C. L. TAYLOR
The Accident

Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers in 2017

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © C.L. Taylor 2014

Cover photographs © Arcangel/ Shutterstock

Cover design © Henry Steadman

C.L. Taylor 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: 9780007540037

Ebook Edition © April 2014 ISBN: 9780007542703

Version: 2017-11-22

Praise for C.L. Taylor:

‘The Missing has a delicious sense of foreboding from the first page, luring us into the heart of a family with terrible secrets and making us wait, with pounding hearts for the final, agonizing twist. Loved it.’ Fiona Barton

‘Black Narcissus for the Facebook generation, a clever exploration of how petty jealousies and misunderstandings can unravel even the tightest of friendships. Claustrophobic, tense and thrilling, a thrill-ride of a novel that keeps you guessing.’

Elizabeth Haynes

‘A gripping and disturbing psychological thriller.’

Clare Mackintosh

‘As with all her books, C. L. Taylor delivers real pace, and it’s a story that keeps calling the reader back – so much so that I read it from cover to cover in one day.’

Rachel Abbott

‘A dark and gripping read that engrossed me from start to finish.’

Mel Sherratt

‘Kept me guessing till the end.’

Sun

‘Haunting and heart-stoppingly creepy, The Lie is a gripping roller coaster of suspense.’ Sunday Express

‘5/5 stars – Spine-chilling!’

Woman Magazine

‘An excellent psychological thriller.’

Heat Magazine

‘Packed with twists and turns, this brilliantly tense thriller will get your blood pumping.’

Fabulous Magazine

‘Fast-paced, tense and atmospheric, a guaranteed bestseller.’

Mark Edwards

‘A real page-turner … creepy, horrifying and twisty. You have no idea which characters you can trust, and the result is intriguing, scary and extremely gripping.’

Julie Cohen

‘A compelling, addictive and wonderfully written tale. Can’t recommend it enough.’

Louise Douglas

Dedication

For Chris Hall

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for C.L. Taylor

Dedication

Chapter 1

Friday 2nd September 1990

Chapter 2

Sunday 4th September 1990

Chapter 3

Wednesday 6th September 1990

Chapter 4

Saturday 9th September 1990

Chapter 5

Saturday 30th September 1990

Chapter 6

Friday 13th October 1990

Chapter 7

Sunday 15th October 1990

Chapter 8

Tuesday 18th October 1990

Chapter 9

Saturday 21st October 1990

Chapter 10

Tuesday 24th October 1990

Chapter 11

Saturday 18th November 1990

Chapter 12

Sunday 17th December 1990

Chapter 13

Wednesday 20th December 1990

Chapter 14

Saturday 4th January 1991

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Sunday 1st April 1991

Chapter 17

Saturday 7th April 1991

Chapter 18

Thursday 31st May 1991

Chapter 19

Friday 8th June 1991

Chapter 20

Wednesday 27th June 1991

Chapter 21

Thursday 21st May 1992

Chapter 22

Wednesday 12th August 1992

Chapter 23

Friday 23rd October 1992

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Acknowledgements

Read on for an extract of The Lie

Book club questions for The Accident by C.L. Taylor

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Chapter 1
22nd April 2012

Coma. There’s something innocuous about the word, soothing almost in the way it conjures up the image of a dreamless sleep. Only Charlotte doesn’t look as though she’s sleeping to me. There’s no soft heaviness to her closed eyelids. No curled fist pressed up against her temple. No warm breath escaping from her slightly parted lips. There is nothing peaceful at all about the way her body lies, prostrate, on the duvet-less bed, a clear tracheostomy tube snaking its way out of her neck, her chest polka-dotted with multicoloured electrodes.

The heart monitor in the corner of the room bleep-bleep-bleeps, marking the passage of time like a medical metronome and I close my eyes. If I concentrate hard enough I can transform the unnatural chirping into the reassuring tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock in our living room. Fifteen years fall away in an instant and I am twenty-eight again, cradling baby Charlotte to my shoulder, her slumbering face pressed into the nook of my neck, her tiny heart out-beating mine, even in sleep. Back then it was so much easier to keep her safe.

‘Sue?’ There is a hand on my shoulder, heavy, dragging me back into the stark hospital room and my arms are empty again, save the handbag I clutch to my chest. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

I shake my head then instantly change my mind. ‘Actually, yes.’ I open my eyes. ‘Do you know what else would be nice?’

Brian shakes his head.

‘One of those lovely teacakes from M&S.’

My husband looks confused. ‘I don’t think they sell them in the canteen.’

‘Oh.’ I look away, feigning disappointment and instantly hate myself. It isn’t in my nature to be manipulative. At least I don’t think it is. There’s a lot I don’t know any more.

‘It’s okay.’ There’s that hand again. This time it adds a reassuring squeeze to its repertoire. ‘I can pop into town.’ He smiles at Charlotte. ‘You don’t mind if I leave you alone with your mum for a bit?’

If our daughter heard the question she doesn’t let on. I reply for her by forcing a smile.

‘She’ll be fine,’ I say.

Brian looks from me to Charlotte and back again. There’s no mistaking the look on his face – it’s the same wretched expression I’ve worn for the last six weeks whenever I’ve left Charlotte’s side – terror she might die the second we leave the room.

‘She’ll be fine,’ I repeat, more gently this time. ‘I’ll be here.’

Brian’s rigid posture relaxes, ever so slightly, and he nods. ‘Back soon.’

I watch as he crosses the room, gently shutting the door with a click as he leaves, then release the handbag from my chest and rest it on my lap. I keep my eyes fixed on the door for what seems like an eternity. Brian has never been able to leave the house without rushing back in seconds later to retrieve his keys, his phone or his sunglasses or to ask a ‘quick question’. When I am sure he has gone I turn back to Charlotte. I half expect to see her eyelids flutter or her fingers twitch, some sign that she realises what I am about to say but nothing has changed. She is still ‘asleep’. The doctors have no idea when, or even if, Charlotte will ever wake up. She’s been subjected to a whole battery of tests – CAT scans, MRIs, the works – with more to come, and her brain function appears normal. There’s no medical reason why she shouldn’t come round.

‘Darling,’ I take Charlotte’s diary out of my handbag, fumble it open and turn to the page I’ve already memorised. ‘Please don’t be angry with me but …’ I glance at my daughter to monitor her expression. ‘… I found your diary when I was tidying your room yesterday.’

Nothing. Not a sound, not a flicker, not a tic or a twinge. And the heart monitor continues its relentless bleep-bleep-bleeping. It is a lie of course, the confession about finding her diary. I found it years ago when I was changing her sheets. She’d hidden it under her mattress, exactly where I’d hidden my own teenaged journal so many years before. I didn’t read it though, back then, I had no reason to. Yesterday I did.

‘In the last entry,’ I say, pausing to lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, ‘you mention a secret.’

Charlotte says nothing.

‘You said keeping it was killing you.’

Bleep-bleep-bleep.

‘Is that why …’

Bleep-bleep-bleep.

‘… you stepped in front of the bus?’

Still nothing.

Brian calls what happened an accident and has invented several theories to support this belief: she saw a friend on the other side of the street and didn’t look both ways as she ran across the road; she tried to help an injured animal; she stumbled and tripped when she was texting or maybe she was just in her own little world and didn’t look where she was walking.

Plausible, all of them. Apart from the fact the bus driver told the police she caught his eye then deliberately stepped into the road, straight into his path. Brian thinks he’s lying, covering his own back because he’ll lose his job if he gets convicted of dangerous driving. I don’t.

Yesterday, when Brian was at work and I was on bed watch, I asked the doctor if she had carried out a pregnancy test on Charlotte. She looked at me suspiciously and asked why, did I have any reason to think she might be? I replied that I didn’t know but I thought it might explain a thing or two. I waited as she checked the notes. No, she said, she wasn’t.

‘Charlotte,’ I shuffle my chair forward so it’s pressed up against the bed and wrap my fingers around my daughter’s. ‘Nothing you say or do could ever stop me from loving you. You can tell me anything. Anything at all.’

Charlotte says nothing.

‘It doesn’t matter if it’s about you, one of your friends, me or your dad.’ I pause. ‘Is the secret something to do with your dad? Squeeze my fingers if it is.’

I hold my breath, praying she doesn’t.

Friday 2nd September 1990

It’s 5.41 a.m. and I’m sitting in the living room, glass of red in one hand, a cigarette in the other, wondering if the last eight hours of my life really happened.

I finally rang James on Wednesday evening, after an hour’s worth of abortive attempts and several glasses of wine. The phone rang and rang and I started to think that maybe he was out when it suddenly stopped.

‘Hello?’

I could barely say hello back I was so nervous but then:

‘Susan, is that you? Gosh. You actually called.’

His voice sounded different – thinner, breathy – like he was nervous too, and I joked that he sounded relieved to hear from me.

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I thought there was no way you’d call after what I did. Sorry, I’m not normally such a twat but I was so pleased to run into you alone backstage that I … Anyway, sorry. It was a stupid thing to do. I should have just asked you out like a normal person …’

He tailed off, embarrassed.

‘Actually,’ I said, feeling a sudden rush of affection towards him. ‘I thought it was funny. No one’s ever thrown a business card at me and shouted “Call me” before. I was almost flattered.’

‘Flattered? I’m the one that should be flattered. You called! Oh God,’ he paused, ‘you are calling to arrange a drink, aren’t you? You’re not ringing to tell me I’m an absolute prat?’

‘I did consider that option,’ I laughed, ‘but no, I happen to be unusually thirsty today so if you’d like to take me out for a drink that could be arranged.’

‘God, of course. Whenever and wherever you want to go. All drinks on me, even the expensive ones.’ He laughed too. ‘I want to prove to you that I’m not … well, I’ll let you make your own mind up. When are you free?’

I was tempted to say NOW but played it cool instead, as Hels had ordered me to do, and suggested Friday (tonight) night. James immediately agreed and we arranged to meet in the Dublin Castle.

I tried on dozens of different outfits before I went out, immediately discarding anything that made me look, or feel, fat and frumpy, but I needn’t have worried. The second I was within grabbing distance, James pulled me against him and whispered ‘You look beautiful’ in my ear. I was just about to reply when he abruptly released me, grabbed my hand and said, ‘I’ve got something amazing to show you,’ and led me out of the pub, through the throng of Camden revellers, down a side street and into a kebab shop. I gave him a questioning look but he said, ‘trust me’ and shepherded me through the shop and out a door at the back. I expected to end up in the kitchen or the toilets. Instead I stumbled into a cacophony of sound and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the smoky darkness. James pointed out a four-piece jazz band in the corner of the room and shouted, ‘They’re the Grey Notes – London’s best-kept secret’ then led me to a table in the corner and held out a battered wooden chair for me to sit down.

‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘I can’t listen to jazz without it. You want one?’

I nodded, even though I’m not a fan then lit up a cigarette as James made his way to the bar. There was something so self-assured about the way he moved, it was almost hypnotic. I’d noticed it the first time I’d seen him on stage.

James couldn’t be more different from my ex Nathan. Whilst Nathan was slight, baby-faced and only a couple of inches taller than I am, James is six foot four with a solidity to him that makes me feel small and delicate. He’s got a cleft in his chin like Kirk Douglas but his nose is too large to make him classically good looking and his dirty blond hair continually flops into his eyes but there’s something mercurial about his eyes that reminds me of Ralph Fiennes; one minute they’re cool and detached, the next they’re crinkled at the corners, dancing with excitement.

I knew something was wrong the second James returned from the bar. He didn’t say anything but, as he set the whisky tumblers down on the table, his eyes flicked towards the cigarette in my hand and I instantly understood.

‘You don’t smoke.’

He shook his head. ‘My father died of lung cancer.’

He tried to object, to tell me that whether I smoked or not was none of his business, but his frown evaporated the second I put my cigarette out and the atmosphere immediately lightened. The band was so loud it was hard to hear each other over the squeal of the trumpet and the scatting of the lead singer so James moved his chair closer to mine so we could whisper into each other’s ears. Whenever he leaned in, his leg rested against mine and I’d feel his breath against my ear and neck. It was torturous, feeling his body against mine and smelling the warm spiciness of his aftershave and not touching him. When I didn’t think I could bear it a second longer James cupped his hand over mine.

‘Let’s go somewhere else. I know the most magical place.’

I barely had the chance to say ‘okay’ when he bounced out of his seat and crossed the room to the bar. A second later he was back, a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses and a threadbare rug in the other. I raised an eyebrow but he just laughed and said, ‘You’ll see.’

