Cle.’ She caught herself observing him like a farm vet again, looking for evidence of the middle-aged spread certain to sneak up on him while he wasn’t looking and cut short his life like his poor father’s. Builders had terrible diets. It was all bacon baps and flasks of syrupy tea. Ploughmen . . . apparently they knew how to eat.

Sam burst briefly to life. ‘That clipped the wicket!’

‘The microwave blew up today,’ Cleo said idly. I did tell you.

Sam made a non-committal noise and propped himself over the back of one of the dining chairs, reverently checking the scores he’d missed. His neck was sunburnt. Was he working outside again now? He’d been tiling en-suites the last time they’d spoken about his job. Sam had been working on the Compass Point development site, the latest target of the Hornbeam school mothers and their petitions. Juliette had soon rallied the troops when she realised her super-home would have to share the coastline.

Cleo began aggressively scraping plates. ‘I’ve been told to expect a boycott by the school mothers.’ Juliette’s PFA members hunted together in a well-orchestrated pack. You’ll be sorry, Cleo! Lorna had warned. Cleo already felt a bit sorry and she hadn’t actually done anything wrong. ‘All thanks to a silly misunderstanding about a breast.’ Sam wasn’t listening. ‘About a nipple, Sam . . . a great big nipple.’

‘Humph?’ he grunted, eyes fixed on the TV.

‘Lorna was sitting in the café window with both bangers out, Sam.’

Finally, a flicker of interest. ‘Fair play!’

Cleo smiled. Bangers was Sam’s favourite boob word. Quite possibly because it doubled up for sausages, another of his favourite things.

Sam yelled at the TV.‘Fair play, my man, fair play! One hundred-and-eight not out.’

Cleo scowled. Heathen. She wrung out the dishcloth and imagined Jonathan pouring Sarah a lovely glass of wine, listening attentively while she reflected on their day together at the marine dinosaur thingy.

‘There’ll be no end of nipples on the loose if we start hosting private functions like they do at the French place in town. Parties always get a bit rowdy; a bit of drunken debauchery might be just what the till needs.’

‘We?’ Sam laughed. ‘Coast is your party, Cleo. Always has been. I would be up for a bit of debauchery though, love. Shout up anytime.’

She ignored him. ‘Coast would be our party if you got involved. Convert the stores for me. Customers could watch the sunset over the ocean if we knocked through.’

‘I offered to help out at weekends, Cleo. You weren’t interested.’

‘Yes, but that was behind the counter. You’re a builder, Sam! Come builder this extension so we can expand . . .’

‘I’m not talking shop now,’ Sam said firmly. ‘I’ve been at it all day.’

Cleo scowled at the array of kitchen appliances awaiting her next move. ‘Evie Roberts, get down here and load this dishwasher or I’m confiscating that bloody iPhone!’

Sam jumped. ‘Bit louder, eh, Cleo?’ He ran dry, cracked hands back and forth through his hair. A cloud of plaster dust rose into the air above him. Cleo had fallen in love with that hair once. Kevin Costner hair. Before Sam’s had started to thin and hers started sprouting in new places.

‘Go and have a cuppa, Cleo, I’ll do it.’

‘No, no, you’ve been on site all day, Sam, you just said so yourself. On a bank holiday. This is supposed to be a perk of having teenagers, remember? Them occasionally helping with the menial tasks.’

There was a dribble of balsamic down Sam’s work fleece. More plaster dust clinging to the side of his eyebrow. He was such a child.

‘Evie’s been loading dishwashers all day, Cle. Let the kid have five minutes, hey? It’s her bank holiday too.’

‘She has not! I’ve been emptying the bloody dishwasher, thanks very much. Evie likes to look pretty and collect tips while I deal with exploding microwaves and hysterical mothers.’ Thoughts of Lorna made her stomach twist again. She’d never known such an awful bunch of parents, not in all the time the twins were at Hornbeam. Mothers used to be civil back then. All in it together. Cleo blamed the arrival of social media. ‘Monsters, they are,’ she hissed over the sink. ‘Momsters. I don’t know how Sarah can bear dealing with them on a daily basis.’

‘No one likes their job all the time, Cleo. I know I damn well don’t.’ He looked out onto the garden, the muscles in his cheek tensed.

‘Evie!’ Cleo barked. ‘Evie should like her job, Sam, she gets paid enough for doing bugger all.’ Cleo always sounded like a difficult teenager when bickering with Sam about their difficult teenager.

‘She’s fifteen.’

‘Yes, thank you, Sam. I was there, I do remember it vividly. Lots of screaming, lots of babies. Not so many husbands to hand.’

