ALSO BY JOHN MARRS

Welcome to Wherever You Are

The One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events,
and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2014, 2017 John Marrs

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission
of the publisher.

Previously self-published as The Wronged Sons in Great Britain in 2014.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of
Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781611097511
ISBN-10: 1611097517

Cover design by Mark Swan

 CONTENTS

START READING
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE CATHERINE
CHAPTER TWO CATHERINE
CHAPTER THREE SIMON
CHAPTER FOUR SIMON
CHAPTER FIVE CATHERINE
CHAPTER SIX CATHERINE
CHAPTER SEVEN CATHERINE
CHAPTER EIGHT CATHERINE
CHAPTER NINE CATHERINE
CHAPTER TEN SIMON
CHAPTER ELEVEN SIMON
CHAPTER TWELVE CATHERINE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN CATHERINE
CHAPTER FOURTEEN SIMON
CHAPTER FIFTEEN CATHERINE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN CATHERINE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN SIMON
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN SIMON
CHAPTER NINETEEN SIMON
CHAPTER TWENTY CATHERINE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CATHERINE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘There are some things one can only achieve by a deliberate
leap in the opposite direction.’

—Franz Kafka

‘Life always waits for some crisis to occur before revealing

itself at its most brilliant.’

—Paulo Coelho
 PROLOGUE

Northampton, today

8.20 a.m.

The thick tread of the Mercedes’ tyres barely made a sound as it pulled over
to the curb.
The passenger sat nervously in the rear, tapping his lips with his
forefinger as his gaze met the cottage.
‘That’s twenty-two pounds, mate,’ muttered the driver in a regional
dialect he couldn’t place. Most of the accents he’d heard in the past few
years were those of commentators on the British sports channels his satellite
dish picked up. He fumbled with his deerskin wallet, separating the euros
and the sterling that were bunched together.
‘Keep the change,’ he replied as he offered a ten- and a twenty-pound
note.
The driver responded, but the passenger wasn’t listening. He opened
the door and carefully placed both feet on the pavement, steadying himself
with his hand on the frame before settling the door closed and stepping
away from the vehicle. He patted out the creases in his bespoke suit while
the security blanket of the car disappeared as silently as it had arrived.
Minutes passed by but he remained rooted to the ground. Hypnotised
by the white cottage, he allowed waves of long-buried memories to wash
over him. This had been their first and only home together. A family home.
A home and a family he’d relinquished twenty-five long years ago.
The pink rosebushes he’d planted for her beneath the kitchen window
had gone, but for a second he imagined he could still smell their sweet scent
in the air. Where once there lay a sandpit he’d dug for the children, now
stood a shed adorned with swirls and speckles of jade-and-white ivy slowly
changing its form.
Suddenly the front door opened and a young woman appeared,
bringing him back to the present with a start. He’d not anticipated another
visitor.
‘See you later!’ she shouted, closing the door behind her. She threw
the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and smiled as she passed him. It
wasn’t her though – this girl could only be in her late twenties. For a
moment he wondered if it could’ve been her daughter and he reciprocated
with his own polite smile, then watched her until she walked out of view.
But the sight of her had given him butterflies.
James had told him that she’d remained living in the same home, but
that conversation had been a year earlier, so there was a chance her
circumstances had changed. There was only one way to find out. His heart
raced as he drew a deep breath that he didn’t release until he reached the
end of the gravel path. He raised his head to look up at what had once been
their bedroom.
That’s where you killed me, he thought, then closed his eyes and
knocked on the door.
 CHAPTER ONE
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-five years earlier

4 June, 6 a.m.

‘Simon, tell your dog to bugger off,’ I mumbled, and brushed away a moist
tongue burrowing its way into my ear.
They both ignored me so I pushed Oscar’s wiry head to one side. Then
he plonked his bum defiantly on the floorboards and whined until I gave in.
Simon could have slept through World War Three – or worse, our kids
jumping all over us like we were trampolines and demanding breakfast. I
wasn’t so lucky. My once cherished lie-ins had become a luxury dependent
on the needs of three under-nines and a hungry mongrel.
Oscar’s stomach contained a built-in alarm clock that woke him up at
six on the dot every morning. Simon could walk him and throw tennis balls
for him to fetch, but it was me he wanted to feed his greedy belly. It wasn’t
fair.
I rolled towards my husband and realised his half of the bed was
already empty.
‘Oh, do it yourself, Catherine,’ I grumbled, and cursed Simon for
going on one of his insanely early morning runs. I dragged myself out of
bed, threw on my dressing gown, shuffled across the landing and quietly
opened bedroom doors to check on the sleeping kids. However, one door
always remained closed because I still couldn’t bring myself to open it. One
day at a time, I told myself. One day at a time.
 I went down to the kitchen and filled Oscar’s bowl with that hideous-
smelling tinned meat he’d wolf down in seconds. But when I turned to put it
on the floor, I was alone.
‘Oscar?’ I whispered, not wanting the kids to barrel downstairs just
yet. ‘Oscar?’
I found him in the porch, pacing in an agitated fashion by the front
door. I opened it to let him out for a wee, but he stayed by the doormat,
staring out towards the woods down by the lane.
‘Please yourself,’ I sighed. Annoyed he’d woken me up for nothing, I
traipsed back to bed to steal another precious hour of sleep for myself.

7.45 a.m.

‘Leave your brother alone and help me feed Emily,’ I warned James, who
roared as he chased an excited Robbie around the kitchen table with a
plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex. ‘Now!’ I warned. They knew they were treading
a fine line when I used that tone.
Moving the kids from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen was like
chasing reluctant chickens back into a henhouse – as frustrating as hell.
Some of the school mums claimed to love the chaos of family breakfasts
together. I just wanted my rabble out of the house and into the classroom for
some peace and quiet.
James poured his younger sister a bowl of cornflakes as I cut the
crusts off their Marmite sandwiches and packed their lunch boxes. Then I
slathered Simon’s in Branston Pickle, sliced the bread horizontally – as
requested – and wrapped them in cling film and left them on the fridge
shelf.
‘You’ve got fifteen minutes until we go,’ I warned, and stuffed their
lunches into the carelessly hung satchels on the coat rack.
I’d long given up leaving the house with a full face of make-up on just
to take the kids to school, but to make sure I didn’t look like a scarecrow, I
scraped my hair into a ponytail and stepped back to check myself in the
mirror. Oscar yelped as I trod on his paw – I hadn’t noticed that he’d been
oblivious to the breakfast bedlam and hadn’t moved from the doormat.
‘Are you feeling poorly, boy?’ I asked, and bent down to scratch under
his beardy chin. I’d give him until the afternoon to perk up, and then
perhaps I’d call the vet, just to be on the safe side.
9.30 a.m.

With James and Robbie at school and Emily quietly playing on the sofa, I
was up to my elbows ironing Simon’s work shirts and singing along to
Boyz II Men’s ‘End of the Road’ on the radio when the phone rang.
‘Simon’s not here,’ I told Steven when he asked to speak to him. ‘Isn’t
he with you?’ I’d presumed he’d taken his work clothes with him in a
backpack and gone straight to the office after his run like he often did.
‘No, he’s bloody not,’ Steven snapped. He could be a real grumpy sod
when he wanted to be. ‘I’ve been trying to convince the client I’ve been
stalling for half an hour that even though we’re a small company, we’re just
as professional as the majors. How can he take me seriously when half of us
can’t even turn up for a hotel breakfast meeting on time?’
‘He’s probably lost track of the time. You know what he’s like
sometimes.’
‘When you see him, tell him to get his arse down to the Hilton quickly
before he screws this up.’
‘I will, but if you see him first, could you ask him to call me, please?’
Steven muttered something unintelligible and hung up without saying
goodbye. I was glad I wouldn’t be in Simon’s shoes when he did turn up.

11.30 a.m.

Seventeen ironed work and school shirts and two cups of coffee passed by
before I realised Simon hadn’t called me back.
I wondered if Steven and I were mistaken, and that he hadn’t been for
a run but actually had a meeting of his own to go to. But when I popped my
head around the garage door, his Volvo was still parked there. Back in the
living room, his house keys sat on the record player lid; above them, a
montage of photos from our tenth-wedding-anniversary party hung from the
wall.
As another hour went by, a niggling doubt began to irritate me. For the
first time in almost twenty years, I couldn’t feel Simon’s presence around
me. No matter where he was or how far we were apart, I always felt his
presence.
I shook my head to make the doubts disappear and scolded myself for
being daft. Too much coffee, Kitty, I told myself, and vowed decaf was the
way forward. I put the coffee jar back in the cupboard and sighed at the
mountain of washing-up waiting for me.

1.00 p.m.

Three and a half hours after Steven’s phone call and I felt jittery.
I’d called the office, and when Steven admitted he still hadn’t heard
anything, I began to panic. Before long, I’d convinced myself Simon had
been out for a run and had been hit by a car. That he’d been carelessly
tossed to the side of a road by a hunk of metal and a driver without a
conscience.
I strapped Emily into the stroller she was too old and too big for, as it
was quicker than walking with her, attached the lead to Oscar’s collar and
dashed off to find my husband. I asked in the newsagent’s if Simon had
popped in earlier, but he hadn’t. Neither had our neighbours, nor
Mrs Jenkins from behind her twitching net curtains.
As we walked the route Simon normally ran, I made a game of it,
explaining to Emily we were hunting for snaggle-waggles – the mythical
bedtime creatures he’d created to ease them to sleep. I told her they loved to
hide in wet muddy ditches, so we’d have to look carefully in each one.
We covered a mile and a half and found nothing before we began
walking towards Simon’s office. Steven was no longer angry with Simon,
which bothered me further. It meant he was worried about him. He tried to
reassure me Simon was probably okay, and suggested that maybe he was on
a site visit. But when we checked his diary, his day was clear of all
appointments.
‘He’ll come home tonight pissed as a fart after being at the pub all
afternoon, and we’ll all be laughing about this later,’ added Steven. But
with no definitive proof as to where he was, neither of us was really
convinced.
On our way home, Emily and I took the dirt track past Harpole Woods,
where Simon sometimes ran. I hid from Emily how worried I was, but when
she dropped Flopsy, a now-threadbare toy bunny he’d bought her, onto the
path, I’m ashamed to admit I lost my temper and shouted at her for being
careless. Her face scrunched up and she bawled, refusing to accept my
apology until I carried her home.
 Even Oscar had grown sick of being walked, and dragged his heels
behind us. I must have been a strange sight: a perspiring mother with a
screaming child in one arm, dragging a knackered dog and a stroller behind
me, all the time searching for snaggle-waggles and my husband’s dead
body.

5.50 p.m.

Six o’clock, I told myself. All will be okay at six o’clock because that’s
when he always comes home.
It was Simon’s favourite time of the day, when he could help bathe the
kids, put them to bed and read them stories about Mr Tickle and Mr Bump.
They were too young to sense the distance and sadness that remained
between Simon and me. I’d come to terms with the fact things might never
get back to how they’d been, no matter what we did or said. Instead, we
were adjusting to a new kind of normal in the best way we could.
I’d picked up James and Robbie from school earlier. As I threw some
breaded fish under the grill and set the table for dinner, James tried to
explain something about his friend Nicky and a Lego car, but I wasn’t
listening. I was too on edge. Every couple of minutes, my eyes made their
way towards the clock on the wall. When six o’clock came and went, I
could have cried. I left my food untouched and stared out of the window,
into the garden.
In those gorgeous summer months, we often finished the day on the
patio, poured ourselves a couple of glasses of red wine and tried to enjoy
the life we’d made for ourselves. We’d talk about the funny things the
children had said, how his architectural business was coming on, and how
one day we’d have enough money to buy an Italian villa and live half our
year here and half over there. In fact, we’d talk about anything except for
what had happened that day over a year ago which had left our relationship
so exposed.
I hurried the children through their bedtime routines and explained
that Daddy was sorry he couldn’t be there but he’d gone away for work and
wouldn’t be home till late.
‘Without his wallet?’ asked James as I tucked him in.
I paused.
‘Daddy’s wallet is on the sideboard. I saw it,’ he continued.
 I tried to think of a reason why he wouldn’t need it. There wasn’t one.
‘Yes, silly Daddy forgot it.’
‘Silly Daddy,’ he tutted, before wrapping himself in his sheets.
I dashed downstairs to check if he was right and realised I must have
passed it countless times throughout the day. It was always the one thing
Simon took before leaving the house, even when going out for a jog.
And it was in that moment I knew for sure something was wrong.
Really, really wrong.
I called his friends to see if he’d gone to one of their houses. I was
sure the click of each receiver was followed by me being the subject of their
pity once more, even if it always came from a place of kindness. I flicked
through the phone book for the numbers of local hospitals. I called all
twelve of them, asking if he’d been taken in. It pained me to think he could
have been lying in a hospital bed all day without anyone even knowing who
he was.
I anxiously tapped my pen on my thigh as receptionists trawled though
admittance forms in search of his name, but there was nothing. I left them
with his description, just in case he turned up later, unable to speak for
himself.
My last resort was to phone his dad and his stepmum, Shirley. When
she confirmed he wasn’t there either, I made up another excuse and told her
I must have mixed my days up, as I thought he was popping over. Of
course, she didn’t believe me. Simon wasn’t the ‘popping over’ type, at
least where they were concerned.
I was so desperate I even contemplated trying to contact . . . him. But
it had been three years since his name was last mentioned in our house, and
I wasn’t even sure how to find him, anyway.
My fears were interrupted by the phone’s ring. I banged my elbow on
the sideboard and swore as I raced to pick up the receiver, and then let out a
disappointed sigh when Steven’s wife, Baishali, spoke.
‘Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to come round?’ she
asked.
I said no, and she told me she’d call in later. But it was my husband I
wanted to hear from, not my friend. All I could think about was that Simon
had been gone for the whole day and nobody knew where he was. I was
angry with myself for not being alarmed when Steven had first called in the
morning.
 What kind of wife was I? I hoped Simon would forgive me when we
found him.

9.00 p.m.

By the time Roger and Paula arrived soon after my call, the day had
suddenly caught up with me. My body and brain were frazzled.
The first thing they saw when the front door opened was me bursting
into tears. Paula hugged me and walked me back into the living room,
where I’d spent most of the evening waiting by the phone. Roger had
known Simon since infant school but had switched hats from family friend
to his job as a detective sergeant in the police force. Even so, it was Paula,
who’d always been the bossy type, who led the way as we tried to piece
together how he might have spent his final moments in the house.
‘Right, let’s start at the beginning and work out where that bloody
idiot’s been all day,’ she ordered. ‘When I see him again I’m going to give
him hell for what he’s putting you through.’
We exhausted every possible scenario as to where he could have gone
and who with. But when it came down to it, none of us had the first clue.
Reluctantly, we resigned ourselves to the fact he’d vanished.
Thinking that on my own was hard; hearing his friend echo my
thoughts was harder. And making it official made it all the worse. Police
protocol meant we had to wait twenty-four hours before we could report
Simon missing, but Roger was willing to bend the rules and called his
station to explain.
‘God, Paula, what’s happened to him?’ I asked, my voice trembling.
She couldn’t give me an answer, so she did what she always did when
I needed a best friend, and told me what I wanted to hear. ‘They’ll find him,
Catherine, I promise,’ she whispered, and hugged me again.
I was trapped in a horrible nightmare that happened to other people,
not to me. Not to my family and not to my husband.

SIMON
Northampton, twenty-five years earlier

4 June, 5.30 a.m.

I rolled onto my side and glanced at the pearly white face of the alarm clock
on the bedside table. Half past five, it read. It had been fifteen months since
I’d last managed to sleep any later than that.
Our backs were connected by barely an inch of flesh but I still felt the
delicate rise and fall of her spine as she slept. I pushed myself away from
her. I watched as a fragile sliver of creamy orange light gently illuminated
the bedroom through a curtain crack.
I pulled the cotton sheet from my chest and gazed at the sun as it rose
over the cornfields, enshrouding the bleakness of our cottage with a golden
blanket. I dressed in clothes thrown over a chair and opened the wardrobe,
careful to ensure the creak of its hinges didn’t wake her.
I fumbled for the watch that had spent most of its life hidden in a
green box on a dusty shelf, and fastened it to my wrist. It pinched, but I’d
become familiar with discomfort. I left the box where it was.
I moved carefully across the floorboards and closed the door with little
more than a whisper. I paused outside the bedroom door that always
remained closed. I turned the handle and began to open it before stopping
myself. I couldn’t do it. It would do me no favours to go back to that day.
The staircase groaned under my footsteps and startled the slumbering
dog. Oscar’s amber eyes opened wide and he struggled to coordinate his
sleepy limbs as he lolloped towards me.
‘Not today, boy,’ I told him, offering an apologetic smile. His head
tilted to one side, confused then disappointed at being deprived of his daily
walk. He let out a deflated sigh and returned to his bed in a huff, burying his
head under his tartan blanket.
I unlocked the front door and gently closed it behind me. I chose the
quiet of the lawn over the crunch of the gravel pathway, opened the rusty
metal gate and began to walk. There was no final stroke of a child’s hair, no
delicate kiss planted on my wife’s forehead or a last glance at the home
we’d built together. There was only one direction for me to go. Their world
was still in sleep but I had woken up.
And by the time they roused, there would be one less tortured soul
amongst them hanging on by his fingertips.
6.10 a.m.

The house behind me had already faded into my past by the time I reached
the dirt-track lane that would carry me into Harpole Woods.
My thoughts were blank but my legs were preprogrammed to take me
to where I needed to be. They led me beyond the perimeter of the horse
chestnut trees, through the stubbly bracken that tried to tear the legs of my
jeans and into the woodland’s belly, to where the faded blue rope had lain
for years as a marker on the ground’s sunken basin. There had been a pond
there once, and the rope had been tied to a tree for the local children to
swing over it. But the water had long since evaporated, leaving the rope
without a use.
I picked it up from the ground and repeated the familiar process of
tugging it until it was taut. The elements hadn’t eroded its strength and I
wished I had remained that tough.
Then I sat on a long felled oak trunk and looked above, earmarking the
strongest branch in the canopy.

7.15 a.m.