We walked for what felt like forever, weaving our way through the Camden crowds until we passed Chalk Farm. I kept asking where we were going but James, striding alongside me, only laughed in reply. Finally we stopped walking at an entrance to a park and he laid a hand on my shoulder. I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead he told me to shut my eyes because he had a surprise for me.

I wasn’t sure what could be quite so astonishing in a dark park at silly o’clock in the morning but I closed my eyes anyway. Then I felt something heavy and woollen being draped over my shoulders and warm spiciness enveloped me. James had noticed I was shivering and lent me his coat. I let him lead me through the entrance and up the hill. It was scary, putting my trust in someone I barely knew, but it was exhilarating too and strangely sensual. When we finally stopped walking he told me to stand still and wait. A couple of seconds later I felt the softness of the worn cotton rug under my fingers as he helped me to sit down.

‘Ready?’ I felt him move so he was crouched behind me, then his fingers touched my face, lightly brushing my cheekbones as they moved to cover my eyes. A tingle ran down my spine and I shivered, despite the coat.

‘I’m ready,’ I said.

James removed his fingers and I opened my eyes. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

I could only nod. At the base of the hill, the park was a chequerboard of black squares of unlit grass and illuminated pools of yellow-green light cast by glowing streetlamps. It was like a magical patchwork of light and dark. Beyond the park stretched the city, windows twinkling and buildings sparkling. The sky above was the darkest navy, shot with dirty orange clouds. It was the most breathtaking vista I’d ever seen.

‘Your reaction when you opened your eyes …’ James was staring at me. ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.’

‘Stop it!’ I tried to laugh but it caught in my throat.

‘You looked so young Suzy, so enchanted – like a child on Christmas Day.’ He shook his head. ‘How is someone like you single? How is that even possible?’

I opened my mouth to reply but he wasn’t finished.

‘You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met,’ he reached for my hand. ‘You’re funny, kind, intelligent and beautiful. What on earth are you doing here with me?’

I wanted to make a joke, to ask if he was so drunk he couldn’t remember leading me up the hill, but I found I couldn’t.

‘I wanted to be here,’ I said. ‘And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’

James’s face lit up as though I’d just given him the most wonderful compliment and he cupped my face with his hands. He looked at me for the longest time and then he kissed me.

I’m not sure how long we kissed for, lying there on a rug on the top of Primrose Hill, our bodies entwined, our hands everywhere, grasping, pulling, clutching. We didn’t remove our clothes and we didn’t have sex, yet it was still the single most erotic moment of my life. I couldn’t let go of James for more than a second without pulling him towards me again.

It grew darker and colder and I suggested we leave the park and go back to his.

James shook his head. ‘Let me put you in a taxi home instead.’

‘But—’

He pulled his coat tighter around my shoulders. ‘There’s time for that, Suzy. Plenty of time.’

Chapter 2

I wait until Brian leaves for work before I go through his things. It’s nippy in the cloakroom, the tiled floor cold under my bare feet, the windowed walls damp with condensation but I don’t pause to grab a pair of socks from the radiator in the hall. Instead I thrust my hands into the pockets of Brian’s favourite jacket. The coat stand rocks violently as I move from pocket to pocket, pulling out the contents and dropping them to the floor in my haste to find evidence.

I’ve finished with the jacket and have just plunged both hands into the pockets of a hooded sweatshirt when there’s a loud CRASH from the kitchen.

I freeze.

My mind goes blank – turns off – as though a switch has been thrown in my brain and I’m as rigid as the coat stand I’m standing beside, breathing shallowly, listening, waiting. I know I should move. I should take my hands out of Brian’s fleece. I should kick the contents of his wax jacket into the corner of the room and hide the evidence that I am a terrible, mistrusting wife but I can’t.

My heart is beating so violently the sound seems to fill the room and, in an instant, I’m catapulted twenty years into the past. I’m twenty-three, living in North London and I’m crouching in the wardrobe, a backpack stuffed with clothes in my left hand, a set of keys I stole from someone else’s jacket, in my right. If I don’t breathe he won’t hear me. If I don’t breathe he won’t know that I’m about to …

‘Brian?’ The sense of déjà-vu falls away as the faintest scraping sound reaches my ears. ‘Brian, is that you?’

I frown, straining to make out anything other than the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of my heart, but the house has fallen silent again.

‘Brian?’

I jolt back to life, as though the switch in my brain has been flicked the other way, and I pull my hands out of his sweatshirt.

The hallway carpet is warm and plush under my feet as I inch forward, pausing every couple of seconds to listen, as I head towards the kitchen. The smell of bleach fills my nose and I realize one hand is covering my mouth, the scent of disinfectant still fresh on my fingers from cleaning the bathroom earlier. I pause again and try to slow my breathing. It is coming in small, sharp gasps, signalling a panic attack, but I am no longer afraid that my husband has come back to retrieve a forgotten briefcase or a lost house key. Instead I’m scared of—

‘Milly!’

I’m almost knocked off my feet as an enormous Golden Retriever bowls down the hallway and launches herself at me, front paws on my chest, wet tongue on my chin. Normally I’d chastise her for jumping up but I’m so relieved to see her I wrap my arms around her and rub the top of her big soft head. When her joyful licking gets too much I push her down.

‘How did you get out, naughty girl?’

Milly ‘smiles’ up at me, tendrils of drool dripping off her tongue. I’ve got a pretty good idea how she managed to escape.

Sure enough, when I reach the kitchen, the dog padding silently beside me, the door to the porch is open.

‘You’re supposed to stay in your bed until Mummy lets you out!’ I say, pointing at the pile of rugs and blankets where she sleeps at night. Milly’s ears prick up at the mention of the word ‘bed’ and her tail falls between her legs. ‘Did silly Daddy leave the door open on his way to work?’

I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who’d refer to herself and her husband as ‘Mummy and Daddy’ when speaking to a pet but Milly is as much a part of our family as Charlotte. She’s the sister we could never give her.

I shut Milly back in the porch, my heart twisting as she looks beseechingly at me with her big, brown eyes. It’s eight o’clock. We should be strolling through the park at the back of the house but I need to continue what I started. I need to get back to the cloakroom.

The contents of Brian’s pockets are where I left them – strewn around the base of the coat stand. I kneel down, wishing I’d grabbed a cushion from the living room as my knees click in protestation, and examine my spoils. There’s a handkerchief, white with an embroidered golfer in the corner, unused, folded neatly into a square (given to him by one of the children for Christmas), three paper tissues, used, a length of twine, the same type Brian uses to tie up the tomatoes in his allotment, a receipt from the local supermarket for £40 worth of petrol, a mint imperial, coated with fluff, a handful of loose change and a crumpled cinema ticket. My heart races as I touch it – then I read the title of the film and the date – and my pulse returns to normal. It’s for a comedy we went to see together. I hated it – found it rude, crude and slapstick – but Brian laughed like a drain.

And that’s it. Nothing strange. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing incriminating.

Just … Brian stuff.

I sweep his belongings into a pile with the side of my hand, then scoop them up and carefully distribute them amongst his pockets, making sure everything is returned to where I found it. Brian isn’t a fastidious man; he won’t know, or care, which pocket held the change and which the cinema ticket but I’m not taking any chances.

Maybe there is no evidence at all.

Charlotte didn’t squeeze my hand when I asked if her secret had anything to do with her father. She didn’t so much as twitch. I don’t know what I was thinking, imagining she might respond – or even asking the question in the first place. Actually I do. I was following up a hunch; a hunch that my husband was betraying me, again.

Six years ago Brian made a mistake – one that nearly destroyed not only our marriage, but his career too – he had an affair with a twenty-three-year-old Parliamentary intern. I raged, I shouted and I screamed. I stayed with my friend Jane for two nights. I would have stayed longer but I didn’t want Charlotte to suffer. It took a long time but eventually I forgave Brian. Why? Because the affair happened shortly after one of my ‘episodes’, because my family is more important to me than anything in the world and because, although Brian has many faults, he is a good man at heart.

A ‘good man at heart’ – it sounds like such a terribly twee reason to forgive someone their infidelity, doesn’t it? Perhaps it is. But it’s infinitely preferable to life with a bad man and, when Brian and I met, I knew all about that.

It was the summer of 1993 and we were both living in Athens. I was a TEFL teacher and he was a widower businessman chasing a big deal. The first time Brian said hello to me, in a tatty tavern on the banks of the river Kifissos, I ignored him. The second time I moved seats. The third time he refused to let me continue pretending he didn’t exist. He bought me a drink and delivered it to my table with a note that said ‘Hello from one Brit to another’ and then walked straight out of the pub without a backward glance. I couldn’t help but smile. After that he was quietly persistent, a ‘hello’ here, a ‘what are you reading?’ there and we gradually became friends. It took me a long time to lower my barriers but finally, almost one year to the day after we first met, I let myself love him.

It was a warm, balmy evening and we were strolling beside the river, watching the lights of the city flicker and glow on the water when Brian started telling me about Tessa, his late wife, and how devastated he was when she lost her battle with cancer. He told me how shocked he’d been – the disease had progressed so rapidly – and then how angry, how he’d waited until his son was staying with his granny and then he’d smashed up his own car with a cricket bat because he didn’t know how to deal with his rage. His eyes filled with tears when he told me how desperately he missed his son Oliver (he’d left him with his grandparents in the UK so he could fulfil a contract in Greece) but he made no attempt to blot them away. I touched his face, tracing my fingers over his skin, smudging his tears away and then I reached for his hand. I didn’t let go for three hours.

I push open the door to Brian’s study and approach his desk, instantly feeling that I have intruded too far. I wash my husband’s clothes, I iron them, some of them I buy, but his study represents his career – a part of his world that he keeps distinct from family life. Brian is a Member of Parliament. Saying it aloud makes me so proud but I wasn’t always that way. Seventeen years ago I was bemused when he’d rail against ‘Tory scum’, ‘class divides’ and ‘a failing NHS’ but Brian wasn’t content to sit on society’s sidelines and moan. When we returned to the UK from Greece, still flushed with happiness from our impromptu bare-footed wedding on a beach in Rhodes, he was resolute. We’d settle in Brighton and he’d start a new business – he had a hunch recycling would be big – and then, when it was established and making a profit, he’d run for Parliament. He didn’t have so much as an economics O-Level but I knew he’d do it. And he did.

I never stopped believing in him, I still do in many ways, but I am no longer in awe of him. I love Brian but I can also see only too well how vain and insecure his career choice has made him. Flattery goes a long way when you’re approaching your mid-forties, sixteen stone and balding – particularly when the person doing the flattering is young, ambitious and works for you. Brian has changed since Charlotte’s accident. We both have, but in different ways. Instead of our daughter’s condition bringing us together we’ve been forced apart and the distance between us is growing. If Brian’s having another affair I won’t forgive him again.

I take another step towards my husband’s desk and my fingers trail over the brushed silver frame of a black and white photograph. It’s of Charlotte and I on a beach in Mallorca, taken on the first day of our holiday. We’ve still got our travelling clothes on, our trouser legs rolled up so we can paddle in the sea. I’ve got one hand raised to my forehead, protecting my eyes from the sun whilst the other clutches our daughter’s tiny hand. She’s staring up at me, her chin tilted, eyes wide. The photo must be at least ten years old but I still feel a warm swell of love when I look at the expression on her face. It’s pure, unadulterated happiness.

A floorboard in the corridor squeaks and I snatch my fingers back from the photograph then sigh. When did I become so neurotic that every creak and groan of a two-hundred-year-old house sent me catatonic with fear?

I look back at the desk. It’s a heavy mahogany affair with three drawers on the left, three on the right and a long, thin drawer that sits in between. I reach for the brass handle of the centre drawer and slowly ease it open. Another floorboard squeaks but I ignore it, even though it sounds closer than the last. There’s something in the drawer, something handwritten, a card or letter maybe and I reach for it, being careful not to disturb the mounds of paperclips and rubber bands on either side as I attempt to slide—

‘Sue?’ says a man’s voice, directly behind me. ‘What are you doing?’

Sunday 4th September 1990

James and I had sex.

It happened on Saturday night.

He called me in the afternoon and the first thing he said was ‘I’ve barely slept for thinking about you.’

I knew exactly how he felt. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him either. I’d woken up on Saturday morning with the most terrible feeling of dread that I’d never see him again. I was convinced I’d said something unforgiveable on Friday night and that, in the cold light of day, he’d realized that I wasn’t the woman for him after all.

