Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Copyright © Sarah Pinborough 2018

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover Photographs © Silas Manhood Photography (figures); Valentino Sani/Trevillion Images (clouds)

Sarah Pinborough 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: 9780008132040

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008132033

Version: 2020-01-23

A promise made …

I should never have made that promise. I should never have thought I could leave the past behind me. I broke our pact, and deep down, I always knew I couldn’t stay hidden forever.

A promise broken …

I thought she loved me. We made a deal. We crossed our hearts and hoped to die and sealed it with a kiss. We were going to be together forever. Vows like that cannot be broken. And so now she has to pay.

Try and tear yourself away – we dare you.

PRAISE FOR CROSS HER HEART

‘Brilliantly clever and compelling, loved it!’

B A Paris

‘Pacy, unnerving, addictive read with a dark, dark heart’

C.L. Taylor

‘Sarah Pinborough does it again’

Cara Hunter

‘A powerful, twisty thriller’

Michelle Frances

‘Action-packed adventure thriller’

Daily Mail

‘The author’s storytelling is as sure-footed as ever’

Guardian

‘A powerful plot’

The Times

‘A pacy, twisty thriller that will hook you with its first few pages’

Stylist

‘You’ll be lucky if you can put the book down to go to bed’

Independent

‘A dark and compulsive read’

Woman & Home

‘Will keep readers hooked until the last page’

Daily Express

‘The reigning queen of the out-of-nowhere twist’

i

‘A dark and twisted thriller that will have you sleeping with the light on’

Red Online

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Chapter 1: After

Part One

Chapter 2: Now

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part Two

Chapter 25: After

Chapter 26

Chapter 27: Now

Chapter 28

Chapter 29: After

Chapter 30: Now

Chapter 31: After

Chapter 32: Now

Chapter 33

Chapter 34: After

Chapter 35: Now

Chapter 36

Chapter 37: After

Chapter 38: Now

Chapter 39: After

Chapter 40: Now

Chapter 41: Before

Chapter 42: Now

Chapter 43

Chapter 44: Before

Chapter 45: Now

Chapter 46

Part Three

Chapter 47

Chapter 48: Before

Chapter 49: Now

Chapter 50

Chapter 51: Before

Chapter 52: Now

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55: Before

Chapter 56: Now

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61: Before

Chapter 62: Now

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72: Then

Chapter 73: Now

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Also by Sarah Pinborough

About the Author

Keep Reading…

About the Publisher

Dedication

For Irvine, thank you for having the faith!

1
AFTER

HIM

Bitch.

He grips the edge of the paper so tightly the neat lines of carefully written words twist into odd zigzags that crunch some sentences but highlight others, taunting him.

I can’t cope.

You’re too angry.

You frighten me when you hurt me.

I don’t love you any more.

The world is shaking and his breath comes heavily as he scans to the end.

Don’t come after me. Don’t try and find me. Don’t try and find us.

He reads the letter three times before it sinks in. She’s gone. They’re gone. He knows it’s true – he can feel the fresh emptiness in the house – but still he rushes through the rooms, pulling open hollow cupboards and drawers. There is no trace of her, however; no passport or driving licence, none of those important things that frame her life.

Don’t try and find us.

He returns to the kitchen table and crumples the letter, suffocating her words in his clenched fist. She’s right. He is angry. More than angry. He’s raging. It’s a white heat inside him. He stares out through the window, the battered ball of paper damp in his sweating palm. Vodka. He needs vodka.

As he drinks, a seed of a plan takes hold in the dark soil of his mind and starts to grow.

She has no right to do this to him. Not after everything they’ve been through.

He will destroy her for it.

PART ONE

2
NOW

LISA

‘Happy birthday, darling,’ I say, from the doorway. It’s only six thirty and I’m still bleary from sleep, but my kitchen hums with teenage life. It’s like a surging wave hitting me. I don’t remember ever having this much energy. It’s a good feeling. Full of hope and confidence.

‘You didn’t have to get up, Mum. We’re just leaving anyway.’ She’s smiling as she comes to kiss me on the cheek, a cloud of apple shampoo and pink deodorant, but she looks tired. Maybe she’s doing too much. Her GCSEs are coming up and between morning and evening swimming training several times a week, spending time with these girls, and going to school, I barely see her any more. Which is, as I keep telling myself, how it should be. She’s growing up. Growing out from me. I have to learn to let go. But it’s hard. For so long it was us two against the world. Now the world is nearly hers to grasp for herself.

‘It’s not every day my little girl turns sixteen,’ I say as I fill the kettle and wink at her. She rolls her eyes at Angela and Lizzie, but I know she’s happy I still get up to see her off to school. She’s at once grown up and still my baby. ‘And anyway,’ I add. ‘I’ve got my big presentation at work today so I need an early start.’

A phone buzzes. All three heads drop to screens and I turn back to the kettle. I know there’s a boy called Courtney in Ava’s life. She hasn’t told me about him yet, but I saw a message come in when she left her phone on the kitchen table last week, a rarity in itself. I used to check her phone occasionally, when I could, but now she uses a passcode, and as much as it pains me to admit it, she deserves her privacy. I have to learn to trust in my bright daughter’s sensible mind to keep her safe.

‘Do you want your presents now or tonight at Pizza Express?’ I ask.

Ava’s clutching little gift bags with coloured tissue poking out the top, but she doesn’t share with me what her friends have bought her. Later, perhaps she will. A few years ago she would have run to show me. Not any more. Time flies. Somehow I’m nearly forty and Ava is sixteen. Soon she’ll be flying my nest.

‘Jodie’s outside,’ Angela says, glancing up from her iPhone. ‘We should go.’

‘Tonight’s fine,’ Ava says. ‘I haven’t got time now.’ She smiles at me and I think that one day, she’ll be quite beautiful. For a moment, I have a sudden pang of loss in my chest, so I focus on stirring my tea and then check my presentation printouts are still on the kitchen table while the girls gather up their coats, swimming kits, and school and college bags.

‘I’ll see you tonight, Mum,’ Ava calls over her shoulder as they disappear into the hallway and I feel a gust of damp air as they flood outside. On a whim, I get my purse and take out twenty pounds and go after them, leaving the front door on the latch.

‘Ava, wait!’ I’m only in my thin dressing gown but I follow her down the path, waving the banknote at her. ‘For you and the girls. Go for a nice breakfast before school.’

‘Thank you!’ Ava’s words are quickly echoed by the others and then they’re tumbling into Jodie’s car, the tiny blonde girl at the wheel, and I’m left behind at our open gate. They’re barely all in before Jodie pulls away, and I flinch slightly as I wave after them. She’s going quite fast and she can’t have checked her mirrors. Has Ava got her seatbelt on? Worry worry. That’s me. They don’t realise how precious life is. How precious they are. How can they? So young and with blessed lives.

It’s the cusp of summer, but the sky is heavily grey and threatening more rain, casting a chill in the air. I watch until Jodie’s turned the corner and I’m about to go back to the warmth of the house when I see a car parked on the bend of our quiet road behind me. My skin prickles. It’s unfamiliar. Dark blue. Not one I’ve seen before. I know all the cars in our street. It’s become a habit to note these things. This car is new.

My heart thrums in my chest, a bird trapped against glass. I don’t move an inch; this isn’t fight or flight, but a cold dread. The car’s engine is turned off and there is someone behind the wheel. Thickset. It’s too far away to see his face. Is he looking at me? There’s a sound like buzzing flies in my head and I try to catch my breath. As my panic threatens to overwhelm me, a man, still pulling on a suit jacket while trying to wave at the driver, comes down his front path. The engine starts. Only as it moves do I see the small strip down one side. EezyCabs.

The flood of relief makes me almost laugh. Almost.

You’re safe, I tell myself as the taxi drives by, no one inside glancing my way. You’re safe and Ava’s safe. You have to relax.

Of course it’s easier said than done. I’ve learned that over the years. The fear never truly leaves me. I’ve had lulls where I can almost let go of the past, but then a random moment like this triggers a panic and I realise it will always be there, like hot tar glued to the lining of my stomach. And recently, I’ve had this feeling, an unsettled disquiet, as if there’s something off-kilter I should see but I don’t. Maybe it’s me. My age. Hormones. Ava growing up. Maybe it’s nothing. But still …

‘Penny for them?’

I gasp and flinch and then laugh in the way everyone does when goosed, even though the shock isn’t funny. My hand is at my chest as I turn to see Mrs Goldman standing at her front door.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

‘Yes, sorry,’ I say. ‘Lost in the day ahead. You know how it is.’ I walk back down towards my own front door. I’m not sure Mrs Goldman does know how it is. She’s careful as she bends to pick up the single milk bottle from the step and I see her flinch. What does her day hold? Daytime TV? Countdown? Pointless? Her sons haven’t visited for a while either.

‘I think there’s going to be a thunderstorm later. Do you want me to grab anything for you from the shops? I’ve got to get some more bread and bits anyway. Although I won’t be back until quite late because I’m taking Ava for pizza after work. It’s her birthday.’ I don’t need bread but neither do I like the thought of Mrs Goldman having to go out in the rain. Her hips are bad and the roads can be slippery.

‘Oh, if it’s no bother,’ she says, and I can hear the relief in her voice. ‘You are lovely.’

‘It’s fine.’ I smile and I feel an awful ache I don’t fully understand. A kind of empathy for someone’s fragility. For everything people hold inside. Something like that anyway. I listen as she gives me her small list of items. Everything just enough for one. I’ll add some Battenberg to it. A little gift. I should try to pop in for a cup of tea with her at the weekend too. Her days must be long and it’s so easy not to notice the lonely people in this world. I should know. I was lonely for a long time. In some ways, I still am. I try to be kind to lonely people now. I’ve learned that kindness is important. What else is there, really?

Since PKR opened a second branch, we’ve been moved to a smaller but more stylish office and even though it’s a while until Simon Manning is due to come in, when I get there at eight I feel slightly sick with nerves and my hands are twitchy and trembling. I tell myself it’s just about the presentation, but that’s rubbish. It’s also about Simon Manning. Simon has moved into some strange limbo between potential new company client and something other. A flirtation. An attraction. The way he looks at me has changed. I don’t know how to deal with it. It’s a low-voltage hum in my head.

‘This is for you.’

I look up from checking through my presentation pages and see Marilyn holding up a pack of three Ferrero Rocher chocolates. ‘For good luck. And this,’ she takes her other hand from behind her back to reveal a single glass bottle of bubbly, ‘is for when you’ve nailed it.’

I grin at her, flooding with warmth. Thank God for Marilyn. ‘If I nail it. I know he’s been speaking to other recruiters.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ve got vodka in the drawer for if you fuck it up.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

‘What are best friends for?’

The great thing about this new open-plan office is that my desk and Marilyn’s are facing each other’s, a little island of two. Marilyn designed the whole layout and it works well. She’s got an eye for spaces. Maybe comes from being married to a builder for so long.

‘Look at Toby,’ she says, nodding across the room. ‘He’s like a pig in shit with these new girls.’

She’s right. We lean against her desk and watch as he preens himself. The new women all look under twenty-five, and at thirty Toby probably seems like a sophisticated older man. He’s certainly playing up to it. Breathless nervous giggling wafts over as he says something obviously hugely entertaining while explaining the photocopier.

‘They’ll learn,’ I say. It’ll be entertainment for us for a while at any rate. It’s good to be at work, under the bright strip-lighting and with the uniformity of desks and red office chairs and smart clothing. It makes my momentary unease from this morning fade like the remnants of a bad dream.

At nine, Penny, our glorious leader and the PK in PK Recruitment, calls us all together. We gather in a semi-circle around her office door and Marilyn and I hang a little bit back, like sheep herders perhaps, or nannies. I like Penny. She’s brisk and efficient and doesn’t feel the need to be too familiar with her staff. I’ve worked here for over ten years and I don’t think we’ve ever socialised personally, only the two of us. Marilyn finds it odd, but not me. Even though Penny’s about my age, she’s my boss. I don’t want her trying to be my friend. It would make me uncomfortable.

‘It’s so lovely to be able to welcome our new team members at last,’ she starts. ‘It’s wonderful to have Emily, Julia and Stacey joining us and I hope you’ll be very happy working here.’

The three young things, tanned and fully made up, beam at her and then exchange sideways happy glances with each other. I hope they’ll all stay as friendly with each other as they are today. I met Marilyn on my first day here, and I can’t imagine my life without her. Colleague and best friend rolled into one. She suffocates my loneliness.