‘For crying out loud, Cle, let it go. Why do women have to drag stuff out? I was working, not dribbling over a barmaid somewhere. At least I’m still here. I bet Sarah doesn’t think I’m such a useless git.’

Cleo ignored him again. It had all worked out for Sarah in the end. Her prince charming rode in and trampled down any bumpy ground left by Patrick Harrison, the selfish shit. Cleo eased off thoughts of Sarah’s ex-husband and felt herself involuntarily forgiving Sam for that trail of balsamic dressing down his front. ‘Evie! I’m not yelling for you all night, you know.’

‘Sounds like you’re yelling for her all night, darling.’ Sam kissed her on the forehead. Cleo was sure he only did that nowadays just to piss her off.

‘Are you having a shower or are you going to keep coating the kitchen with a fine layer of dust?’

‘I love you too, darling wife. Thanks for the warmth. Think maybe tomorrow I’ll stay on site, cuddle up to a scaffold pole instead.’

‘Well if you didn’t always take Evie’s side,’ she spat irritably.

‘I take my side, Cleo. The side where emptying the dishwasher myself is going to cut less time out of my evening than arguing with you and the kids over it.’

‘Kid. Harry does his chores.’

‘Excellent! We must be parenting half-right then.’ He squeezed Cleo’s shoulder. There was movement in the kitchen doorway.

‘Afternoon, parents.’ Harry stretched his arms above his head, his lean, muscled midriff peeping out below his Beastie Boys T-shirt.

‘Hey Harry. Good day, son? What did you do with yourself, beach was it?’ Sam could flit seemlessly from sparring partner to relaxed father mode, just like that. Infuriating.

‘Nah, just hung out with the guys. The Village was dead so we played the courts mostly. Good day at work?’

Surfers’ Village was the name given to the area where the locals congregated for the best surf, away from tourists and holidaying politicians. Evie would’ve headed straight for The Village today too, but Harry won the coin flip and Evie got the extra shift at Coast. She was probably still sulking now.

Sam rubbed the back of Harry’s head, pulling him playfully into his chest. ‘Work’s work, kid. You make sure you come good on those exams. I don’t want to see your hands looking like these in a few years, okay?’

Cleo stole a sideways glance. ‘You need some cream on those, Sam. Harry, did you bring your washing down? I’m about to put a load on.’

‘It’s already in, I need my sports kit for the morning. I separated the whites and stuff.’

‘My marvellous son.’ She planted a kiss on Harry’s cheek as he passed her for the fridge. He pulled a carton of milk out of the door and began glugging from the spout. ‘Harry, get a glass.’ He stopped guzzling and grinned from behind a milk moustache. Her beautiful long-eyelashed little boy was rolling over for this tall, gangly, fridge-raiding youth.

‘What’s up with Evie?’ asked Harry.

‘Other than a severe allergy to chores, I don’t know, why?’

Sam walked into the sun room and slumped into one of the chairs, groaning as his body clocked off for the day.

‘I think she’s been crying. She came out of the bathroom like Alice Cooper and bit my head off for staring.’

Cleo rolled her eyes. ‘Justin Bieber’s probably going to be a father. Youth of today, I despair, I really do. I’ll go up in a minute, thanks love. Have you got any homework, H?’

‘I’ll check after I’ve texted Ingred.’

‘Just watch the network charges, okay, son? Denmark’s a long way away.’

That woke you up, Sam. International texting charges. Ingred had only been in the UK for three weeks, and Harry’s ‘girlfriend’ for just five days before the exchange trip ended and she’d returned to her Nordic homeland. ‘Have you tried Skyping, Harry? It’s free. Bloke at work uses it when his kid wants to talk to his mum.’

Cleo sniffed a scandal. ‘Why, where’s his mum?’

‘Rich got custody.’

‘Oh.’ Single fathers were like exotic beings to Cleo. She never could fully grasp how any mother coped without knowing every little detail about her children’s lives. It would drive her batty.

Harry shrugged. ‘Ingred’s Skype is glitchy or something. She said it’s the new phone she’s using. We haven’t hooked up online at all yet. No calls either, which sucks. Texts only.’

‘You sure she hasn’t given you the wrong number, Romeo?’ Sam teased.

Harry smiled to himself. ‘No, Dad. We’ve been texting… like, a lot.’