So sure was I that, when James rang and said he couldn’t stop thinking about me, I was totally floored.

‘Absolutely,’ I said when he said he needed to see me ASAP. ‘If I jump in the shower now then hop on the tube I could be in Camden in—’

‘Actually I was thinking that we could meet for dinner this evening.’

What must he think of me – taking him literally like I had no life and no self-control? He didn’t laugh, thankfully, instead asked if I’d ever been to some fancy restaurant in St Pancras. I’d never heard of it and said as much, so James explained that it had come highly recommended by a friend.

Of course then I had another clothing dilemma (finally settling on my tried and tested little black dress) and was twenty minutes late as I walked in the restaurant at 8.20 p.m., trying not to ogle the stunning décor, the linen and crystal dressed tables and the immaculately turned out maître-d’ who was showing me to my table. James stood up as we drew near. He was dressed in a three-piece grey suit with a lilac cravat at his throat and elegant silver cufflinks at his wrists. I felt dowdy in my three-year-old dress and scuffed heels but, when James looked me up and down and his eyes widened in appreciation, I felt like the most attractive woman in the whole restaurant.

‘I can’t stop staring at you,’ he said after the maître-d’ seated me, handed us our menus and then left. ‘You always look beautiful but tonight you look,’ he shook his head as though dazed, ‘ridiculously sexy.’

I felt myself blush as his eyes flicked to my cleavage. ‘Thank you.’

‘Honestly Susan, I don’t think you have any idea of the effect you’re having on me, and every other man in the room.’

I thought that was a bit over the top but when my eyes flicked to the two men having a business meeting at the next table they nodded at me appreciatively.

‘So,’ James reached across the table for my hand as I drained my first glass of wine. ‘What do you like?’

I glanced at the menu. ‘The scallops sound nice.’

He shook his head and slipped his fingers between mine, sliding them back and forwards. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

I tried to swerve away from the question, to a more neutral conversation, but James topped up my wine glass and fixed me with that intense look of his.

‘I haven’t been able to get you out of my head all day,’ he said.

‘Me neither.’

‘I don’t think you understand.’ He tightened his grip on my hand and lowered his voice. ‘I only spent one evening with you but I haven’t been able to do anything because my mind and body have been craving you.’

I nodded, too shy to admit how many times I’d luxuriated in the fantasy of him lying naked beneath me.

‘It’s killing me,’ he continued, ‘sitting opposite you at the table, not able to touch you, not able to kiss you, not able to,’ his voice became gravelly, ‘fuck you.’

I didn’t look away. Instead I ran my hand over his, lightly tracing my fingers over the contours of his knuckles and whispered, ‘There are rooms upstairs.’

‘So there are.’ He smiled widely. ‘But now I know how much you want me, I’m going to make you wait.’

I squealed in protest but he shook his head, still grinning, and poured me another glass of wine.

‘Shall we order?’ he said. ‘The scallops look nice.’

The non-sexual mood didn’t last long and by the time our starters arrived, the air was blue. It wasn’t the sort of thing I’d normally talk about in a fancy restaurant but James kept slipping his fingers in and out of mine, I was circling his ankle with my stockinged foot and we were on our second bottle of wine and when he asked me if I’d ever had sex alfresco I was feeling bold so I admitted to sex in a tent, sex in a back garden after a party and a sandy attempt at oral sex on a beach. James listened to my stories, his eyes shining with excitement then urged me on, asking me if I’d ever indulged in S&M or role play, demanding I tell him what my favourite position was. I giggled as I told him that Nathan and I had messed around with silk scarves and handcuffs.

‘How about you?’ I asked after the waiter had placed our main courses in front of us. ‘What have you tried?’

‘Very little,’ James raised an eyebrow, ‘compared to you.’

He was smiling when he said it but there was a judgemental tone in his inflection that rankled me.

James noticed my change in mood immediately.

‘Oh Suzy.’ He grabbed my hand. ‘Suzy-Sue. Are you sulking? Darling, I was only playing. Look at me, please.’

I raised my eyelashes then laughed at the pouty expression on James’s face – an obvious imitation of my own.

‘I’ve been very naughty,’ he said, running his thumb over the back of my hand, ‘and I’ve done some terrible things but,’ his eyes glittered with promise, ‘not as terrible as the things I’m going to do to you.’

‘Is that a threat or a promise?’

He released my hand, cut into his steak and smiled. ‘Both.’

How we managed to check in, make it upstairs in the lift and operate the door mechanism to the room with our clothes still on, I have no idea because the second the door slammed behind us we tore at each other’s clothes, ripping off shirts, dresses, stockings and underwear. The sex was fast, furious, animalistic and over quickly, so desperate was our desire to fuck. We lay in each other’s arms, sweaty and panting for all of ten minutes before James rolled me onto my side, his erection pressed against my lower back, and fucked me again. At some point in the night we had sex in the bathroom. We were supposed to shower together to get clean but the lure of the water, the soap and two slippery bodies was too much. By the time we collapsed onto the bed again, the sun was peeping through the curtains.

‘I feel like I’m in a dream,’ James said, tracing his finger down my forehead, along my nose and resting in the dip of my cupid’s bow. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.’

‘I know.’ I stroked his arms, wrapping my hand around the contour of his bicep, cradling the muscle in my palm. ‘I can’t believe this is really happening.’

‘It is.’ He leaned towards me and kissed me tenderly, then parted my lips with his tongue and kissed me again, harder this time, his hand on my breast. Seconds later he was on top of me again. It must have been after six before we finally fell asleep.

Chapter 3

‘What?’ I snatch my hands from the drawer and spin around to face my accuser. ‘I wasn’t doing anything. I was just looking for—’

‘Got you!’ The tall, auburn-haired man standing in the doorway points and laughs uproariously. ‘Brilliant! You should compete in the Olympics, Sue. I’ve never seen anyone jump so high!’

‘Oli! You frightened me half to death.’

My stepson laughs again, his freckled face lighting up with amusement. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’

I force a smile but behind my back my hands are shaking. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at university?’

‘I was. Am. Sort of.’ He adjusts the weight of the rucksack he’s wearing on one shoulder and smiles. ‘Field trip in Southampton. I thought I’d drop in and see Dad en route.’ He peers around the study. ‘I’ve missed him, haven’t I?’

‘By about twenty minutes. He’s in London today.’

‘Damn.’ He casts another look around, hoping perhaps that Brian will magically materialize, then looks back at me and frowns. ‘You okay, Sue? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I’m fine.’ I push the drawer closed and cross the study. ‘Honestly.’

Oli’s eyes dart over my face, trying to read my expression as I approach him. ‘How’s Charlotte?’

I sigh, deflating as the air leaves my body. I’ve been so pumped on adrenalin searching through Brian’s things that now I’ve stopped I feel drained.

‘She’s …’ I want to tell him the truth – that Charlotte is no different than she was yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that but he looks so worried I lie instead. His exams are coming up soon and he’s worked so hard. ‘… She’s looking a little better. There was more colour in her cheeks yesterday.’

‘Really?’ His expression brightens again. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘It’s … progress.’

‘And has she, you know, shown any signs that she might wake up?’

‘No, not yet.’ The secret’s the reason she’s still asleep, I know it is. Maybe once I know what it is I’ll understand why, and then I’ll be able to help her.

‘Something … something … music,’ I hear my stepson say.

‘Sorry? What was that, darling?’

Oli smiles the same indulgent smile I’ve seen a hundred times since Charlotte’s accident – it’s the one that says it’s okay for me to be away with the fairies, considering what’s happened. ‘Music. Have you tried playing Charlotte her favourite songs? It works in Hollywood films.’

‘Music.’ She adored Steps and S Club Seven and their ridiculously catchy tunes and simple dance routines when she was a toddler but that was years ago. ‘I haven’t bought her a CD for years. It’s all MP3s and downloads these days, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you know what she likes?’

‘No idea.’ He shrugs. ‘Lady Gaga maybe? Jessie J? Doesn’t everyone under the age of sixteen worship her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Or you could check her iPod to see what her highest rated or most frequently played songs are.’

‘You can do that?’ I make a mental note to find Charlotte’s iPod.

‘Or maybe ask one of her friends?’

‘Yes, yes I could,’ I say but the suggestion makes me frown. There’s been an outpouring of teenaged concern on Charlotte’s Facebook page – lots of ‘luv u m8’ and ‘gt wl sn ♥’ – but I haven’t heard so much as a peep from the two most important people in her life – her boyfriend Liam Hutchinson and her best friend Ella Porter. How could I have failed to notice?

Oli glances at his watch. ‘Shit. I didn’t realize the time. I’ve got to run. Next time I’m down I’ll pop in to see Charlotte.’ A shadow crosses his face. ‘Sorry I haven’t been there for her more. Life’s just been really—’

‘I know.’ I put a hand on his forearm. ‘You’ve got a lot on your plate. The best thing you can do right now is study hard and make us all proud.’

We walk in companionable silence down the stairs, across the hallway and into the kitchen where Milly, our hairy Houdini, is waiting for us, her tail thumping the tiles. I reach up to Oli for a goodbye hug and it strikes me for the umpteenth time how quickly time passes. It seems only yesterday that we shared our first hug and his arms embraced my knees instead of my shoulders.

‘I’ll tell your dad you called in,’ I say into his shoulder.

‘Cool.’ He kisses me on the top of my head then reaches down and scratches Milly behind her ears. ‘Be a good girl, Mrs Moo.’

‘Drive carefully!’ I shout after him as he lollops out of the kitchen and crosses the porch in two long strides. He raises a hand in acknowledgement and is gone.

I’m still standing at the kitchen window staring out into the front garden long after Oli’s little red Mini has pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the road. Our brief conversation in the study has cleared my mind and I suddenly feel ridiculous for searching Brian’s pockets. Other than some emotional detachment on his part, and a hunch on mine, I’ve got no reason to suspect that he might be cheating on me. Of course Charlotte’s accident was going to change the dynamics of our relationship – how could something so terrible not? They say leopards never change their spots but Brian was a broken man when I found out about the affair. He cried and said he was ‘no better than that monster you were with before you met me’ and swore he’d never hurt me again. And I believed him.

The shrill sound of a phone ringing slices through my thoughts and, before I know what I’m doing, I’ve shut Milly in the porch and I’m taking the steps to the landing as fast as I can. Brian’s private line rarely rings and only then when it’s something very important.

‘Hello?’ I’m gasping for breath by the time I burst into the study and snatch up the receiver.

‘Mrs Jackson?’ I recognize the voice immediately. It’s Mark Harris, Brian’s personal assistant.

‘Speaking.’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt you Mrs Jackson but I was wondering if I could speak to your husband. I wouldn’t have disturbed you but his mobile’s off.’

‘Brian?’ I frown. ‘He’s on his way to work.’

‘Are you sure?’ There’s a clunk and the sound of papers being shuffled, then another clunk. ‘It says in the diary that he won’t be in until this afternoon.’

‘The diary must be wrong …’ I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. There has to be a rational explanation for the fact that my husband told me one thing and his PA another. ‘Brian definitely said he was going to work when he left this morning.’

‘Oh.’ Mark pauses. ‘Did they open early for him or something?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The hospital. He mentioned yesterday that he was going to see Charlotte this morning. I presumed that was why he couldn’t make it in until the afternoon.’

I sink into Brian’s black leather chair, the phone limp in my hand.

When we visited Charlotte yesterday evening, the consultant told us they’d be running more tests on her and we wouldn’t be able to visit until the afternoon at the earliest. He was very sorry but there would be no morning visits today.

‘Mrs Jackson?’ Mark’s voice is so faint it’s as though he’s a million miles away. ‘Mrs Jackson, is everything okay?’

Wednesday 6th September 1990

I haven’t heard from James for three days and I’m starting to worry. He left the hotel room before me on Sunday morning because he had to go home and get changed before rehearsal and I haven’t heard a word from him since.

I keep running the time we spent together over and over in my head but I can’t find anything wrong. I did ramble on a bit over dinner about how excited I was that Maggie had given me the opportunity to design costumes for the Abberley Players and how the bar job meant I’d finally be able to ditch TEFL and sew in the daytime but I asked James plenty of questions too. And I didn’t smoke once. Not even with my coffee.

Sunday morning, before he left, he leaned over the bed and kissed me on the lips. He said he’d had the most amazing night of his life, that he couldn’t bear to leave me and he’d ring that evening.

Only he didn’t.

And he didn’t ring on Monday evening either.