‘Also, I owe a big debt of thanks to Toby, Marilyn and Lisa for holding the fort so well in this transition period. Marilyn and Lisa are senior staff here. If you have any problems, don’t hesitate to ask them for advice – they probably know more about the day-to-day running of this agency than I do.’

Marilyn smiles as curious eyes fall on us, whereas I look down at my feet and wish their gaze away. If only I had Marilyn’s poise and confidence. She takes everything in her stride.

‘Anyway, there will be cakes in the kitchen later and drinks in the Green Man on the corner after work for those who want to come along – which I hope will be all of you.’

She disappears back into her office and our little cluster fragments. I glance at the clock. Still a while before Simon gets here and the importance of this meeting kicks in, all thoughts of ridiculous attraction evaporating. My stomach churns and I take a couple of deep breaths. I can do this, I tell myself, only half-believing it. I have to do this. The commission alone is worth this anxiety and I’m bound to get a better annual bonus on the back of it. Maybe even a pay rise. I need to save for Ava potentially going to university. I don’t want her starting her adult life with baggage and I’m determined to help. I’ll protect her from the world however I can.

I have to. I know how terrible it can be out there.

3

AVA

The cafeteria is like the changing room at the pool, hot and moist, and the windows are misted up as the summer rain pelts at the glass outside. I don’t mind the rain so much. Ange does because her carefully straightened hair starts to frizz as soon as the first drop falls, but unless the sun is properly baking, I prefer spending our lunchtimes indoors. It’s how I always spent them before, when I used to hang out with Caz and Melanie, which feels like a lifetime ago now. It’s the only thing I really miss about them. Angela is more of an outdoor girl so we have lunch on the benches normally. Not in this downpour though. Today we’re safely inside with everyone else.

‘So, what do you reckon?’ she says. ‘For Saturday? Crash at Jodie’s? We could go to the pub first and then make a punch or something. See if anyone else is around?’ One thick black eyebrow, filled in with pencil, wriggles like a slug on her olive face as she tries to raise it suggestively. If I did mine like that I’d end up rubbing brown all over my face. Angela is way better with make-up and clothes than me. When she’s all dressed up she looks about twenty. I just look about twenty stone. I’m the ugly duckling of our group, I know it. Please God, let me one day turn into a swan.

‘Yeah, sounds good,’ I say. ‘If the others can come.’

Angela’s fingers fly over the keypad of her phone, and I know mine will buzz in a minute once she’s sent out the message to our MyBitches WhatsApp group. Lizzie came up with the name. We are each other’s bitches after all, she’d said, and we’d laughed. She was right. I can’t believe I’ve only been at Larkrise Swimmers for a year. I’ve only known these girls for about ten months. It feels like we’ve been friends forever. Well, I kind of knew Angela before because we’re in the same school, but we’ve never been in any of the same sets so she was only a face in a crowd, like I was to her. Now look at us. MyBitches. It still makes me smile. But I think I prefer The Fabulous Four, as our coach calls us. We’re his winners. We may compete as solo swimmers but we drive each other to be the best. We clicked right away, from the first morning practice, like jigsaw pieces slotting into place around each other, coming together to make a brilliant picture and put Larkrise on the competitive map.

We’re different ages, and in a lot of ways, it’s better. Gives us more to talk about. Me and Ange are the only ones at King Edward’s Grammar, Lizzie is in sixth form at Harris Academy, Arse Academy as it’s known, the shithole school in the middle of town, and Jodie is a first year at Allerton Uni. She’s nearly twenty-two and competes with the adults but she’s one of us really and she doesn’t seem to care we’re younger than her. She trains with us because her lectures clash with the adult sessions and she says she prefers mornings. She doesn’t stay in halls but at her mum’s house here in Elleston and so she hasn’t really got into uni life. She helps us with our techniques and she’s pretty cool. She never makes me feel like I’m way younger than her. Not that five years is that much younger, but the sixth formers at KEGS make you feel like they’re thirty or something, constantly looking down at us.

‘Lizzie’s in,’ Ange mutters, focused on her phone, as if I can’t read my own pinging matching messages. ‘Jodie says her mum’s not back this weekend. She’ll double-check but she’s pretty sure.’

Another bonus to having a friend at uni – much more relaxed parenting. Jodie’s mum does interior design or something for big posh houses, and she has a boyfriend in Paris where she’s currently living while she works on some project. It all sounds very glamorous, but more importantly means she’s hardly ever home. I’ve never met her and Jodie pretty much has the place to herself.

‘Cool,’ I say. I want to check my Facebook, but I’ve told myself I won’t until the end of lunch. I pick at the dregs of my cold jacket potato instead. My shoulders ache from the butterfly this morning – not my best stroke – and the gym session last night. We push hard, but I’ve been slacking a bit recently and I’m feeling it. I need to get my shit together or it will start to show to the others, or worse, I’ll start letting the club down. I’ve always had to work harder than them to stay fit. Lizzie is naturally toned and runs like a gazelle. Jodie is only five foot three, but she’s all muscle, lean, angry and boyish in her swimsuit and Ange has the curves. Her own personal floats, as Lizzie would put it. Not that her boobs stop her cutting fast through the water. All her femininity dissolves as soon as she dives under the surface. I’m not quite sure how I fit into the pack. More ass than tit is how I overheard twatty Jack Marshall talking about me last term – it still stings badly – and he probably had a point. I’ve inherited my mum’s pear shape. Any extra weight goes straight to my thighs, and they’re big enough even when I’m barely eating.

I may tell Mum that Jodie’s mum is back this weekend, just to stop her worrying. I feel a flash of guilt. Of all of our families, my mum is the most protective. I never noticed it much before. It’s always been us two together – and Auntie Marilyn – and I know she loves me more than anything, and I do love her too, but I’m sixteen now and I have to have my own space, like the rest of my friends do. Text me when you get there. Text me when you’re leaving. I’ll come and pick you up, no, really, it’s no problem. I know she means well, but no one else’s mum does that and I can’t help but feel embarrassed. It makes me feel like a child, and I’m not. I’m pretty much a woman. I have my own secrets now.

Our phones buzz again and we laugh in unison at Lizzie’s message. A gross spunking dick gif.

‘So, are you gonna?’

Ange always does this weird half-American accent whenever the subject is sex. She breaks off a piece of doughnut and pops it in her mouth, but her brown eyes are sharp on me as she chews.

I shrug, casual, although my heart trips. Am I? I said I’d do it when I was sixteen, and part of me wants to – at least used to want to – but I don’t see why it’s so urgent I do it straight away. But Courtney is hot, and he’s totally different and more than anything he’s cool. Cool boys have never really liked me before and I kind of feel I owe him now. He’s probably not used to waiting, even though we’ve only been sort of seeing each other a couple of months.

‘Probably,’ I say, and Ange breaks into an excited grin.

‘Oh my God, I bet he’s totally experienced. Way better for your first time.’

‘He’s been pretty good so far.’ I stick my tongue out at her, wiggle it crudely, and wink.

This time she shrieks loud enough to make several girls at other tables turn and stare.

The banter comes easily and I know I probably will do it with Courtney this weekend, if only to get it out of the way, and it’s not like we haven’t done most other things anyway apart from that, but I don’t feel the way I used to about him any more. I’m not overwhelmed by him like I was at the start. Not since … well … not since the messages started. I’ve got a new secret now. One I haven’t shared even with the girls. I can’t. It’s something which is entirely mine and it’s making Courtney and all his cool seem like teenage-boy bullshit.

My new Facebook friend. Someone I can really talk to.

The bell rings out overhead signalling the end of lunch and my heart races. I made it through the hour without looking at Messenger. I don’t like to check in front of Ange or the others and I’ve turned my notifications off. We have sharp eyes as well as strong muscles. We demand to know everything of each other. If it pinged, I’d have to share. We are one.

As Ange disappears off to Geography, I clear our trays before going to English revision. Only then do I click into FB Messenger. My heart thumps, but quickly falls. No new messages. I can’t believe how disappointed I feel. It’s my sixteenth birthday. It’s important. I thought he cared.

Maybe later, I tell myself, as I pocket my phone, determined not to be too upset. To believe in him like he said I should. There’ll be a message later.

4

LISA

It’s gone way better than I expected, and two hours after our meeting starts, the deal is done. I’m still trembling, but this time it’s with pride, exhilaration, and general relief at not messing it up. I walk tall as I lead Simon through to Penny’s office, and all heads turn towards us, even Marilyn’s. It’s not only that I’ve obviously negotiated the contract and it’s a big one, it’s also that Simon Manning is not a man you can ignore. He’s not handsome in a smooth estate agent way like Toby, all hair product and overpowering aftershave, but he exudes something attractive. Handsome probably isn’t the right word. His nose is slightly misshapen as if it’s been broken a few times and he’s got the thickened out body of someone who used to play rugby but maybe doesn’t so much any more. Still physically fit, but with less intent. There’s grey hair at his temples, and he has a confidence about him which is alluring and friendly. But then he should be confident, I think, as I shake his hand and say goodbye for now, trying not to enjoy the feel of his strong grip, and leave him with Penny. He’s about to open his fifth hotel and health club. He can’t be much more than forty and he’s well on the way to building an empire.

I close Penny’s office door behind him, leaving them to it. I can feel the heat in my skin and I know I’m glowing. I can’t believe how well it went. He needs cleaning staff, catering staff and hotel staff and he’s happy to let PKR – me – manage it all. If I’d known after my first approach how many people he was interested in taking on, I’d have gone straight to Penny to handle it; it’s her company and this is a big deal, maybe one of the biggest contracts the company has ever had. I’m so glad I’d been oblivious. I’d been nervous enough thinking he was going to want maybe thirty workers, I’d have had a breakdown knowing the real figures. But it’s done. And brilliantly. I can’t keep the smile from my face as I emerge into their office chatter.

‘Oh, I always try to walk to work and back wherever I am,’ Julia, the new one with the brunette bob, is saying. ‘Keeps me toned.’

‘Go well?’ Toby asks, looking up at me, the girls’ conversation no longer interesting. I can see a glint of envy in his eyes. He’s so desperate to get on and succeed. He likes the slick IT clients, the ones who want graphic designers or web developers on one-year contracts for fifty or sixty thousand pounds, and yes, they probably do give him bigger chunks of commission when he places someone, but those jobs don’t come along every month. I’ve always liked the other end of the market. Helping people who really want a job, whatever it is. Those who need the sense of self-worth a weekly pay cheque brings in. I know how they feel. I felt it once.

‘Better than well, in fact. Turns out it’s going to be a pretty big contract. At least one hundred and fifty people.’ I sound like I’m bragging – and I am, but I can’t help it. Pride and falls spring to mind but I let myself have this small moment.

‘Wow, well done!’ It’s one of the new girls. Stacey. Long blonde hair, acrylic nails. Her words could sound patronising but they don’t. Under her veneer of make-up and tan, I can see she’s nervous and desperately wants to be liked, to fit in, and get on with her job.

‘Thank you.’

‘Definitely drinks on you tonight.’ Julia again.

‘I won’t be there, I’m afraid. I’m not much of a drinker and it’s my daughter’s sixteenth birthday. I’m taking her out.’

‘That’s nice,’ she says. ‘Normally at sixteen they only want to be with their friends, don’t they? I certainly did.’

There’s something sharp in the way she talks and I smart. She’s a little cocky for someone on her first day.

I look more closely at her. She’s not as young as I thought she was, however much she’s trying to appear otherwise. She’s over thirty definitely. Botox probably.

‘We’re very close.’

She smiles, sugar cubes dipped in cyanide, and shows perfect white teeth that are reminiscent of a shark. She makes me nervous and it annoys me.

‘I’ll never have kids,’ she says. ‘I’m too career-focused. Couldn’t do it as a single mum, either. Hats off to you.’

It’s an insult wrapped in a compliment and Stacey’s eyes widen at Julia’s nerve, and Toby – obviously the one who’s been talking about me – has the good sense to keep his gaze on his screen as if reading some hugely important email.

‘Thankfully, Lisa is a superwoman who can manage everything and more. If only the rest of us were so capable.’ Marilyn has appeared alongside me. Shark smile meets shark smile and this time Julia shrinks slightly in her seat. ‘Lunch?’ Marilyn finishes. The last is addressed to me as if the others aren’t there; flies she’s already swatted away.