Sam grinned. ‘That’s good, son. And probably a good thing your calls aren’t getting through. No enormous bills hitting the doormat, right? You don’t want to overload her with charm anyway, I mean, sending you her new number you the day she arrived home, she’s keen enough. Must be the Roberts effect.’ Sam winked at Cleo. He’d no idea about that trail of balsamic vinegar, no idea at all. ‘Keep an eye on the texting costs, okay though, H? Your mother needs a new microwave. And a baguette-proof vest.’

Cleo scowled and stalked towards the stairs. ‘It’s rude to earwig phone calls.’ Sam wouldn’t be laughing for long. Cleo’s sights were set on more than just a new microwave. That little French place in the harbour had started themed food nights. They were doing a roaring trade with the locals. No more relying on seasonal tourism. Who wanted to be prepping food day and night, though? Music. That was the key. Give the local lot an open-mic night, live music and light bites only.

She clasped the newel post and took a lungful of air to shout Evie again. Sam would just have to get his head around it. She planted a foot on the bottom step and looked up. ‘Jeez, Evie! You scared me to death. What’s the matter with you?’ Evie stood dishevelled at the top of the stairs, long brown hair straggled and weed-like around her red and flustered face. Cleo hesitated. Evie was a stomper. A door slammer. A pain in the bottom. She wasn’t a crier. ‘Evie? What is it?’ Evie couldn’t form her words, her chest spasming as she tried to speak. Cleo’s own chest tightened. ‘Evie? For goodness sake, tell me what’s happened!’

‘Someone . . . someone . . .’

Cleo felt a panic rising. ‘Someone what?’

Evie burst into achy sobs. ‘Someone called me fat on Facebook. Everyone’s seen!’

7

Isobel peered into the window of West Coast Ink. She’d only planned to walk along the footpaths around the cottage but her feet had kept going, Forrest Gumpish. The town was quiet now, the bank holiday given up to preparations for the working week ahead. Shutters were closed or closing, car spaces vacant. One or two shops, like The Organic Pantry up ahead, replenishing stock in peace.

It was quite enjoyable, this meandering, nosing in windows, looking at the objects inside without first scanning the faces. It felt like taking a sneaky look behind the scenes of a set, standing on the stage of a pretend town after the performance had finished, the crowds gone home. She twisted the bracelet over her wrist and allowed her eyes to dart around the gloom through the glass. There weren’t any obvious signs that West Coast Ink offered laser removal, though it was hard to tell with the lights off. It didn’t look like a tattoo shop in there, she could see that much. At least not like the one she’d stood outside with Sophie two years ago, clammy and nervous and a little bit buzzy after too many cocktails, Sophie talking her through the door with fibs: It’s a nice pain! Trust me, you’ll ease into it!

It had not been a nice pain. She’d almost buckled, almost yelped, Enough! I don’t want any more! Leave it like that! But Sophie had smiled at her from the other chair, and Isobel, not wanting to let the side down, had given her a weak thumbs-up. Sophie was hardcore. More hard-headed. More hard-hearted. They shared their dad’s straight nose and mum’s dark hair (before the bleach) and now a tattoo on the wrist apiece, but there the similarities ended.

She carried on along the kerb just as a young girl strode out from behind a truck, straight into Isobel’s path. Isobel glimpsed two startled eyes over the top of the crate in the girl’s arms, then watched her launch the lot across the pavement.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see you!’ yelped the girl. She wore pumps and khaki shorts that made her look even more girlish as she began scrambling for the apples skittering across the kerb.

‘Let me help, I was in a world of my own too.’ Isobel made a grab for the crate first, righting it before any more rosy red orbs were lost. She lunged around the street, collecting the strays the girl hadn’t reached yet. They regrouped on the pavement, an armful each.

‘Thanks,’ smiled the girl. ‘Last week I dropped two watermelons. Have you ever seen one of those explode? My boss was not happy.’ She had the same healthy complexion as the other locals, pretty without make-up, just the hint of decoration where a small clip pinned her hair off her face.

Isobel piled the apples into the box. ‘Sometimes there just aren’t enough hands.’ The girl held an apple up for inspection. Isobel spotted just one or two dinks, then the girl’s neon-pink nail polish, then . . .

Isobel glanced away.

‘These are destined for the discount bin,’ the girl sighed.

Isobel smiled mechanically. The girl was missing the tip of her middle finger and nearly half of her index, neat little nubs where her fingers should be. ‘No, I’ll buy them,’ blurted Isobel. ‘I have a fiver on me I think, I’ll . . . make a crumble or something.’

‘Elodie! Ever heard of switching your phone on?’