By Tuesday night I was so stressed I called Hels. She talked me down off the ceiling and said there were all kinds of reasonable explanations why James hadn’t called and he’d ring when he got the chance. She told me to relax and get on with my life. That’s easy for her to say. She hasn’t been single for years. She can’t remember how torturous it is, sitting in, trying to watch a film but all the time staring at the phone, wondering if it’s working – then getting up to test it to find that it is.

Oh God. The phone is ringing right now . Please, please let it be him.

Chapter 4

I’m curled up on the sofa when Brian gets home, a book in my hand, a glass of wine on the coffee table and my feet tucked up under my bum. It’s a familiar scenario, and one that would normally signal a happy, relaxed Sue, but I’m on my third glass of wine and I’ve read the same paragraph at least seven times.

‘Hello, darling.’ My husband pops his head around the living room door and raises a hand in the same easy manner as his son, twelve hours earlier.

I smile in acknowledgement but my body is tense. It’s not the thought that he’s having another affair that’s tearing at me, it’s the fact he’s been using our daughter’s accident to cover his tracks. I’ve been torturing myself all day – poring through my diary and the one in Brian’s study (there was nothing in the drawer, just some headed notepaper), looking for anything to back up, or even discount, my suspicions – but I found nothing. If it wasn’t for the phone call with Mark this morning I wouldn’t have a shred of evidence.

‘You okay?’ He raises a hand as he strolls into the room with Milly at his side. When he reaches the sofa he kisses me gently on the lips and sits down. ‘How’s your day been?’

‘Okay.’

He reaches for the cushion behind his back, throws it onto the armchair, leans back with a sigh and then looks at me. ‘Just okay? I thought you were going to go into town and treat yourself to a new dress?’

‘I …’ For a second everything feels normal – my husband and I, having a chat about our day – but then I remember. Everything is far from normal. ‘I didn’t go. I was too busy.’

‘Oh?’ He raises an eyebrow and waits for details but I change the subject.

‘Oli popped by, this morning.’

‘I missed him again?’ He looks genuinely gutted. ‘What did he want?’

‘Nothing in particular. He was on his way to Southampton for a field trip. I think he’s going to call in again on his way back.’

‘Oh, good.’ Brian brightens again. His relationship with his son is different from his relationship with Charlotte, it’s more complex. They were joined at the hip when Oli was a child, clashed furiously when he was a teen and have developed a mutual respect since. Theirs is a comfortable friendship, tempered by a similar sense of humour and challenged by different political views. They laugh easily but when they clash it’s Titan-like. Charlotte and I always run for cover.

I twist to place my book and my wine glass on the coffee table, temporarily hiding my face from my husband. I feel sure he must have noticed the strained expression on my face. Trying to appear ‘normal’ when all I want to do is rage at him is exhausting, but I can’t scream at him. The last thing Charlotte needs is for me to suffer another of my episodes. I have to be calm. Logical. One lie does not an infidelity make. I need more evidence.

‘You okay?’ There’s concern in Brian’s voice.

‘Great,’ I twist back. ‘How was work?’

‘Urgh.’ He groans and runs a hand through his hair. It was once as bright a shade of auburn as Oli but it’s now ninety per cent grey, what’s left of it. ‘Hideous.’

‘How was the train journey?’

He casts me an enquiring look. I’m not normally so interested in the details of his daily commute. ‘Same as normal,’ he says then reaches across the sofa and pats one of my knees. ‘You okay, darling? You seem a bit … tense.’

My fingers are knotted together. Was I twisting them while Brian was talking? It’s amazing, the little messages a body can leak. I look from my fingers to my husband. His body isn’t saying anything unusual. He looks as relaxed and calm as normal.

‘Why did you lie to me, Brian?’ So much for staying calm and logical.

His mouth drops open and he blinks. ‘Sorry?’

‘You made out you were going to work.’

‘When?’

‘This morning. You didn’t go, did you?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘That’s odd, Mark said you weren’t there.’

‘Mark?’ Brian snatches his hand from my knee. ‘Why would you ring my PA?’

‘I didn’t,’ I say. ‘He rang me.’

‘Why?’

‘He said he had something important to discuss with you. Didn’t he mention it when you went into the office in the afternoon? If you went in.’

‘Of course I did. And yes,’ he shifts position so he’s turned square towards me, ‘now I come to think of it, he did have something fairly urgent to discuss with me.’

‘Great. So,’ I maintain eye contact, ‘where were you this morning, Brian?’

My husband says nothing for a couple of seconds. Instead he runs a hand over his face and takes a few deep breaths. I wonder if he’s steadying himself, hiding his eyes from me so I can’t see the lies he’s fabricating now I’ve confronted him.

‘I …’ he looks at me, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘I was going to see Charlotte.’

‘You didn’t! We were both there when the consultant said—’

‘Sue.’ He holds up a hand and I bite my tongue. ‘I was planning on seeing Charlotte this morning. I planned it days ago. I know you can’t bear it when she’s left alone so I was going to surprise you, suggest that you take yourself into town to get a manicure or a haircut or a new dress or something while I sat with her. Then, last night, the consultant told us about the tests and that pretty much scuppered my plans so …’

‘So?’ I say the word so loudly Milly lifts her head from the carpet and looks at me.

‘So I went into town instead. I visited the library, went for a swim, did a bit of shopping and just had a bit of …’ he cringes, ‘I guess you’d call it “me time”.’

‘Me time?’

‘Yes.’ He looks me straight in the eye.

‘So you took the morning off to give me some … me time … and when the consultant told us that we couldn’t visit Charlotte you decided to have some … me time … for yourself instead?’

He shrugs uncomfortably. ‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you mention it?’

‘When?’

‘When you came in just now? Why didn’t you mention it?’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Sue.’ Brian slumps forward, his head in his hands. ‘I really don’t need this. I really don’t.’

‘But …’ I can’t finish my sentence. The whole situation suddenly seems faintly ridiculous and I’m not sure why I’m continuing to argue. Brian planned a treat for me and it fell through so he took a few hours to himself. That’s perfectly reasonable. So he didn’t walk through the door and tell me all about it – so what? I’m not his keeper, he doesn’t have to report his every move to me – I’d never do that to him, not after what James put me through.

I look at the hunched, tired shape on the other end of the sofa. He looked so fresh, so optimistic when he walked in ten minutes ago. He looks ten years older now.

‘I’m sorry.’ I reach out a hand and lay it on his shoulder.

Brian says nothing.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

The grandfather clock in the corner of the room tick-tocks the minutes away.

‘Brian,’ I say softly. ‘Please look at me.’

After an age he peels his fingers away from his face and looks up at me. ‘I don’t want to argue, Sue, not after everything that’s happened.’

‘Me neither.’

I squeeze his shoulder and he reaches a hand around and lays it on mine. The warmth of his palm on my skin has an immediate calming effect and I exhale heavily.

‘Okay?’ Brian says, his eyes searching mine.

I’m about to nod, to pull him close for a hug, to lose myself in the warm, musky scent of him when a thought hits me.

‘Was the pool busy?’ I ask. ‘When you went for your swim?’

Brian looks confused then smiles a split second later. ‘Rammed. Bloody kids everywhere. Half term isn’t it, so what did I expect?’

I don’t know what you expected, I think as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer, but I’d have expected it to be pretty damned empty considering it closed for renovations two weeks ago.

We sit by Charlotte’s bedside in silence; Brian holding one of her hands, me holding the other. The heart monitor bleeps steadily in the corner of her room. We didn’t speak on the way in but we often keep a companionable silence in the car, particularly when the radio’s on, and Brian had no reason to think there was anything unusual about the fact I spent the whole journey staring out of the window. I was trying to decide what to do – to confront him about his swimming pool lie or bite my tongue and pretend everything is fine. I chose the latter – for now.

‘They still haven’t fixed the emergency button,’ I say. My voice sounds horribly loud in the small room.

Brian looks at the grubby yellow tape covering the red button above Charlotte’s bed. ‘Typical. I don’t suppose they’ve sorted the TV either.’

I reach for the remote control and press a button. The TV flickers to life and we watch Bargain Hunt for all of thirty seconds before the screen fills with white noise. I turn it off again.

‘It’s a bloody joke.’ Brian shakes his head. ‘I’ve campaigned for – and achieved – a three-fold budget increase for this hospital and it’s still falling down around our ears. And don’t even get me started on MRSA. Have you seen the grime on the windowsill? What do the cleaners actually do here? Mist each room with eau de bleach then go for a fag?’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’ I pull an antiseptic wipe out of the packet on Charlotte’s bedside table and wipe down the windowsill, then the frame of Charlotte’s bed and the door handle. ‘I think they’re just overstretched.’

‘They should still fix that bloody button. What are we supposed to do in an emergency? Wave a white flag out the window?’

Brian sighs and shakes out his newspaper. Sometimes he reads the more interesting or controversial articles aloud. They have no effect on Charlotte but it helps fill the visit.

With the cleaning done I turn my attention to our daughter. I straighten her sheet, untucking then re-tucking it, then I brush her hair, wipe her face with damp cotton wool and rub moisturizer into her hands then hover at the side of the bed, my hands twisting uselessly in front of me. Charlotte’s hair wasn’t tangled, her face wasn’t dirty and her hands weren’t dry but what else can I do? I could hold her hand. I could tell her how much I love her. I could beg her to please, please open her eyes and come back to us. I could cry. I could wait until I was all alone in the room, lean over the bed, gather her in my arms and ask her why. Why didn’t I notice she was in so much pain she’d rather die than live one more day? My own child. My baby. How could I not know? How could I not sense that?

I could plea bargain with God. I could beg him to let me switch places with her so she could smile again, laugh again, go shopping, chat with her friends, watch films and spend too much time on the internet. So she could live instead of me.

But I’ve done all of those things. I’ve done them so many times over the last six weeks that I’ve lost count and nothing, nothing has brought her back to me.

‘I’m sorry, we can only allow a maximum of three visitors at a time. I’m afraid one of you will have to—’

I twist round to see who’s speaking. A nurse is standing with a young couple, just outside the door. I recognize the tall, blond man she’s talking to. It’s Danny Argent, one of Oliver’s friends. I don’t recognize the girl with him.

‘But—’ His eyes meet mine. ‘Hi Sue.’

‘Danny.’ I glance at Brian. He’s frowning. ‘What are you doing here?’

He takes a step into the room. The nurse tuts loudly but he ignores her.

‘We,’ he glances back at the attractive mixed-race girl in the corridor, ‘Keisha and me, we wanted to see Charlotte. Is that okay?’

Brian clears his throat. He’s had a problem with Danny ever since we were called to A&E to witness Oli having his stomach pumped after a teenaged drinking binge. Brian went white when he saw his son lying semi-conscious on a hospital trolley, then purple when he spotted Danny leaning against the wall nearby, one grubby trainer on the paintwork, the other kicking the wheel of the trolley. He’s never forgiven him for getting his son so drunk he was hospitalized but Oli won’t hear a bad word said against his best friend. As far as he’s concerned, nightclub promoter Danny can do no wrong.

‘Sue?’ Danny says again. He jerks his head towards Keisha who smiles hopefully at me.

I look at Brian. To an outsider he looks perfectly normal but I know what’s going on behind his eyes. He’s wondering if Danny’s got anything to do with Charlotte’s accident. His protective hackles are rising just seeing him in the same room as his daughter. I’ve got nothing against Danny. He’s vain, self-obsessed and materialistic – and he’s not someone I’d choose to be Oli’s best friend – but he’s not a bad person, he’s not dangerous. He’s always treated Charlotte like a kid sister, much to her disdain, but I can’t go against Brian on this, even suspecting what I do. This is about what’s best for Charlotte, not the two of us.

‘I’m not sure …’ I start, my eyes flicking from Danny to Brian and back. ‘I don’t know if—’

Brian’s chair squeaks on the bleached lino as he stands up. ‘I need a coffee.’ He shoots me a meaningful look. ‘I’ll get you one, Sue. You stay here.’

Danny looks as surprised as I feel as Brian gives him a cursory nod and then leaves the room. Several silent seconds pass as we all wait for someone to decide what happens next.

‘Come in, come in,’ I say at last, waving my hand to beckon Keisha in. She falters then drifts towards Danny and stands as close to him as she can without knocking him over. I’ve seen Milly do the same with Brian. She’ll press herself so tightly against his knees he struggles to stay upright. With Milly it’s a sign of her utter devotion and, from the look on Keisha’s face, I’m fairly certain the motivation is the same.