‘There’s always one,’ she mutters as we get our handbags and jackets. ‘In any gaggle of women. There’s always one you have to watch. At least we know which it is in this bunch.’ She casts a dark glance back at Julia. Why does there always have to be one? I wonder. Why can’t things just be nice?

‘He’s gorgeous, too.’ Marilyn has our drinks, two glasses of Prosecco, and I’m clutching the cutlery as we grab a corner table. ‘In a rugged kind of way. And it’s so obvious he likes you. All those unnecessary meetings. The way he watched you walk when he followed you through the office.’

‘Oh shut up,’ I say.

‘I don’t see why you don’t go for it.’

‘Oh, can you imagine Penny’s reaction? Mixing business and pleasure. And anyway – no.’

She watches me, thoughtful. My lack of a man comes up at least once a year in a serious way, and she peppers our conversations with it throughout the other months. I wonder if this is going to be another probing lecture. Thankfully, it’s not. Instead, she holds her glass up. ‘Cheers and congratulations!’

We clink and sip our bubbles. I like the way it fizzes in my mouth. I prefer to drink at lunchtimes because it’s only ever one glass.

‘Oh, before I forget’ – she leans over and rummages in her oversized handbag – ‘I’ve got something for Ava.’ She pulls out a small wrapped gift. ‘From me and Richard. God, I can’t believe she’s sixteen. Where have the years gone? If she’s sixteen, how old are we?’

‘Old,’ I say, but I’m smiling as I drink some more.

I take the present and tuck it in my own bag. It’s not only me who’s lucky to have Marilyn. Ava is too.

I skipped breakfast because I was so nervous and although I’ve barely had half a glass, the wine is going to my head. The tension in my shoulders begins to unknot. Then I see Marilyn’s face and I know what’s coming. I was too quick to think she wasn’t going to pry today.

‘Nothing from Ava’s dad?’

‘No.’ I bristle, though she’s asking cautiously. Quietly. She knows how this goes. Another conversation that rolls around too often for my liking. ‘And I’m not expecting anything either.’ I need to change the subject. ‘Anyway, how are you? You seemed a bit quiet yesterday. A bit off. All okay?’

‘I had a headache. It was nothing. You know I get them sometimes.’ She looks over at the waitress heading towards us with our food. Is she avoiding my gaze? It’s not the first time she’s had a headache in the past few months.

‘Maybe you should go to a doctor.’

‘And maybe you should go on a date with Mr Manning.’

I scowl at her.

‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry. But Ava’s nearly grown up. You need to get back out there.’

‘Can’t we forget this and concentrate instead on how brilliant I am?’ I try to lighten the mood, and am relieved when the barmaid arrives with our sandwiches and chips, distracting us with food. How could I ever tell Marilyn anything? She knows it wasn’t a one-night stand like the lie I told Ava, but she doesn’t know the truth of it. The whole truth of it. She wouldn’t understand. Marilyn of the charmed life, the great husband, the nice house, the good job – happy, lovely Marilyn. If I told her, it would change how she saw me. Don’t get me wrong. I wish I could tell her. I’ve dreamed about telling her. Sometimes I find the words sitting right in my mouth, wanting to spill out, but I have to swallow them down like bile. I can’t do it. I can’t.

I know how words spread. They catch fire and pass from one person to another to another.

I can’t risk being found.

5

AVA

The rain has almost stopped by the time we get home, but my coat is damp from getting caught in a downpour running to the car earlier and I stamp my feet quietly on the pavement feigning more cold than I feel to hide my impatience.

‘We can watch a film if you like,’ Mum says when she finally gets out. ‘It’s still early.’

‘I’ve got to revise.’ It’s only seven and I’m not planning on going to sleep until at least midnight, but I want to get to the privacy of my bedroom. She looks disappointed, but she’s the one who’s always going on about my exams. It doesn’t stop the squirm of guilt in my guts. We used to always have sofa blanket and movie nights sharing bowls of microwave popcorn. I used to love them. I do love them. But life is more complicated now. He’s waiting. I have to talk to him. Sometimes I feel like I’ll die if I don’t.

‘Oh flip,’ Mum says suddenly, with a groan. ‘I forgot to pick up Mrs Goldman’s shopping. I’ll have to pop down to the little Sainsbury’s. Will you be okay on your own? I’ll only be ten minutes? Or you can come with me.’

My irritation rises and I prefer it to the sad guilt of forcing cracks into our relationship. Every time she goes out and leaves me she asks this. Every time. What does she think is going to happen? I’ll stick my finger in a plug socket because she’s not here? ‘I’m sixteen,’ I snap. ‘You’ve got to stop going on at me like I’m a kid.’

‘Sorry, sorry.’ She’s in too much of a rush to get offended and that suits me. I don’t really want to upset her. I don’t actually like upsetting her but she’s becoming so needy now she can’t control everything I do like when I was little. Our pizza hadn’t been too terrible and I know she’d been trying to make it a fun time, but all her questions are so cloying and clingy and intrusive. She wants to know everything about me all the time and somehow now I can’t tell her. I don’t want to tell her. Whenever I think about talking to her about something – like Courtney and the sex thing – it all gets tied up on my tongue and I get moody instead. Everything is changing. I need my own space. Now more than ever.

But still, she gave me great birthday presents. An iPad mini and an underwater MP3 player, way more expensive than the one I wanted. I love the necklace Marilyn’s given me too – thick silver coil with a dark purple glass centrepiece. It’s chunky and cool and perfect for me. Sometimes I wish Mum was a bit more like Marilyn. She’s relaxed and fun. If Mum was more easygoing maybe I would talk to her about stuff. Not everything, I think, as I try not to rush up the path to the house. But some stuff. I couldn’t talk to her about this. She’d go crazy.

‘Up for a chat tonight, Birthday Girl? I’ll be around for an hour or so if you’re not out having fun!’ The Facebook message had come in when I’d checked my phone in the loo before the puddings arrived. I said I’d get home as soon as I could and to please wait. I hadn’t realised how needy I sounded when I sent it, but it does sound a bit lamely desperate and that makes me worry I’m turning into my mum. But God, why can’t people just install Messenger on their phones? Like everyone’s data isn’t already out there in one way or another? Anyone under twenty-five has made their peace with it. It’s only adults who think anyone cares. What’s the point of having a message service you only use from your computer?

A different kind of privacy.

The thought worms into my head. It’s the kind of privacy you need when keeping secrets from those closest to you. A wife maybe? Whatever his reasons it’s the kind of privacy that has made me turn off notifications.

We all have secrets.

I’m beginning to realise maybe secrets are great.

I’m trying not to be disappointed when I come downstairs for a drink twenty minutes later. Our chat was brief and all his replies were short. Distracted and not really answering my questions. I don’t want to be upset – at least we had some time – but I guess I’m mainly frustrated. Courtney is all over my WhatsApp now. But I know what he wants. Funny how he’s pissing me off with it a bit. A few weeks ago I’d have been so happy to have him chasing me and making me feel pretty and sexy. Now, he’s simply another irritation.

I’m quiet on the stairs in my socks and when I turn the corner to head to the kitchen, I stop. Mum’s there. She’s standing by the kitchen table, staring at nothing, and there’s a stiffness to her that’s all wrong. The whole thing looks weird and I’m not sure why, but my heart is racing and my stomach churns. After a moment she reaches into her bag for the small bottle of Prosecco Marilyn gave her, twists the lid off and drinks it straight from the bottle.

I freeze where I am, confused and alarmed. Is this my fault? Is this because I’ve been so shitty? I hover in the hallway, unsure of what to do. Do I ask her what’s wrong? I feel small again. I go to take a step forward, but then hesitate. There’s something about the way she’s standing – the stillness – which makes me feel as if I’m watching something private. Something where I don’t belong. Are the cracks in our relationship coming from her side too? Does she have secrets she’s not sharing? I find it hard to believe. She’s an open book, my mum.

It’s unsettling though. Those little bottles only hold one glass or so, but who doesn’t pour wine before drinking? What would make you drain it in basically one swallow? In the end, my stomach in knots, I creep back upstairs. I can live without a cup of tea.

6

LISA

It’s pitch-dark outside, no hint of a comforting grainy dawn grey yet, but I sit, wide awake, with my knees up under my chin and stare out at the bleak night, my stomach in terrible knots. It wasn’t Peter Rabbit. I know that. Peter Rabbit is long gone. It would be impossible for it to have been Peter Rabbit, the Peter Rabbit, but I want to run down to the recycle bins at the end of the road and root it out again to be sure. I take a deep breath. It’s not Peter Rabbit. It’s just a coincidence.

When I’d seen the soft toy out there in the rain, slumped dejected against Mrs Goldman’s gate, my heart had almost stopped. It was grubby and sodden, dropped maybe hours before, but the bright blue trousers stood out against the greying white fur. It wasn’t the same bunny, that was clear when I’d picked it up with trembling hands and a scream trapped in my throat, but it was close. So close. I wanted to hold it against my chest and wail, but the front door opened and Mrs Goldman appeared and instead I forced an air of idle curiosity as I asked if she knew whose it was. She didn’t, of course. Why would she? Her hearing isn’t great and her days are spent staring at the TV, not out of the window.

I gave her the bag of shopping and tried to smile and chat but the bunny was heavy and wet in my hand and the soft fur was cold, and all I could think was how the blue dungar-ees were exactly the same shade and style as those dungarees and those dungarees had been hand-made, and my head started to swim and I felt sick. Once Mrs Goldman had finally gone back inside, I forced a confident walk down the path and then, out of sight of both her house and mine, I finally held the toy close as if it were a dead animal my body heat could somehow bring back to life.

I took several deep breaths, years of therapy having drummed the technique into me as if steady oxygen could make anything better when most of the time I wished I didn’t have to breathe any more at all, and walked swiftly to the big bank of recycling bins at the end of the road and threw it inside. I could still feel the ghost of damp fur against my fingertips though, and I wasn’t sure my legs would carry me home without crumpling.

In the kitchen, for once grateful my daughter was finally becoming the kind of surly teenager who hides in her room, I grabbed the small bottle of Prosecco Marilyn had given me from my handbag and twisted the lid off, drinking it straight from the bottle in two goes. The acid bubbles made my chest burn and my eyes sting but I didn’t care. Anything was better than the awful pain and fear at the core of me, in the place I try hard to pretend is at best empty now, until something like this happens and the scab is ripped away and all the terrible terrible hurt crammed inside is exposed once more and I want to curl up and die.

I gasped and choked as I swallowed the last of the wine, leaning on the breakfast bar and using the physical discomfort as a distraction to calm my thinking. Slowly the buzzing in my ears faded. It was a coincidence, it had to be. Lots of children have toy bunnies. Some poor toddler was probably crying for the one I’d so ruthlessly tossed away at the end of the street. So what if it was wearing blue dungarees? There were probably thousands of soft toys in dungarees. It wasn’t Peter Rabbit.

I repeated that one sentence over and over in my head, glad I’d thrown the bunny away in the communal bins rather than the ones in our garden, too far to keep running to look at it without drawing attention to myself. It wasn’t Peter Rabbit. Yes, it had upset me, but it hadn’t been put there on purpose. It was harder to reconcile myself with the second sentence. It isn’t a statement of fact. It’s highly unlikely it’s been put there on purpose, but I can’t for definite know it in the way my sensible brain knows the toy I found wasn’t Peter Rabbit.

It’s this unease I’ve felt recently. The sense something isn’t quite right. What if it’s more than my usual paranoia? What if I’m wrong to steer away from it? I get up and creep down the corridor to Ava’s room. The lights are all off and the house is silent and I twist the handle as carefully and slowly as I can, not wanting to make any noise.

I watch her from the doorway, my perfect girl. She’s on her side, facing away from me, curled up small, exactly how she slept as a toddler. She is so precious. So wonderful, and looking at her calms me and reminds me that I have to stay alive, I have to keep breathing. For her. She gave me back my desire to live, and I will always protect her. She will never know what I keep inside. Not if I can help it. I want her to be blissfully free. It must be a wonderful thing to be blissfully free.