I couldn’t remember when I’d last been engulfed in such beautiful silence.
Almost two hours had passed since I’d removed myself from the
chaos of my life. No children clattered around my feet. No radio blared pop
songs from the kitchen windowsill. There was no constant spin of the
washing machine drum on another endless cycle. Nothing to distract me
from my thoughts – just the gentle hum of motorway traffic in the distance.
I knew it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d remained in that house another
week, month or for the next fifty years. After all the punches and kicks I’d
taken and inflicted, I could not return.
I picked at clumps of moss flourishing on the trunk’s damp bark and
recalled the day it all became too much for me to bear. I’d been standing
motionless in the bathroom as the echo of her grief escaped from behind our
closed bedroom door. Her sobbing had become louder and sharper until it
pierced my skin and barrelled its way through my veins and up into my
head. It felt ready to burst, so I clamped my sweating palms over my ears as
if to stop it. But all I heard was the rapid beat of my own wretched heart – a
hollow, despicable ticking inside a soulless carcass.
 Then it hit me with a force so sudden that I collapsed to the bathroom
floor. There is a way out of all of this. I could rid myself of my torment if I
accepted my life had run its course and committed suicide.
Immediately, the throbbing in my head had begun to ease.
If I’d forgiven her or she’d forgiven me or if we’d made a Faustian
pact to forget everything and everyone that had come between us, it
wouldn’t have mattered. It was simply too late; we were irreparable. Stones
had been cast and glasshouses lay in shards all around us. Inside I was dead;
it was time for my exterior to follow suit.
I’d let out a long breath I wasn’t aware I was holding and left the
bathroom. A decision of such magnitude would be perceived as drastic to
most, but to the desperate, it was obvious. It would mean I could finally
gain control of my life, even if it was only to end it. And now that I
understood the sole purpose for living was the planning of my death, I felt
my burden rise from my shoulders.
Like her, I had mourned, but silently and for different reasons. I’d
wept for what she had done to us all; I’d wept for the future we should have
enjoyed together and for the past she had worked so hard to destroy. We had
wept together and apart for so long, grieving for contradictory losses. Now
she would weep alone.
Over the following months, I wore my supportive husband, stable
parent and loyal friend masks convincingly. But, underneath, I remained
preoccupied with being the master of my own demise. Searching for the
right time, the right place and the right means to my end became an
obsession. I mulled over options, from an exhaust fume–filled garage to
acquiring a shotgun licence, from leaping off a motorway bridge to tying
breeze blocks around my ankles and throwing myself into the Blisworth
canal.
But for the sake of the children, first I had to tend to her, as she needed
to regain the tools to resume her journey before the wind was knocked out
of her sails again. So I took control of the day-to-day nurturing and support
of our family until her physical and mental health gradually improved. And
as she began to blossom, my decay continued.
There would never be a good time for her to discover her husband had
taken his own life. But I knew even at her lowest point, she was stronger
than me. Eventually she would rise from my ashes to raise our children to
the best of her ability. What she would tell them of my death would be for
her to decide. I had loved them dearly, but they weren’t wise enough to see
who their father really was or to identify his flaws. I hoped she might keep
it that way.
Meanwhile I’d settled on a method, and a location I knew like the
back of my hand. A place where one of my darkest secrets lay buried – the
woods near to our home.
My plan was simple. I would climb a tree, loop the four metres of rope
over the branch and affix a noose around my neck. Then I’d let myself drop
and pray the severing of my spinal cord would accelerate the speed of the
inevitable. I hoped my life wouldn’t slowly drain away from its
stranglehold instead.
It was what I had to do. What I had planned to do. What I had been to
the woods many times to do.
Only, when it came to the crunch, the end result was always the same.
I couldn’t do it. Five attempts over two weeks had finished with me facing
the canopy of trees with the rope in my hand but unable to take that final,
fatal step. And, after a time, I’d return home to her as broken as when I’d
left.
Now, here I was again.
It wasn’t the act of killing myself I feared, because there was little in
the world left to scare or scar me. Nor was it guilt at leaving my children
without a father, because I’d already disconnected myself from them
without anyone noticing.
What terrified me was the fear of not knowing what lay beyond my
life. My best hope was the perpetual nothingness of purgatory. The worst
was a continuation of how I was living now, only with flames scorching my
heels. I wanted death to remove me from my misery and not replace it with
something equally as ghastly.
But how could I be sure it would? There was no guidebook or wise old
sage to confirm I wouldn’t be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. So
my only escape route was a risk I had become too afraid to take. But was it
the only escape route?
‘What if you just walked away?’ The voice came so suddenly and so
unexpectedly, I thought it belonged to somebody else. I looked around, but
the woods remained empty.
‘Your death doesn’t necessarily have to be as a result of a physical
act,’ the voice continued, almost singsong-like. ‘What if you just erased the
last thirty-three years and simply disappeared?’
I nodded slowly.
‘You can never be part of the lives of anyone you know again. You’ll
have to force yourself not to worry about them or contact them. She’ll
assume you’ve had an accident but can’t be found, and then eventually
she’ll come to terms with her loss and move on. It’ll be better for all of you
in the long run.’
While I couldn’t kill myself, I could do all of that. I wondered why I
hadn’t considered it earlier. But when you’re sinking in the depths of
depression and think you’ve found an escape route, you stop searching for
an alternative.
‘What’s stopping you from going right now? You’ve wasted enough
time already.’
Yes, you’re right, I thought. I had already whispered goodbye to every
significant person in my life, blowing all but one into the air like dandelion
seed heads. So before alarm bells rang, I took a deep breath, released my
clenched fists and picked myself up from the tree trunk with a renewed
sense of hope.
I placed the rope back in its rightful place and left the woods as a man
who no longer existed.

1.15 p.m.

It’s remarkable how much ground you can cover by walking without
purpose. With no direction in mind or inner compass to guide me one way
or the other, I resolved just to keep moving.
I followed the bright globe in the sky, across fields, pastures and
sprawling housing estates, through tiny hamlets and over dual carriageway
bridges. I passed a sign that read YOU ARE NOW LEAVING
NORTHAMPTONSHIRE, THANK YOU FOR VISITING, and smiled. That’s just what
I’d been for all my years – a visitor.
Suffused with optimism, I recognised I’d always been too self-
involved to absorb the world around me, or to appreciate its entirety. I’d
never taken pleasure from simple delights like picking raspberries from
roadside bushes, eating apples from orchards or drinking fresh water from
brooks.
 But modern life wasn’t like the Mark Twain novels I’d read as a boy.
Pollution had embittered the taste of the raspberries, the apples were sour
and water doesn’t really taste like water unless it’s mixed with fluoride and
flows from a tap.
None of that bothered me. My new life was just beginning and I was
here to learn, to understand and to enjoy. By retreating I could advance. I
had nowhere and everywhere to go. I would start afresh as the man I wanted
to be, and not the man she had made me.

4.00 p.m.

The sun began to weigh heavy on my shoulders and my forehead was sore
to the touch, so I untied my shirt from around my waist and used it to cover
my head. A road sign ahead revealed I was a mile and a half from the
Happy Acres holiday park we’d once driven past on our way to somewhere
else to play happy family.
Ramshackle and surrounded by barbed-wire fencing, on the surface its
name appeared ironic. She’d said then that it reminded her of a
documentary we’d watched on Auschwitz. But the families staying in its
shabby holiday homes obviously didn’t share her view.
I entered through the open gates, held together by brown, flaked paint
scraps and rust. Thirty or so static caravans were positioned in a large arc.
Others had been thrown around like afterthoughts into more remote
locations amongst overgrown hedgerows. Children filled the air with
squeals; mums and dads played cricket with them; and grandparents sat
listening to crackly medium-wave stations on portable transistor radios. I
envied the simplicity of their happiness.
A small café kiosk caught my eye, bordered by sun-faded plastic
tables and chairs. Checking my pockets for change, I grinned when I found
a crumpled twenty-pound note that must have survived the washday.
Already the new Simon was proving luckier than the last. I ordered a cola
from an uninterested girl behind the counter, who rolled her eyes as my
change cleared out her cash register.
I remained in my plastic chair well into the evening as a spectator,
studying the holidaymakers like it was my first visit to earth. I’d forgotten
what family life could be like – the way we were before she disembodied
me.
 I stopped myself. I would not think about her and the repercussions of
her actions. I was no longer a bit-part player in her pantomime.

8.35 p.m.

The smell of barbecues and scented candles wafted through the caravan
park as night approached. I presumed I’d been invisible to everyone’s radar
until a bare-chested, middle-aged man ambled towards my seat at the café.
He explained his wife had spotted me throughout the afternoon sitting
alone, and invited me to join his family for some grilled food.
I gratefully obliged and filled my stomach with charred hotdogs until
my belt buckle pinched my belly. I listened more than I spoke. And when
they asked questions about my origins and my length of stay, I lied. I
explained I’d been inspired by a celebrity sportsman who’d recently
completed a sponsored charity walk from John o’ Groats to Land’s End.
Now I was doing the same, for the homeless.
I quickly learned how easy it was to be dishonest, especially to people
who were willing to accept you at face value. No wonder my wife and my
mother had found it so easy.
My hosts were impressed, and when they offered me a ten-pound note
for my chosen charity, I neither felt guilty nor the need to explain how my
charity began and ended at home.
Thanking them, I made my excuses and headed towards a cluster of
caravans on the perimeter of the field. It wasn’t hard to fathom which lay
empty, and after a quick flip of a metal latch on a rear window, I discreetly
climbed inside one.
The air was stale, the pillow was lumpy and stained with the sweat of
strangers, and the starched woollen blanket scratched my chest. But I’d
found myself a bed for the night. I wiped dirt from the inside of the
window, looked out at my new surroundings, and smiled at the gifts a life
without complication was bringing me.
Both my body and my mind were shattered. My calf muscles and
heels throbbed, my forehead was singed and my lower back ached. But I
paid scant attention to temporary pain.
Instead, I slept as soundly as a newborn baby that night. I had no
dreams, no plans and most importantly, no regrets.
Northampton, today

8.25 a.m.

Catherine sat in the dining room with her laptop computer resting on the
mahogany table. She moved it slightly to look at the photograph of New
York’s Fifth Avenue printed on the placemat underneath and smiled. She
hoped they’d find the time to return there before the year was out.
According to the date on the message, James’s most recent email had
been sent in the early hours of that morning. It had been a month since her
eldest son had last flown home to visit, but travelling around the world was
part and parcel of his life now, and she’d grown accustomed to it. Despite
the demands of his career, he regularly kept her up to speed on his antics.
And when he couldn’t find time to jot down a few lines, even just to say
hello or that he’d write more later, she’d log on to his website or Facebook
profile to read his updates. Robbie had tried to demonstrate how easy it was
to Skype and FaceTime, but she’d only just mastered how to record the
soaps on the TV. One thing at a time, she’d told him.
The act of picking up a fountain pen and writing a letter was
something she missed. She was disappointed that most people found it too
time-consuming or old-fashioned to put pen to paper instead of finger to
keyboard. But it had been years since she’d last sat down and written
anything herself, apart from her signature on business contracts.
Emily had only just left the house and would be back in the evening to
collect her for dinner. That gave her ample time to reply to James and order
those biographies she’d been meaning to buy from Amazon. But before she
could begin any of that, a knock at the door interrupted her. She removed
her reading glasses, closed the lid of her laptop and went to answer it.
‘Have you forgotten your purse again, darling?’ she shouted as she
pushed down the handle. But when the door opened, Emily wasn’t standing
there. It was an older gentleman.
She smiled. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were my daughter.’
The man smiled back, removed his fedora and slicked back some of
the stray grey hairs the brim had loosened.
 ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
He didn’t reply but held her gaze and waited, patiently. She noted the
quality of his three-piece tailored suit and his Mediterranean tan, and she
was quite sure from just a cursory glance that his pale-blue tie was pure
silk.
Although his continued silence was a little awkward, she didn’t feel
threatened. He was attractive, well groomed, and something about him felt
familiar. Maybe she’d met him in Europe on a buying trip, but then how
would he have known where to find her? No, that’s just silly, she thought.
‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, politely.
After another pause, the man opened his mouth and began to speak.
‘Hello, Kitty, it’s been a long time.’
She was puzzled. Nobody called me Kitty except for my father and . . .
Her stomach dropped like she’d fallen thirty storeys in a split second.
 CHAPTER TWO
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-five years earlier

5 June, 4.45 a.m.

My eyes stung like they’d been splashed with vinegar. In the space of
twenty-four hours, I’d barely closed them. My whole life revolved around
waiting for Simon to come home.
I’d gone to bed at midnight in the same clothes I’d worn all day, as if
putting on my pyjamas would mean accepting it had drawn to a close
without him. And as willing as I was for it to end, the thought of living
through a second day like that frightened me.
I’d left our bedroom door ajar so I wouldn’t miss the sound of the
telephone’s ring or a policeman’s knock. And I lay perfectly still on top of
the quilt, because being trapped between sheets and blankets might cost
precious seconds in the race to get downstairs. I desperately wanted to
sleep, but I was so anxious that the slightest crack or creak had me on
tenterhooks, in case Simon was dashing across the landing to tell me it’d all
been a silly misunderstanding.
I imagined how he’d hold me tighter than I’d ever been held before,
and those horrible twenty-four hours would become a bad memory. Those
long, long hours since I’d last shared my bed with him. Already, I missed
hearing him whistling ‘Hotel California’ to himself as he mowed the lawn,
or watching him catch ladybirds in marmalade jars with Robbie. I missed
feeling his warm breath on my neck as he slept. Where was the man who’d
hugged me as I cried myself to sleep and begged God to bring back my
little boy?
My eyes were still open when dawn broke. It was a new day but I still
ached from the torture of the last.

8.10 a.m.

‘Where’s Daddy?’ asked James suddenly, his eyes looking past the kitchen
door and towards the hallway.
‘Um, he’s gone to work early,’ I lied, and swiftly changed the subject.
I’d tried my best to pretend everything was normal when the kids
woke up. But as they finished their toast and packed books inside bags, my
hugs lasted longer than usual as I tried to feel Simon inside them. Paula had
volunteered to take them to school for me while I poured my fourth coffee
of the morning and waited for Roger.
‘That’s just going to put you more on edge,’ she said, pointing to the
mug then wagging her finger like a schoolma’am.
‘It’s the only thing keeping me sane,’ I replied, and paused to stare at
my hands to see if they were still wobbling. ‘What if he doesn’t come back,
Paula?’ I whispered out of James’s earshot. ‘How can I carry on without
him?’
‘Hey, hey, hey, I will not allow you to think like that,’ she replied,
holding my hand firmly. ‘After the hell the two of you have been through,
Roger will move heaven and earth to bring him home.’
‘But what if he can’t?’
‘You mark my words, they will find him.’
I nodded because I knew she was right.
‘I’ll take Emily with me as well if you like,’ she suggested, already
pulling the pink stroller from the cupboard under the stairs.
‘Thank you,’ I replied gratefully, just as Roger arrived, accompanied
by a stern-looking uniformed policewoman he introduced as WPC
Williams. Paula ushered the kids out of the back door before they saw my
visitors. We sat at the kitchen table and they took out their pens and pocket
notebooks.
‘When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs Nicholson?’
WPC Williams began. I didn’t like her scowl when she said ‘your husband’.
 ‘Two nights ago. He wanted to watch News at Ten but I was tired, so I
kissed him goodnight and went to bed.’
‘Do you remember what time he joined you?’
‘No, but I know he was there.’
‘How? Did you see him or talk to him?’
‘No, I’m just sure he was.’
‘But it’s possible he might not have been? I mean, he could have
actually left that night?’
‘Well, I suppose so, yes.’ I wracked my brains to recall if I’d felt
Simon at all during the night, but I drew a blank. Then WPC Williams
changed her direction.
‘Was everything all right with your marriage?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, defensively.
‘Did Simon have any money problems? Did he show signs of stress at
work?’
‘No, nothing at all.’ I didn’t appreciate the way she referred to him in
the past tense.
‘You haven’t considered the possibility there might be someone else?’
That caught me by surprise. It had never crossed my mind, not even
for a second. ‘No, he wouldn’t do that.’
‘I think Catherine’s right,’ added Roger. ‘Simon’s not that kind of guy.
Family means everything to him.’
‘Only it happens more often than you think—’
I cut her off forcefully. ‘I told you, no. My husband does not have
affairs.’
‘Has he ever disappeared before?’
‘No.’
‘Even just for a few hours?’
‘No.’
‘Has he ever threatened to leave?’
‘No!’ My hackles were up and my head buzzed. I glanced at the
digital clock on the oven and hoped the questions would end soon.
‘Have there been any family problems lately?’
Roger and I glanced at each other and I felt my throat tighten.
‘Only what I told you about in the car,’ Roger replied for me.
‘Right. And how did Simon deal with that?’
 I swallowed hard. ‘It’s been a tough fifteen months for all of us, but
we’ve managed to get through it. He was very supportive.’
‘I can only imagine. But you don’t think it has anything to do with
why Simon left?’
‘Stop saying he’s left!’ I snapped. ‘My husband has gone missing.’
‘That’s not what Yvette meant,’ Roger replied, glaring at his tactless
colleague. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine, we just need to look at all possibilities.’
‘You mean you think it’s a possibility he could have walked out on
us?’
‘No, no, I don’t. But please bear with us. We’re almost done.’
The questions finished after a long half-hour, when all the avenues
we’d explored ended in cul-de-sacs. Roger asked for a recent photograph of
Simon, so I pulled out a padded envelope of pictures I’d yet to place into
albums from the kitchen drawer.
I’d taken them two Christmases ago, the last time our family was
complete. When it was all of us together, not six minus one. Now I was
terrified it was about to become minus two.
The photo was from early on Christmas Day, when James had been
dancing and miming to his new Michael Jackson CD while Robbie was in
his own prehistoric world, with a Diplodocus and something else with a
spiny back fighting for power. Emily had been making herself giggle
popping bubble wrap with her feet.
I recalled how Simon seemed oblivious to the wonderful chaos.
Instead, he’d looked around at the family he’d helped create like he’d never
seen them before. In one picture, he seemed fixated by the face in the high
chair smiling back at him. There was something blank about his expression
that wasn’t the Simon I remembered. So I picked another photo instead: all
smiles. That’s how I wanted people to see him, as my Simon. Because that’s
the Simon I desperately needed to come home.