Danny barely acknowledges his girlfriend’s presence. If it wasn’t for the fact he just swung an arm around her shoulders and rested a hand on the back of her neck I’d say he wasn’t even aware she was in the same room. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Charlotte for the last five minutes.

‘How is she?’ he asks.

I shrug. It’s a well-practiced response – half hopeful, half realistic. ‘The doctors say the worst of her injuries are healing well.’

‘So why …’ he frowns. ‘… hasn’t she woken up?’

‘They don’t know.’ I squeeze Charlotte’s hand. She’s so still and silent you’d imagine it to be cold but it’s not, it’s as warm as mine.

‘Really? You would have thought that they’d be ab—’

There’s a loud sniff and we both turn to look at Keisha.

‘Oh my God,’ Danny looks appalled at the tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘Stop it, would you. You’re embarrassing me.’

I tense at his tone. James was the same, cold in the face of tears.

Keisha covers her face with her hands but she can’t hide her tears. They drip off her jaw and speckle her pink top with red splashes.

I reach out a hand but I’m sitting too far away to touch her. ‘Are you okay?’

She shakes her head and swipes at her cheeks with her right hand; her left clutches the hem of Danny’s leather jacket. She must be eighteen, twenty tops, but the gesture is that of a five-year-old child.

‘It’s just,’ she swallows back a sob, ‘it’s just so very sad.’

I’m surprised by her accent. I didn’t expect her to be Irish.

‘Yes it is. It’s very sad. But we’re still optimistic. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t pull through.’

Keisha wails as though her heart is breaking and wrenches herself away from Danny.

‘Keish,’ he snaps, a muscle pulsing in his cheek. ‘Keisha, stop it.’

‘No.’ She wraps her arms around her slender waist and steps backwards towards the door. ‘No.’

‘Keisha?’ I stand up and take a slow step towards her. I hold out a hand, palm upwards as though I’m approaching a startled foal. ‘Keisha, what is it?’

She looks at my hand and shakes her head.

‘I’m sorry.’ She takes another step towards the door, then another. She’s trembling from head to foot. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘We all are.’ I’m trying to stay calm but my heart is beating violently in my chest. ‘But there’s no need to be so upset. She really will get—’

‘That’s not what I mean. I’m sorry that—’

‘Keish!’ Danny’s voice is so loud we both jump. ‘Calm the fuck down.’

‘No.’ She tears her gaze from Charlotte’s face to look at her boyfriend. ‘She needs to know.’

‘Know what?’ What’s she talking about? ‘What do I need to know, Keisha? Tell me.’

She and Danny stare at each other, their eyes locked. His eyes narrow. He’s warning her, silently ordering her to shut up.

‘Keisha!’ I need her to look at me. I need to break whatever spell Danny has cast on her. ‘Keisha!’

‘Sue? Why are you shouting?’ Brian appears in the doorway behind Keisha, a cup of steaming coffee in each hand.

I stare at him in astonishment. How long has he been there?

‘I knew it.’ He glares at Danny. ‘I bloody knew there’d be trouble if I let you—’

He’s interrupted by Keisha who moans softly, then shoulders Brian out of the way and sprints out of the room. Hot coffee slops onto the cold, vinyl floor.

‘Keish!’ Danny’s after her in a flash.

There’s a horrible moment when he and Brian face off in the doorway and I think someone’s going to throw a punch but then Brian steps to the side to let Danny pass. I hear Keisha shriek something as her boyfriend’s trainers pound the corridor then the room falls silent again.

The heart monitor beep-beep-beeps in the corner of the room.

Brian looks at me, confusion and shock etched onto his face. ‘What the hell happened?’ There’s an unspoken accusation behind the question and he looks at Charlotte, concerned. ‘I could hear that girl screaming from the vending machine in the corridor. I’m surprised the nurse didn’t come back. Or security.’

‘What did she mean?’ He places the coffee cups on the bedside table and takes Charlotte’s other hand.

‘Who?’

‘The girl with Danny. She shouted something as she was running down the corridor.’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

Brian fixes me with a look. ‘She shouted, “Stupid fucking girl. She trusted me, she thought I was her best friend, and look what happened to her”.’

Saturday 9th September 1990

It was James on the phone on Wednesday. He was terribly apologetic, said some awful things had happened in his personal life and asked if I’d ever be able to forgive him for leaving me hanging. I wanted to be angry, to tell him that I deserved to be treated better and that he couldn’t just expect me to forgive him because he’d deigned to pick up the phone. Instead I said, ‘Buy me a beer and I’ll think about it.’ He called me an ‘angel’ then and said it was typical of the amazing person I was that I’d be so understanding.

When we met for a beer I tried to find out more about these ‘personal things’ that had stopped him from calling but he skirted the issue, telling me he’d reveal all once we’d been together a bit longer. (So we’re ‘together’ are we? Interesting!)

Almost inevitably we ended up in bed together. Again.

We’d been to the Heart and Hand in Clapham Common and, as last orders were called, I suggested we get the tube back to my flat because I had a couple of bottles of wine that needed drinking. James jumped at the idea. He said he couldn’t wait to see my flat and what my things said about me. As it turned out all he saw as we spilled through the front door, into the bedsitting room and onto my futon was a couple of magnolia-painted walls and the white ceiling.

Afterwards, as we lay in each other’s arms, listening to ‘Monkey Gone to Heaven’ by the Pixies on repeat (we were both too lazy to get out of bed and change the CD), I asked James when I’d get to see his place. A cloud passed over his face and he said, ‘Never hopefully.’ When I asked what that meant he shrugged and said he needed the loo. When he came back he said something that made me laugh and that was it, subject changed without me even noticing.

I won’t give up so easily next time the subject comes up …

Chapter 5

‘Keisha Malley?’ Oli reaches across the table for a biscuit and bites into it. He’s only been back in the house for ten minutes and he’s nearly demolished an entire pack of chocolate Hobnobs. ‘Fit black girl? Yeah I know her, goes out with Danny.’

It’s the day after the incident with Keisha and Danny in the hospital but I’m still reeling. What did she mean – ‘She trusted me, she thought I was her best friend, and look what happened to her.’

Brian and I talked about what had happened all the way home and for hours into the night but we still couldn’t unravel it. It took all my self-restraint, and Brian’s firm hand on the phone, not to call Oli at midnight to ask him for Danny’s number so I could get some answers there and then.

‘Did Charlotte ever mention anything about Keisha being her best friend?’

‘Keisha? Her best friend? You’re kidding me, right? What about Ella? Those two are as thick as thieves.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Or did they fall out?’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. Charlotte never mentioned falling out with Ella but then …’ I tail off. I’m starting to get the impression there’s a lot I don’t know about my daughter’s life.

Oli pulls a face. ‘It’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it? A fifteen-year-old and a nineteen-year-old being best friends? Or is it different with girls?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘But why would Keisha say that if it wasn’t true?’

‘She’s a woman. She’s mental!’ He laughs then looks contrite. ‘Sorry Sue, present company excepted.’

‘Oliver James Jackson,’ Brian bellows from the porch. ‘Are you insulting your mother again?’

He fixes Oli with a steely stare but he can’t stop his lips from twitching into a smile and giving him away.

His son doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Thought I’d give you the day off, old man.’

‘Oi!’ Brian crosses the kitchen and lightly cuffs him round the back of his head. ‘Less of the old thank you very much.’

I smile as they slip effortlessly into their roles for the father-son banter-athon. Information is swapped, insults are traded and jokes are told and never once do the grins slip from their faces. I adore watching the two of them together but a tiny, hateful part of me is jealous. Theirs is a closeness I could only dream of sharing with Charlotte. When she was born, when I held her in my arms for the first time, my head was full of happy imaginings for the future – the two of us shopping together for shoes, gossiping over manicures, cooing over Hollywood hunks in the cinema, or just sitting around the kitchen table chatting about our days. But it never quite turned out that way.

I was Charlotte’s favourite person in the whole world until she turned eleven but then something changed. Instead of skipping home excitedly from school to tell me all about her day she became sullen and withdrawn. Instead of giggling on the sofa together at an episode of Scooby Doo, she’d hole herself away in her room with her laptop and mobile phone for company. She’d scowl if I so much as peeped my head around the door to offer her a cup of tea. Brian tried to reassure me that it was normal, all part of her becoming a teenager. He reminded me of the way his relationship with Oli had suffered at a similar age and, although I could vaguely recall them clashing it was always over things like bedtimes and pocket money. It didn’t seem as personal as it was between Charlotte and I.

Her refusal to talk to me was the reason I bought her her first diary. I figured it would give her an outlet for all the new, confusing feelings she was having – including ones of resentment towards me.

‘Isn’t that right, Sue?’ Oli waves a hand in front of my face and laughs. ‘Anyone home?’

‘Sorry?’ I look from him to Brian and back. ‘What was that?’

‘Dad just made a joke. Well …’ he raises an eyebrow, ‘… he thinks it’s a joke and I was trying to get you on side because …’ he tails off and laughs, presumably at the blank look on my face.

‘Did Sue ask you about Keisha?’ Brian asks, changing the subject.

Oli nods but he’s just shoveled in the last Hobnob and his mouth is too full to answer.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He knows her – she’s Danny’s girlfriend – but Charlotte never mentioned her.’

‘Hmmm.’ Brian reaches for the empty plate, deposits it in the sink then returns to the table. ‘And she didn’t mention anything about falling out with Ella? Was there an argument or a disagreement of some sort?’

Oli shakes his head. ‘Charlotte never really texted me with news and updates about her life. She only ever got in touch if she needed advice or …’ he tails off.

‘Or what?’ Brian and I ask simultaneously.

Oli shifts in his seat. ‘Or if she wanted stuff buying off the internet.’

Brian and I share a look.

‘What kind of stuff?’ he asks.

‘Nothing dodgy! Gig tickets, magazine subscriptions, eBay purchases, just stuff you need a credit card or PayPal account for.’

‘Was there anything strange or unusual she asked you to get her? Before her accident?’

‘Nope.’ He shakes his head. ‘Like I said, just gig tickets and celebrity signed photos and tat like that.’ He reaches across the table then pauses, realizing the plate has disappeared. A frown appears between his eyebrows.

‘What is it?’ Brian asks.

Oli looks from one of us to the other. His lips part as though he’s about to say something, then close again.

‘What is it?’ Now I’m worried too. ‘You can tell us anything, Oliver. You know that, don’t you? We won’t judge and we won’t be angry. I promise.’

Well, I won’t be angry. Brian is sitting on the very edge of his chair, his elbows on the table, his eyes fixed on his son’s face.

‘I …’ He can’t meet his dad’s gaze.

‘Please,’ I say softly. ‘It might help.’

‘Okay.’ He sits back in his chair and drums his thumbs on the table, his head down. ‘Okay.’ He pauses again to clear his throat and I think I might explode if I have to wait one second longer. ‘She asked me if I’d pay for a hotel room for her and Liam.’

‘She WHAT?!’

‘She said she didn’t want to lose her virginity in a car or the playing fields behind the school like everyone else and—’

‘A hotel room?!’ The back of Brian’s neck is puce. ‘She’s fifteen, for fuck’s sake. What the hell was she thinking? If you bloody—’

‘I didn’t do anything, Dad!’ Oli holds up his hands. ‘I swear. I wouldn’t.’

I can tell by the horrified look on his face that he’s telling the truth.

‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ I ask.

‘Why would I?’

‘Because your FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD SISTER was planning on having sex with her seventeen-year-old boyfriend in a hotel room!’ Brian is halfway out of his seat, his hands splayed on the table, the tips of his fingers white.

‘Brian.’ He doesn’t so much as look at me so I say his name again as he continues to rant. Then again. ‘Brian, stop it! Stop shouting. It’s not Oli’s fault.’

Both men look at me in surprise. I don’t think either of them have heard me raise my voice before.

‘Sorry.’ My husband’s voice is gravelly as he sinks into his chair and rubs the back of his neck, his eyes closed. He opens them again and reaches for my hand. ‘Sorry, Sue.’ He looks at Oli. His chin dimples and he presses his lips together in contrition. ‘Sorry, son.’ Oli shrugs but says nothing. He’s smarting, I can tell. ‘I just find it all so—’

I put my hand over his. ‘I know.’

Brian’s eyes search mine. ‘You don’t seem surprised by all this.’

‘I’m not.’ I squeeze his hand. ‘I’ve read Charlotte’s diary. I know how she felt about Liam.’

He frowns. ‘She’s got a diary? When did you find it?’

‘This morning,’ I lie.