I stay for a few minutes more, the sight of Ava far better for me than any amount of deep yoga breathing, and then reluctantly leave her to sleep in private. It’s nearly three a.m. Taking sleeping pills now is a bad idea, but so is facing the day with no rest at all, and so I compromise and only swallow one instead of the usual two I need when these fearful, sad moods have me gripped tight. I’ll feel terrible all morning tomorrow but at the moment two or three hours of oblivion is what I need. I can’t keep going round in circles of fear and grief. I’ll go mad by dawn if I do, I’m sure of it. The bad feeling is only my anxiety. The bunny wasn’t Peter Rabbit. The words bang at my skull, trying to knock sense into me as I crawl back under my covers.

I want oblivion, but instead I dream. It’s the dream, in glorious, vivid technicolour, and while I’m there, it’s wonderful.

In the dream, I’m holding Daniel’s hand. It’s soft and small and warm and his fingers grip tight in the way toddlers do as he looks up at me and smiles. My heart bursts in rainbow showers of joy and I bend over to kiss him. His chubby cheeks are all smooth, creamy skin, tinged pink from the outside air, and he giggles in surprise as my lips smack loudly against his face, but his eyes are lit up by love. His eyes are like mine, blue flecked with grey and green and in them I can see how I am his everything.

Peter Rabbit is in his other hand, and he holds him maybe even more tightly than he holds on to me. He cannot imagine me not being there, but he’s had some near misses with Peter Rabbit. Once left on a bus but remembered in the nick of time. Another time, on a counter in the corner shop. Daniel has the fear that Peter Rabbit might one day not be there and the thought alone is enough to make him cry. He’s two and a half years old and Peter Rabbit is his best friend.

I feel something tapping against my subconscious, a dark truth which won’t be ignored, not even in a dream – It is not Peter Rabbit who will one day not be there. This little hand in mine will be cold and still and will never reach for me again – but I push it away and take Daniel to the small park with the tatty swings and roundabouts where the paint is so chipped the rust from the metal below stains clothes on a damp day, but he squeals with joy at the sight of it. He’s two and a half and he doesn’t see rust and decay and something unloved. He only sees the good things. He is the good thing.

His hand is out of mine and he and Peter Rabbit run to the swings. I run after him, staying slightly behind because I love watching the way Daniel’s small body moves, so cute and clumsy, bound up in the constraints of his coat. He looks over his shoulder at me and I want to hold this picture of sweetness forever to remember when he is grown into a boy and then a man and this everything I am is gone.

It is a perfect dream. An afternoon in the park. The love is overwhelming. It’s pure. It’s so strong it almost suffocates me, bubbling out through my pores there’s so much of it. It’s unrestrained. No barriers are up around it. There is nothing wicked in the world in that moment and I think, if I let the love take me, I shall transform into a pure beam of light shining on Daniel.

I wake up, gasping painful breaths into my pillow and clutching at fragments of fading images, hoping in vain to grasp one and follow it back and hold his small hand forever. It’s always the same after the dream. It hurts so much I want to die, the aching need to go back and save him. I try to think of Ava, my perfect girl, the child who came after, oblivious, free and wonderful and untarnished by the world. She is here and alive and I love her with all of what’s left of my heart.

Perhaps my love for Ava makes it all worse, if it’s at all possible. I think of the bunny rabbit in the bin. It is not Peter Rabbit. I know that. I know where Peter Rabbit is.

Peter Rabbit was buried with Daniel.

7

AVA

I’m not sure exactly what’s in the punch but it’s some crazy mix of shit. Fruit juice, lemonade, the vodka Ange brought and a bottle of Bacardi Jodie added from her mum’s booze cupboard. Jodie reckons her mum won’t miss it, but I’m not so sure. There was a fierce look on Jodie’s face when she poured it all in that made me think her mum would definitely notice when she gets back from France. Like Jodie wanted to get in some shit. So weird, how our mums are such opposites. Jodie’s is never here and mine is becoming way too clingy. Weird mums club, is what we call it. We haven’t told the others. They wouldn’t understand.

My head buzzes. We had cider in the pub earlier and this is my second glass of punch. I’m well on my way to getting wasted, which is probably the best way for doing it. Losing it.

I lean back on the bed, half-lying down, my head resting against the wall. My mum would lose it if she could see me now, on my friend’s bed with my sort-of boyfriend. She’s already texted once to check we’re all at the house. I’ve put my phone on silent. Imagine if she texted right in the middle? At least she’s gone out tonight. She doesn’t go out much which makes me feel more guilty about wanting my own life, but I’ve been stretching the umbilical cord for the past year or so and I want it to snap, even though I can feel her constantly trying to pull me back.

I’m still a bit freaked out by the other night. The weird drinking in the kitchen thing was bad enough, but then she came into my room in the middle of the night and watched me while I pretended to sleep. Why would she do that? It’s made me uncomfortable, as if the world is suddenly unsteady.

I take a long swallow of my punch as, down the corridor, the toilet flushes. My heart speeds up a little. Fuck. I’m actually going to fuck. For a moment, I have a totally irrational longing for my mum. It makes me drink some more. She’s the last person I need. I’m not a kid any more. I’m a woman. He always says so.

‘You all right?’ Courtney asks, as he comes back into Jodie’s spare bedroom and starts fiddling with his phone to play some tunes. I smile at him, nod, and drink some more. It’s too sweet but I don’t care. I want to get smashed, and the booze and lack of food is obliging. I wonder if he’s nervous. Probably not. If all the stories are true, Courtney’s done it loads.

I’m not as anxious as I thought I would be. It’s been a busy day, I’m tired, and I could happily curl up and go to sleep. I started at the gym early this morning, and then, once my legs and shoulders were trembling and aching, I forced myself to swim for an hour. I’d met Ange at ten so she could buy something new to wear. Something skin-tight, obviously. Angela’s been served in pubs since she was about twelve. With her tits and all dressed up Angela often looks older than Jodie.

Courtney’s mouth is hot and wet on my neck and his hand slides on to my hip. This is it. I feel detached, here but not here. My body’s in the moment, but my mind isn’t, like I’m watching us from above and thinking, just get on with it. I can hear my breath getting heavier, although I’m not really turned on. It’s a mechanical reaction. Being with Courtney means I can’t help thinking about him. I’ve heard nothing today. He said he was going to be busy, but surely everyone has time to send one little ‘hello’? Something so I’d know he was thinking about me.

Courtney’s mouth meets mine and I obligingly part my lips and let our tongues explore each other. He’s a good kisser compared with most of the other boys I’ve been out with, but tonight it feels like an invasion.

Why hasn’t he messaged me?

He’s grinding hard against my thigh. I have to do it. I haven’t got a choice – everyone’s expecting it. They’ll be laughing and chatting and dancing downstairs, but inside they’re all wondering if we’ve done it yet. Is it going to hurt? Am I going to be different after?

I’d thought about backing out somehow, but then that woman in the pub knocked my bag off the table and sent all my stuff flying everywhere. The girls saw the condoms and Ange went all weird American for a while. Once the laughter and teasing had died down, she said black boys don’t use condoms, and we’d all called her a racist, but she insisted it was true before Lizzie said it wasn’t only black boys, it was all boys if they could get away with it, which is why she’s on the pill. I laughed with them, but Jodie must have seen how uncomfortable I was feeling because when we went to the loo she whispered that there are only a couple of days in the month you can get pregnant in anyway and so not to worry.

‘You okay with this?’ Courtney’s got my bra hitched up over my boobs and his eyes look all funny and the words are breathless. Needy.

I nod, even though I am not all right with this any more. He’s already pushing my skirt up. Everything’s clumsy. Not like it was when I imagined it.

What would he think if he knew what I was about to do? Would he be jealous?

The condom is still in my bag on the other side of the room. A continent away. How am I supposed to mention it? I should have said about it before. His jeans are undone and yanked down and he grabs my hand and pushes it into his crotch. He groans as I touch him, and his shaking hands yank at my knickers but we get caught up in a tangle and our teeth clash together. I take control and there’s a pause as I wriggle my pants off, and as I do, he looks at me properly.

‘You know I really like you, don’t you?’ he says. ‘I’ve never gone out with a girl like you before.’

It makes me feel slightly better about all this, and so I take the moment to tug my top off too. He might not be naked, but I am. If I’m doing this, I’m not doing it being half choked by my own bra.

‘You’re beautiful.’

This time when he kisses me, I try to be in the moment even though beautiful is his word, not Courtney’s. Courtney normally calls me hot despite the fact I know I’m not. Not really. I think of the condom again but it’s too late to mention it now. He’s poking and prodding and nudging, trying to get it in, and I realise that maybe he’s not quite so experienced at this either.

And then we’re doing it. Or rather, Courtney’s doing it. I’m just lying here and trying not to think about how different it would be with him.

8

LISA

‘Hey, everyone! Smile!’ It’s Emily, face glowing, a mobile phone held up in the air over us. I turn away automatically, one hand flying up across my face. ‘No photos,’ I say.

‘It was only for Facebook.’ Emily sounds hurt. ‘So my boyfriend and family can see who I work with.’ She’s very sweet but very young.

‘I don’t want photos of me on your Facebook either,’ Julia says. Her voice is sharp, a cutting blade that takes no prisoners. She’s late, arriving only moments ago, and I wonder if she’s irritated because she looks hot and bothered rather than her usual cool self, but I’m still surprised – and relieved – by her interjection. Marilyn knows I hate having my picture taken, but this time I’ve been saved from having to explain myself to new people. Maybe Julia and I have something in common after all. ‘And anyway,’ she continues, ‘it’s hardly professional, taking selfies at a work do. This isn’t some cheesy club.’

‘More of a celebration than a work do,’ Marilyn cuts in, seeing how stung Emily is. The poor girl looks like she might cry. ‘But you may have a point. Not everything in life has to Facebooked and Instagrammed.’

She’s saying all this as much for my benefit as anything else. I don’t have any social media accounts even though Marilyn swears you can set your profile to completely private. I still wouldn’t trust it, and who would I have on there? Only Marilyn probably, and I see her most days as it is. ‘Oh shit, I sound old.’ She groans over-dramatically, lifting the mood as only she can. ‘Come on, Lisa, let’s grab us all another wine before the money behind the bar runs out.’

We separate from the others, leaving Toby to continue his obvious hot pursuit of Stacey, and make our way to the bar. I didn’t want to come tonight. No matter how much I’ve tried to shake it, my stomach has been a river bed of slithering eels since finding the rabbit, and the past clings like an oil slick on feathers, breaking my heart all over again. It’s taken everything I have not to spend my time following Ava around to make sure she’s safe, which I’ve worked really hard at not doing now she has more freedom. Trying to hide how I’m feeling is exhausting and if there was any way I could have got out of coming to the party, I would have, but there was no way I’d have got away with it. This is Penny’s once-a-year company and clients drinks and nibbles, and with the new staff, the second branch opening, and my new contract, she wouldn’t have been happy.

In that respect, Julia was right. We may be in a salsa club, but this isn’t a girls’ night out. It’s still, in some ways, work. However, as I lean on the bar next to Marilyn, I’m surprised to find I’m feeling better for coming out. The music is full of life and the words are foreign so I can’t get snared by lyrics of love or loss.

‘God, I could use a tequila shot,’ Marilyn says, and I laugh although I’m a bit surprised. Marilyn drinks more than me – but everyone does. I know what too much alcohol can do to people and none of it is good. I can’t stay alert when I’m drunk and I have Ava to protect. Still, Marilyn’s not a drinker drinker. I can’t remember the last time she did shots. Her eyes shine a little too bright. How many wines has she had?

‘You okay?’ I ask. She doesn’t answer.

‘Well, well, well,’ she says, as she looks at something over my shoulder. ‘Look who’s showed up. Mr Millionaire himself.’

I glance back. Simon Manning is standing in the doorway, dressed down in dark jeans and a V-neck T-shirt. My wine glass is suddenly too big and slippery in my hand and it feels like the party pauses for a moment. It’s rare for major clients to come to these things. Penny always invites them but it’s mainly staff who turn up – now two branches’ worth – and some of our longest-serving temps. Penny does a separate private dinner for the top-level clients.

The room is quite dark and he probably doesn’t realise he’s ‘making an entrance’ as he stands there, backlit, and peers around trying to recognise anyone. Finally he moves. My breath catches.

‘What a surprise,’ Marilyn drawls. ‘He’s coming this way.’

I look behind me, expecting to see Penny nearby, but she’s over by the side tables where Julia is talking to James from the new office.

‘Lisa.’