12.45 p.m.

Word of Simon’s disappearance spread like wildfire because it had to. If he

was lying injured somewhere, then time was of the essence to find him. So,
under police supervision, our friends in the village formed a search party.
Dozens of people of all ages, along with neighbours we’d never met,
hunted for him in fields, along country roads, in copses and church grounds.
Police divers tackled streams, ponds and canals.
I stood by the fence in the back garden with my arms wrapped around
myself, willing my tremors to stop. I watched as blurred figures fanned out
across the fields. I dreaded hearing a voice suddenly shouting that they’d
found something. But the sound of their feet trampling the crops was all the
wind carried back to me.
Later, I joined Roger and WPC Williams in searching the house from
top to bottom for anything out of the ordinary. It was invasive, but I gritted
my teeth and accepted it because I knew they had a job to do.
We searched through the antique writing bureau, paper by paper,
folder by folder, ploughing through old bank statements and phone bills for
‘signs of unusual activity’. Simon’s passport, chequebook and bank card
were in their usual place in the drawer, next to mine. I examined each of the
scores of receipts he kept in shoeboxes, dating back years.
Elsewhere, police checked his records with his doctor and trawled
through his office paperwork with Steven. Neighbours were questioned, and
even the milkman and our poor paperboy were given the third degree. But
Simon simply hadn’t been seen.
WPC Williams asked me to narrow down what he might have been
wearing, so I rummaged through his wardrobe. Suddenly I recalled Oscar
waiting nervously by the front door the day before. It hadn’t registered at
the time, but Simon’s running shoes had been by the dog’s side. This
puzzled me. It meant he hadn’t, as I’d presumed, gone for a jog. So WPC
Williams was right: he could have disappeared during the night. But where
had he gone so late, or so early, and why? And why hadn’t he taken his
wallet or keys?
‘How are you getting on there, Mrs Nicholson?’ yelled WPC Williams
from the foot of the stairs. ‘Have you found anything?’
‘No, I’ll be down in a minute,’ I lied, and perched on the ottoman
trying to fathom out the unfathomable. I don’t know why, but I felt it best to
keep my realisation to myself. She doubted him already and I wasn’t keen
to prove the smug cow right.
With the arrival of a Herald & Post reporter came police
reinforcements in a transit van. Three handlers with barking German
shepherd sniffer dogs came into the house to pick up a scent from Simon’s
clothes. Oscar cowered in the pantry, unable to understand why his world
had become such a confusing, noisy place.
 ‘I know how you feel,’ I whispered, and bent down to kiss his head.

5.15 p.m.

I’d had no choice but to lie to the children again when I’d picked them up
from school in the car. Robbie and James punched their fists in the air when
I said I was taking them to the cinema to see a new Disney film.
I’d accepted Roger’s advice and got them out of the village so they
wouldn’t ask why so many people were in the streets and fields on a
weekday. I wanted to keep them in a world of cartoon make-believe before
reality hit them. As they crammed in as much popcorn and as many iced
lollipops as their mouths allowed, I casually mentioned that Daddy had
been home at lunchtime to pick up some fresh clothes.
‘He’s flying to a different country for work, in a huge plane, like the
one we flew in to Spain,’ I said. ‘He’ll only be gone for a few days.’
They loved the thought of him on a big adventure somewhere across
the sea. Robbie said it made him sound like Indiana Jones.
‘And Daddy asked me to take you all to the cinema for a treat and to
remind you he loves you very much and he’ll be home soon.’
‘Thanks, Daddy!’ shouted James, lifting his head up to the sky to
wave to an imaginary aeroplane.
As soon as the film’s opening credits began, I wondered if an early
evening out to cover up a gigantic lie was the right thing to do. But how
could I expect them to understand their dad had vanished when I didn’t
understand it myself? I couldn’t tell them the truth because I didn’t know
what the truth was.
I stared at the screen for an hour and a half, not taking in a single word
or animated image. I couldn’t stop thinking about Simon’s running shoes. If
he hadn’t gone for a run when he left the house, then where had he gone?
And why? I went round in so many circles I began to feel queasy.
But amongst the confusion, I was still certain of one thing. Simon
hadn’t left us of his own free will.

8.40 p.m.

I pulled into the drive soon after fading daylight forced the search party to
come to a halt. A tired Robbie and James trudged up the staircase and into
the bathroom to brush their teeth. I hurried into the kitchen and found
Steven and Baishali, who’d brought Emily back from Paula’s house.
‘Have you heard anything?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Sorry,’ she replied, and I felt my bottom lip quiver. She looked at me
apologetically and rose to her feet to hug me. But I put my hands up to form
a barrier.
‘I’m okay, honestly. I’d better check on the kids.’
‘I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this,’ she began, and then stopped.
‘Tell me what?’ As much as I loved her, Baishali’s fear of saying the
wrong thing could be frustrating at times, especially now, when all I needed
was the truth.
‘You had a couple of visitors earlier.’
‘Who?’
‘Arthur and Shirley,’ she replied, then stared at the floor like a guilty
child.
I sighed. In the chaos of those twenty-four hours, I’d asked Roger to
fill in Simon’s father and stepmother, and then promptly forgot about them.
I was too tired to go into battle tonight.
‘I wouldn’t keep them waiting for too long,’ added Baishali, reading
my mind. ‘You know Shirley’s like a dog with a bone if she thinks
someone’s not telling her something.’
I nodded, scared that if I spoke, my voice might crack. She could tell,
and this time, I let her hug me.
‘Try not to worry. Simon will be back soon.’ She leaned back from me
and gave me an encouraging smile. But all I could wonder was how many
times people would tell me that before it came true.

SIMON
Luton, twenty-five years earlier

5 June, 8.40 a.m.

Cars and lorries thundered past the motorway slip road as my feet sank into
the soggy grass verge.
With little money and no alternative means, hitchhiking would be the
best way to reach London, provided I could persuade a driver to take pity
on me. But both man and machine appeared deliberately oblivious to my
optimistic thumb. However, I had patience on my side.
After a restful night in my tatty caravan, a family car with a roof rack
strapped full of weathered plastic suitcases had parked by my side early in
the morning. With minimum fuss, I’d grabbed my clothes and scrambled
out of the rear window like a fugitive, dressing as I ran.
My pace slowed when I reached the gates, then I paused at the sound
of a child’s scream. One of the new arrivals, a little boy of no more than
three years, was unable to contain his excitement and had run eagerly
towards the caravan. He must have tripped and taken the brunt of the
impact on his knees.
As I watched, his mum discarded her handbag, ran around the car and
scooped him up in her arms. Fatherhood had taught me the difference
between genuine and exaggerated tears. The boy knew what he was about.
The longer he made his pain visible, the longer he’d remain her priority.
Not that this had ever worked for me with my own mother. The last
time I’d seen her had been some twenty years earlier – when I’d longed for
her death.
My father, Arthur, was a loyal but weak man whose only mistake in
his mediocre life had been to offer his heart to a transient soul. Doreen was
his polar opposite – a flighty, part-time wife and parent who sauntered in
and out of our lives through her own set of revolving doors.
When she gave us her attention, she was fun, attentive and loving. You
could feel her presence long before she made her entrance into a room. Her
infectious laughter filled corners my father and I couldn’t reach. She and I
would giggle as we built dens in the living room using polyester bedsheets
draped over the sofa. We’d crawl inside to escape the world, and pick at
crumbled digestive biscuits from the tin filled with cast-offs from the
supermarket’s damaged-goods shelf.
But Arthur and I only ever had the woman we loved on loan. It never
mattered how long she remained in our company – a month, six months,
maybe a year if we were fortunate – we always kept one eye on the clock,
waiting for the inevitable.
 Doreen’s extramarital liaisons were both frequent and humiliating.
Sometimes it only took a stranger’s wink and a sniff of greener grass and
she’d dig her way out to the other side. Once she absconded with the local
pub landlord to work in his new premises in Sunderland. Then a Pan Am
pilot with an American twang promised to show her the world: she reached
as far as Birmingham before he cast her aside.
And there were her extended stays in London with the one my parents
only argued about when they thought I was sleeping. Doreen was terrified
of being happy, but equally frightened of being alone. Anytime she reached
the middle ground, she ran either from us or to us. Just because I grew
accustomed to it, didn’t mean it made sense.
‘I get suffocated, Simon,’ she once strived to explain. I’d caught her
one Saturday teatime trying to slip away without being noticed. She knelt
with her suitcase in one hand and my hand in the other, talking to a six-
year-old like he knew how to navigate the trenches of the heart.
‘I love you and your dad, but I need more,’ she cried, then closed the
front door and disappeared in a stranger’s blue Austin Healey.
We always forgave her dramatic vignettes. Eventually her departures
came as a relief, as anticipating the melancholy they induced was far worse
than the actual rejection. When I wished her dead, it was only to force the
merry-go-round to stop.
Even today, as a grown man about to embark on a brand-new life, a
small part of me still ached for my mother’s love, despite myself. After all
the promises she’d broken and the tears I’d shed, I needed her to know she
was forgiven before I moved on. And London was her last known location.
The heavens opened and the rain poured down just as a car’s indicator
flashed and it pulled over up ahead. I ran towards it.
My wife’s actions had made me understand there were times when
there was no other option but to leave everything behind, and to hell with
the ramifications. And I had a better reason to leave my family than Doreen
ever believed she’d had.

Hemel Hempstead

1.10 p.m.
After being dropped off a few miles south of Luton, I attached myself to a
metal chair in a motorway service station and waited patiently for the rain
to stop.
I was sitting near an oil heater to help dry my damp clothes. I wedged
a bunch of napkins under the table leg to stop it from rocking on the uneven
floor tiles. A stocky man in a red cap and apron behind the counter
frequently took pity on me, refilling my mug with hot tea for no charge.
I mulled over what I might say to my mother when I found her. I’d
followed her once before. I’d been thirteen years old when she suddenly
began writing me letters from her new home in London. She’d reassure me
I was never far from her thoughts – words I’d longed to hear in the five
months since she’d last left. And I read each sentence again and again until
I knew them off by heart.
I’d missed her too, and even though it wasn’t something I felt I could
share with my father, I suspected he felt the same. So I kept our
correspondence covert. I’d intercept the postman and squirrel away her
letters between books about building designs on my bedroom shelf. I’d
reply hastily, recounting my day-to-day activities, life at my senior school
and the things I’d do with my friends. I even told her about a wonderful girl
I’d met.
Then, out of the blue, Doreen asked me to visit her. She told me she
was sharing a house with a friend and had a spare room. It was mine to use
if I wanted it. Doreen was working in a nearby restaurant and had saved
some money, so offered to send me the train fare.
I wrestled with my conscience before I broached the subject with my
father. He was surprised, and probably a little disgruntled to learn it wasn’t
just his wife who kept secrets from him. He tried to make increasingly
flimsy excuses as to why I shouldn’t go, warning me she would only hurt
me again.
‘I had a full head of hair when I met her – look at me now,’ he said,
clutching at straws and pointing to his shiny dome. ‘She’ll do the same to
you, Simon.’
But we both knew his reluctance was because he was scared I’d prefer
to stay with my mysterious, occasional mother over my pedestrian, full-
time, bald father. I reassured him it wasn’t the case, but I admit, I briefly
considered it. Although Arthur had yet to fail me, Doreen Nicholson’s
secret life held an overpowering allure.
 I imagined her living in a beautifully furnished home where she spent
her nights dressed up to the nines, holding glamorous parties for London’s
elite. And I needed to experience first-hand just how that world took
preference over mine. Eventually my father had relented and let me go, but
he insisted on paying for the ticket himself – making sure it was a return.
As a grown man, I now recognised Doreen’s and my reasons for
craving new lives were at odds, but our actions mimicked each other’s. I
was beginning to understand her like I’d never understood anyone else
before.

London

5.30 p.m.

I was sandwiched between four snoozing Yorkshire terriers in the back seat
of a Morris Minor when I reached the outskirts of London. I’d approached
an elderly couple by the service station’s petrol pumps and they’d agreed to
deliver me to the capital. An eight-track played John Denver’s Greatest Hits
on a loop while they trundled along the motorway at no more than forty-
five miles an hour. I only realised the irony of my singing along to ‘Take
Me Home, Country Roads’ by the second chorus.
I absent-mindedly fumbled with the rotating bezel on my watch – the
only gift Doreen had given me that I’d kept – and stared through the
window at a train bursting out from a tunnel in the distance.
I remembered my mother standing, waiting for my train twenty years
earlier, taking nervous drags from an unfiltered cigarette as it pulled into the
platform. Nicotine and lavender perfume clung to my coat as she pulled me
to her chest, her falling tears glistening on her cheeks and bouncing off my
lapels.
‘It’s so good to see my baby,’ she cried. ‘You have no idea.’
I did, because I felt exactly the same.
We perched on the top deck of a red double-decker bus as we made
our way to her home in East London’s Bromley-by-Bow. Doreen draped an
arm around my shoulders and intermittently kissed the top of my head as
the wind raced through my hair. I’d always had a fascination with buildings,
and was as hypnotised by the architecture we passed as by the woman who
held me. I sketched notable landmarks like the Houses of Parliament and
St Paul’s Cathedral in my jotter to show Steven when I returned home. He
shared my obsession with creatively designed, historic buildings. They had
dominated the city for generations, ever-present fixtures that wouldn’t
uproot themselves if a better location made itself known.
‘We’re here,’ my mother finally announced with a nervous smile, as if
to encourage mine in return. But I struggled to find any enthusiasm for the
cramped little terraced house on the square before me. It was squeezed in
between dozens more, like a concertina, in an austere backstreet square. I
knew my disappointment secretly mirrored hers. It doesn’t matter, I tried to
convince myself, I’m with my mum.
She unlocked the front door, and as the sun struck her face, I saw the
tears she’d wept had made her make-up drip like ink. Behind her heavily
disguised eyes lay the ghost of a purple bruise.
And as she lifted up my suitcase and walked into the corridor, the
sleeves of her floral dress rose a little to reveal yellow and blue circular
blotches scattered randomly about her wrists. I didn’t mention them.
Inside, Doreen’s house was neat but sparsely furnished, and hadn’t
seen a lick of paint since the last war. Strips of wallpaper had once made
futile attempts to escape by peeling themselves from the walls, but sticky
tape secured them back into place. Cigarette smoke had stained the ceiling
above a blanched armchair from which stuffing leaked. A large pair of
scuffed men’s boots lay tossed to the side in front of her white stilettos.
‘Whose are those?’ I asked.
‘Oh, they belong to a friend,’ she replied.
And before I could delve any further, a monster appeared.

Northampton, today

8.27 a.m.

‘Simon . . .’
She whispered his name, as though the word was trapped in her last
breath and she could barely find the strength to shape her lips around it.
‘Yes, Kitty,’ came his measured reply.
 She gripped the door handle like a life belt. She was terrified that if
she let go, her legs would buckle beneath her and she’d drown in emotions
she’d cast adrift decades ago.
In the few moments she took to regain her composure, her mind raced
nineteen to the dozen. At first, she considered she might be having a stroke,
and that her brain was playing tricks on her. Then she wondered if the
disease they’d told her she’d beaten had returned to play one final, callous
joke. She focused on the olive-green eyes before her, eyes that had once
given her everything she’d ever wanted, then cruelly snatched it away.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. He’d anticipated his reappearance would
be likely to shock her, but he was concerned he might have to catch her if
she fainted.
Meanwhile she was snapping out of her thoughts. No, he definitely
wasn’t a figment of her imagination. He was very real. The man who’d
fallen from the branches of their family tree twenty-five years ago; the man
she had loved then lost; the man who had been no more than a ghost for so
long was standing on her doorstep.
She cleared her throat and her voice reappeared, albeit as little more
than a croak. The word she produced was one that had preceded so many of
her unuttered questions, past and present.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘May I come in?’ he replied, having faith that her answer would be
yes. Instead, she said nothing and stood firm. He tried to read the
expression on a face he no longer knew, until eventually she turned aside
and allowed him through the porch and into the living room.
As he moved inside, her eyes looked beyond the front garden to see if
anyone else had witnessed his resurrection. But, like the day he had
vanished, he was invisible. She inhaled all the fresh air her lungs would
allow before she breathed in that belonging to the dead.
Then she quietly closed the door.
 CHAPTER THREE
SIMON

London, twenty-five years earlier

6 June, 5.20 a.m.

Street-sweepers brushed discarded soft drink cans and polystyrene fast-food

boxes from London’s pavements into black plastic bin bags. The previous
day’s rainstorm had washed away the stale, humid air and brought with it an
early-morning chill. I pulled my shirt cuffs down over my cold hands,
perched on the wall outside the British Library and leaned back on the
railings, hoping it would be warmer inside when it opened later. I’d spent
the night in a homeless shelter at a church, but awoke early to get a head
start on my day.
Now I passed the time by staring at the blank faces of the daybreak
workers who sleepwalked past me. Any one of them over a certain age
could have been Kenneth Jagger.
My first recollection of the monster that lived with my mother was of
his iron-girder legs pounding down Doreen’s stairs. The solid brick walls
had seemed to quake under each footstep. Then, when he reached us,
Kenneth briefly eyed me up and down, and without saying a word,
lumbered into another room. I looked at my mother quizzically. She
answered with a forced smile.
My loathing of Kenneth was immediate, intense and plainly
reciprocated. I had never been in close proximity to such an intimidating
presence. He wore a thick, black moustache and his receding hairline was
poorly disguised with a limp Brylcreem quiff. Dark hairs crawled across his
broad shoulders like spider’s legs and poked out of the holes in his dirty
white T-shirt.
A chequered history was etched across his gnarly face – a portrait of
his environment. A collection of clumsily self-inked gun and knife tattoos
on his forearms and the backs of his hands warned he preferred to be feared,
not befriended. A crimson heart with a black dagger penetrating the name
‘Doreen’ sat off-centre on his left bicep. Its faded colouring indicated he
had been a part of her life a lot longer than I.
As Doreen began to pull him aside into their tiny concrete backyard, I
noted a scrapbook lying on the sideboard. He saw me looking and nodded
his head as if to say ‘open it up’. It was more an order than a request.
Inside was a potted history of the man in the form of newspaper
cuttings.
Kenneth Jagger – or ‘Jagger the Dagger’, as the press had branded him
– was a gangster of sorts – enough of a wrong’un to earn vibrant stories
every time the police questioned him in connection with armed robberies.
Knives were his weapon of choice. His was a wasted life, blighted by
sporadic stays at Her Majesty’s pleasure, but never a punishment so harsh
as to encourage him to see the error of his ways.
By the mid-1960s, Kenneth had remained a small fish in a crowded
pond. As a career criminal, he had seen meagre returns. All he had under
his control were his aspirations, and Doreen. According to one report about
his conviction for beating and robbing a postmaster, he’d been released
from prison shortly after my mother had last walked away from us. I
realised he must have been the one my parents argued about behind closed
doors.
Kenneth and Doreen returned to find me engrossed in his criminal CV.
If he thought something like that might impress me, he’d already misjudged
me. And Doreen’s apprehensive expression told me she, too, sensed the
atmosphere that hung thick in the air like her cigarette smoke.
‘Right, let’s get the tea on,’ she offered in an overly chirpy voice, like
Barbara Windsor in a Carry On film. She nervously tapped her bottom lip
with her finger. ‘Do you want to give me a hand, Simon?’
‘How do you know him?’ I whispered as she bustled me into the
kitchenette.
‘Kenny’s an old friend,’ she continued without making eye contact,
and focused on peeling potatoes and dropping them into a deep-fat fryer.
 ‘But why is he here? With us?’
‘He lives here, Simon.’
I glared at her, waiting for a better explanation, but there was none. I
scowled at Doreen, unable to reconcile the carefree life she’d led in my
imagination with the squalid reality before me. The silence loomed heavy
between us as we made our first, and last, meal together.