Brian sits up straighter in his chair. If he is somehow responsible for Charlotte’s accident he doesn’t look worried by the fact I may have had an insight in our daughter’s most private thoughts.

‘Does it …’ He leans forward, ‘Does it reveal why she might have wanted to …’

He can’t bring himself to say the words ‘tried to kill herself’. He refuses to entertain the thought that our daughter may have been so unhappy she chose to end her life rather than share her unhappiness with us. I can understand why he’d feel that way, completely understand.

‘No,’ I say and he visibly deflates with relief.

It’s another lie of course but I can’t share the truth about the diary until I know for sure if he played any part in ‘the secret’ that weighed so heavily on her. Right now I don’t know what – or who – to believe.

‘Can I see it?’ he asks.

When I raise my eyebrows, he shakes his head.

‘No, you’re right, of course you are. She still deserves her privacy. But …’ his eyes flick back to Oliver who’s observing the two of us with a curious expression on his face. This is the first time we’ve been open about Charlotte’s accident in front of him. The ‘everything is fine’ façade has finally dropped.

Brian shakes his head and slumps back in his seat. We lapse into silence and I find myself staring at the pile of crumbs in front of Oli. I wasn’t surprised to read the entry in Charlotte’s diary about how much she wanted to lose her virginity to Liam and how excited and scared she was. I didn’t think much to it. I certainly didn’t wonder whether it might be connected to ‘the secret’ Charlotte mentions on her final entry – I assumed that was to do with Brian – but now that Oliver has brought up this hotel business …

I tear my eyes away from the biscuit crumbs and glance at Milly who’s half asleep at my feet. We need to take a walk – to Liam’s house.

Saturday 30th September 1990

James told me he loved me last night – four weeks to the day after our first date.

He took me to a fabulous Mexican restaurant in Camden – all low lighting, intimate tables, flickering candles and not a cactus in sight. I was trying to eat my fajita without it flopping all over the place but the harder I tried to angle it into my mouth the more food fell out the end and the more I laughed. When I looked across the table at James he had a terribly serious look on his face. I glanced behind me to see if he was reacting to some terrible accident out in the street but cars and people were streaming past as normal.

I put down my fajita. I suddenly didn’t feel very hungry any more. ‘What is it, James?’

He shifted in his chair. ‘You.’

‘What about me?’

‘You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met in my life.’

His eyes were fixed and unblinking, his mouth set in a straight line, his hands folded neatly in his lap. It was like he was looking beyond my flowery red dress, black beads and curled hair and peering straight into my head.

‘I love you, Suzy,’ he said. ‘I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you and it terrifies me, loving someone this much. I can’t sleep, eat or think because of you. I can barely act. I’ve lost control of who I am and that scares the shit out of me but I can’t run away because I love you so much. I can’t ever be without you.’

He searched my eyes, looking for a reaction. I’d never seen him look so worried. I smiled, desperate to relieve his discomfort, and reached across the table for his hands. He unfolded them from his lap and held my fingers.

‘I love you too, James but I’ve never felt more scared or vulnerable in my life. I’ve got no defences left, nothing to stop you from hurting me if you wanted to.’

‘I’d never hurt you Suzy-Sue.’ He let go of one of my hands and reached across the table so he could cup the side of my face. ‘Never. I’d rather hurt myself than see you in pain.’

There were tears in his tears but he brushed them away brusquely.

‘Let’s just go.’ He took a handful of notes out of his wallet and threw them down on the table. ‘Let’s go back to yours, put on a record, crawl into bed and block out the world.’

I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do.

Chapter 6

I didn’t go to Liam’s house last night. Just as I was about to announce my intention to take the dog for a walk Brian shot out of his seat and disappeared into the hallway. When he returned a couple of minutes later he was wearing his jacket with Milly’s lead dangling from his hand. He said the briefest of goodbyes to Oliver and then he was gone, out of the porch door like a shot.

Oli raised an eyebrow. ‘Not like Dad to take Milly for a walk.’

I said nothing. Instead I offered him another cup of tea and more biscuits but Oli shook his head, said it was getting late and he needed to get back to Leicester.

I glance at the kitchen clock. Brian left for work ages ago and it’s still only 8.50 a.m. If Liam is anything like Oliver was as a teenager there’s no way he’ll be awake at this time during half term. I should visit Charlotte first and then go and see him. I put down my cup of coffee and stand up. But what if he goes out for some reason and I miss him? Better to try and get hold of him first and then go and see Charlotte. Maybe if I take the long route to his house he’ll be awake by the time I get there. It’ll be at least 9.30 a.m. if I go through the park.

No, I change my mind again as I step into the cloakroom and reach for my coat. I should ring first. Or maybe I should text. That way I won’t disturb his family. But I don’t have a mobile number for him, just a landline.

Charlotte would though.

I fly up the stairs and head for her room, then pause in the doorway. Where’s her mobile? I haven’t seen it since before her accident.

I didn’t touch Charlotte’s room for two weeks after she was hospitalised, not one thing – not the mascara-stained makeup removal pads strewn across the dressing table, the dirty bras and knickers kicked under the bed or the magazines scattered across the floor – nothing. I thought that if I tidied up I’d regret wiping all traces of her personality from her room if she never woke up. It sounds ridiculous but I was in shock. How else could I have failed to notice that her phone wasn’t in the clear plastic bag of her things that the nurse handed me? It contained all the normal things she’d take out with her – purse, keys, makeup and hairbrush – but no phone. Why? Like most teenagers she was umbilically attached to her mobile.

Three weeks after her accident, my shock finally dissipated and with it my insistence that Charlotte’s room remain untouched. Instead of seeing the mess as a sign of normality it became a morbid shrine. My daughter wasn’t dead – she was just ill – so I tidied up, ready for her return. And that’s when I found the diary.

I throw open the wardrobe doors and root around in the pockets of some of her clothes. There are several items I’ve never seen before – a jacket that looks like it’s Vivienne Westwood and an expensively cut dress with a VB label. I stare at it for several seconds. What’s Charlotte doing with a Victoria Beckham dress? I push it along the rack and turn my attention to the pockets of a pair of Diesel jeans instead. I’ll have to have a word with Oli the next time I see him.

I close the wardrobe door. The bus driver didn’t mention anything about a mobile phone and neither did any of the other eye witnesses and the police immediately cordoned off the area so if it was lying crushed or broken nearby they’d have found it. So it must be in the house somewhere.

Charlotte must have deliberately hidden it. And if she did that then maybe she had something to hide.

I yank open Charlotte’s sock drawer and root around at the back. Nothing. I tip up the box of folders and school work under her desk and sift through the papers. No phone. It’s not hidden in any of her shoes or boots or secreted behind the novels on her bookshelf. I return to the sock drawer, squeezing each bundle but still find nothing. I search the room for fifteen, twenty minutes, going through every drawer, bag and shoebox but there’s no sign of her mobile.

Where is it?

I reach under the pillow for her diary and flick through the pages. I must have read it ten, twenty times but whatever secret she was keeping, she didn’t share it with her diary. She shared other worries – anxieties about her weight, nervousness about sleeping with Liam for the first time, concern about exam results and indecisiveness about the career she wanted but nothing huge, nothing so terrible she’d consider taking her own life.

I close the book and tuck it back under her pillow. There are no answers here, maybe Liam will have some.

White Street is completely deserted apart from a bad-tempered ginger tom who hisses at us as we walk past. I’ve been to Liam’s house dozens of times but I rarely go in. I normally sit in the car, engine running, as Charlotte rushes in to grab him so I can take them bowling or to the cinema. She never stayed overnight with him and he never stayed at ours but I told her that, if she was still with Liam when she turned sixteen, I’d accompany her to the doctor so she could go on the pill. Then, once it was safe, her father and I would go out for the evening and she and Liam could have the house to themselves. I thought I was being very reasonable (or ‘ridiculously liberal’ according to Brian) but Charlotte told me it was the ‘grossest thing she’d ever heard’ and that, if she wanted her parents to know when she was having sex she’d put an advert in the local paper.

I open the gate of the blue house at number fifty-five. The front garden looks lovely – the beds are awash with colour, not a single weed to be seen. Claire, Liam’s mum, must have been very busy. What I’d give for her green fingers.

I knock lightly when I reach the front door. The curtains are closed in the living room but I can make out the shadowy shape of a person moving about. I knock again, louder this time, and keep an eye on the curtains. A moment later they twitch and a pair of bright blue eyes peers out at me then they’re swiftly pulled shut again. I hear the sound of a wooden floor creaking and then the front door swings open. Liam Hutchinson, Charlotte’s seventeen-year-old boyfriend, stands in front of me in nothing but his navy and white striped boxer shorts. He looks confused, so I smile warmly.

‘Hello, Liam.’

He nods. ‘Mrs Jackson.’

‘Could I come in? I was wondering if we could have a little chat?’

It feels strange to be sitting in the Hutchinson’s living room. I’ve never been in here before and I can’t stop myself from staring around, drinking in the unusual lithograph prints on the walls, the colour-coordinated scatter cushions and the large, expensive-looking rug in front of the original Victorian fireplace. Liam is slumped on the sofa on the other side of the room, his knees spread wide. If he finds this situation odd he isn’t letting on. We’ve been sitting here, sneaking looks at each other, for the last couple of minutes, neither of us saying a word. I rehearsed my opening line dozens of times on my way over but now the time has come to say it, my mouth has gone dry.

‘So …’ I manage at last. ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here.’

He shrugs. ‘Something to do with Charlotte?’

‘Yes. Have you been to see her? I’m surprised we haven’t crossed paths.’

‘No.’ He picks at the ivory and gold throw covering his chair, plucking out the metallic threads and then dropping them on the floor. His mother will have a fit when she gets home. ‘I haven’t seen her. I didn’t think I’d be allowed.’

‘Really?’ I sit forward. ‘Because you’re not a relative? That’s fine. Friends and family are allowed in and,’ I smile warmly, ‘you’re more than a friend.’

He shifts in his seat. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘Sorry. I meant – you’re her boyfriend.’

‘No. I’m not.’

I frown, certain I must have misheard him. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you just said—’

‘We’re not going out any more.’ He glances away, as though embarrassed. ‘Charlotte dumped me.’

‘No!’

I can’t believe it. Charlotte ended it? Charlotte did? I felt sure that if anyone had called time on the relationship it would have been Liam. She idolized him. Tall, dark, two years older than her, handsome in a scruffy hair-in-his-eyes sort of way and in a band, she’d almost collapsed with excitement a year ago when one of his friends approached one of her friends in the school canteen to tell her that Liam thought she was ‘fit’.

She didn’t give the slightest hint anything was wrong in their relationship although … I look from Liam to the clock on the mantelpiece, distracted by the tick-tick-tick filling the room … and time slips away.

It’s three weeks before Charlotte’s accident – a Saturday afternoon – and she’s just returned from a shopping trip in town. I’m in the living room, reading, when I hear the door to the porch open. I call out, asking her if she’s bought anything nice but I’m ignored. I don’t ask again but I do keep an eye on the open living room door. Seconds later Charlotte slams up the stairs looking white as a ghost. I call after her, asking if she’s okay but the only reply I receive is the sound of a bedroom door slamming. I half-rise from the sofa, unsure what to do. Charlotte’s not one for mollycoddling, especially when she’s upset. She won’t let me hug her and flinches if I so much as stroke her arm. She’s stressed, all the kids are. You just have to stand at the school gates for a couple of minutes to work that out. Their GCSEs are fast approaching and coursework is mounting up. Charlotte even had to go into school in the holidays so her teacher could help her complete it on time. I sink back into the sofa. I haven’t been sleeping well recently. My nightmares have returned and the last thing I need is a screaming match with a fifteen-year-old. She knows where I am, I think as I pick my book back up again.

‘Did you split up on a Saturday?’ I ask Liam. ‘About nine weeks ago?’

He runs a hand over his face. ‘No, it was …’ he pauses and I sense that he’s struggling to suppress his emotions, ‘… she ended it the day before her accident.’

‘Why?’ I lean forward in my seat, my hands gripping my knees. Why didn’t I contact him sooner? It’s as though I’ve been sleepwalking since Charlotte’s accident – longer than that – and I’m only just waking up. Splitting up with her boyfriend has to be the reason she stepped in front of the bus. You never feel heartache as keenly as you do when you’re young. You think it’ll destroy you and that you will never love, or be loved, again. She didn’t write about it in her diary though.

Liam stands up, crosses the room and picks up his guitar from the stand next to the bookcase. He sits back down and strums a few chords.