I have no choice but to look at him. He’s standing close, barely a foot away, and my nerves jangle and I feel awkward as his aftershave and body heat fill the gap between us. I’m no aftershave connoisseur, but he smells good. Fresh and citrussy, but not overpowering. I hate myself for noticing.

‘Hello, Simon.’ She reaches forward and shakes his hand, as ever saving the day for me as I flounder. I take the moment to try and gather myself. I need to stop behaving like a stupid teenager. ‘Welcome aboard, I hear.’

I wish I found it as easy to talk to people. Marilyn is so confident. Friendly without being flirtatious. An open book. I can’t be like that. I don’t think I’ve ever been like that.

‘Well, Lisa sold the company so well I couldn’t say no,’ he says. They’re both looking at me, expectant. I can’t stay silent forever. Where is Penny?

‘I’ll be sending some more figures over to you on Monday.’ It’s all I can think of and sounds so bland even I’m cringing.

‘It’s Saturday night.’ He takes the glass of wine Marilyn has somehow spirited out of thin air. ‘Let’s forget about work. Can you salsa? I’m terrible but willing to give it a go if you are.’

My feet are suddenly glued to the floor. There are a few people taking advantage of the expert on hand on the dance floor, but not many. Not enough to stop us being the centre of attention if we joined them. My mouth opens and closes silently as I panic, a drowning fish, trying to find a way to say no which won’t sound rude, although a part of me thinks it would be fun to let myself go to the music if I was a different person. If I was Marilyn maybe, or Stacey, or Julia. But I’m not. I’m me, and I don’t want him to want to dance with me. And yet, even as I think it, I know it’s a lie. I hate the snake in my belly that wants all of life’s excitements.

‘Simon!’ Here she is, Penny, breezing through us. I could cry with relief as I take a step backwards, giving her space. ‘How wonderful of you to come!’

Marilyn smiles and gives him a shrug, pupils as the teacher arrives, but I’m already walking away on shaking legs.

‘Told you he likes you,’ Marilyn says as she catches me up.

‘Leave it alone.’ My words come out with more bite than intended and she doesn’t follow me when I go to the table at the rear of the room where we left our things, but instead goes to join Eleanor who used to sit opposite us before she went to the new branch.

I should apologise. I don’t though. I want to text Ava. To check she’s okay. I want to stay here, hiding at the back in the dark. I want the earth to open up and swallow me whole. To bury me in the cold and damp. To be with Daniel and Peter Rabbit in the ground.

I sit down before my legs give way, and I take deep breaths. I can’t keep texting Ava. I’ve already sent three. I have to let her be free and be young. I have to. But it’s so hard. Exhausted as I am by my fear, it refuses to leave me.

While breathing slowly, I focus on the present. Marilyn and Eleanor are laughing about something. Toby has dragged Stacey on to the dance floor. They’re both good dancers, but she’s keeping a distance between their bodies and I feel a wave of something close to maternal pride. She may not be the brightest bulb in the pack, but she knows better than to be a notch in his bedpost.

I grow calmer, knowing I’m lost in the shadows. No one is seeking me out. I can’t see Penny and Simon from here, but I know she’ll be attached to him for the rest of the evening. I push away the memory of his body heat and aftershave, intent as it is on clinging to me.

A glint of metal distracts me to my right. Someone crouching down by the tables along the side. Julia? Yes. Rummaging in her bag. Lines tighten across my forehead, my instinct for wrongness kicking in. That’s not her bag. It’s Penny’s. The Dolce & Gabbana gold clasp is flashing as lights from the dance floor catch it. Julia’s bag is smaller, barely big enough for a wallet, phone, keys, perhaps some lipstick. Not an expensively practical middle-aged woman’s bag. I can’t remember how I know this, but I do. I always take in the details of a person. My brain is trained that way.

Definitely Penny’s bag.

I can’t see what Julia’s doing and so I work my way round the edge of the room until I’m closer. She gets up and glances around, unaware I’m watching her, before striding confidently to the bar. I follow, moving faster to catch up, and when I’m only a few feet behind I see the crumpled twenty-pound note in her hand. My heart thumps, banging a truth into me. Money stolen from Penny’s purse. It can’t be. Surely not. I want to doubt the instinct I have for both detail and trouble. I don’t want to know this rotten-apple worm of fact which will squirm inside me every day at work. But if it’s Julia’s own money, why has she taken it out of her purse already? She’s got her little bag with her – with her own wallet in it – so why is she holding a twenty-pound note?

Penny and Simon are still talking at the bar and although he’s smiling at her and laughing, his eyes move away from hers as I come into his sightline. I don’t so much as glance his way. I have no time for him right now. I’m absorbed in Julia’s confidence as she flashes the barman a smile and orders a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

‘It’s for the lady over there,’ she says, pointing out Penny. ‘Can you tell her it’s a thank you for the great job opportunity? From Julia? I don’t want to interrupt them.’

I’m standing beside her and she notices me watching but doesn’t offer to buy me anything. She can’t anyway. The wine she’s chosen is exactly twenty pounds.

‘Diet Coke,’ I mutter to the barman as Julia moves away, joining Marilyn and Eleanor near the dance floor, far enough away for Penny to have to seek her out and thank her, and also, perhaps more importantly, on the other side of the room from the Dolce & Gabbana handbag she was so recently digging around in. I watch her insert herself as if they’ve invited her to join them and I don’t know what to do. I should say something to Penny. But what? I think Julia stole your own money to buy you a drink? It’s dark. I wasn’t that close. It’s a big accusation to make.

Penny leaves the bar and rushes over to gush a thank you at Julia, who does a fine impression of embarrassment. She’s not fooling me though. If she didn’t want a fuss, she wouldn’t have given a thank you gift in such a public place. I’m an expert in not wanting to be fussed over. I wouldn’t have given a gift at all. If I say something, will people think I’m somehow jealous of the new girl? Julia shines. I don’t. Maybe I didn’t see it right anyway. Maybe I’m making a wild assumption. I feel sick.

Over to my right, Simon Manning half waves at me, but I’m saved by Marilyn, who’s fled Eleanor now Julia’s there. ‘God, butter wouldn’t melt,’ she says. Marilyn’s not fooled by her either.

‘Sorry I snapped. About Simon.’ Ava may be my heart, but Marilyn is my rock. I should tell her what I think I saw. No, not what I think. What I saw. She wouldn’t doubt me and she’d be able to handle it much better than I can. I’ve had two glasses of wine, and I’m feeling braver than normal. But still I can’t bring myself to speak. Marilyn would act on it and then there would be confrontation and who knows where that would lead? Julia is trouble. I can sense it.

Thankfully, Marilyn is staring down at the bright screen of her phone. ‘I didn’t realise the time,’ she says. ‘Richard’s outside, if you want a lift home.’

My instant relief is almost overwhelming. ‘Yes, please. I’m done. Let’s sneak out. I can’t be bothered to do the circuit of goodbyes.’ I’m trying not to sound too eager, but I want to get out of here, away from Simon Manning and Julia and the noise of it all.

‘Sounds good to me,’ she agrees.

I don’t fully relax until I’m strapped into the back of Richard’s Saab.

‘Good night, ladies?’ he asks.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I say.

‘It was all right.’ Marilyn is less enthusiastic. ‘The music was too loud, and you know, work people.’ She rolls her eyes and he smiles.

‘Present company excepted, I hope,’ I say, and we all laugh a little in the polite way people do with a predictable joke. I stare out at the night as we drive away, zoning out Richard’s questions as the two of them chat. It’s nice to be in their company. Money. Julia. Penny. I don’t want to think about any of it.

When I get home, my resolve breaks and I send Ava one last text.

I’m home from my party but I’m sure your sleepover is still going strong! Give my love to the girls and I’ll see you tomorrow xx

Even as I send it I know how passively needy it is under the chirpiness and wish I could call it back. I doubt the other mothers text nearly as much as I do. But they’re not me. They haven’t had my life. When the handset immediately pings I’m so sure it’s going to be Ava snapping at me – but at least I’ll know she’s safe – that it takes a moment to register I’m staring at an unknown number. I feel sick. The bunny rabbit. A strange number. The past tumbles towards me, and I tremble as I click to open it.

Hey, Lisa, it’s Simon. I know this is wholly inappropriate and I can always pretend it’s about work, but I wondered if you’d like to have dinner with me next week? Anyway, no need to reply straight away. Think about it. (before you say yes;-)). Enjoy the rest of your weekend. Sx

My emotions have raced from anxiety to calm to anxiety again and I don’t know quite how to process this. The memory of warm citrus scent fills my head.

No. I can’t. I can’t let a man in again. I can’t.

I delete the text and climb the stairs in the dark.

9

MARILYN

We wait, as we always do, until Lisa is through the front door, give her one last wave goodnight, before Richard pulls away.

‘Sorry if we kept you hanging about,’ I say. ‘I didn’t realise the time.’

‘It was that good a night?’

‘Ha, no.’ I look at him, a comedy bored expression on my face. ‘A Penny company night out. You can imagine. All work talk and pretending to be enjoying myself. I’d rather have been at home. I almost called you to come early, but I didn’t want to make Lisa feel she had to leave too.’ I’m over-explaining, despite my attempt at humour. Richard has always worked for himself. He doesn’t understand the whole office politics thing, no matter how many years I’ve had this job. He thinks it’s all some social whirl all day.

‘Isn’t it Lisa’s birthday soon?’ he asks, his eyes on the road. ‘The big four-o?’

‘A couple of months I think.’

‘We should do something for her. Organise a party. You could ask all the people at work along. Any other friends she has.’

I stiffen. Invite work into my home life? I can think of nothing worse. ‘She’s not a party person.’ Outside, the night flashes by. Where would we have it? Somewhere expensive? Somewhere to show off at? Regardless of everything else that screams at me this is a bad idea, we can’t afford to host a party.

‘Maybe not, but she’s changed over the years. She’s not the little shy mouse she was when you first started working together.’

He’s right, she isn’t. It’s still there sometimes, the unsettled edge which used to come off her like electricity, but it’s not an everyday thing. She walks with her shoulders back now and laughs easily. I became friends with her at first because I felt a bit sorry for her, not that I’d ever tell her so, but then I saw the person behind the shyness, wry, clever and kind, and things changed. Best friends. We’re there for each other. I love her. It’s as simple as that and I love her new confidence. It’s part of why I keep my secret from her. She doesn’t need any more shit in her life. I figure she’s had enough in her past one way or another. Plus, if I tell, I have to admit it to myself. I can’t face that.

‘We’ve all changed,’ I say, the words heavy, and as he glances across at me, I add, ‘It’s been ten years. My thighs have definitely changed.’

‘Your thighs are gorgeous.’ He looks back at the road. ‘But she’ll only be forty once and she doesn’t have anyone else to organise something for her. Ava won’t do it. She can’t arrange her own fortieth birthday and we’re her best friends.’

The thought is sweet, sometimes he is so very sweet, and my words come out too fast, my tongue loose after one glass of wine too many. ‘She may have a boyfriend to celebrate with by then.’

‘Oh?’ Now he’s looking at me properly, the road ahead empty of cars. ‘Come on. Spill.’ He smiles, white teeth in the darkness.

I fluster. I shouldn’t have said anything. This isn’t his business. This isn’t my business. Lisa would hate me talking about it. ‘Oh, it’s nothing really. Just someone at work.’

‘There’s a hot new man in the office? You didn’t say.’

The seat feels warm under me. ‘He’s not staff. He’s a client of hers. He owns a hotel chain or something.’ I sound dis-interested. Maybe too disinterested. It’s hard to get the balance right. ‘He’s opening a new one in town.’

‘A hot new boyfriend for Lisa? Sounds great. She’s been single too long. About time she got back out there.’

‘He’s not good-looking.’ Houses go by outside, lights still on in some, and I wonder at the lives inside, all the truths people hide behind those walls. Private lives. ‘But they like each other.’

They do like each other, however defensive Lisa might have been tonight. That was just nerves and embarrassment because she doesn’t know how to handle it. I wish I could tell her to relax. She deserves some happiness. Some fun at least. It’s been lovely to see her in the delicate dance around each other that comes at the beginning of something. The glow she has after their meetings, the endless meetings no client needs to have so many of, the smiling she doesn’t know she’s doing. I’m full of joy for her. Simon has the potential for a happy ever after.