1.50 p.m.

I’d sifted through mountains of electoral registers in the library dating back
two decades, but drew a blank in trying to find any trace of Doreen. It was
possible – and given her history, quite likely – she had moved on from East
London. But the pain etched into her face the night my father and I turned
her away from our door for the first time had told me she’d resigned herself
to her fate. And that lay with Kenneth.
So I relied on my hazy memory, a London street map I’d smuggled out
under my shirt, and several buses to get me to Bromley-by-Bow.
I recalled Doreen’s futile attempts to gloss over the sour mood
between Kenneth and me that day by talking incessantly. He’d had little to
say, and stared menacingly at me to relay his feelings instead. I all but
ignored him, frightened to even make eye contact. She’d had everything she
could possibly have needed with my father and me, but had discarded it for
a pitiful existence with a worthless man. It made no sense.
‘How long’s he here for?’ Kenneth suddenly spat, then stuffed his face
with another chip sandwich. Tomato ketchup trickled down his chin like
lava.
‘Don’t be like that, Kenny,’ Doreen replied gently. Around my father
she was the life and soul of the house, but around Kenneth, she was
subservient. I didn’t like this version of her.
Doreen asked me about school and I explained how I planned to go to
university and study architecture. She smiled warmly. Kenneth just laughed.
‘Poncey load of crap,’ he roared. ‘University. Load of bollocks.’
‘Why?’ I asked – the first time I’d dared to speak to him.
‘You should get a proper job. Get out there and work instead of
learning rubbish.’
‘I’m thirteen, and I can’t train to be an architect if I don’t pass my
exams.’
 ‘Listen, kid, I was in the boxing ring and earning money working on
the markets when I was your age, not wasting my time.’
‘Well, my dad doesn’t think it’s a waste of time.’ I directed this at
Doreen. Her eyes remained fixed on the table.
‘What does that pussy know? Someone needs to make a man of you.’
I was aware cockiness probably wasn’t the best way forward with a
man like Kenneth, but my brain wasn’t listening. ‘Like you?’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’ I looked down at my plate.
‘You think you’re better than me, don’t you?’ he continued, a volcano
preparing to erupt. ‘Coming down here with your big bloody ideas. Well,
you’ll never be better than me – you’re fuck all.’
I looked to Doreen for support, but she said nothing. Then my ability
to self-censor completely evaporated.
‘So I should stab someone and waste my life in prison, then – would
that be better, Kenny?’
He banged both fists on the table. ‘You know what I’ve got? Respect.
And you can’t buy that.’
And before I could process what was happening, he’d thrown his chair
to one side, and I was six inches off the ground, pinned to a wall by an arm
the size of an anchor. His cheeks had exploded in a rainbow of reds.
‘You ever look down your nose at me again and I swear to God, I’ll
fucking kill you,’ he shouted, as bread and potato bullets flew from his
mouth and sprayed my face.
‘Kenny, no!’ shouted Doreen finally. She came towards us and tried to
grab his arm. He swivelled around and her cheek took the brunt of the back
of his hand. It sent her sprawling to the bare floorboards.
‘Leave her alone, you bastard!’ I yelled before he punched me in the
stomach, winding me, and then clamped me tighter so I struggled to
breathe.
‘Stop it, you’re hurting him,’ pleaded Doreen, smearing a trickle of
blood from her lip across a ghostly pale face.
‘Maybe this’ll teach him a lesson,’ he replied, pulling his arm back to
punch me again.
‘You can’t do that to your own son!’ she screamed.
He hesitated for a moment before letting me drop to a heap on the
floor.
 ‘I told you then to get rid of him,’ he fired back before storming out of
the dining room. The front door slammed as I fought for breath, and time
temporarily stood still.
‘Why did you say that?’ I gasped at last, utterly confused.
‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed.
‘He isn’t my father – Arthur’s my dad.’
‘You have two, Simon. I just wanted you to get to know each other.’
Doreen attempted an explanation but I refused to listen. The truth was
out, and so was I. I hadn’t even unpacked my suitcase when I picked it up
and left. She ran up the street behind me, begging me to stay, naively
believing Kenneth and I could work through our differences. But, as
always, she was fooling herself.
Arthur knew something had gone terribly wrong when I called from a
telephone box at Northampton station, begging him to pick me up the same
day he’d dropped me off. But he never enquired as to what had happened
and I never volunteered a reason why. I think he knew but, secretly, he was
just grateful I’d returned to him.
I didn’t reveal to anyone the truth of my heritage. I locked Kenneth in
a box inside my head and I only thought about him again when Doreen
reappeared a few months later on the eve of my fourteenth birthday. As
three disconnected souls gathered in our hallway, Arthur and I knew we
were too exhausted to go through the charade again.
I ran to hide in my bedroom without speaking to her and sat on the
floor, my back pressed against the door, listening. Downstairs, Arthur
turned down her request for forgiveness. She begged with all her heart, but
for the first time, he refused to relent. Eventually the front door closed and
he retired to the kitchen, quietly weeping.
Later that night, I left the house and found Doreen waiting for me at
the end of the garden. She thrust a green box into my hand.
‘This is for you,’ she said calmly, and tried to force a smile. ‘Always
remember your mum loves you, no matter how stupid she is.’ Inside the box
lay a handsome gold Rolex watch. By the time I looked up, Doreen was
already walking away. I didn’t try to stop her.

4.40 p.m.
My feet must have grazed every road and cobbled avenue in the East End
before I chanced upon where my mother once lived. But the square’s name
wasn’t the only thing to have changed over time.
A looming tower of concrete flats had ousted her row of dilapidated
houses, casting a bleak shadow over an already grey landscape. Everything
I’d deplored during my fateful last visit had been demolished and replaced
by a more contemporary, but equally hideous, version of the same thing.
Disappointed, I gravitated towards a greasy spoon café to contrive a
new plan of action. I ordered, and an elderly waitress with a raven-black
beehive and a soup-stained apron carried a cup of tea to my table.
‘Excuse me, are you from around here?’ I asked as she shuffled away.
‘All my life, darlin’,’ she muttered over her shoulder.
‘I don’t suppose you remember a woman who used to live in a house
where those flats are now? Doreen Nicholson?’
She stopped, turned around. ‘Hmm.’ She thought. ‘I knew a Doreen,
but Nicholson weren’t her last name. What does she look like?’
My father had never taken a photograph of my mother – well, if he
had, none had ever hung on a wall inside our house. I could remember how
she smelled, sounded, laughed and sang. I could picture the hint of grey
hiding in the roots of her hair, how her large gold earrings made her lobes
droop and the Bardot-like gap between her two front teeth. But for years I
had struggled to put the pieces of a mental photofit together to create a
whole woman.
‘Ash-blonde hair, around five foot four, olive-green eyes, quite a loud
laugh. She lived here about twenty years ago.’
The waitress headed towards a wall of framed photographs behind the
counter, and unhooked one from the wall. ‘This her?’ she asked, handing it
to me. Instantly I recognised one of the four women standing in their
uniforms around a table.
‘Yes, that’s her.’ I smiled and swallowed hard.
‘Yeah, darlin’, I knew old Dor. She lived around the square on and off
for a while. Worked here with me, ooh, a good few years back now. Poor
cow.’
Goosebumps spread across my arms. ‘Did something happen to her?’
‘Yeah, she passed away, darlin’. About fifteen years back.’
‘What happened to her?’
 ‘That bloody fella of hers gave her one pasting too many. Bounced her
head off the walls, the Old Bill said. He was a vicious bastard . . . Gave her
brain damage. She was in a coma and on machines for weeks before she
went.’
I closed my eyes and exhaled as I muttered his name. ‘Kenneth.’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. How did you know her then?’
‘She was my mother.’
The waitress put on the glasses hanging from a copper chain around
her neck and squinted. Then she sat herself down opposite me with a
thump.
‘Well, blow me, of course you are . . . You’re Simon, ain’t you? You
have her eyes.’ I was surprised she knew of my existence, let alone my
name. ‘Ooh darlin’, Dor said you was a handsome little bugger,’ she
cackled as I offered an embarrassed smile.
‘She talked about you a lot, you know. She had a baby photo of you in
a little locket round her neck. Well, she did till he made her pawn it. Never
forgave herself for letting you go.’
For a fleeting moment, I felt warm inside.
‘What happened to Kenneth?’
‘Locked him up again, didn’t they? Told the coppers she went for him
and it were self-defence, but the jury didn’t believe him. Got banged up in
the Scrubs for life this time.’
The waitress introduced herself as Maisy, and lit an unfiltered roll-up
cigarette as she filled me in on the missing pieces of my mother’s life. She
recalled how Doreen and Kenneth began courting in their teens. When she
fell pregnant with me, her parents and Kenneth had insisted she have an
abortion. But when Doreen stubbornly refused, he pummelled her in the
hope nature would force her to miscarry. Even then, I was a resilient soul.
The first of her many swift exits began with a stay at a cousin’s house
in the Midlands. There, Doreen met Arthur and he fell hopelessly in love
with her. And aware she was pregnant with another man’s child, he offered
to take care of us both. It was all the security an unwed mother-to-be with a
bastard inside her needed. Doreen had love for her new husband, but he was
unable to capture the heart of a conflicted creature. And after I was born,
she knew a sedentary family life would never equal a passionate one.
So she returned to Kenneth, alone. The abuse continued, and when it
became intolerable, she rotated between the two men in her life.
 ‘Please don’t blame her, luv, she couldn’t stop herself,’ added Maisy,
despairingly. ‘She was a smashing girl, but she had a self-destructive streak.
I got a feeling her old dad messed with her when she was a little ’un, if you
know what I mean. I don’t reckon she thought she deserved to be loved. She
tried so hard to make Kenny a better fella, but he was born evil. You can’t
change nature.’
No, Maisy, you can’t, I thought, catching my reflection in the café
window.
Doreen reappeared in London for her final swansong, soon after we’d
rejected her. ‘She had nowhere left to go,’ said Maisy. ‘She knew Kenneth
was gonna be the death of her, so she just held on as long as she could.’
And after the inevitable happened, her friends were unaware of where
Arthur and I lived. With no savings to pay for a funeral, they clubbed
together to offer her a respectable send-off instead of a pauper’s grave.
‘I still think about your old mum,’ added Maisy, her eyes moistening.
‘Always wished I could have done more to help her.’
‘So do I, Maisy; so do I.’

7.50 p.m.

The grounds of Bow Cemetery were laid out in square blocks, making my
mother’s plot easy to locate. Her name, the years of her birth and death, and
‘God Bless’ were all her substitute family could afford to have engraved on
the concrete headstone. ‘Laing,’ I repeated out loud. I hadn’t even known
her surname.
I tore out buttercups and long grasses and smoothed down stray
pebbles with my hands. Then I lay on a bench close to her and soaked up
the troubled tranquillity around me. I made up my mind to keep her
company that night – my mother had spent too many evenings on her own.
My two fathers lived in contradictory worlds, but shared common
ground when it came to her. They’d loved her too much but had handled her
rejection in very different ways.
Doreen and Kenneth. I’d fought to be so different from the people
who’d created me, but I’d ended up exactly the same.

8 June, 3.10 p.m.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ he began with a derisive snort.
I didn’t reply. I sat calm and motionless, my palms face down on the
table, staring at him, unafraid.
‘Well? You expecting an apology or something? ’Cos you ain’t gonna
get one.’
Kenneth Jagger had planted himself behind a metal table in the
visitors’ room in Wormwood Scrubs prison, his arms folded defiantly. Only
there was little for him to be defiant about, because he was a different man
to the one I’d last encountered.
A merciless cancer had ravaged his bones and cut his body weight in
half. His cheeks were sunken and hollow and chemotherapy had reduced
his teeth to brown crumbs. The tattoos that once shone proudly on his
tough, leathery skin had blurred and sagged as the muscles beneath them
deflated. Doreen’s name and the heart were barely distinguishable under a
layer of raised welts, like he’d tried to cut her out of him with a blade. Eyes
that once craved esteem were now drained of hope.
‘Don’t waste my time,’ he spat.
‘You don’t have much left,’ I replied.
He shot me a look that would have petrified the thirteen-year-old me.
‘Last chance. Why are you here?’
I was there because I wanted to know if my rotten apple hadn’t fallen
far from his decaying tree. I’d dedicated much energy to trying to erase our
biological link, but in the end, I was a chip off the old block.
‘What did it feel like, killing my mother?’ I asked.
He paused. Of all the things I could have asked, that wasn’t the
question he’d expected. ‘Why did you do it?’ or ‘What’s wrong with you?’
possibly. But not an enquiry into the emotions involved in severing a human
life.
‘It was self-defence,’ he finally replied. ‘The bitch tried to knife me.’
‘That wasn’t what I asked.’
He frowned, puzzled as to what to make of his flesh and blood. So I
repeated myself.
‘I asked you what it felt like to kill my mother.’
‘Why do you wanna know?’
‘I just do.’
His faded, squinting eyes burrowed deep into mine. ‘What happened
to you?’ he asked.
 ‘I’m not scared of you anymore.’
‘Well, you fucking should be.’
I shook my head. ‘Kenneth, look at you – you’re no threat to anyone.
Your time has been and gone. You’re a pathetic, dying old man who’ll only
ever be remembered for bringing misery to people’s lives. Now answer my
question please. What did it feel like, killing my mother?’
At first, he tried to pretend my words hadn’t rung true, but his fallen
expression betrayed him. From the corner of my eye, I watched the second
hand of a wall clock rotate twice before he spoke again. And when he did,
his bravado crumpled like a house of cards. His shoulders slumped and his
arms unfolded. It was as if suddenly he was too tired to fight against the
world any longer, like he’d realised I was the only person left who cared
what he had to say. And he was almost grateful for my ear.
‘It was the worst feeling in the world,’ he said at last, his voice
ravaged. ‘And I’ve done a lot of bad shit in my time.’ He cleared his throat
and raised his eyes to mine. ‘It was like someone else was killing her and I
was watching but I couldn’t stop them. I loved her so much, but I never
really had her. She was gonna leave me again and find you.’
‘Why?’
‘It tore her up not being part of your life. I told her she weren’t going,
but she wouldn’t listen. My Dor never bloody listened. She started packing
her bags instead.’ His eyes became watery but no tears fell. ‘I grabbed her
and pulled her away, but she reckoned she’d “wasted too much of her life”
on me. She was always saying it, but this time she meant it. So I smacked
her one, and once I started, I just kept going. I couldn’t let you have her.’
I sat in silence and digested Kenneth’s words. I felt no anger towards
him – I’d invested too much time in hating the woman I’d built a life with
to have any spare. Instead, I understood him.
‘Thank you,’ I said, finally. ‘I have something for you.’
I glanced around the room to ensure I wouldn’t be seen by a guard,
then rolled up my shirtsleeve, unclasped the watch Doreen had once given
me and pushed it across the table towards him. He covered it with his hand.
‘Take it.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘She bought it for you, correct?’
‘No, I got it myself.’ I assumed that meant he’d stolen it.
‘And she took it, without you knowing, to give to me.’
 His head fell and he looked away. I realised I’d been wrong to
presume.
‘You wanted her to give it to me?’ I asked. He remained inert. ‘But
you disliked me . . . You wanted her to terminate me.’
‘I didn’t wanna kid because I didn’t wanna turn them into someone
like me. I ain’t got anything to show for my life but you. You’re the only
thing I’ve ever done that was any good.’
I allowed him to embrace that illusion briefly before I spoke again.
‘You’re wrong, Kenneth.’
Then I leaned across the table to whisper something in his ear that no
one else in the room could hear. I sat back on my chair while he scowled at
me, confused and dismayed.
‘So now you know the only good thing you ever did isn’t just a little
like his father,’ I said. ‘He’s worse.’
‘You fucking monster,’ he muttered.
‘Like father, like son. Keep your watch and I hope they bury you with
it sooner rather than later.’
Then I turned my back on my father and left the room.

CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-five years earlier

6 June, 8.45 a.m.

I unscrewed the lid from a bottle of wine and poured it into a dirty mug,
which had been lying in the kitchen sink along with the rest of the
unwashed dishes. I opened the kitchen cupboard, took three aspirin from a
bottle on the top shelf and swallowed them in the hope they’d get rid of the
pounding headache brought on by a second sleepless night. The bottle
rattled when I shook it. It sounded nearly full, and for a moment I wondered
how many pills it might take to kill a person.
 I glanced wearily around the room and sighed at the mess it had so
quickly become. It was in good company. The rest of the house was a mess,
the past two days had been a mess and I was a mess.
I tried so hard to be positive in front of everyone else, but when I was
alone, the doubts set in. I couldn’t tell anyone how sick I felt each time I
thought about what might have happened to Simon, that I jumped with
every ring of the phone or footstep on the path, or how I was surviving on
adrenaline and caffeine, my brain fighting against a body begging to go
back to bed.
The only part of me keeping sane was the part that put the children’s
needs before mine. Everyone knew Simon was missing except for his own
flesh and blood, and it was my job to keep it that way. But it was hard,
because many of their friends’ parents had taken time off work to join the
second day of the search. It was only a matter of time before the kids found
out. Then what would I tell them? Parents are supposed to be the ones with
all the answers, but I had none.
According to Roger, the first seventy-two hours are the most important
in the search for a missing person, as that’s the time frame within which
most turn up. Any longer than that and hope begins to fade. Simon’s clock
was ticking.
So I clenched my fists and prayed it would be the day they found him.
I swear WPC Williams had stifled a smile when she warned me that if
they’d not turned up anything by nightfall, they’d have to call off the
search. I wondered how many loved ones I’d have to lose in my lifetime
before God gave me a break.
Suddenly I was aware I still had hold of the aspirin bottle, so I threw it
back in the cupboard, ashamed of something I’d never do. I finished the rest
of my wine, put the mug back in the sink and headed upstairs to shower.
As I stood under the warm jet, I crumbled. I cried and cried until I
couldn’t tell whether my body was wet with water or tears.

3.35 p.m.

It may have been inevitable but it still caught me off guard.

‘Amelia Jones says Daddy’s lost,’ cried James as he ran to meet me at
the school gates. ‘Is he?’ His green eyes were wide and troubled. Robbie,
too, looked as anxious as I’d ever seen him. I knew they deserved my
honesty.
‘When we get home, let’s find your fishing nets from the garage and
we’ll go to the stream,’ I replied calmly. ‘And then we’ll have a chat.’
The late-afternoon sun hid behind a large dragon-shaped cloud as the
four of us and Oscar walked in single file towards a wooden bridge over the
water.
I chose a place they associated with their daddy, as if it might soften
the blow a little. It was somewhere he’d taken them many times to pretend
to fish. They’d catch imaginary minnows and crayfish, throw them inside
pretend buckets and bring them home to me, where I’d play along and
pretend to be amazed by their haul.
We sat down, cast our imaginary lines and skimmed the surface with
nets while I gently explained we might not see him for a while.
‘Where has he gone?’ asked James, his brow narrowing like his
father’s did when he couldn’t make sense of something.
‘I don’t know.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘I can’t tell you, honey.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t. All I know is that Daddy’s gone away for a bit and
hopefully he’ll come home soon.’
‘Why don’t you know?’ pushed James.
‘I just don’t, I’m sorry. We don’t know how to find him. But I know
he’s thinking about us all.’
‘But when we don’t tell you where we’re going, you tell us off,’
reasoned Robbie. I nodded. ‘So are you going to tell Daddy off?’
‘Yes,’ I lied, but I wouldn’t tell him off. Instead I’d wrap myself
around him and hold on for dear life.
‘Has he gone to see Billy?’ asked Robbie, his face beginning to
crumple.
I swallowed hard. ‘No, he hasn’t.’ I knew he hadn’t. I prayed he
hadn’t.
‘But how do you know?’ scowled James.
I looked into the distance where the stream melted into the fields and
said nothing. The fishing continued in silence and they caught nothing
while their little brains digested what I’d said, as best they could. None of
us wanted to imagine a life without him.

8.10 p.m.

I sat on a patio chair, wrapped in Simon’s navy-blue chunky Aran sweater,

and waited for the day to merge into dusk. The cordless phone I’d asked
Paula to buy for me was never more than a foot away. But it was as silent as
the world around me. Only the moths clamouring around a candle’s flame
in the Moroccan lantern kept me company. Directionless and unsteady, we
had a lot in common.
I tried to cheer myself up by thinking about all the silly things he used
to do to make me smile, like giving the dog a voice, dancing around the
kitchen with me to old Wham! songs, or putting on one of my dresses to
make our friends laugh in the middle of a dinner party. He could be so silly
sometimes, and I desperately wanted that man back.
I poured the last trickle from a bottle of red wine into my glass and
waited. That’s all I’d done for three days – wait.
When I was inside our house I was homesick for a place I’d never left.
But it had become claustrophobic without Simon, and I dreaded the nights.
Because without the interruptions of friends stopping by or me trying to put
a smile on the glum faces of the confused kids, I had even more time to
think about him. I missed him, yet inside I raged at him too, for leaving me
like this.
I didn’t care what WPC Williams had said: I knew Simon too well to
ever consider he’d walked out on us. The strength and support he’d shown
me during the worst thing that could ever happen to a parent had proved he
was a fantastic husband and dad, and I desperately needed to believe that he
was still alive. Fifteen months had passed since we’d last been united in
grief, and there I was again, but this time I was on my own and grieving for
a man whose fate was unknown.

Northampton, today
8.30 a.m.

He knew his fingers would tear through the soft felt brim of his fedora if he
clutched it any tighter. But he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.
He watched as she turned back from closing the door and noted how
she avoided his gaze when she walked towards the centre of the living
room. Time hadn’t eroded her natural grace. The crow’s feet around the
cool flint of her eyes were new to him, and the narrow lines across her
forehead stretched further than he remembered, but none of it mattered. Her
loveliness was altered, but not in the least bit dimmed. Her grey hairs were
like perfectly placed brushstrokes in an oil painting, all the better for not
being disguised by artificial colouring. Her bloom had far from faded, and
that made him feel awkward and dusty in comparison.
For Catherine’s part, she had so much to say but nowhere to begin. So
she remained silent and knotted her fingers together tightly so he couldn’t
see them shake. Try as she might, she did not want to look at him, but it was
a struggle. Eventually she allowed her eyes to cautiously run over him.
His face had filled out, leaving his cheeks jowlier. His waistline had
expanded, but was kept under restraint by his leather belt. His feet looked
larger, which she realised was a peculiar thing to focus on.
Then her eyes became glued to him, fearing that if they became
unstuck, he would vanish. And if he was to disappear again, she wanted to
be there to see it. It had been years since she’d last glimpsed his image in
any of the few remaining photographs left hidden in the attic. She’d
forgotten how handsome he was. How handsome he was even now, she
admitted, then immediately chastised herself for thinking that.
He stood awkwardly and surveyed the living room, trying to recall
what had been where when he was last inside it. The layout appeared
familiar, albeit with fresh wallpaper, carpets and furnishings. But it felt so
small in comparison to what he now called home.
‘Do you mind if I sit?’ he asked.
She didn’t reply, so he did so anyway.
There were pictures of people in frames scattered across the sideboard,
but without his reading glasses, their faces were blurs. It was the same when
he’d tried to remember what his children looked like – clouds always
masked the finer details. Well, all apart from James. He knew the man
James had become, and he’d never forget that.
 The silence between them lasted longer than either noticed. As the
uninvited visitor, he felt the need to begin.
‘How are you? You look well.’
She gave him a look of disdain, but it failed to unsettle him. He was
prepared for that.
‘I like what you’ve done with the cottage,’ he continued.
Again, nothing.
He scanned the sandstone chimney breast and the wood-burning stove
they’d had a devil of a time installing soon after they’d moved in. He
smiled. ‘Is that old thing still working? Do you remember when we almost
set the chimney alight because we hadn’t cleaned it out before—’
‘Don’t.’ Her curt response prevented him from reaching the end of
memory lane.
‘Sorry, it’s just being in this room after so long brought it back . . .’
‘I said don’t. You do not turn up at my house after twenty-five years
and begin speaking to me like we’re old friends.’
‘I’m sorry.’
An uneasy, foggy quiet filled the room.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘What do I want?’
‘That’s what I asked. What do you want from me?’
‘I don’t want anything from you, Kitty.’ It was a partial truth.
‘Don’t call me that. You lost any right to call me that a long time ago.’
He nodded.
His voice sounded a little raspier and deeper than back then, and
contained traces of an accent she couldn’t place.
‘And spare me your apologies,’ she continued. ‘They’re a little late in
the day and unwelcome.’
He’d played out this opening scenario dozens of times in his
imagination before Luca had booked his flights over the Internet. Would she
remain in shock or slap him, embrace him, yell at him, cry or just refuse to
let him in? There were countless reactions she could have had, but
somehow he’d failed to anticipate this icy hostility. He didn’t know how to
respond to it.
‘Where did you go?’ she asked. ‘While I was out searching for your
dead body, where the hell were you?’
 CHAPTER FOUR
SIMON

Calais, France, twenty-five years earlier

10 June

I’d not made acquaintance with motion sickness before last night, locked in
the back of the truck. I’d lost track of how often I vomited. My stomach had
become nothing more than a hollow trunk.
The driver had warned me the crossing would take about an hour and
a half, but the festering storm outside soon put paid to his estimate. An
uncaring English Channel picked up our ferry and tossed it around like a
rag doll. I felt my way around in the pitch black and wedged myself behind
two packing cases strapped in place to the sides of the truck.
I’d buried my history with my mother’s bones, but to truly shed my
skin, an unfettered, unspoiled me could only thrive far away from the past.
France’s geographical location made for an obvious starting point.
Reaching it without a passport or money was, however, an obstacle. But a
haggard truck driver with a nicotine-stained moustache and disdain for
authority offered me a solution.
Earlier in the day, he’d picked me up near Maidstone and we’d
enjoyed a rapport over the state of British football and the Conservative
government’s penchant for privatising anything and everything. At no point
did he enquire as to my hidden motives when I explained where I was
headed and how my lack of means might hamper me. However, he’d come
to his own conclusions.
 ‘I did a bit of prison time back in the day,’ he began, rolling a cigarette
as he steered. ‘As long as you ain’t murdered anyone or touched any kids,
I’ll get you over there.’
Minutes before he drove through the customs checkpoint, he locked
the trailer doors behind me, leaving me hidden behind wooden boxes with a
torch, a can of supermarket beer and his homemade cheese and chutney
sandwich. But neither the food nor the drink remained inside me once the
storm exploded into life.
The conditions outside were clearly too chancy for us to dock, so we
remained mid-Channel until the white squall played out. With each dip, my
stomach touched my toes until the ferry finally docked safely in the port.
‘Look at the state of you!’ the driver laughed when he set me free in
the car park of a French hypermarket.
He helped my unsteady feet back onto land and I shed my vomit-
stained clothes behind the truck, throwing them into a bin. I climbed into
his cab in just my underwear and changed into new clothes I’d taken from
someone else’s bag at a homeless shelter I’d slept at in London.
‘This is as far as I can take you,’ he said back outside. ‘Good luck,
son.’
‘Thank you. By the way, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Just call me Moses,’ he chuckled, and slowly pulled away.
As his truck disappeared out of sight, I counted the fistful of French
francs I’d stolen from the wallet on his dashboard.

Saint-Jean-de-Luz, France

17 June

Waves from an inclement Atlantic Ocean lapped at my feet and made the
hairs on my toes sway like a sea urchin’s spines. The rotating beams from a
pair of lighthouses sliced through a bruised sky as night swept in. Three
concrete walls framed the harbour and prevented the water and horizon
from ever meeting. Unable to catch a breeze in their sails, a handful of
windsurfers straddled their boards and paddled to the shore.
I was unsure how long my journey from the north to the south of
France had taken, as without Doreen’s watch, time neither existed nor
mattered. Hours blended into each other like colours in a tie-dyed T-shirt.
 I’d spent long stretches of time hovering by French roadsides
searching for a friendly smile behind a moving windscreen. Sometimes I
found myself hiding in train carriage toilets avoiding ticket inspectors.
It was during my days of near solitude when the faces of those I’d left
behind drifted in and out of my head. I questioned how she was coping
without me. Had she presumed I was dead like I’d hoped, or was she still
holding on to faint hope of my return? Because I wanted to fade from all of
their memories quickly.
However, my rational side knew I had to nip these thoughts in the bud.
If I allowed them to become more frequent, they’d only hamper me. So I
began to train myself to think only of the future and not of the past – and,
specifically, her. It wasn’t easy, especially with copious amounts of time on
my hands.
Manipulating one’s thoughts is relatively simple for a few moments.
But the part of your brain that holds in its core everything that’s amiss about
one’s self doesn’t appreciate being contained for long. The longer I dwelled
on the badness, the harder it would be to anticipate the good times ahead.
But I had freedom to choose and I could, if I wanted to, reject those
thoughts.
So as soon as something detrimental came into my mind, I snatched it
mid-air and quashed it. I reminded myself those memories belonged to a
person who no longer existed.
Of course, I couldn’t control everything I thought about, but I learned
to manage and compartmentalise much of it. And by the time I disembarked
at the beach in Saint-Jean-de-Luz in the south-west, the wheels were
already in motion. The key was to remain conscious of and fixed upon only
the present and the future. To assist in that project, I created new memories
by focusing on what I saw and sensed from the moment I arrived.
I began by inhaling the salty sea mist and the smells carried by the
wind from the surrounding gastronomy. I appreciated how the beach’s
harbour resembled a huge toothless grin, and I found myself smiling back at
it. I was impressed at how the historic architecture of Saint-Jean-de-Luz had
been kept so pristine. I could see a Basque church and longed to go inside
it.
Ahead of me lay the ocean; to the left, the Spanish border and the
mighty Pyrenees; behind me, the body of France. I could run in any
direction and no one would catch me. It was the place I could begin again.
 My personal hygiene had been restricted to washing myself in stained
basins at truck stops and train stations, so my first priority was to walk
down the concrete steps, strip off my musty-smelling clothes and run into
the water in just my underwear.
The salt stung my eyes when I lay face down, grasping a seabed that
slipped through my fingers. I swam towards a white metal buoy bobbing
along under the spell of the ebb and flow. Linking an arm through its
scaffolding, I took in the coastline.
I threw myself under the water and the sound of the waves tussling
against the tide tore through my ears. I held my head under until my
baptism was complete.
The harbour was a popular dock for boats and trawlers that ended a
day’s fishing in picture-postcard comfort. The gentle vibrations of their
engines gave satisfying tingles up and down my arms and legs as my nerves
sprang back to life. Closing my eyes, I flipped onto my back and slowly
paddled towards the beach to dry my new skin in the setting sun’s rays.
Instinctively I believed my new life had the potential to be perfect.

28 June

Fumes from the Gauloise had fused with the burning cannabis resin and
floated up through my nostrils then deep into my lungs. I leaned back on
my elbows, sank further into the sand and savoured the high before
exhaling.
‘Good shit, man,’ said Bradley, who sat next to me, cross-legged.
‘Yep,’ I replied without looking at him, my eyes like crescent moons.
With the aid of my pidgin French and helpful locals, I’d been directed
towards a backpacking hostel on Rue du Jean. The beachfront buildings
were exquisite, but the Routard International was hidden three streets back,
under a shroud of dirt and dilapidation. Its cream and olive-green facade
had flaked, chipped and fallen like dandruff onto the pavement.
Inside, framed sepia photographs arranged carelessly on its reception
walls revealed its previous incarnation as the Hôtel Près de la Côte – a
glowing, three-storey art deco hotel. Its geometric shapes were now
muddied and barely visible behind a hodgepodge of cheap, modern
bookcases and dressers. And its former elegance and stylish modernism had
all but vanished.
 Marble tiles had dropped from the ballroom’s walls and lay shattered
around a grand piano, felled by two fractured legs. It had downgraded from
a luxurious destination to an ad hoc home for fly-by-nights with limited
means.
The remainder of Moses’s money just about stretched to a dormitory
bed for the week. The nights I’d spent in a homeless shelter in London had
quickly acclimatised me to others’ sleep-talking, snoring, and the smells
produced by six bodies in a confined space.
It was mainly young European travellers, keen to explore beaches
away from the glamour of Cannes and Saint-Tropez, who inhabited the
hostel. I had more years on me than most, but I’d never looked my age.
This allowed me to shave a decade from my date of birth. My hitchhiker’s
tan gave me a healthy sheen and masked the weight I’d lost by irregular
eating.
I made the acquaintance of small pockets of people who spoke in
tongues I often couldn’t understand. But through botched German, Italian,
French and plenty of exaggerated hand signals, we muddled along until we
caught each other’s drifts.
I spent my first few days seeking potential employment, from menial
and unskilled work pot-washing in café kitchens to being a trawlerman’s
assistant. But the town looked after its own, and there was no place for an
Englishman yet to prove his worth.
So I filled my time by familiarising myself with my adopted home
through exploratory field trips. My fascination with architecture remained
and there was much to absorb, like William Marcel’s pre-First World War
Hôtel du Golf, and the ochre-red country club in Chantaco I’d read about in
my father’s Reader’s Digest magazines.
My evenings were occupied by listening to hostellers reminiscing
about their pre-travelling lives, while offering little about my own
background. My scant smokescreen involved leaving university to spend a
couple of years being part of the world, not merely studying it from the
sidelines.
It was a plausible story that I repeated so often, I’d begun to believe it
myself.

30 June
‘You should’ve told me you’re looking for a job,’ said Bradley, the
American-born hostel manager. He was an amiable man in his late thirties
with shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper hair and Elvis-sized sideburns. His
surfer’s saline tan etched deep white lines into his face and aged him
prematurely.
‘Yes, do you know of one?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Well, it’s not much, but we need a janitor. Someone who can check
people in and out too, and do odd jobs. It doesn’t pay much, but you’ll get
your bed and board for free.’
It sounded ideal and I began the next day. The role offered extra perks
I hadn’t accounted for. I could raid the cupboard of forgotten clothes, read
literature in the ‘Take a book, leave a book’ library and practise my
language skills with other travellers.
I gave walls fresh licks of paint, hammered loose floorboards, wiped
vomit from bathroom toilets and welcomed new guests. Ample free time
and reliable surf enabled me to learn the skills of wave riding, thanks to
Bradley’s patient lessons and his collection of colourful surfboards. Once
I’d mastered the basics, scuba diving became my next challenge, followed
by horse-trekking excursions through the neighbouring mountain foothills.
My evenings were golden – the day of work followed by an hour on
the beach watching the sun set over a joint or two with Bradley, and finally
shots of Jack Daniels and Coke at one of the local bistros.
I adapted to my new way of life with gusto. And with my baggage
consigned to sealed boxes in my head, I was at ease living in a way I’d
never dared to dream of. To the eyes of a stranger, and even myself, I had
no discernible essence.

CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-five years earlier

17 June
‘Just tell us where he is!’ Shirley yelled as I grabbed her shoulder and
shoved her out the front door.
‘Get out now!’ I screamed back.
Shirley’s exasperated voice echoed around the house as I gave her and
Arthur their marching orders.
For half an hour, Simon’s dad and stepmother had subjected me to a
bitter barrage of questions and accusations, and I’d had enough. My nerves
were already in tatters without them sticking their oars in. I’d expected
them to turn up on our doorstep sooner, but they’d clearly been too busy
spending their days festering over how he could’ve vanished into thin air.
And they were convinced I must have had something to do with it.
When they’d arrived, I’d made the most of the light summer night and
sent the children into the garden to play. Then I took a deep breath and
slowly walked the green mile to the living room. There, Arthur and Shirley
sat side by side, their arms and legs crossed.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Simon,’ I began, ‘but I didn’t want to
worry you.’
‘You think it’s acceptable for us to hear from the police that our son is
missing?’ barked Shirley. ‘We should have been told immediately.’
‘Yes, I know, and I apologise. But I asked Roger to keep you
informed, and he’s Simon’s closest friend, so it wasn’t like you were told by
a total stranger. And I’d really rather not get into an argument with you
about it right now. It’s been a hideous couple of weeks.’
‘Yes, so I’ve heard. It must be quite stressful spending afternoons with
the children at the cinema while their father might be lying dead
somewhere,’ she sniped.
‘Shirley, it wasn’t like that. It was one afternoon, and on Roger’s
advice. And they’re my children, so I’ll decide what’s best for them, not
you.’
She shouldn’t have dragged the kids into it, especially since their
grandparents barely even played a supporting role in their lives. They lived
in the next village but rarely offered to babysit or pick them up from school.
A stranger would be forgiven for assuming they had no grandchildren.
After the funeral, they’d hardly bothered to offer either of us help, or a
shoulder to cry on. I’m sure that must have hurt Simon, but he’d not
admitted it.
 I’d always presumed their lack of interest in us was my fault. They
remembered a boy who was once infatuated by Alan Whicker’s travel
documentaries and who’d dreamed of exploring the world’s architecture.
Then, by twenty-three, he was a married man and later, saddled with his
own family. Even before we walked up the aisle, he tried to convince them
that all he’d ever wanted was his own normal, loving family, but they
wanted more for him than that.
I recalled his relationship with Shirley wasn’t easy. She was a big,
bottle-blonde hurricane of a woman who burst into Arthur’s life a couple of
years after he’d kicked Doreen out. I remembered how, when we were
teenagers, Simon often moaned about how she’d order him to do his
homework and tell him off for smoking. But then she’d clean up his
bedroom and cook him meals, and all without expecting anything in return.
He might never have loved her, but she showed him what a mum was
capable of. I never admitted it, but I’d been envious he had parents who
cared.
They were at a loss to understand why, after all Doreen had put Simon
through, he would do the same to his own family. With no proof to the
contrary, they’d decided I’d driven him away.
‘Were you pressuring him to do better at work?’ began Arthur,
awkwardly.
‘No.’
‘Were you giving him the support he needed?’ Shirley demanded to
know.
‘Yes, of course I was.’
‘Did he really want all those little ones so soon?’
‘Yes, Shirley. I didn’t get pregnant by myself.’
‘You could have tricked him. A lot of women do, to get what they
want.’
‘What, four times?’
‘Well, why did he leave then?’
‘He hasn’t left, he’s disappeared. And it has nothing to do with our
children!’
‘That doesn’t rule you out as the cause though, does it, dear?’
I rolled my eyes as we went round in circles. I took a bottle of wine
from the cupboard and poured myself a glass without offering them one.
They looked at each other with disapproval but I didn’t care. I took an
extra-large gulp to make a point.
‘Are you sure you don’t know where he is?’ asked Shirley.
‘What kind of question is that?’ I replied, taken aback. ‘Do you think
we’d be sitting here having this conversation if I did?’
‘Now’s the time to tell us, Catherine. Just put us all out of our misery.
Does Simon have another woman? Is that what it is? Is he with her now?
You’re hurting our grandchildren if you’re putting your own pride first and
pretending he’s just disappeared.’
‘This is ridiculous! Of course he doesn’t. And how could you think I’d
not put my kids first?’
‘Plenty of women struggle to keep a marriage together,’ Arthur
chipped in. ‘They don’t try and save face by kicking up a fuss and claiming
he disappeared when he’s walked out.’
‘That’s rich coming from you! Weren’t you the one who told everyone
Doreen left to become a bloody missionary in Ethiopia? I don’t recall you
mentioning anything about you booting her out.’
His face flamed red.
‘And if Simon had done that to me, then why hasn’t he been in touch
with you?’ I continued. ‘If he left me, he left you too.’
‘Did he leave a note saying why he went?’ asked Shirley.
I let out a groan. ‘You’ve not listened to a word I’ve said, have you?
Let me spell it out for you: Simon did not leave. He has gone missing. The
police are treating him as a missing person. What more evidence do you
need?’
Shirley rose to her feet. ‘I’m sorry I have to ask this, Catherine, but
did you do something to him?’
That threw me. ‘Like what?’ I asked, genuinely confused.
‘Maybe you had an argument that got out of hand, you might have
hurt him, then panicked, I’m not saying you meant to, but . . .’
‘What, then I got the kids to help me wrap his body up in an old carpet
and buried him in the garden? You’ve been watching too much Murder She
Wrote.’
‘We deserve to know the truth! He’s our son!’ she growled.
‘He’s not your son, Shirley,’ I snarled back. ‘But he is my husband and
it’s me and my children who are suffering the most. And how are you
helping? By accusing their mother of murder? What kind of monster do you
think I am?’
Their silence spoke volumes.
‘If he’s not dead, then he’s abandoned you,’ Shirley responded matter-
of-factly. ‘And frankly, I’m not surprised.’ Ever her faithful lapdog, Arthur
nodded in agreement.
‘I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner,’ she continued. ‘I’ve
always said you can never repair damaged goods.’
Despite the cruelty of her words, it still took a glimpse of a bewildered
Robbie sitting on the bottom stair listening intently as his mother was torn
to pieces before I snapped.
‘Just leave!’ I bellowed, lurching towards Shirley and grabbing her by
the arm. ‘Get the hell out of my house.’
‘Just tell us where he is!’ Shirley yelled as I grabbed her shoulder and
shoved her out the front door.
Arthur shuffled awkwardly behind us.
‘Get out now!’ I screamed, and physically pushed them onto the path
then slammed the door, locking and chaining it behind me. I took a moment
to gather myself before approaching my son with my broken heart still
racing.
‘Doesn’t Daddy love us anymore?’ he asked, brushing away stray
blond hairs stuck to his wet cheeks. ‘Is that why he ran away?’
I wanted to slap his grandparents for putting that idea into his head.
Instead, I knelt down, placed his hands in mine and looked him straight in
the eye.
‘I promise you, Robbie, no matter where your daddy is or what has
happened to him, he hasn’t run away. He loves us with all his heart.’
He peered at me cautiously, stood up and climbed the stairs. ‘You’re a
liar,’ he said quietly as he retreated to the safety of his bedroom. ‘You made
Daddy run away.’
I could just about take what Arthur and Shirley had said. But hearing
my little boy doubt his mother for the first time in his life was crushing. I
should have gone after him and tried to explain Simon hadn’t been driven
away by anybody. But Arthur and Shirley had sapped my strength.
Instead, I poured myself another glass of wine, sat in the kitchen with
my head in my hands and fought the urge to break every dish in the sink.
25 June

I knew by the way the orange vase on the sideboard vibrated that a police
car was pulling up outside our house. Their engines had an urgent,
distinctive throb I’d grown used to and one which made the joints under the
floorboards rattle. Then the panic would creep up my spine, terrified of
what they were about to tell me.
It was usually just an update on the investigation or to ask me yet
more questions I couldn’t answer. But the visits that scared me the most
were when they brought me plastic bags containing pieces of stray clothing
they’d found strewn somewhere. A handkerchief, a hat, a sock, a shoe . . .
the list of items for me to identify went on and on.
Each time, I barely spoke as I sifted through them, but nothing ever
belonged to Simon. The officers tried to hide their frustration at each dead
end, as a positive result would be one step closer to solving the case. But he
wasn’t just a case to me: he was my husband.
And gradually the catwalk of the orphaned clothes petered out along
with their visits.

30 June

James was eight, Robbie was five and a half and Emily was approaching
four, and they showed no more understanding of our new life than their
equally confused mum.
They barely let me out of their sight in case I vanished too. From
behind the kitchen curtains, I’d feel three pairs of eyes glued to me, even
when I walked to the end of the path to put the rubbish out. I constantly
reassured them I wasn’t going anywhere, but they didn’t believe me.
Daddies were supposed to stay, and once they learned that wasn’t
necessarily the case, they became worried that mummies wouldn’t always
stay either. I hated myself for thinking it, but part of me wished I could have
told them Simon had gone to see Billy when they’d asked. They might have
made sense of that more easily. But it was more important than ever that I
pretended to be the constantly upbeat parent, no matter how I really felt.
Emily was aware something had made her world topsy-turvy, but it
didn’t seem to trouble her much. In fact, she loved the extra cuddles she
received from our friends as they came to the house. It was difficult for
them not to melt at the sight of her huge baby-blue eyes and goofy smile,
especially when she’d point to a photograph of Simon on the sideboard and
sing: ‘Daddy’s gone. No Daddy.’ I’d nod my head sympathetically, then
distract her with Flopsy or a Barbie doll.
Robbie took it the hardest. He and our dog Oscar spent more and more
time together, feeding off each other’s confusion. I’d well up watching them
as they sat together in the back garden, staring across the fields, waiting for
Simon to reappear like he’d been part of a magic trick that had gone
horribly wrong. Each night when I put them all to bed, I’d leave Robbie’s
door ajar so Oscar could sneak inside to sleep at the foot of his bed.
James was the spitting image of his father, from the brown waves in
his hair to the sparkle in his green eyes and his infectious laugh. One night,
he scattered his collection of white and brown seashells he’d found on the
beach in Benidorm across his bedroom floor. His friend Alex had told him
that if he put one to his ear and listened carefully, he could hear the sound
of the sea.
Every now and again he’d pick one up to try and catch Simon’s voice,
in case he was lost at the seaside and needed his help to find his way home.
I tried it myself once, but I heard nothing but the echo of my emptiness.

Northampton, today

8.55 a.m.

She glared at him with unflinching venom she’d only felt for one other
man. But she’d long buried that person in her past – along with her
husband.
Her forehead was so furrowed it felt sore. It was difficult to find the
words to respond to what he’d recalled about his first few weeks without
them. Of all the possible outcomes she’d considered – and there had been
many – she hadn’t envisaged he’d simply taken a holiday. While she’d been
frantic with worry, he’d been lying on a beach.
She wanted him to understand how their lives had fallen to pieces
when he disappeared. She needed him to know that while he was creating a
whole new persona, her destiny hadn’t been one of choice. But if she could
have conveyed to him even a small sense of what she’d gone through, it
was apparent that he still couldn’t comprehend how the agony of a missing
soulmate felt. That he could so easily disregard the first thirty-three years of
his life, and those who were an integral part of it, beggared belief.
‘Did even a tiny bit of you consider what it might have been like for
us here, while you were getting stoned with a bunch of teenagers?’ she
asked.
‘It wasn’t like that, but at the time, I suppose not,’ he replied with
brutal honesty. ‘I assumed you thought I’d had an accident but couldn’t find
my body.’
‘And please correct me if I’m wrong here, but you actually made
yourself forget we even existed?’
He nodded.
‘What about birthdays, or anniversaries?’ she persisted, hoping to find
a glimpse of remorse. ‘Did you ever think of us then?’
‘Not at first, no, but I had no choice. It was the only way I could move
on.’
‘That’s the difference between you and me, Simon. I’d never have
wanted to move anywhere if it wasn’t with you and the children.’
‘I had to get away, I was suffocating.’
‘Oh, spare me the melodrama,’ she snapped. ‘You could have asked
for a separation if you didn’t want to be married to me anymore. I’d have
been heartbroken, of course, but I’d have worked through it eventually. And
leaving me was one thing, but your children? I will never understand that.’
Feeling her voice begin to crack, she swallowed hard. She had vowed
many years ago not to shed another tear over him and she wasn’t going
back on her word now.
‘You asked me where I went, so I told you,’ he replied quietly. ‘I’m
not responsible if you don’t like what you’ve heard.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘No, you’re right. Responsibility isn’t a word
you’re familiar with, is it?’
‘I’m not here to argue with you,’ he said with maddening calm.
‘Then why are you here? Because I’ve got a lot of anger in me that
I’m trying my damnedest to contain. Only you’re not making it easy when
you tell me how you just put us out of your mind.’
 ‘Of course I thought about you. I thought about you all – in time.
What I’m saying is that it wasn’t beneficial for me to dwell on the past
straight away. I had to block you all out to carry on. I apologise if that
sounds callous, but at the time I did what I thought was best.’
She shook her head in disbelief and ran her hands across her cheeks.
They were burning up. She walked over to the window and unlatched the
lever arch to release the claustrophobia from the room.
As the light hit her hair and revealed her scalp, he thought he noticed
what looked like a crescent-shaped scar on the side of her head.
She turned around quickly. ‘Were you sick of us all, or was it just me?
What did I do to make you not want me anymore? Did you get a better offer
from someone else?’
He looked towards the fireplace, not yet ready to explain his reasons.
He recognised a familiar object. ‘Is that the one Baishali and Steven bought
us for our wedding present?’ he asked, pointing to a round orange vase.
His change of subject threw her, but she nodded regardless.
‘How is he? Has he retired yet?’
‘Yes, he has. One of his sons runs the business you threw away. Then
he and Baishali retired to the south of France. Funny he didn’t bump into
you on the beach. You’d have had so much to catch up on.’
He didn’t ask about Roger. Now wasn’t the right time.
‘Anyway, I doubt you’ve risen from the grave to make small talk,’ she
continued. ‘So either tell me why you’re here or go back to where you came
from.’
‘You need to know the full story first.’
‘What, more riveting tales from Club 18–30? I don’t have time for
this.’ She walked towards the porch as if to open the front door, but she
knew it was an empty gesture. She had waited too many years for answers
for it to end now.
‘Please, Catherine. I need you to know what became of my life. And I
want to know what you did with yours.’
‘You don’t deserve to know a thing about me.’
‘I know I don’t have any right to, but it’s been a long time. We both
need closure.’
Sod closure, she thought. All she wanted to know was why. Even after
all this time, she still felt she had to be to blame. The puzzle was missing
key pieces she couldn’t place by herself. So she told herself that while she’d
indulge him, she wouldn’t make it easy for him – whatever happened that
day.
 CHAPTER FIVE
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-five years earlier

17 July

A long, loud knock on the front door woke me up at sunrise with a jolt,
scaring the life out of me. I jumped out of bed, looked nervously out of the
landing window and saw Roger’s unmarked police car and a van parked by
the curb. My mouth was dry.
I threw on my dressing gown and felt my legs wobble as I dashed
downstairs, hoping the noise hadn’t woken the children. They’ve found your
body. I’ve really lost him.
Roger stood awkwardly with his head bowed, unable to look me in the
eye.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ I began.
‘Can I come in?’
‘You’ve found him, haven’t you? You can tell me.’
‘No, we haven’t, Catherine. But I need to talk to you.’
Roger entered, while a handful of officers carrying torches and
wearing overalls and boots wrapped in blue polythene bags stayed by the
garden gate. None of them looked at me.
‘I’m really sorry about this, but it’s out of my hands,’ he began
apologetically. ‘We’ve been offered an alternate line of enquiry that my
chief inspector’s ordered me to follow up.’
‘I don’t understand.’
 He paused. ‘We’ve received a tip-off that suggested we need to
examine your garden for . . . signs of recent disturbance.’
‘Signs of recent disturbance,’ I repeated. ‘What does that mean?’
‘There’s no easy way to say it, but there’s a suggestion Simon’s
remains may be buried here.’
‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘I only wish it was, but I have a search warrant.’ He pulled out a
document from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. I threw it back at him
without reading it all, choking at the absurdity of it.
‘You seriously believe I buried my husband in the garden?’
‘No, of course I don’t, but we have to follow up all leads, even if they
come from crackpots.’
‘Tell me who this crackpot is, Roger,’ I demanded.
‘I’m not allowed to say.’
‘This is me you’re talking to. I have a right to know.’
‘I’m sorry, Catherine, I can’t.’
I paused. ‘Wait a minute, you said crackpots, as in there’s more than
one. Who would . . . ’
My voice trailed off and I shut my eyes when I realised who was
responsible.
‘Arthur and Shirley!’ I fumed. ‘I’m going round there now to sort this
out once and for all.’ I’d vowed never to speak to them again after our last
confrontation, but I was furious enough to make an exception.
‘No, you’re not,’ Roger replied firmly. ‘You’re going to stay in the
house and let me do my job. We’re not going to find anything, but the
quicker we can get this over with, the quicker we can leave before your kids
and neighbours wake up.’
I glared at him in both frustration and disgust, scared that even a tiny
piece of him might believe my poisonous in-laws. But there was nothing
but embarrassment in his eyes.
‘Just do it, then go away,’ I fired back, and left him to it. Then I hid,
ashamed and humiliated, behind the dining room curtains as officers
silently searched the rear garden, Simon’s shed, and prised up random patio
slabs around the pond.
They bagged samples of ashes from his bonfire heap, trawled through
the boot of his car using special sticky tape to lift fibres, and sieved earth in
the borders by the front lawn. But when they focused their attention on the
pink rosebushes he’d planted for me during the depths of my depression, I
couldn’t contain my anger any longer.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I yelled, running towards them. ‘You
don’t know what they mean to me!’
‘The ground’s freshly dug, so we have to check,’ a faceless man in
uniform replied.
I grabbed the spade from his hand and threw it across the lawn. ‘That’s
what you do in a garden – dig soil and plant things, you bloody idiot!’
I stomped back into the kitchen and finished off a half-empty bottle of
wine in the fridge, then hurled it against the wall. A frightened Oscar
scarpered for safety into the living room.
I let the children sleep in longer than normal, and two and a half hours
after their arrival, the police put their tools in the back of the van and Roger
reappeared on the doorstep.
‘We’ve finished. As I said, we didn’t expect to find anything. I’m so
sorry for putting you through this, Catherine.’
‘So am I,’ I replied, and slammed the door on him.