‘Liam?’ It’s as though he’s forgotten I’m in the room. ‘Why did Charlotte end your relationship? How was she?’

He looks at me blankly.

‘When she ended your relationship, how was she?’

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, I wasn’t there.’

‘Sorry?’

He looks back at his guitar, strums a few more chords then slaps the strings with the palm of his hand, silencing the sound, then looks across at me. ‘She dumped me by text.’

I can sense that he doesn’t want to talk about it. That he wants me to leave. But I can’t. ‘What did she say? In her text? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Not much.’ He reaches into the side of the sofa and Milly starts to her feet as a small, black, plastic object whizzes through the air and lands on the sofa beside me. Liam’s phone. I look at him, to check it’s okay for me to go through it. He nods then looks back at his guitar.

Charlotte the open message is titled. I read it then look at Liam in surprise.

‘That’s it?’

He nods.

I look back at the text message:

It’s over between us Liam. If you love me you’ll never contact me again.

‘Did you ask why?’

Liam doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the carpet, tapping his foot repeatedly.

‘Liam?’

‘What?’ He doesn’t look up.

‘Did you contact her?’

‘Of course I did.’ He moves as though he’s about to put his guitar on the ground then changes his mind. He hugs it to his chest instead, the side of his cheek pressed against the fret board. ‘You don’t get a text message dumping you out of the blue like that and not ring up to ask what the fuck’s going on, do you? Not if you still love the person.’

Milly snuffles at my feet.

‘What did Charlotte say?’

‘She didn’t.’ Liam looks at me blankly, like the fight has gone out of him. ‘She wouldn’t answer her phone. I texted her loads, but she didn’t text back. Not once.’ He shakes his head. ‘I know she’s your daughter but I didn’t deserve that, Mrs Jackson. I didn’t deserve to get dumped by text with no explanation and then get ignored like I didn’t even fucking exist.’

I’m torn. Part of me wants to cross the divide between us and wrap Liam in my arms and take away the hurt. The other part wants to ask if they argued, if he did anything to warrant Charlotte ending the relationship in such a brutal way. I decide to do neither. He looks close to tears and I don’t want to upset him more than I already have. Not if I want him to talk to me again. I stand up and pull on Milly’s lead so she rises too.

‘I’m sorry, Liam,’ I say. ‘I had no idea about any of that. Charlotte didn’t breathe a word.’

He sighs heavily, then crosses his arms and looks away. Conversation over.

It’s only when I’m halfway home that I realize I didn’t bring up the one subject I’d traipsed all the way over to White Street to discuss. Sex. There’s no way I can turn back and knock on the door again, not with Liam the way he was when I left. I don’t know what drove Charlotte to do what she did but I can’t help but feel that it was cruel, even for a teenager. But maybe Liam had done something to deserve it? Sometimes you have to escape from a relationship as stealthily and quietly as you can.

‘Here we are, Milly,’ I say as I fit the key in the lock, turn it and twist the handle of the porch door. ‘Home again. Home ag—’

My voice catches in my throat. There’s a postcard, picture side up, on the mat. I start to shake as I reach down to pick it up.

‘Stop it, Sue,’ I tell myself. ‘Stop overreacting, it’s just a postcard,’ but as I turn it over in my hands and look at the other side my ears start to ring. My vision clouds and I grab the doorframe, blinking hard to try and dispel the white spots that have appeared before my eyes but I know it’s too late. I’m going to faint.

Friday 13th October 1990

Nearly two weeks since James told me he loved me and I still haven’t been to his place. All I know is that he lives in a three-bedroom terraced house near Wood Green. Hels is worried. According to her, you don’t date a man for six weeks without seeing his place unless he’s got something to hide. I told her that I wasn’t bothered – that going to hotels was exciting and staying at mine was convenient, but she knew I was bullshitting. You can’t be friends with someone since you were ten and lie to their face and get away with it.

‘Has it occurred to you that he might be married?’ she asked me over lunch the other day.

I told her it had, but there was no mark on the third finger of James’s left hand and he hadn’t slipped, not even once, and mentioned a wife or children. He hadn’t even mentioned an ex-girlfriend. I’d told him all about Nathan. I’d even told him about Rupert and the fact we’d had a drunken shag at uni, long before I introduced him to Hels and they got it together but he’d never so much as mentioned another woman’s name. Helen thought that was odd – that his silence meant he was obviously hiding something. I argued that some people are private and prefer to keep the past buried.

‘What then?’ she said. ‘Ex-con? Prisoner on the run?’ We both laughed. ‘Maybe he still lives with his mum and dad?’

I stopped laughing. That wasn’t such a ridiculous suggestion. James did keep running off from my place at the most bizarre hours, claiming he had ‘things to do’ and ‘stuff to sort’ and, no matter how much I interrogated him, he refused to expand on his vagaries, saying instead that what he had to do was ‘dull’ and I ‘really wouldn’t be interested’.

‘Definitely married,’ Hels said when I told her that. ‘Why else would he suddenly rush off and not tell you where he’s going?’

Before she went back to work she made me swear that I’d stop ‘fannying around’ and demand that James take me to his place or I’d end the relationship. I wasn’t sure about throwing ultimatums around but I promised her I’d bring up the subject when I meet him for dinner tomorrow.

I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocuous reason why he hasn’t invited me back to his place. So why do I feel so sick?

Chapter 7

I come to on the floor of the porch. One of my cheeks is pressed against cold tile, the other is strangely damp. I glance up to see Milly standing above me, her big, brown eyes fixed on the empty dog bowl in the corner of the porch, her tongue dripping with drool. She senses me looking at her and smiles down at me before enthusiastically licking my cheek.

‘Hello Milly Moo.’ I sit up slowly, gingerly checking my body for injuries. Nothing appears to be broken, though by the way my left temple aches, I think I’m in for a pretty impressive bruise. For a split second I assume I tripped and fell but then I spot the postcard on the floor beside me and it all comes flooding back again. The image on the front shows James Stewart sitting on a step smiling a goofy smile whilst, behind him, a shadow of an enormous rabbit is projected on the wall. It’s an image from the film Harvey. The postcard could so easily be innocuous – a simple hello from one friend to another – only there’s no chatty text on the other side of this postcard, there isn’t even an addressee. There’s just a stamp, postmarked Brighton and an address, my address.

This isn’t someone forgetting to write a postcard and slipping it into the postbox with a handful of letters by mistake. That’s the explanation Brian would come up with if I told him about it. He’d give me a look, the look, the one that says ‘you’re going to have another episode, aren’t you?’ and then he’d throw it in the bin and tell me that everything’s fine and I’m safe. Only I’m not safe, am I? Harvey was James’ favourite film. I lost count of the number of times we watched that film together.

Milly startles as I kick out at the postcard, sending it spinning and scuttling under the shoe rack. If I can’t see it then maybe I won’t think about it. Maybe I’ll be able to ignore the fact that, twenty years after I left him, James has finally tracked me down.

I try as best I can to forget about the postcard but it’s like trying to forget how to breathe. Whenever my mind pauses, whenever it’s free of thoughts about Charlotte, Brian and what to cook for dinner, it returns to the porch, peers under the shoe rack and pulls out the postcard. No matter where I am in the house it haunts me from its dark, dusty corner. I want to visit Charlotte but I’m too scared to leave the house. What if James is waiting for me? If he’s been watching the house he’ll know I’m home alone but all the doors and windows are locked – I’ve checked three times – and there’s no way for him to get in. I’ve got my mobile phone in my hands, primed and ready to key in 999 if I hear the slightest noise.

There won’t be time to call for help if I leave the house and James attacks me. If he’s hiding in the bushes opposite the front door he could get me as I get into the car or, if he’s in a car down the lane, he could follow me to the hospital and attack Charlotte. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I last saw her and I’m already consumed by fear and guilt because I haven’t seen her today. What if, deep in her subconscious, she knows I haven’t been to visit, and it makes her retreat deeper into her coma? What if she wakes up and I’m not there? What if she dies?

For the next couple of hours I don’t know what to do with myself. I jump when the phone rings and start when the wind rattles the letter box. When there’s a knock on the front door I run up to Brian’s study and peer down from behind the curtain, only to discover the electricity man pushing a card through our letter box. What am I doing? I’m allowing the memory of James to terrify me, to stop me from visiting my own daughter. I am not ‘Suzy-Sue’ – I haven’t been her for a very long time.

I return downstairs and fish the postcard out from its dusty hiding place with the fire tongs and burn it in the fireplace in the living room. I sit on the sofa, watching as the flames lick at the corners, dance across James Stewart’s lolloping smile and then envelop him. When he and his strange rabbit sidekick have turned to dust I sweep them up.

As I pour the ashes of the postcard into the kitchen bin a new thought occurs to me. What if the postcard was meant for Oli from one of his uni friends? What if they were too stoned to notice they hadn’t put his name or a message on it and I just burnt it! What if he asks where it is? How do I explain what I just did without sounding certifiable? My hands shake as I reach for my car keys and I steady myself on the kitchen table. I drop my head to my chest and inhale slowly – one, two, three – then out again. I do it again – one, two, three – then out again. I need to be calm. I need to think clearly, otherwise I’ll have another episode. This is how they start, this is how I go from normal, sane, rational Sue to neurotic, paranoid ‘I’d better lock Charlotte in her room for the weekend because Brian is away at a party conference and BBC news has reported a child abduction in the next town’ Sue. One, two, three. One, two, three. Slowly my breathing returns to normal.

I feel calmer and happy when I return from the hospital. The knots in my shoulders disappeared the second I stepped into Charlotte’s room and saw that she was still safe, warm and being cared for. There was no change in her condition and the nurses reassured me that she hadn’t had any visitors since Brian and I were with her yesterday. There is no reason to think James has found me. The blank postcard is just that. An innocuous blank postcard, sent to us in error or mistakenly delivered by the postman. I’ve barely slept since Charlotte’s accident. I can’t sleep at night for trying to work out why she did what she did. It’s no wonder my mind goes into overdrive sometimes.

For the second time today I attach a lead to Milly’s collar and lead her out of the house. She smiles up at me, delighted to be out in the fresh air again. We only tend to walk her early in the morning and late at night so an afternoon sojourn in the spring sunshine is an unexpected treat.

Judy, Ella’s mum, opens the door with a scowl.

‘Sue?’

I force a smile. ‘Hello Judy. How are you?’

‘Fine.’

I wait for her to ask what I want. Instead I am subjected to a long slow eye sweep that starts at the top of my head with my grey roots, pauses at the wrinkles and dark circles that line my unmade-up eyes, flits over my best M&S coat and settles, unimpressed, on my comfy brown Clarks slip-ons. Judy and I were good friends until we fell out when she took both girls to get their ears pierced for Ella’s thirteenth birthday without checking with me first. In retrospect I may have overreacted but we both said some pretty ugly things and the time for mending fences is long past.

‘Great,’ I say as brightly as I can manage when really I want to bop her on her sneering Chanel-smeared nose. ‘I don’t suppose Ella’s in, is she?’

‘Ella?’ She looks surprised.

‘Yes. I’d like to talk to her about Charlotte. If that’s okay with you.’

Judy’s eyes narrow and then, just for a split second, a look akin to compassion crosses her face. I imagine she’s heard about the accident.

‘Okay,’ she says after a pause. ‘But keep it brief because she’s supposed to be studying for her GCSEs.’

When I nod my assent she turns back towards the hallway, pulling the front door towards her so it’s only open a couple of inches and then shouts for her daughter. There’s a muffled cry in reply and then the door slams shut in my face. A minute or so later it opens again. Ella peers out at me.

‘Hi.’ She looks at me suspiciously, just like her mother did.

‘Hi Ella.’ My face is aching from smiling so widely. ‘I was wondering if we could have a chat. About Charlotte.’

Her expression changes lightning fast – from suspicion to anger – and she crosses one skinny-jeaned leg over the other. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

First Liam, now Ella. I only have to mention my daughter’s name for a black cloud to descend. It doesn’t make sense. When her class made their yearbook at the start of their GCSE year and predicted where everyone would be in five years’ time Charlotte was voted ‘girl everyone would stay in touch with’ and ‘girl most likely to be successful’.

‘Because you’re friends,’ I say. ‘Unless …’ I study her face, ‘… unless you’re not friends anymore.’

Ella raises a thin, penciled eyebrow. ‘Correct.’

‘I see.’ I pause, trying to decide how best to continue. From the set of her jaw I can tell Ella’s as keen on communicating with me as Liam was and yet …

‘Charlotte’s still in a coma,’ I say.