A teenage boy in a checked shirt and a pair of those funky Clark Kent glasses all the kids seemed to like walked handsin-pockets across the street towards them. Isobel cringed. She used to tell the boys at St Jude’s not to do that, after one tripped down the art block steps and couldn’t free his hands in time. Ruined his teeth.

‘Hey, I thought you were conquering alien worlds with your gamer buddies,’ said the girl.

He slowed on his approach, giving Isobel a fleeting look. ‘I was, but Mum’s freakin’ out. The cleaner’s just found a letter crumpled inside the letterbox or something. She wants you to go home straight after your shift.’

The girl stiffened. ‘What sort of letter? Did she open it?’

‘No. Dad said it was an invasion of privacy. She thinks it’s from the conservatoire. You’d better be turning up, Elodie. If she finds out I haven’t been taking you, you’ll get a slap on the wrist and I’ll be grounded forever . . . without privileges.’

The girl glanced at Isobel standing there like a right wally waiting for her apples. ‘Your hardware’s safe, Milo. I haven’t missed a single Saturday class, okay?’

‘Sweet, ‘cos I’m about to start season seven of Sons of Anarchy on Netflix, I need my laptop.’

Isobel rocked back on her heels trying not to look like a spare part. ‘It’s good . . . definitely hang on to your laptop.’

The girl chortled, ‘He’s never off it! You need to get out more, Milo.’

Isobel hoped Elodie’s prettiness had been enough to save her from the taunts. She also felt for Milo who, like Isobel, was afflicted with a sassy sister. ‘A computer’s a bicycle for the mind, right? Can take you to a lot of places, I guess,’ she smiled.

‘He has that exact Steve Jobs quote! Milo’s training up to take over Apple. He’s just got to stop getting caught at school with iffy money-making schemes before Mum confiscates his laptop.’

‘Not everyone’s a child genius,’ Milo said. He gave Isobel a furtive glance.

‘Steve Jobs wasn’t a child genius. A billionaire school dropout, actually.’ She’d just danced on the grave of her teaching career. ‘I just mean, you know, why shouldn’t you take over Apple one day?’

Milo eyed her suspiciously. ‘Yeah . . . Anyway, so Elodie, you nearly done?’

‘Nearly,’ she beamed. ‘Let me just get a bag for these. I’ll try not to give you the really bashed ones.’ She nodded at Isobel and disappeared into the grocer’s. Her brother set his hands back into his pockets. He peered into the crate on the pavement and tapped it with his foot. Isobel thought about starting a weather conversation. Or a surf conversation; she could do with learning some lingo.

‘She’s not selling you these, is she? They’re knackered.’

‘Oh, they’re just a bit bruised. They’ll be fine.’

Elodie strode back outside into the evening sun.

‘Are all of these going cheap now then, Elodie?’ Milo asked.

‘Why? Do you want some? Don’t eat them around Dad, you’ll start him off on acid erosion again.’

Isobel ran her tongue over her molars, the sensitivity she always felt at the back there flaring in response.

‘Not for me. Hobo Bob’s digging around in the bins behind the French place again. I might take him some if they’re going.’

Isobel took the bulging paper bag from the girl.

‘They’re not going for free, Milo.’

‘Not even for a good cause?’

‘Cough up. I know you’re flush, I’ve seen you stuffing cash into your speakers.’ Milo looked rumbled. Isobel looked at her shoes but the girl started talking to her again. ‘Bob’s our resident homeless person. Kind of a fixture.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Isobel. ‘Why’s he homeless?’ It was an affluent enough town.

Elodie shrugged. ‘Didn’t he used to be a big banker or something, Milo? How do people go from high-flyer to eating from bins? It’s crazy.’

‘People fall from grace,’ offered Isobel. Others were pushed.

Milo’s hair flopped over his eyes. ‘Hobo Bob fell a long way. His wife spread rumours about him hurting little girls. Never proved he was a perv, though.’

An unpleasantness stirred in Isobel’s memory. A towering heap of captions. Little tart, Romio’s being too soft with her. Go on, hurt her mate. I’d hurt her. I’d hurt her till she squealed.

Isobel’s eyes flitted from shop front to shop front. French place? She found it: Pomme du Port.

‘Bob’s not a perv,’ laughed Elodie. ‘Stacey tried to buy him a latte again last week, he wouldn’t go near her!’

‘Was he ever convicted?’ Isobel’s neck was pulsing, her eyes fixed on the French restaurant. A banker would be good with computers, wouldn’t he? But then so was her gran. And most bankers could spell Romeo.

‘No evidence,’ said Milo. ‘Mud sticks, though. Like our Dad says, lose your name, lose everything.’

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