14 August

‘Simon is not dead,’ I told my reflection in the bathroom-cabinet mirror.

‘He is not dead. He is not dead.’
Each time a shadow of a doubt crossed my mind, I’d say the same
thing out loud over and over until I believed it again. But as each week
passed, it was getting harder and harder to believe.
I peered inside the cabinet to make sure everything was where it
should be for when he came home. I did that a lot. His razor, shaving cream,
brush, comb, cotton buds and deodorant stick were still lined up neatly, and
all as redundant as me.
I closed the doors and commiserated with the haunted face staring
back at me. I asked myself if I’d been unfair by offering the kids false hope
that he was still alive. I may have stopped feeling his presence, but intuition
told me he wouldn’t be gone forever. Was that enough? And besides, what
lessons would I be teaching them if I gave up on their dad so quickly?
Simon was my first and final thought each day, and probably every
other thought in between. Each night in bed I’d tell him about my day, but
he never replied. Still, I was sure he was out there somewhere, waiting to be
found. But I felt like I was in a shrinking minority.
It was subtle at first, but I began to see a change in our friends. No one
actually had the guts to put it into words, but I began to pick up on little
signs of doubt when I brought his name up. Steven seldom mentioned his
name unless it involved the business. Baishali would tug awkwardly at the
dark curls touching her neck and then change the subject. Even my ever-
reliable Paula began to look at me like I was naive for not considering he
could’ve just walked away.
Without her knowing it, she hurt me more anyone else because we
were so close and she didn’t trust my instincts. And it made me ask myself
if I shouldn’t be talking about Simon so much. But why should I stop? He
was my husband and it wasn’t his fault he’d been taken away from us. Why
couldn’t everyone else see that?
I became resentful towards anyone whose sole focus wasn’t to help
find him. I knew people had their own lives to live and I envied them, but
their doubt frustrated the hell out of me. I wanted to tell them all to sod off.
But I needed their help to keep myself together, so I got my support from a
bottle of red wine instead. It understood what I needed more than any friend
did.
I led a double life as one foot sank in quicksand and the other flailed
around desperately, seeking enough solid ground to keep myself stable.
Family dinners became subdued affairs. I’d entice the kids into talking
or give them something to focus on like empty promises of fun holidays,
and birthdays and Christmases to come. But it didn’t matter what I said. All
they wanted was their father. So, most nights, we’d sit quietly, shuffling
chicken Kievs around our plates like chess pieces, trying to stop ourselves
from staring at the empty chair at the dining room table.
In the end, I moved the chair into the garage. It made no difference.
We’d gawp at the empty space instead.

2 September

It took an eight-year-old boy to shame his mother into action.

‘Look what I’ve made, Mummy,’ said James proudly as he pushed a
piece of paper into my chest.
 My heart bled when he showed me a drawing of his dad with a reward
of his fifty-pence pocket money for the person who found him.
‘We can put it in the window,’ he suggested helpfully. It was the kick
up the backside I needed.
Three months after Simon’s disappearance, Roger admitted the police
investigation had drawn a blank. I’d let them do their job, even if it meant
searching my house or digging up my garden for his remains. But there was
only so much I could take of feeling stupid when the children and
neighbours asked me for updates and I couldn’t give them answers.
I’d fallen into a vicious circle of feeling sorry for myself and relying
on others to find him. And then I’d get frustrated when they hadn’t. James’s
reward poster reminded me there was nothing stopping me from finding
Simon myself.
I sprang into action with a second wind and called our local
newspaper, which sent a reporter to the house for a renewed appeal. And
once the interview made it to print, regional news programme Countywide
asked to come to our house and film a segment. I can’t say I was proud of
it, but I used our children’s anxiety to tug at viewers’ heartstrings.
‘Mummy’s trying to make people feel sorry for us,’ I whispered to
James and Robbie out of earshot of the cameraman.
‘Why?’ asked Robbie.
‘Because if someone knows where Daddy is but hasn’t said anything
yet, then they’ll see us on the TV and realise how much we’re missing him
and they might tell us where to find him. But we all have to pretend to look
sad when they start filming us.’
‘But we don’t have to pretend,’ replied a puzzled James. ‘We are sad.’
Of course they were. I paused to ask myself if I was exploiting their
pain to prove something to myself or to help our family as a whole. Would
parading them publicly heap more psychological damage on what they’d
already suffered? Or did the end justify the means?
I didn’t see I had much of a choice, so I shoved them into the living
room wearing long faces. I was a terrible mother. But, fired up by a breath
of fresh interest in us, I blanketed surrounding villages, bus and train
stations, hospitals, libraries and community centres with posters I’d had
printed with my husband’s photograph and description.
I delivered them to each place by hand so they’d be less inclined to
throw them away, having seen my worried and desperate face in person.
And I wrote three dozen letters and sent his photo to homeless shelters and
Salvation Army centres around the country, in case he’d turned up
confused. Being proactive gave me a lift I’d not felt in a while. I was
optimistic and in control. When I’d completed every bit of outreach I could
think of, I told myself that all I had to do was wait.
The police received thirty or so calls after the TV appeal, but none of
the leads came to anything. I drew a blank with the Salvation Army, and
only one shelter in London recalled seeing someone with a vague similarity
to Simon. But that person had left months ago.
By the end of September, I was back to square one.
It’s funny what the mind can do when it’s grasping at straws and only
touching nettles. Down to either wine or desperation, I began coming up
with ludicrous theories to explain his absence. If it offered a faint glimmer
of hope, I latched on to it.
I scanned through newspapers on the library’s microfiche to see if
there were any serial killers on the loose he might have fallen victim to. I
asked Roger if there was any possibility he could’ve been forced into a
police witness protection programme. I spoke to a very sympathetic woman
at MI6 to ask if he’d been leading a double life for years as a spy, and was
now on a mission somewhere in the world. She couldn’t, or wouldn’t,
confirm or deny it.
I spent a day reading interviews with people who claimed they’d been
abducted by aliens and experimented on. Simon hated his doctor prodding
and poking him, so in a rare moment of self-amusement, I pictured his face
as E.T. tried to stick a long finger up his backside.
I even visited a friend of Paula’s mother, a psychic who frowned when
she held Simon’s comb in one hand and photo in the other. She closed her
eyes and hummed.
‘Well, he’s not passed to the other side yet, dear,’ she began, to my
relief. ‘I’m sensing that he’s safe and well, but far away. Somewhere sandy.
I’m getting mountains and people speaking in funny accents. He’s smiling a
lot. He seems very happy.’
I stormed out before she finished, cursing myself for throwing money
at a fraud.
Back home, I walked through our front door, slumped across the
kitchen table and, without taking my coat off, finished off a glass of wine
I’d left earlier.
 Four months had passed since Simon had vanished, and I was back to
the morning of June the fourth – without him, and none the wiser as to why.

7 October

I went to bed early and turned off the lights, hoping the wine would knock
me out quickly. It didn’t. My stomach rumbled but I couldn’t be bothered
even to make myself a sandwich.
I’d long ceased closing the curtains, so that I could stare out of the
window during my frequent bouts of insomnia. The moon was brighter than
I’d ever seen it, as were the stars. I stared at clusters of them and tried to fit
them together to form Simon’s face.
It wasn’t anything in particular that set me off, but I’d spent most of
the day at a new low. It doesn’t matter if you’re holding the hand of a loved
one as the death rattle slowly dissolves into a rasp, or if the police turn up
on your doorstep to tell you there’s been an accident. No matter how death
happens, the pain is hideous.
Some people build barriers to hide from themselves or those who
share their pain. Some shut down completely, and others dedicate the rest of
their lives to mourning. The brave ones simply get on with it.
I couldn’t do any of that. Because when someone simply disappears
into thin air with no reason, no explanation and no closure, all you’re left
with is an interminable void. A gaping, aching chasm that can’t be filled
with the love, sympathy or strength of others.
Nobody knew my heart was now a black hole, swirling with the debris
of unanswerable questions. Until physical proof of Simon’s death came
along, I would never, ever, truly be able to let him go.
I had no funeral to arrange; no body to bury; no one to blame; no
autopsy to offer a medical answer or suicide note to explain a reason; no
nothing. Just months of absolute nothingness.
And as everyone else’s lives carried on beyond our garden gate, I was
stuck in purgatory and feeling so very, very alone.
 SIMON
Saint-Jean-de-Luz, twenty-five years earlier

14 July

There was an emptiness in my belly that needed to be filled. My

imagination was hungry and I craved a project to sink my teeth into. Even
as a boy I’d had an urge to construct. Birdhouses, dens, rabbit hutches,
dams in streams – it didn’t matter so long as it was a tangible object I could
build from scratch and be proud of.
My life in France was content and free of stress. But while I’d shaken
most of the trappings of my past, living in a hostel that was once so
splendid and now cried out for help made my desire to design and actualize
impossible to ignore. It was what I did. I made things. I created things. I
restored things.
And the more time I spent under its roof, the more familiar I’d become
with its personality. I knew which floorboards creaked and which had
barely enough strength to support my weight. I knew the windows to keep
closed, or risk the rotting frames disintegrating. I knew on which side of the
attic the mice preferred to nest. I knew the rooms to avoid in a heavy
downpour and the places to find maximum sunlight for Bradley’s indoor
garden of cannabis plants to thrive.
I’d fallen in love with its every delight and failing. I’d accepted its
flaws in a way I couldn’t do with a person. I also knew that papering over
the cracks of something couldn’t disguise its deeper issues. I longed to
transform the Routard International back into the Hôtel Près de la Côte.
Local folklore had it that the hotel had seemed to appear from
nowhere in the mid-1920s. It had been designed by a promising Bordeaux
architect who’d only ever made two visits to his project – once as they
broke ground, and again when the doors were declared open to paying
guests. Nobody could remember his name.
He’d been commissioned to design it for a wealthy Jewish German
family who, after the First World War, feared their country might implode
again. So they fortuitously made their property investments abroad. But
when Germany crumbled for a second time, their hotel remained while they
disappeared from the face of the earth. Their legacy was intact, but the hotel
was orphaned and, with no owners to trace, the manager at the time retained
it as his own. Upon his death, its fate lay in the hands of a succession of
distant relatives who cumulatively did little to prevent it from falling into
rack and ruin.
I was dismayed at how something once so treasured could have been
wilfully abandoned, before recognising the irony. But I related more to
buildings than to people. If you gave structures time, detail and attention,
they would protect you. You would be safe beneath their roofs. People
never truly offered such guarantees. So I made it my mission to give it the
help it had given me.
Bradley put me in contact with its entrepreneurial Dutch owner, who
admitted he’d blindly purchased it through auction on description alone. I
wrote him a detailed, twelve-page proposition, explaining who I was, my
feelings towards his property, my qualifications and skills that would enable
me to resuscitate it.
I listed the work it required and an approximate timescale and costing.
Then I crossed my fingers and waited. A fortnight later, Bradley approached
me over breakfast.
‘I don’t know what you said but the usually cheap bastard is on
board.’ He smiled, and offered me a congratulatory handshake.
‘Really?’ I replied, genuinely surprised I’d been taken seriously.
‘Yep. He’s wiring the money into the hostel’s bank account on
Monday, so you can get started when you like. He’ll probably sell it once
you’re done, though.’
At that point, I did not care. The news delighted and excited me in
equal measure, as for the first time in months, I had something to focus my
attention on other than myself.

13 August

The work the hotel required gave me lots of time to spend alone. And with
each acquaintance I made at the Routard International, I reflected more on
the ones I’d cast aside.
I thought back to not long before Catherine and I became a couple,
and the childhood friends who helped to shape me, specifically my best
friend, Dougie Reynolds.
 He’d moved some five hundred miles from Inverness, Scotland to
Northamptonshire with his family, after his policeman father accepted a
transfer to take charge of a new unit. They uprooted to the street next to
mine.
Our friendship wasn’t instant. Roger, Steven and I glared at the lanky,
sapling-armed boy ambling into the classroom with his auburn hair and
coarse, unintelligible accent, like he’d just fallen from a spaceship. During
his first few days in our territory, he was given a wide, discerning berth. But
he paid frustratingly little heed to our feigned lack of interest.
I’d just reached a personal best of twenty-five keepy-uppies with a
football on the village green when he wandered over to me.
‘Bet you I can do more,’ he said with a grin, and struck a defiant,
comic-book superhero pose with his hands on his hips.
‘Go on then,’ I sniffed, and deliberately threw the ball too hard at his
chest. By the time he’d reached fifty with ease, he’d claimed victory and
headed it back to me. A little humiliated, I began to walk away.
‘Arch your back a little,’ he said suddenly. ‘Put your arms out for
balance and focus on the centre of the ball.’
I reluctantly followed his advice, and it was only when my bare thigh
smarted from the repetition of skin against cheap leather that I stopped at
fifty-one. I concealed my smile, but that was all it took to cement the
foundations of a friendship.
I was unsure whether it was his affable personality or his stable family
life that captivated me the most. Dougie belonged to the perfect family,
compared to mine, at least. A mother, a father, a brother and a sister –
everything I’d have killed for.
Dougie Senior greeted his wife Elaine with a kiss to the cheek on his
arrival home each evening. And she’d respond with an infinite supply of
hotpot dishes and mouth-watering casseroles. Their family banter filled the
dining room as Michael, Isla and Dougie each told their parents all they’d
done that day. No detail was too insignificant to be included.
My friends all adored Elaine, and I think found her sexy before they
knew what sexy meant. Her curls glowed like a Christmas tangerine, her
skin was milky and freckled and she possessed a Monroe-like hourglass
figure. She never asked me about Doreen, but I’m sure Dougie had
explained to her my mother’s irregular presence in my life. I wouldn’t have
been bothered if she’d pitied my circumstances at home. I was just grateful
for the attention from a mother, even if it wasn’t my own. Later, Shirley
would try her best to mother me, but by then, I no longer wanted a
matriarch.
Dougie’s parents treated me like a part-time son. My place was set at
the dining room table regardless of my presence. My sleeping bag remained
on a camp bed in Dougie’s bedroom and they’d even bought me my own
toothbrush and facecloth. All the Reynolds children were encouraged to
invite their friends over, and their house resembled a youth club with the
number of children passing through its doors. But I believe Elaine took a
special shine to me.
As an only child, I was fascinated by the unfamiliar world of sibling
relationships – how they played, learned and fought with each other. They
taught me the definition of family. But watching them also bred resentment
in me towards my father. The head of Dougie’s house was not a ghost of a
man too overtly consumed with his louche wife to notice his own neglected
son.
I questioned what was missing in my father’s make-up that rendered
him unable to keep hold of Doreen. Why didn’t she love him like Elaine
loved her husband? What did he lack that drove my mother into the arms of
other men? He lacked nothing, of course. My negativity merely masked
what I felt were my own failings as her son. I knew the man who offered
me as much as he could also had his limitations. So what I couldn’t get
from him, I stole from the Reynoldses.
But the most important lesson I learned from spending time with them
came years later. And it was that, if you scratch the surface of something
perfect, you’ll always find something rotten hidden beneath.

1 September

While neither Bradley nor I trespassed too far into each other’s pasts, my
gut instinct was that he was a reliable sort. My history was as irrelevant to
me as it was to anyone else, so I would never have voluntarily revealed my
true colours to him.
Such aloofness was a self-defence mechanism born out of bad
experiences. Because the more you trust in someone, the more opportunities
you give them to shatter your illusions about them. But as much as I cared
to think of myself as a solitary unit – and as much as it was against my
better judgement – I still needed a Dougie Reynolds in my life. Bradley
came close to filling that vacancy.
It was during a lock-in at the village pub a decade earlier, and with
several pints of Guinness loosening our lips, that Dougie had revealed the
disease running through his family. Out of the blue, he confessed his father
was a violent wife-beater who regularly knocked the living daylights out of
Elaine.
Sometimes he’d hone his skills in front of his family, but for the most
part, he kept his hobby behind the bedroom door. Dougie explained it was
why she had encouraged his friends to spend time at their house. Because if
left alone, some minor incident would likely occur and inspire Dougie
Senior to hurt her again. Our friendship offered them a temporary stay of
execution. He’d used me.
I masked my ever-increasing dismay while he tearfully recalled his
family’s swift departure from Scotland. Elaine had been attacked so badly
that she’d been hospitalised for a fortnight – her husband’s lightning-bolt
blows broke her jaw and five ribs. Instead of offering their support to
Elaine, Dougie Senior’s colleagues encouraged her not to press charges
against one of their own, and offered them a fresh start elsewhere.
But my disappointment wasn’t directed at the culprit – it was towards
his son. Dougie had urged me to buy into his idyllic home, knowing full
well what it had meant to me. Any sympathy or understanding he should
have expected as a result of his disclosure was greeted by stone-faced, silent
selfishness instead. The snow globe in which I’d placed the Reynoldses had
been shaken so vigorously, the contents would never settle again. He’d
cheated me out of the only stability I had known. Ignorance was bliss, and
I’d liked bliss.
I was also disappointed with Elaine’s failure to remove herself from
the side of a sadist. At least my mother had had the strength to leave us for
a reason, no matter how weak it was. Elaine had plenty of them but she’d
stayed and she’d lied, like all women do.
Eventually, Dougie must have read my expressionless face and
realised my lack of compassion meant he’d confided in the wrong friend.
So the conversation petered out, was brushed under the carpet and never
discussed again.
Years later, I learned Dougie wasn’t all he seemed, either. If I allowed
myself the opportunity to know Bradley better, he’d probably disappoint me
too, so I kept him at arm’s length. It was better to remain on my island than
drown in somebody else’s sea.

7 October

‘He’s dead, man. Shit.’