‘Maybe we should go out for dinner with them,’ Richard says, as he pulls into the drive. ‘There could be some work in it for me.’

‘That would be nice,’ I answer. I’ve got no intention of setting up a foursome dinner with Lisa and Simon. They haven’t had a date yet, and Richard would push for work, I know he would, and then Simon would either offer him something out of pity or have to awkwardly ignore all the hints. Either way, it would be terrible.

‘But let’s see if they actually go out together first, okay?’

‘Okay. It’s sweet how you look after her.’ He kisses me on the forehead before unlocking the front door.

I watch Richard go inside before following, taking one last breath of clean night air. So many times I’ve been tempted to tell Lisa what’s going on, and I’m glad I haven’t. She needs hope. She’s had something bad happen in her past, that much is clear even if she closes down when I ask her about it. I can’t burden her with my problems. And maybe it will get better. Maybe it will go back to how it was at the beginning. We all need hope, me included.

Richard says nothing more about it until we’re getting ready for bed. I’m taking my make-up off, suddenly tired, when I see him looking at me in my reflection in the mirror.

‘What?’ I ask, a smear of cold cream across my cheeks.

‘What did you mean when you said he wasn’t good- looking?’

And so it begins.

10

AVA

I’m glad Courtney didn’t stay over. I just wanted to wash him out of me. It’s not him I think about all the time. The first thing I did after was check my phone for a Facebook message but there was nothing. I wanted to cry.

By the time we came downstairs, everyone was drunk and Ange was snogging Darryl in the kitchen, but after ten minutes or so, Jodie told the boys it was time to go. It felt clinical. Done what you came here for, now fuck off. I didn’t argue. It suited me when they left although after that came the interrogation as the girls wanted all the details. Did it sting? It stung me the first time. Did he get it in okay? Oh my God, how big? How was he after? I’d tried to stay excited about it but I felt hollow and sad. My first time shouldn’t have been like that. So nothingy. There wasn’t even any blood on the bed.

This morning it all feels like something that maybe happened in a dream, but the slightly dull ache between my thighs reminds me it was real. Can I dump him now? No. I’d look like such a tramp, and he’d be upset and who knows what he’d do, what he’d say or tweet or whatever. Call me fat and ugly and all that shit. I remember all the Snapchat crap that happened with Meg in Year Ten when she’d sent Christian pictures of her tits. At least I was never that stupid with Courtney. Anyway, I do like him. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. It’s all a mess.

I lean against the door frame as I puff on the cigarette. We don’t smoke much or often – it’s shit for our lung capacity – but there are times. And this is one of them. Jodie’s mum, Amelia, apparently smokes occasionally and Jodie found the packet last night, after which Lizzie insisted we smoked to celebrate the death of virginity and one more girl being safe from vampires in the night. Weird punch and a cigarette. What a way to celebrate. I’d spent most of the time going to the loo – I think he’s burst my bladder with his big cock – to check my messages, and coming out with a big fake grin on my face to cover my disappointment at my empty inbox.

The tobacco tastes horrible now I’m sober, and I don’t inhale. Only Jodie and Lizzie inhale. Does he smoke? I haven’t asked him. I mentally add it to the list of things I want to know about him. If he ever messages me again. Was he having sex last night? Was he thinking about me?

‘I’ll have to shower before I go,’ I say, as a breeze blows my smoke back at me. ‘If my mum smells this on me, she’ll go apeshit.’

‘Tell her my mum was here and smoking.’

‘It’s not worth the hassle. You know what she’s like. She forgets I’m growing up sometimes.’

The others have gone. Ange had to get home for some family lunch and Lizzie’s mum collected her half an hour ago. She’d offered me a lift too, but I can’t face my mum yet. She’ll want to talk, for me to tell her all about my night, and I’m going to have to come up with something to placate her or just storm up to my bedroom and hide under my duvet, which is what I really want to do. She makes me moody and then my being moody hurts her feelings. Anyway, it’s not ten thirty yet. If Angela hadn’t had to get up, we’d all be lounging in bed.

‘Did she never smoke?’ Jodie asks.

‘Nope. She doesn’t drink much either. And she was probably a total loser when she was my age.’ It feels disloyal but it makes me sound cooler when really I’m the mouse of our group – the most ordinary one. Maybe that’s what bothers me. Maybe me and Mum are too alike. Both boringly average.

‘At least she’s there for you.’ Jodie doesn’t look at me, but stares out into the garden before throwing her butt down on the path. She nods at me to do the same. ‘I’ll clean up later.’

She makes us huge cups of milky coffee and we go into the lounge, slouching into the furniture. Her home is like a show house – beautiful but impersonal. It never fails to surprise me.

‘I don’t know why we moved here,’ Jodie says, curling her small frame up in the armchair. ‘It wasn’t so bad in our old house, but now she’s always in Paris. She comes home once a month for a night if I’m lucky, and I’m sure that’s just to check I haven’t wrecked anything. She needn’t have bought a house at all.’

It sounds like heaven to me, but then I see Jodie’s face and realise maybe it’s not as good as I imagine.

Jodie shrugs. ‘You know I’ve never met her new man?’ She pauses. ‘She used to at least be home at weekends, but now she doesn’t even bother with those. Got to stay in France to see him apparently. God forbid she should want to see me. It’s not as if I even really want her here, but I want her to want to, if you know what I mean.’

It’s only me Jodie opens up to like this. We’ve splintered from the others a bit. She’s older and recently I feel older too. Because of him.

‘But then she’s always been weird,’ she continues. ‘Like I’m not really here. Not a real person. A pet maybe. She makes sure I have everything I need, but that’s it. I can’t say I know very much about her at all. She had me really young, did I tell you that? I didn’t live with her for years. Until I was about eight. She paid some people to look after me, how wrong is that? She was off travelling or working or both.’

‘How often do you see your dad?’ I know her dad’s not around but that’s it. Swimming, clothes, music, sex, bitching, booze, those are the things we four, the Fabulous Four, talk about most.

‘I don’t,’ she says. ‘He left when I was born. My mum gave me a photo once to show me what he looked like, but you know what, I’m not even sure it was him.’

We’ve been getting closer over the weeks but suddenly I feel a surge of proper unity with her. As if foundations are being set underneath us. This is something the others can’t be part of.

‘I don’t care who my dad is,’ I say. ‘I totally honestly don’t.’ I pause. ‘A while back someone at school said maybe my dad was a rapist. You know, like he raped my mum and she didn’t abort me? And that’s why she’s never had a boyfriend or anything.’

‘Wow.’ Her eyes have widened. ‘That’s some messed-up shit.’

‘Yeah. I mean, I don’t believe it, but it’s the only time I’ve ever cared about who he was. The rest, well. It’s hard to miss a ghost. I don’t even have a photograph.’

‘Did you tell your mum about the rapist thing?’

‘Yeah. She was horrified. She was fussing around me, re-assuring me.’ I laugh. ‘How fucked up is it to be reassured that your dad is just some bloke your mum shagged round the back of a pub after drinking too much.’

I see her face.

‘I’m exaggerating. It wasn’t round the back of a pub, but she says it was a drunken one-night stand.’

‘At least she can’t have a go at you for anything to do with sex.’

I laugh again, but I’m thinking of last night. My first sex. The only sex I’ve had. Shit sex. I can’t imagine having any one-night stands. ‘I haven’t told her about Courtney yet.’

‘Are you guys a proper thing now?’

I stare down at my cooling coffee. ‘He wants it to be. I’m not so sure.’

‘I thought you were crazy about him. Was it the sex? First time’s always bad, so don’t judge him on it. Unless it was you who was shit.’

I half-heartedly throw a cushion at her. ‘Shut up. It’s not that. It’s complicated.’

‘Someone else?’

She sits up straighter, curious, and I know I should have lied and said everything was fine. I need to shut this down. ‘Maybe.’ Everything I say is potentially making it worse. I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth. If Jodie tells Ange I’m interested in someone, she’s going to presume it’s someone at school and be on my case all the time to know who. I’ll have to make someone up. Pick some boy at random. I can’t think of anyone I fancy in Year Thirteen. ‘But it’s only a crush.’ My face is flushing with worry. ‘It’s not going to be anything.’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to Ange,’ Jodie says, reading my mind. ‘I love her, but she’s got a big gob and I wouldn’t want her knowing my secrets, if I had any.’

‘Or the others?’ I ask. ‘I don’t want it to be a thing. I’m sure me and Courtney will be fine.’

‘I swear,’ she says. ‘Your secret’s safe. But if anything happens, you have to tell me first. Deal?’

‘Deal.’

For a moment I’m tempted to tell her everything. To tell her what’s really turned me off Courtney. The friend request. The messages. Everything about him. But suddenly, she’s up on her feet and saying I should grab the spare room shower and she’ll use her en-suite, and then we should go.

‘Shit,’ I say when we get back to mine and I’m rummaging in my bag. ‘I’ve lost my keys.’

‘Check the car floor,’ Jodie leans over. ‘I always find stuff down there.’

I scrabble around under the seat, but they’re not there. My house key, swim-locker key and school-locker key, all on a key ring with a pair of big red Mick Jagger lips. Gone.

‘Nope. Fuck it. Where can they be?’

Jodie roots around but comes up empty-handed, and then it dawns on me. ‘That dumb bitch in the pub who knocked my bag over.’

‘What about her?’

‘I don’t remember picking my keys up.’

‘You must have.’ She looks in my bag as if maybe my eyes aren’t working properly. ‘She was helping pick stuff up. Maybe she put them in a side pocket.’

I let her look, but I’ve already searched everything.

‘Your mum’s in though, right?’ she says.

‘Yeah, but I’ll take the spare from down the side. She’ll want to change the locks if she thinks I’ve lost mine, even though there’s no address or anything on them. You know what she’s like.’

‘You don’t have to explain your mum to me, remember. The weird mums club, that’s us.’

I grin and I want to say a thousand things to her but I think they’ll all make me sound lame, so instead I say, ‘I hear ya, sister,’ and climb out of the car. ‘See you at training on Monday. But text me, bitch.’

‘Happy revising!’ she calls out, and I groan. Three exams this week, and I can’t find a shit to give about any of them.

She toots her horn as she pulls away, and I hurry down to the side gate and lift the loose brick on the wall, peeling away the taped key underneath. I know Mum will have heard the car. She’ll be waiting for me.

11

LISA

It’s pouring summer rain, but it’s so good to be driving Ava to school again. This used to be our everyday routine until Year Ten, when it became cooler to get the bus. It’s wonderful that my daughter is so independent and busy, but I still have a sneaky delight when she needs a lift, even though the journey takes me the wrong way to work through rush-hour traffic.

There’s no swim training this morning – and I’m glad because Ava has two exams today – and in this weather a ride with Mum is definitely preferable to waiting for the bus. For all her sportiness, Ava has never liked bad weather. She feels the cold too much, and now there’s the added worry of how it will affect the way she looks. They make me smile a little, these worries of her youth. I like how she’s preoccupied by such things, because it means her life is relatively carefree. I’ve done a good job in that regard. I don’t pride myself on much, but I do think I am, in my own way, a good mother.

The radio is on at my usual station. It’s the local one which tends to play more music from the eighties and nineties but Ava doesn’t complain. She’s head down over her phone, texting or whatever it is they do to talk to each other.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask as her fingers fly over the keyboard. I keep my tone light. It’s dangerous ground, showing any interest in Ava’s life these days. In the wrong mood – and those come more frequently recently – she can bite my head off. I know it’s normal. I’ve seen enough TV shows with surly kids in them to know I’ve had a good run before we got here, but it still stings when it happens.

‘Yeah. Last-minute nerves and stuff.’ She glances up at me. ‘Is it okay if the girls come round after my afternoon exam?’

I almost say no, there’s still a week or so of GCSEs left, but after two papers today she’ll probably need to relax. I’ve studied her exam schedule and she only has revision sessions tomorrow, so a few hours with her friends might be nice. Also – and I hate myself for thinking it – if they’re in the house, I know where she is.

‘Sure. Have they got exams today too?’

‘Lizzie has Geography AS I think. Ange is in History this afternoon with me, but she doesn’t have double Science this morning. Jodie’s all done. Her term is pretty much over.’