‘I know.’ She raises the eyebrow again but the flash of light in her eyes betrays her. She’s interested. She wants to know more about her ex-best friend.

‘Her lungs are getting stronger which is a very good sign.’

Ella says nothing.

‘We’ve tried everything to try and help her wake up,’ I continue. ‘I’ve talked to her about the family and what we’re all doing. Brian reads her articles from the newspaper—’

‘Grim. She’d hate that.’

‘I agree,’ I suppress a smile at the look of disgust on her face. ‘I suggested he read out Heat magazine instead but he wasn’t keen. I don’t think he’s as big a fan of celebrity gossip as Charlotte is.’

Ella pulls a face – like the mental image of my husband reading Heat magazine repulses her.

‘So anyway,’ I soldier on. ‘Oli came up with the idea that we should play Charlotte her favourite song. He said he’d seen people do that in films and that it helps wake someone from a coma.’

Ella’s face lights up at the mention of my stepson’s name. Until recently she and Charlotte were like shadows to Oli and Danny. I have an inkling the boys may have been the subject of the girls’ first ever crushes.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘So I was wondering if you could help. With the song. I haven’t got the first clue what Charlotte was into.’

‘“Someone Like You” by Adele.’

‘Great.’ I’ve actually heard of that song. They play it on Radio 2 all the time. ‘Anyone else?’

She shrugs. ‘That’s her favourite but she likes “I Love the Way You Lie” by Rhianna and Eminem, “Money” by Jessie J. Oh, and “Born This Way” by Lady Gaga. We used to dance to that in my room before we’d go out to Breeze, to the under-eighteen night,’ she adds quickly.

Her whole demeanour has changed. She’s not a young woman propping up the doorway with her legs and arms crossed and a defiant look on her face anymore. Instead she looks like the little blonde five-year-old I found Charlotte hand in hand with in the playground at the end of their first day at school.

‘You could see her,’ I say softly, ‘if you’d like. I could give you a lift to the hospital. I’m sure Charlotte would appreciate it.’

‘No, she wouldn’t.’

A scowl has fallen over Ella’s face, all traces of vulnerability and tenderness gone.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘She just wouldn’t.’

‘Is this about Keisha?’ I venture. A look of surprise crosses her face at the mention of the other girl’s name. ‘Is that why you’re angry?’

‘It’s none of my business who Charlotte hangs out with. She can do what she wants.’

‘But you’re her best friend. Surely you—’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘You’re not?’ I feign surprise. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, something must have—’

‘Nothing happened, alright! Just leave me alone and stop asking me—’

‘Everything okay here?’ Judy appears in the doorway, alerted by her daughter’s raised voice. ‘Ella? Are you okay?’

‘No.’ Her daughter feigns a pained expression. ‘Sue’s hassling me and I haven’t done anything wrong, Mum. I was just—’

‘Have you been hassling my daughter?’ Judy attempts a frown but too many Botox injections prevent her.

‘No!’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘Of course not. I was just asking her why she and Charlotte aren’t best friends anymore.’

‘And?’

‘According to Ella, nothing happened.’

Judy glances at her daughter who shrugs as if to say ‘that’s what I said’.

‘If Ella said nothing happened,’ she says, looking back at me, ‘then nothing happened.’

‘But it must have. Those two have been friends since they were—’

‘Nothing happened, Sue!’ Ella screams. ‘Okay? We just stopped being friends.’ She looks at her mum. ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’

‘Okay, darling.’ Judy puts a heavily manicured hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Go back to your room and—’

‘Please.’ I beg. ‘Judy, please. I need to know what happened. It might help Charlotte. Did you know that she’d split up with Liam or that—’

‘Mummmm,’ Ella looks at her mother with beseeching eyes. ‘Mum, I really need to get back on with my revision.’

‘Okay darling, off you—’

‘Please.’ I grab hold of Ella’s wrist. ‘Please. You need to help me.’

‘Get your hands off my daughter!’ I feel a sharp sting on my forearm and four white stripes appear on my skin from where Judy swiped at me with her false nails. ‘Now.’

I’m so shocked I instantly let go.

‘Thanks, Mum.’ The smallest of smirks crosses Ella’s face as she ducks out from the doorway and takes the stairs two at a time. Judy looks back at me.

‘I’d like you to leave now please, Sue,’ she says in a measured voice.

‘Judy, look. I’m sorry if I overstepped the mark but—’

‘Leave.’ She takes a step back into the hallway and begins to close the front door.

I press my hand against it to stop it being slammed in my face. ‘No, Judy, wait. Listen!’

‘No! You listen!’ The door swings open again. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to Charlotte, really I am but it’s not my fault and it’s certainly not Ella’s. Perhaps you should look a bit closer to home instead.’

I stand on the doorstep open-mouthed. And not just because Judy slammed the door in my face.

Sunday 15th October 1990

James and I had our first argument this evening. He and the rest of the theatre group popped by the bar, as they do every Sunday after rehearsals, and James took up his customary stool at the end. I said hello, got him a pint, gave him a kiss and got on with my job, just as I always do – having a bit of banter with Maggie and Jake, catching up on gossip with Kate and taking the piss out of Steve – but I could sense that something wasn’t right. Whenever I looked across at James, instead of reading his script or his book, he was staring at me with a sour expression on his face. I shot him a smile then pulled a face. When that did nothing to crack his frown I went over during a quiet spot to ask what was wrong.

‘You know,’ he said.

‘Know what?’

‘I shouldn’t have to tell you because you already know.’

‘If I knew I wouldn’t be here asking!’

He shrugged like I was an idiot and, thoroughly pissed off, I went off to serve someone else.

The next time I turned round to look at James he’d gone. I asked the others if he’d been in a bad mood during rehearsals. Far from it, they said. He’d been in fine form, practically bouncing across the stage.

‘I think someone’s in love,’ Maggie had winked.

I thought he was too; he’d been hugely affectionate this morning and had insisted on shagging me not once but twice before he’d let me get out of bed to have a shower. He’d even replied ‘soon’ when I’d asked him when we were going to spend an evening in his place instead of mine.

So what had changed?

I couldn’t wait for kicking-out time so I could put all the glasses in the dishwasher, wipe down the tables and get home to ring James. He didn’t pick up for eight rings and then:

‘Hello.’ His voice was devoid of emotion.

‘James, it’s Suzy.’

‘Hello Susan.’

That stung. He never called me by my full name.

‘Why were you so off with me in the bar tonight?’

‘You know.’

‘Actually no,’ I fought to keep the hurt out of my voice. ‘I don’t. That’s why I’m ringing because I’d like you to tell me.’

‘If you don’t know there’s no point discussing this.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Could you be more exasperating? James, please tell me why you were in such a bad mood or I’m going to put the phone down.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Fine.’

I slammed down the phone then stared at it, waiting for him to ring back. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. By twenty I was fuming and snatched the receiver back up.

‘Hello.’ Same flat voice from the other end.

‘What was it? Something I said? Something I did? Someone I talked to?’ James sighed and I knew I’d hit the nail on the head. ‘Who? And if you say “you know” one more time I’ll never talk to you again.’

‘Steve.’

‘Steve Steve? Steve MacKensie?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were in a mood with me because I spoke to Steve MacKensie? That’s ridiculous. Why would you be jealous of him?’

‘No one said I was jealous, Susan.’

‘Then why—’

‘You were flirting with him. I saw you, leaning across the bar so he could look down your top.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t try and deny it. Everyone saw and I won’t allow the woman I love to make a laughing stock of me in front of my peers.’

‘Allow? What is this, the 1930s? And I wasn’t flirting with him, we were just bantering, like we always do.’

‘Then why was his nose in your cleavage?’

‘It—’ I let out a deep sigh. ‘This is ridiculous, James. Absolutely ridiculous. We were in bed this morning, lying in each other’s arms after the most amazing sex ever and I was telling you how much I love you and now you’re accusing me of …’ I shook my head. ‘Forget it. If you think I’d jeopardize what we’ve got, what we had to flirt with a second-rate actor then you’re more than a fool, you’re a …’ my eyes filled with tears. ‘Forget it, James.’

I slammed down the phone.

Less than a second later it rang. I let it ring nine times then picked it up. When I didn’t say anything James sighed.

‘I’m sorry, Suzy-Sue. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I’ve just had a lot on my plate recently. I’ve got a few … personal things … I’m working through at the moment, things I haven’t talked to you about.’

‘Well, that’s no reason to take it out on me.’

‘I know and I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that. You looked beautiful in the pub tonight. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you in that red top, your cleavage looks amazing, but it made me angry – when I saw other people admiring you too – because they have no right to ogle you like you’re a cheap piece of meat and—’

‘So you don’t want me to wear low-cut tops anymore? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes. No. No, that’s not what I’m saying. What I’m trying, clumsily, to say is that it was obvious to me that Steve was flirting with you because you looked gorgeous, and that made me angry – that your physicality was all that he could see. I’m not just in love with the way you look, I’m in love with the woman inside.’

I said nothing. I was still trying to make sense of what he was trying to say. I think he was finding fault with Steve rather than me so why did I feel bad, like I’d done something to encourage him by wearing the wrong thing or being overly friendly.

‘Suzy?’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Suzy?’ James said again. ‘Please don’t be angry. Please don’t hate me.’

‘I don’t hate you. I just don’t understand you sometimes.’

‘Let me rectify that.’

‘How?’

‘Let me take you home. Let me show you where I live.’

Chapter 8

‘They’re teenagers, Sue. What did you expect?’

‘I know.’ I dip a piece of cotton wool into the bowl of warm water next to the bed then wring it out and dab it gently across Charlotte’s forehead. Three days have passed since I went to speak to Liam and Ella and I’m still smarting from Judy’s parting remark.

‘Show me a teenager that opens up to adults and I’ll introduce you to Santa,’ Brian adds. ‘Honestly Sue, would you have spilled your secrets to some middle-aged woman when you were in your teens? I know I wouldn’t.’

‘No.’ I meet my husband’s concerned gaze and shake my head. ‘I wouldn’t. I just thought they might open up to me because Charlotte …’ I tail off. Neither of them showed the least interest in helping our daughter.

Brian shrugs. ‘I don’t know why you’re surprised, Sue. Kids fall in and out of love all the time and they switch their friends like they’re going out of fashion. Teenagers are fickle, darling. Surely you know that?’

‘I do but …’ I place the cotton back in the bowl of water and pick up Charlotte’s hairbrush. ‘… she’d been friends with Ella since primary school and they’ve had their spats but they always made up before. And as for Liam,’ I tease the brush through Charlotte’s long dark hair, ‘she’d have done anything for him. She adored him. And I’m supposed to believe she dumped him because she’s a fickle teen? It doesn’t make sense.’

Brian turns another page of his newspaper then shuts it, folds it in two and rests it on his lap.

‘Sue …’

I continue brushing Charlotte’s hair, smoothing it down with my hands so the ends lie flat over her shoulders.

‘Sue, look at me.’

‘What?’ I don’t look up.

‘You don’t think you’re getting a bit …’ he pauses. ‘… obsessed, do you?’

‘Obsessed?’

‘With Charlotte’s accident, acting like there’s some big conspiracy when the truth is …’ he pauses again. ‘… it was just an accident. A terrible, unpreventable accident. I understand how helpless and powerless you feel – I feel exactly the same way – but giving her friends the third degree isn’t going to make her magically wake up.’

‘You don’t understand,’ I start, then fall silent. I still haven’t told him what she wrote in her diary. I nearly told him about it a couple of days ago but then he snuck out of bed at six o’clock in the morning. At first I thought he was in the toilet but when he hadn’t reappeared after half an hour I got up to look for him. He wasn’t anywhere in the house, neither was Milly. It was the second time in as many years that he’d taken her out for a walk.

Something’s going on and there’s only one person I can talk to about it.

Mum’s sitting in her favourite place, by the window in the hard-backed armchair I covered with a lovely Laura Ashley print a few years ago. She doesn’t look up when I walk into the room.

‘Hello Mum.’ I move a pile of towels and laundry onto the floor and perch on the edge of her single bed. There’s nowhere else to sit.

My mother doesn’t acknowledge me so I try a different tack. ‘Hello Elsie. How are you today?’

This time she turns around. Her forehead creases with confusion. ‘Who are you?’

My heart sinks. She doesn’t recognize me. Mum has good days and bad days. Today, it seems, is not a good day.

‘I’m Sue,’ I say. ‘Your daughter. I bought you a present.’

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