Her phone goes silent and she looks away, out of her water-streaked window at the headlights that dance in the muggy morning. ‘Her mum’s back in Paris again,’ she says. ‘New boyfriend there as well. I used to think it was cool her mum was away so much, but I think it pisses Jodie off a bit. Must be weird to be in that big house on her own all the time, looking after it for her mum when she could be having a great time in halls.’

I don’t know Jodie’s mother. I’ve met Angela’s a few times at parents’ evenings, and I think I saw Lizzie’s once from a distance at a swimming event, but Jodie is older and her mother obviously has her own busy life. Our girls are too old for us to have become friends through them, but we all know a little about each other. I wonder what they know of me. Worrier. Doesn’t go out much. No boyfriend.

‘She didn’t even live with her till she was about eight. Not properly. How odd is that? She’s always working away. There’s some cleaning woman who comes in, and there’s always loads of easy food in the fridge and freezer, but it must get boring to live off posh pizza and microwave meals all the time.’

Ava’s nonchalant, but she doesn’t fool me. A warm tingle floods my veins. This is almost a compliment. She might not be coming right out and saying it, but maybe my daughter is realising it’s not so bad to have a mum who’s there for you. I say nothing, but tap my hands on the steering wheel along with the end of Salt-N-Pepa’s ‘Push It’ as she goes back to her texting.

The windscreen wipers cut through the rain and along with the beat of the song, the rhythm is almost comforting. Apparently there are only a few more days of this terrible weather and then we shall all be bathed in glorious summer sunshine. Perfect timing for the end of Ava’s exams. Maybe I should suggest we go away for a weekend somewhere when they’re all done. Just the two of us, like we used to. Paris, perhaps.

‘And now for a request!’ I don’t know who this DJ is but he hasn’t quite mastered the voice they all do on national radio. The ease with which they speak. ‘We haven’t done one for a while, but this one appealed to me. The caller apparently wanted to remain anonymous – obviously shy—’

‘Or married, Steve.’ The cheeky co-host. Every show has one.

‘Oh, you’re a cynic, Bob. I’m sticking with shy. Anyway, not only did the caller want to keep themselves a secret, but they also wouldn’t give up the name of who this song was for! All they’d say is that the person would know. It was their song. And two people never forget their song.’

We’re coming up to the roundabout and I flick my indicator on, peering out to my right, waiting for my turn to go.

‘Since we have no names, I’m making this everyone’s song. All of our listeners out there so, if you’re stuck in traffic in the rain, this one is for you.’

I pull forward with the traffic, and, half smiling at the cheesiness of the DJ, reach to turn the volume up.

‘It’s a classic of 1988. Frankie Vein and “Drive Away, Baby”.’

My hand freezes and I stare at the radio as the oh so familiar tune, one I haven’t listened to in years, breaks in. I feel sick.

Leave with me baby, let’s go tonight,

You and me together, stealing into the night.

Is that a deal, is that a deal? We can make it all right.

Drive away with me, drive away, baby, let’s take flight.

The words assault me.

Me. It’s meant for me. It was our song.

An anonymous caller. The bunny rabbit. The strange feeling I’ve had of something being not quite right, that someone’s watching me, and now here’s the song, our song, requested in secret, and I think my heart might explode in my chest with the fear of it all. Frankie Vein’s husky voice fills the car, and fills my head and the years vanish and each lyric is a knife in my brain.

‘Fucking hell, Mum!’

I start suddenly as Ava grips the dashboard, and from outside, a dim and distant place belonging to other people beyond my panic, comes the squealing of brakes and blast of horns. The car stalls as I stop too quickly, my feet leaving the pedals and my breath coming in gasps as I pull myself back into the present as best I can.

Beside me, Ava’s eyes are wide. ‘What are you doing?’

I’ve come to a stop halfway on to the roundabout, and in my daze, all I can see is the anger and road-rage hatred in other drivers’ contorted faces as they go by.

‘Weren’t you looking?’ Ava barks.

‘I … I didn’t … I thought it was clear.’

Frankie Vein is still singing and making my head throb. I want to turn it off but I can’t let Ava see my shaking hands.

‘I should have got the bloody bus,’ she mutters. There she is, my surly teenager. Her disdain kick-starts me into action, and I force myself to turn the key again and move on, watching each exit this time, thankful that we’re so close to the school. The song finally fades out.

‘Great song,’ Steve’s disembodied voice says. ‘Whatever happened to Frankie Vein?’ he asks. ‘Where is she now?’

I can’t turn it off quickly enough. Where is she now? The question makes my face hot and I press my back into the seat as if I can hide inside the fabric.

‘Good luck,’ I say, the words thick in my mouth, as Ava gets out. She looks back at me, and I expect some form of reproach, but instead she looks concerned.

‘Drive carefully, okay?’

I nod and give her a weak smile. My daughter is worried about me. Worried or fearful? Did I frighten her? Of course I did. I nearly crashed the car. For all my secret terrors, I could have been the one to harm her. As soon as she closes the door, I pull away, trying not to race over the speed bumps. I turn a corner and keep going until I’m away from the prying eyes of other parents and then stop at the kerb. I lean out of my door and retch violently as the rain soaks me. My vomit is hot and burns my chest as I expel my breakfast and coffee and stomach acid and I wait until I feel entirely empty before flopping back in the car.

My whole body aches and trembles. I’m purged but it’s a false emptiness. I can’t get my fear out by vomiting. My terror will never leave me. Nor the grief I keep hidden like a precious jewel, a hard diamond made from the black carbon of my burnt-up heart.

The toy rabbit.

The song.

The feeling I’ve had of something being just a little bit wrong.

How much of it can be coincidence? Random events? None of it? All of it? Am I going mad?

I stare out of the window at the ordinary world and wonder how much of my make-up has run. I have to look presentable for work. I’ve got a jacket on, so my blouse is relatively dry, and my hair doesn’t have enough life to get wayward after some rain. I can always stick it under the hand-drier at the office and put it up in a bun.

Eventually I push all thoughts of the past aside – not away though, never that – and check my reflection in the rear-view mirror. It’s not as bad as I thought. I won’t have to go home and re-do it all.

At least I’m not a crier, I think as I start the car again. I’ve never been a crier. In the silence the song lyrics echo in my head and I know they’ll stay there all day. I can’t wait to get to work. I don’t care about Julia and the money. I don’t care about Simon Manning. I only want to be somewhere I feel safe.

12

AVA

My bedroom is more like a bedsit really. I’ve got my double bed, my desk with a little drinks fridge under it, and there’s even a sofa up against the wall – one of those reclining ones you can slob on and watch TV. It all came as part of my bedroom revamp last year. We only got mine done, not Mum’s. She said it was because she loved her room and didn’t want to change it and I was growing up and needed something different. I was young and I believed her. Now I know she could probably only afford to do one room, and by making mine so cool I might spend more time at home. It was around the time I started going out more on my own. Being a proper teenager. It’s kind of backfired because recently we spend most of our time at Jodie’s rather than here.

‘Thank fuck no exams tomorrow.’ Lizzie is stretched out on the sofa, Ange is lounging on the bed with me, on her side, all hips and curves, and Jodie’s sitting against the wall on the old beanbag I had when I was little. Coke cans and crisp wrappers are strewn across the coffee table.

‘But we’re nearly done,’ I say. ‘And then freedom.’

It’s not only the long hot summer holidays waiting for me this time, it’s a sense of a new future. Even though Ange and I are staying at KEGS for sixth form, it’s still going to be like going somewhere new. Different rules and freedoms. Being above everyone else. Crossing a new boundary. Another step towards the adult world. It makes me think of Saturday night. I crossed a boundary then. In some ways, staying at KEGS feels a bit lame, but the college is too far and our A-level pass rate is high.

‘Swimming tomorrow?’ Ange says. ‘We should train even if we don’t have any proper meets coming up.’

‘It’s so lame they won’t let us race during exams.’

My phone pings. Courtney. Again. Do I want to meet up tonight?

‘Him again?’ Lizzie asks, and I nod, chewing my bottom lip, trying to think how to respond.

The lethargy in the group evaporates and I’m sure Angela purrs. We’re on heat all the time. Sex is everywhere in the summer, and we’re like dogs waking up to it, sniffing it in the air. We’re nearly adult. Sex is part of that. It’s what adult is in many ways. I hadn’t wanted to do it with Courtney on Saturday, but I had wanted to do it, and I get a strange thrill remembering the feeling of him inside me and the sounds he made when he came, and it all seemed so different to the things we’d done before, even though I liked that stuff better. I spend so much time thinking about sex. Just not sex with Courtney. Sex with him.

‘He loves you, he wants to kiss you …’ Ange mocks.

‘Oh, shut up.’

‘When are you going to do it again?’ Lizzie says, blunt. She’s always so direct. ‘It’s better the second time.’

‘Like you’d know,’ Ange says.

‘Better than you.’

It’s probably true. Lizzie is a year older and is on the pill. Ange figures it’s only to regulate her periods, but at Christmas when Lizzie went out with Chris or whatever his name was for a couple of months, she swore blind they’d done it. She went into pretty graphic detail, and Lizzie isn’t a liar. Maybe I should talk to her about what pill she’s on. Just in case. Not that I’m worried. My period is due soon and my boobs are getting sore like they always do, so I’m sure it’s fine.

‘I can’t see him tonight. My mum won’t let me out in the week while the exams are on.’

‘Your mum never wants to let you out past eight,’ Ange says. ‘Like primary school.’

‘She’s got better,’ I answer. It’s true, she has. And as much as she drives me mad, I still have pangs of loyalty to her. It’s always been just us and now I’m growing up and abandoning her. I don’t mind slagging her off myself but it bothers me when Ange does it.

‘Ava!’ The voice sounds distant through the door but instantly recognisable.

‘Jesus, what is she, psychic?’ Jodie says and smiles. It’s not malicious like Ange was. She gets it. Weird mums club.

‘Ava! Can you come down here for a second?’

I groan and roll my eyes as if this is the biggest pain in the arse, but actually I’m pleased to get off the topic of Courtney. I know I’m not behaving as they expect so I’m trying to cover my tracks. I made some comment to Ange at lunch about him being needy, so while I’m out of the room she can share that snippet with the others. We’re best friends. We talk about each other almost as much as we talk to each other. MyBitches. Sometimes the WhatsApp group name is too true. The group is like a hub, but then we splinter off to discuss the things one of the others says that pisses us off.

As I slouch down the stairs I wonder if boys’ friendships are the same as girls’. Do they give a shit about the minutiae – a look or comment or a pound of weight or two put on – the stuff we so obsess about and judge each other on? I don’t think so. I don’t think they have the same high expectations of each other that girls do. We demand everything of each other and it’s impossible to deliver.

Still, when it comes to the crunch we may be bitchy at times, but we have each other’s backs.

‘Did you knock this off?’ She’s standing by the hall table holding a broken photo – it’s a picture of the two of us from a few years ago. Alton Towers? Marilyn took it, I think. The glass is smashed in the frame.

‘Nope.’ I’d forgotten it was even there.

‘What about the other one?’

‘What other one?’ She looks angry, her soft, doughy face pinched and tight, and I feel suddenly defensive. She never gets angry. Disappointed and hurt and all that shit, but rarely angry. My loyalty of moments ago fades.

‘There was another picture here. Of you. Your first day of Year Eight. It’s gone.’

‘You must have moved it.’ I don’t know what the big deal is. They’re just old photos.

‘I didn’t,’ she snaps.

‘Well it’s nothing to do with me!’ I bite back; it doesn’t take much to light the touchpaper between us.

‘What about your friends? Could they have done it? By accident? Maybe thrown the other one away?’

‘No. They’d have said. They’re not idiots.’

She’s looking down at our younger faces through the broken glass as if this is some major deal.

‘Can I go now?’ I’m surly. All my guilt, the sex, him, bubbling out in moodiness. He tells me she’s too clingy. She should let me be free. He’s right. He understands me. She wants me to stay a little girl.

‘If it was you, tell me. I won’t be angry.’

And there it is. The pleading tone along with the pathetic facial expression that makes all the fine lines on her forehead and around her mouth crease and deepen.

‘For God’s sake!’ I explode, as if she’s accused me of stealing or something. My jaw tightens as rage surges through me. My fingers curl into claws. I feel more animal than human. ‘I’ve already told you! No! Anyway, they’re just stupid old photos, so who cares! Maybe it’s a poltergeist or something!’ I don’t wait for her response but turn and stomp back up the stairs.

‘Oh, and my exams went fine – thank you for asking!’ I send the words down to her with enough venom to make them poison arrows in the heart and leave her there, clinging to the old photo frame. Maybe that’s why I’m so angry. She misses those days. I know she does. And I do too. Life was simpler then, with no tits and no sex and no becoming something new, but I can’t help growing up – I want to grow up – and she needs to let me get on with it.

‘Everything okay?’ Ange asks when I close the bedroom door firmly behind me.

‘Yeah. Exam stuff. You know.’ I force a smile. It’s a lie, and I have a feeling Jodie knows it because as I pass her she flashes me a sympathetic look the others can’t see. Weird mums club. That, or they all heard me shouting.

‘Jodie was telling us how she likes old men.’ Lizzie snorts as I flop on my bed. ‘So gross.’

‘I said older, not old.’

‘I don’t think it’s gross.’ I try to sound nonchalant. ‘A lot of older guys are hot.’

‘I don’t think she means like thirty.’

‘Neither do I. Brad Pitt’s still hot and he’s fifty or something.’

‘I don’t care what you say,’ Jodie lets their mocking disgust wash over her. ‘It’s true. Older men have something.’

‘Experience,’ Lizzie says and giggles. ‘And cash.’

‘Your dad’s pretty hot, Lizzie.’ Jodie leans forward, enjoying the conversation. ‘How old is he? Forty-four? Forty-five?’

‘God, you’re disgusting!’ Lizzie shrieks.

‘He’s in shape though.’ Jodie wiggles an eyebrow. ‘I bet he looks good naked!’

Lizzie looks so appalled we all lose it and soon we’re trying to outgross each other with how Jodie could fuck Lizzie’s dad until our sides ache with the kind of laughter that makes your eyes water and your breath catch. We’re laughing so hard I forget to text Courtney back and I don’t care. I don’t need anyone but these girls. MyBitches. The Fabulous Four.

13

LISA

This has not been my day.

The thought is so comical I let out a snort of a hysterical giggle. It’s the kind of thing the old me would say. Before all this. Before Daniel. Back when I was funny. The laugh turns to a choked sob and although it’s still hot, I pull my duvet up to my chin like a child scared in the night.

You and me together, stealing into the night.

Is that a deal, is that a deal? We can make it all right.

Round and round in my head all day.

There was no respite at work either. Marilyn was off sick with one of her migraines and didn’t text back when I checked on her, which left me with more unease – something’s going on with her she’s not telling me about – and then Julia had gone out this afternoon for a first client meeting and come back smug and flushed and with cakes for everyone. It made me think of the money again and I missed Marilyn.

I had a meeting with Simon to finalise some job specifications, and found myself saying yes to having dinner with him when Ava’s exams are over, because I was too weak – too weak at the knees – to say no. It was easier to say yes. Less confrontational. That’s what I told myself. It was easier. It’s not true though. I said yes because I wanted to. Because I’m lonely. Because he makes me throb in ways I thought were lost to memory. Because being near him is like peeling back layers of delicate crepe paper wrapped around a treasure you’ve packed away somewhere to keep safe and forgotten about.

Alive. He makes me feel alive again.

But I got home and there was the broken picture and the missing photo and my first thought was That will teach me to try to be happy and my stomach cramped in that way from then. Sharp, acid pains as if two sides of my gut have been glued together and someone is trying to tear them apart again. I’d had to wait five minutes, doubled over, before I could call Ava down because I could barely breathe, let alone speak.

Above me, in the grey of the night, the ceiling swirls like dangerous eddies in a river. I want it to suck me up and drown me and break me into nothing.

It wasn’t Ava or her friends who smashed the picture of us and took the other of her. After I confronted her and she stormed upstairs, I feverishly searched all the bags the girls had dumped in the kitchen, no doubt while ransacking the cupboards for snacks. There was no glass, no picture frame, nothing. Neither did I find anything in the kitchen bin or the larger ones in the garden. I even forced myself to check the recycling container where I’d thrown the not-Peter Rabbit. Though I knew it had been emptied days ago, I still half-expected to see the sodden, dirty toy looking balefully back up at me. He wasn’t there. Neither was any hastily hidden evidence of broken or stolen pictures.

Drive away with me, drive away, baby, let’s take flight …

Maybe I am going mad.

When the girls were leaving – all tight clothing, nothing hidden there – I asked Jodie if she wanted to stay for tea. She’s the one I know least, and although she’s older I didn’t like the thought of her going back to an empty house and a microwave meal. Also I didn’t want to fight with Ava any more. I thought maybe my edginess was what was making her moody and if I showed willing with her friends she’d calm down. But as it was Jodie scurried out fast, head down, and I felt worse about whatever Ava must have been saying about me.

I made us dinner, my hands on autopilot and my mind numb, but my gaze kept stealing off down the corridor to the empty spaces on the hall table and so we sat in near silence, her still rankled at my accusation, and me in the grip of some paranoid fear. It was, in the end, a relief when Ava took her plate and went to the sitting room to watch something on MTV and I was left to sit staring at my own reflection in the kitchen windows.

One photo missing, one broken. Was one left broken to draw attention to the missing one? Is it a message of some kind? A picture of my little girl taken, and the one of the two of us looking happy, smashed. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that means, does it?

Ava. My baby. I must keep her safe.

My breath is hot and sour against the covers as I try to stay the right side of hysteria. I checked all the doors and windows. There was no sign of anyone breaking in. The kitchen door was locked. How could someone have got in and out without leaving a trace?

Maybe it was Ava. The thought is a tiny buoy to cling to in the dark ocean of fear. Maybe the evidence is hidden in her room somewhere. It’s the only place I haven’t been able to search. Maybe it was Ava, I repeat over and over but I’m not convincing myself. I keep seeing her face on the stairs. She was confused. She didn’t know what I was talking about.

My eyes burn, tired, despite my racing mind. They want to close, to rest, to sleep, but I can’t allow it. I dread the dreams. I can’t face Daniel, not tonight.

And I know he’ll come, because I can’t let him go. How can I ever let him go?

You have to learn to live in the present. Focus on every day. On Ava.

I thought it was crazy bullshit the first time a therapist said it to me, and I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried, but it remains impossible. The past is my shadow, always there, clinging to me.

Maybe I should ring Alison. She’d listen to me. Listen to what? my inner voice sneers. I have an odd feeling? A photo has gone missing? I heard a song on the radio? I know what she’d say. I’ve rung her too many times recently. She probably thinks I’m crazy. It’s only my imagination. Take deep breaths. Let it go. I should cancel dinner with Simon. Maybe then all this will stop. It was stupid to think I could go on a date. I should know better.

I’m withdrawing, a snail pulling back into its shell.

We’re gonna live wild and free, on the road, you and me,

It’s a deal, a done deal, now drive away baby …

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I am just going mad. Maybe I broke the photos. Maybe it’s me who’s broken.

14

AVA

My room is dark, except for the glow from my iPad and iPhone screens, like two moons in the night. Facebook is open on my iPad and I stare at it, waiting. I’m always waiting for him and it’s like an itch on the inside of my skin that I can’t reach. I think about him all the time. More when he’s like this – in a hurry or stuck doing something in his boring real life. He said he’d be back in ten minutes but it’s been nearly twenty.

Have I driven him away by ranting about my mum? Was it teenage and childish? The skin on my bottom lip is sore where I’ve been biting it. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was so understanding of how embarrassed I’d felt when she invited Jodie to stay for tea. She hadn’t invited the others so it was totally obvious I’d been talking about how Jodie’s mum is never here. I really like Jodie and I felt like I’d betrayed her somehow – sharing her weird mum’s behaviour with my own. Thankfully, Jodie didn’t mind. Or if she did, she didn’t say anything and seems pretty normal.

I look down at our last WhatsApps on my phone.

So, is it a teacher? Your crush?

I’d answered: Kind of.

She hadn’t asked more. It’s what I like about Jodie. She knows when not to push. If it was the other way round, I’d be nagging her to tell me. I make a mental note in my how to be a better person endless list to try not to do that any more when someone has a secret. In a lot of ways, it’s made me want to tell her more. I want to tell someone. I’m bursting with it.

My WhatsApp has three unanswered messages from Courtney too – even though he’s probably seen I’ve been online. I sent one to him earlier saying my mum was being a bitch about going out while my exams were on and he seemed to believe it.

It made me feel a bit bad because he’s being so nice but I don’t want anyone here in the evenings. Not past around nine or ten when he might be around to chat.

It’s midnight. Jodie went to bed an hour ago and Courtney’s given up on waiting for a reply, so I shut my iPad down and relax against the pillows, opening Messenger on my phone. Once, a while back, I sent a text to Lizzie meant for Angela. Thankfully, it wasn’t bitchy, but it made me paranoid about having too many conversations on the go at once on one device. I’d hate to send something meant for him to someone else.

In the silence of the house, I find myself listening out for sounds in the corridor. What if Mum comes in my room again like she did the other night? Maybe I should go under my covers.

You there, Beautiful?

All thoughts of anyone else vanish and I sit up in my bed, my heart racing. He’s back.

Yep. Right here, in bed. Waiting for you.;-)

I feel hot and awkward about my words, but I press send anyway. I’m trying to sound sexy and flirty but at the same time I don’t want to go too far down that road – to pictures and videos and things. He asked before, once, last week, and I said no. I was too shy. He hasn’t asked since, and apologised. He said he’d had a few drinks and was thinking about me and got carried away. I kind of liked it though. Him thinking of me like that. I wonder if I’m in his head all the time like he is in mine?

Still, maybe I should have sent something. In my underwear. Not with my face in it, obviously – I’m not stupid like Meg – but something to show him I’m a woman not a girl. But I hate my body and I can’t imagine it looking good at any selfie angle, like all those girls on Instagram do in their bikinis. My thighs would look awful. Maybe that’s what stopping me. My own embarrassment.

Can’t chat long. Just wanted to say goodnight.

My disappointment burns through me, a flame consuming curling paper.

I’ve only got a few minutes. I’m sorry I’m so shit at this. I will make more time, I promise. One day we’ll have all the time in the world.

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to sound moody and I need a moment to get myself together. He’s always saying he’ll make more time and in the future it will be different, but what about now?

I thought you might have been with Courtney tonight. I’m glad you weren’t.

My skin tingles and I feel the power shift. I told him Courtney was there for my birthday. He knows we’re sort of going out, even though I’ve said I’m probably going to end it.

I thought about it, I type. He keeps texting me. He really wants to see me. I don’t know what to do.

I hadn’t thought about it. I haven’t answered Courtney’s messages but there’s no need for him to know that. Not while he’s clearly worrying about it. This isn’t how I expected love to be when I was little. I thought people fell in love and everything was perfect. I should have realised that wasn’t the case from my own family, but no one ever told me how selfish love is. How it eats you up. How many games you have to play to get what you want.

I don’t want you to see him, but that’s not fair on you.

My heart leaps.

Why? Are you jealous?

It’s too direct.

I’m annoyed at myself but I have to know. I don’t want him thinking I’ve been trying to make him jealous, which obviously I have.

A bit. He seems too young for you. You’re too mature for a boy like him. He’s not going to make you happy.

No, I answer. You make me happy. But you’re not here. We’ve never met. Courtney’s here.

I’m proud of myself. I’m making this his fault.

We should meet.

The words shock me so much that for a minute the screen blurs slightly. My palms sweat with a surge of adrenaline.

When?

Does that sound too demanding? But I want to know. I want to meet him now. I’d get out of bed and go anywhere he asked to see him in the flesh and talk to him and all the other stuff.

After your exams are over. About ten days? I’ll sort out a time and place and let you know. Will have to be at night, though. Is that okay?

Is that okay? I’m grinning so hard I think my face will split.

Yes, yes yes! xxxxxxxxx

I’m too excited for any more games. And it’s good for him to know how happy this makes me.

But keep it secret okay? Just us. It’ll be fun. No pressure.

My heart is exploding.

I promise I won’t tell a soul.

And I mean it. I won’t. Maybe afterwards I’ll tell the girls – if there’s something to tell – but not before. They’d probably want to come with me, and no way is that happening.

For a few moments he says nothing and then:

Sorry, gotta go. Miss you, Beautiful. See you soon. Xx

I sign off with about a hundred kisses and flop back on my pillows. We’re going to meet. We’re actually going to meet.

This is the best thing ever.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

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

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