Bradley gently rolled Darren’s rigid body onto his back. He lay there
with his eyes clammed shut. His forehead was as pale as a frosty morning
and just as cold.
‘He certainly is,’ I sighed, then pulled a patchwork blanket up over his
bare chest and covered the face devoid of expression. ‘He looks quite
peaceful. It doesn’t look like he suffered.’
‘My grandpa looked the same when he died of a heart attack in his
sleep. Good way to go, right? Bet that’s what happened to our guy. Better
call the doc, then.’ Bradley picked himself up and walked towards the
reception’s payphone.
With my eyes fixed on my friend’s movements, my hands darted under
the dead man’s bed to find his backpack. I relied on touch to open the metal
fasteners and fumbled around until I found my prize. I crammed it into my
pocket just as Bradley hung up the receiver and turned around.
‘Doc’s on his way,’ he shouted.
Darren Glasper had appeared on our doorstep a month or so before his
sudden demise. Our hostel was cheerful and – most importantly for the
traveller on a budget – inexpensive. And like myself, the intoxicating lure
of the town’s unfettered, relaxed anonymity was all it took to persuade
Darren to remain there longer than first planned.
He told me over supper one night that, as the youngest of a family of
eight, his motivation was to discover his own identity away from those
who’d shaped it. At first, he’d succumbed to family convention by leaving
school and becoming immersed in an unrewarding career in Sheffield’s
steel mills and foundries. But Darren craved more than a lifetime of manual
labour in a job he despised. So, to his loved ones’ surprise, he announced he
was leaving to travel the world and educate himself, before returning home
to educate others as a trainee teacher.
Despite his family’s inevitable attempts to persuade him he was being
foolish, he upped and left. Nevertheless, he beamed with pride when he
spoke of them, and the wall behind his bunk bed was plastered with family
photographs. He’d arranged them like a protective halo around his head and
introduced me to them one by one. They all looked so much like one
another – even, somehow, his parents.
Summer was a fertile period for the hostel and it had been filled to
bursting with guests. However, the closing days of the season were quieter
and allowed the building to loosen its belt and exhale. It gave me space to
sink my teeth into my renovation work, and Darren and others were more
than willing to act as my labourers.
He’d been afforded a four-bedroom dormitory to himself, but when
neither Bradley nor I had seen him that day, his lack of presence concerned
us.
At some point, Darren had checked out of the world he was so keen to
be a part of.
The town’s doctor arrived within the hour to officially pronounce him
dead from a suspected heart attack. I’d joined Darren’s smiling family in
keeping his body company while we awaited the police and an ambulance
to take him to the morgue for an autopsy.
I wondered how his family’s lives would be affected by his death. I
pitied them when I realised they’d probably never come to terms with being
robbed of the opportunity to say goodbye to a son and brother, or apologise
to him for arguing against his wanderlust.
For a moment, I contemplated how Catherine had coped when I too
had followed my heart. But my thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of
two officers, so I left the room and wandered into the courtyard for a
cigarette.
Alone, I put my hand into my pocket and removed Darren’s passport.
His need to leave his old world behind would live on through me. I was
enjoying my time at the hostel, using it as a place of redemption and
healing. But I knew I’d develop itchy feet when I eventually finished my
project. And possessing no passport or international identification meant
that leaving for fresh pastures would be problematic. But not now.
Darren and I shared similar almond-shaped eyes, hairstyle and facial
bone structure. A cursory glance at his passport’s photograph confirmed
that. As long as I avoided a razor for a couple of weeks, I’d match his light
beard and gain the potential to explore wherever I liked.
The moral issues raised by assuming the identity of a man who’d yet
to be laid out on a mortician’s slab were complex – so I put them aside. No
other issues presented themselves, especially as I alone knew that Darren
had lost his wallet in Algeria. Without his passport, there would be no
speedy way of tracking down his relatives.
I told the police his Christian name and his nationality and left them to
fill in the blanks. It would buy me time. I stubbed out my cigarette and
returned to the building to watch in respectful silence as his body was
stretchered away.
Darren and I were both freer from those who’d held us back than we’d
ever been before.

Northampton, today

9.50 a.m.

‘When did I ever hold you back?’ Catherine roared. ‘How dare you! I did
nothing but support you and encourage you. I believed in you!’
As each new revelation fell from his lips, her mood darkened, shade
by shade, until all she saw was black. She questioned whether the man
sitting before her was indeed the same one who’d promised to love her until
death do they part so long ago. It looked like him; it sounded like him. Even
his mannerisms remained, like the way he absent-mindedly scratched the
print of his thumb with his middle finger. Or when he tapped his bottom lip
to mask his anxiety.
But she heard no one she recognised in his recollections of his life
after discarding his family. Had it really been in him all along to live
without a conscience? How could she have failed to recognise such
deplorable deceit and opportunism in him? Her love really had been blind.
‘And you stole a dead man’s passport?’ she continued, perplexed.
‘That’s deplorable.’
He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, like the devil was poking him
with a pitchfork. ‘It’s not something I’m proud of, but I did what I had to
do. I had no choice.’
She drew deeply from a reservoir of anger. ‘Oh, here we go again with
those bloody words. You had no choice. Please, spare me. It was the
children and I who had no choice, no choice but to carry on trying to live
without you. No choice but to do all we could to try and find you.’
‘In all honesty, I didn’t expect you to be so persistent. I hoped you’d
give up after a few weeks.’
‘But that’s what love is, Simon. It’s never giving up on the person
you’ve given your heart to. It’s having faith that no matter how tough things
get, that person will always be looking for you.’
She shook her head at her own stupidity in dedicating so much time
trying to find a man who’d long left the country. They stared at each other
until she stopped waiting for him to defend himself. Her victory felt hollow.
He wasn’t ready to explain in full why he, her husband, the stranger,
had suddenly elbowed his way back into her life. It wasn’t a revelation he
could suddenly blurt out or casually slip into the conversation. He had to
make clear to her why he had made his choices before he could reveal the
role she’d played in pushing him away.
Only then, when she realised her culpability, could he drop the first of
his bombshells. Otherwise all she would hear when it detonated was the
deafening sound of the truth ricocheting around the room. She would not
pause to reflect, and his appearance would be over as quickly as it began.
For her part, his refusal to answer even her most basic of questions
frustrated her. She deserved to know the truth – all of the truth. But against
her better judgement, she also had a growing curiosity as to just how he’d
filled his ocean of time.
She hoped he’d lived a miserable, depressing existence filled with
regret, longing and woe. But none of that was evident in the suntanned,
healthy-looking man who’d invaded her home. And all she’d heard so far
were his thinly disguised boasts of a much better life abroad – without her.
He rose to his feet and made his way over to the French doors in the
dining room to look over the garden he’d once toiled to shape. The corners
of his mouth rose when he spotted the patio where they’d spent many long
evenings planning their future. He hadn’t thought about those nights in
years, and for a moment, he acknowledged there had been good times after
all.
She’d since had a brick barbecue built and a wooden pagoda erected,
where bright green grapevines hung. He knew from experience they’d never
make a decent wine. A child’s yellow plastic bike was propped up against a
crab-apple tree he’d planted in the corner by the firs. He wondered where
and who the bike’s owner was.
‘I am glad you kept our house,’ he said softly.
‘My house,’ she corrected quickly. ‘It’s my house. And I nearly lost it
because of you.’
 CHAPTER SIX
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-five years earlier

14 October

‘You bloody idiot,’ I muttered.

My heart had sunk when I’d read the letter. Eight weeks was all we
had left in our home before the bank repossessed it. I’d been ignoring the
stack of brown envelopes addressed to Simon and crammed them into the
kitchen drawer, out of sight and out of mind. And I hadn’t given any
thought to checking the balance in our account.
Money wasn’t something I’d ever needed to take responsibility for. I’d
been more than happy to let him deal with our finances. I’d presumed he’d
make sure we were okay, and as long as we kept a roof over our heads that
was all that mattered. Silly old me.
So I’d only known there was a problem when the first cheque
bounced. It rebounded off the doormat and back into my hand a few days
after I gave it to a petrol station cashier. Two more soon tumbled through
the letterbox from our gas and electricity suppliers.
But it wasn’t until my debit card was declined at the supermarket
checkout that I knew I had to pull my red face out of the sand to see just
how much trouble I was in. The fridge was almost bare, and the only food
we had was waiting to be paid for in an abandoned trolley.
So I plucked up the courage to look at the bank statement and, through
squinted eyes, regretted it straight away. I was up to my neck in an
emergency overdraft I hadn’t known had been activated. Simon’s wages
had always covered the utilities, but there was never much left to siphon off
into a rainy-day account.
He and Steven had agreed that until the firm reached a certain profit,
they’d only pay themselves a basic sum. But now, with only half the work
being done, Steven had barely enough to cover his own expenses, let alone
mine. There was little in the way of spare cash, and certainly not enough to
survive a drought. And after three months of natural erosion, the reservoir
was dry.
Despite the turmoil it had seen, our house was as much a part of the
family as the people who lived under its roof. But unless my fairy
godmother waved her magic wand, we were going to lose it.
I wasn’t stupid. I loved a little gossip as much as the next person. So I
knew many people in the village were talking about me. I’d see them
looking away when they spotted me in the street, unsure of what to say. I
heard whispers at the school gates from the other mums. I had my
suspicions they thought Simon had walked out on me, only because I’d
have probably thought the same thing if I was them.
So I played my rumoured ‘abandoned wife’ status to my advantage
and pleaded ignorance to my debts during an appointment with our bank
manager. I even felt a twinge of guilt when I turned on the waterworks in
his office with surprising ease to prove how hard I was finding it to cope.
But it worked.
He offered me a further eight-week stay of execution, giving me a
total of four months to climb out of arrears before his hands became tied
and we lost our home. I could have kissed him, but instead I skulked back
home, ashamed of how I’d let things slide. Then I decamped into the dining
room and faced the reality of my money woes on a table littered with old
statements and red letters. A bottle of wine gave me support as I watched
figures on reams of pages twirl around like whirling dervishes, daring me to
take a closer look at the mischief they’d created while I was distracted.
Eventually, I calculated my outgoings were triple my incomings. No matter
where I thought I could make some savings, the debts were still going to
mount up.
The fact that Simon had, as far as the authorities were aware, not
actually died but gone AWOL made it much harder to claim welfare
support. I’d slipped into a grey area that wasn’t recognised by black-and-
white regulations. I wouldn’t receive a widow’s allowance, as there was no
proof he was dead, and I’d not been ‘actively seeking work’, so I couldn’t
claim unemployment benefits. I was allowed family support, but that
fortnightly payment didn’t stretch far. I was caught between a rock and a
hard place.
Frustrated, I poured myself another drink while my eyes filled up
faster than the glass. I was both angry with him for leaving me like this and
at myself for being in denial. Something had to change. It was time to
remove myself from my pity party and start being the breadwinner.
I began by selling the family car I rarely used, then reluctantly
pawning my jewellery, including my gorgeous wedding and engagement
rings. Never in all our years together had I taken either of them off. Not
even when we’d spent all our waking hours glossing doors and staining
floorboards or lifting concrete slabs. If I scuffed my rings, it didn’t matter –
they’d be reminders of what we’d built together. Even when four
pregnancies made my fingers puffy, they remained where I could see them
at all times. Now Simon’s disappearance had made them the saddest objects
I owned. The only thing stopping another round of tears was the knowledge
that when we found him, I’d be able to buy them back.
A house clearance firm I found in the telephone directory made up the
rest of the mortgage shortfall. I begged them to come late in the evening, as
I was too embarrassed for the neighbours to see strange men taking our
worldly goods away in the back of a truck.
I sold the Welsh dresser from the kitchen; a sofa and television we
barely used from the den; Simon’s writing bureau; two bookshelves; three
wardrobes; the dishwasher; a chest of drawers, dressing table and
sideboard; lamps and crockery we’d been given as wedding presents. And
while it killed me to do it, I even sold the children’s bikes. By the time the
removal men left an hour later, I still had a home but barely anything left to
fill it.
I sat broken-hearted, gazing at the empty floors and empty walls in our
empty shell. And as I nursed my wine and glanced at my empty finger, I felt
like a hopeless failure, as a wife and as a mum. It seemed like it might be
harder than I thought to leave my pity party early.

21 October
My children gave me an unselfish, beautiful, organic love that grew as they
grew. But the love Simon had given me was something altogether different.
It had made me feel desired, appreciated, respected and needed. And I
missed that; I missed it so much. He took with him something I didn’t
believe I could hurt so badly for.
But as each week passed, I gradually figured out I shouldn’t need
another person to validate my life, no matter how much I had loved or now
longed for it. It was something I could do myself and it began in our local
supermarket, of all places.
I knew checkout assistant and shelf stacker wasn’t the greatest job in
the world when I saw it advertised in the window. But this beggar couldn’t
afford to be a chooser, so I gagged my inner snob and applied for it.
I stared into the staffroom mirror that first morning and barely
recognised myself. I was a thirty-three-year-old bag of nerves dressed in an
ill-fitting, brown Crimplene uniform and wearing a ‘Trainee’ badge.
I’d become used to mirrors tormenting me. I made a weekly
pilgrimage to the one in my bathroom for some brutal home truths. Inch by
inch, I’d pull on loose skin from the stone I’d lost since Simon had gone,
prod rogue folds and carefully examine my body and face for any obvious
signs of collapse. I’d sigh as I charted the progression of an army of silver
silkworms weaving their way across my crown. I could have lost a finger in
the crevices around my eyes that had once been subtle laughter lines.
Ironically, they’d only grown when the laughter died.
Neither Simon nor youth were on my side any longer. While I was still
more Jane Fonda than Henry Fonda, the gap between the two was growing
closer. But, whatever the direction my new life was going to take, I was
going to give it my all.
Most of the checkout girls seemed decades younger than me. In
reality, there were only a few years between us. But a missing husband and
raising a family on your own ages you in a hurry.
Working kept me busy and stopped me from feeling sorry for myself.
The mums swapped parenting stories and gave each other knowing smiles
when the student part-timers swapped drunken tales and complained of
exam stress like they were pioneers in the field of drinking and homework.
Secretly I envied them, and tried to remember what it felt like to have so
few worries or battle scars.
 Sometimes I’d listen to the housewives moan about their lazy, selfish
husbands, and I’d want to shout, ‘At least you still have yours!’ But I’d
smile and nod along with the rest of the sisterhood instead.
My husband’s disappearance still had a curiosity factor attached to it,
like the village had its own Bermuda Triangle. It was usually the older
customers coming in for their weekly shop who seemed eager to share their
opinions, like only elderly people can.
‘Do you think he’s dead?’ ‘Did he have a bit on the side?’ ‘It’ll be
hard to find another man willing to take on a girl with three little ’uns,
won’t it?’ My skin grew thicker by the day, and I learned to let insensitive
comments fly over my head.
It was my supervisor Selena I had the most in common with, despite
our obvious differences. She was a well-spoken, educated, bleached-blonde
slip of a girl who didn’t really belong there. At twenty, she was the only
young single parent in the shop, and proud of it. The father of her four-year-
old had abandoned her as soon as she told him she was in the family way.
But it hadn’t put her off going it alone.
She’d turned down a place studying economics at Cambridge
University and was working like a trooper to feed and clothe her boy,
something I related to. So I spent more time with her than the others. And I
didn’t care if it was favouritism or because she thought there was more to
me than checkout number seven’s chief resident, but she spoke to our
deputy manager, who soon promoted me to organising float changes and
working out staff rotas.
More money and longer hours meant I had to rearrange our family
life. A bossy but coordinated Paula made sure that she and Baishali took it
in turns to babysit Emily during the day, and pick up the boys from school
in the afternoon.
‘We’re going to do everything it takes to help get you back on track,’
said Paula. ‘Aren’t we, Baish?’
Baishali nodded. When Paula was in ‘organise everyone’ mode,
nobody disagreed with her, least of all Baishali.
And when I finished work, I’d take over and finish the nightly routine,
until they were bathed and in bed.
Then, when the house fell silent, I’d open a bottle of red and begin my
second and third jobs.
30 October

By the time summer had given way to autumn, Simon dominated my

thoughts that little bit less.
I began an ironing service for my busy neighbours who didn’t have the
time to work, look after a family and make sure their clothes weren’t
creased. I charged by the basket-load and spent a good couple of hours a
night surrounded by other people’s shirts and blouses on hangers around the
kitchen.
I made savings where I could, buying own-brand supermarket food
and the kids’ toys and games from charity shops, cutting my own hair and
walking or catching the bus. I’d cinched my financial belt so tightly that it
pinched like a corset. New clothes were a necessity but bloody pricey for a
one-parent family, especially when they grew out of them so quickly. I
decided it would be much cheaper if I made them myself.
But the idea of picking up a needle and thread again scared me to
death.
For much of my married life, I’d earned a little extra money doing
alterations to clothes for our friends. A turned-up hem here or a zipper
replacement there had progressed into making clothes for the kids to play
in, a few skirts for myself, and then bridesmaids’ dresses for my friend’s
wedding.
It was impossible not to think about those dresses without images of
Billy flooding my mind. Of course, I knew that my sewing hadn’t been to
blame for that day’s horror – I alone was to blame for that, no matter how
Simon or Paula had tried to persuade me it was an accident and no one’s
fault – but I’d packed away my sewing machine and materials as though
they were cursed. Now, though, I had to face it: making clothes was the
only practical skill I had and I needed to put food on our table. My
supermarket wage was enough to cover the bills and the mortgage, but left
very little else.
I downed half a bottle of red for Dutch courage before I grabbed the
material I’d bought from the market. Then I picked up my pinking shears
and rustled up school shirts and trousers for James and Robbie.
Each bouncing bobbin, each foot on the pedal and each rattle of the
machine’s engine brought that day back to me. Since Simon had vanished,
I’d tried my best to put it out of my mind.
 And my children needed me in the world more than I did. So I held
my pain deep down and ploughed on. By the time I finished I was three
sheets to the wind, but I’d done it. And if I did say so, the results were
indistinguishable from – all right: superior to – the store-bought garments
we could in no way afford.
Word of mouth soon spread amongst the school-gate mums that I
could save them a small fortune by making their kids’ clothes too. And
soon, half the children running around the village seemed like they were
dressed in something I’d sewn.
When my friends asked if I’d make clothes for them too, a lightbulb
switched on in my head. It could be the answer to my financial woes, so I
gave it a bash. They arrived on my doorstep with armfuls of fabrics and
torn-out cuttings of outfits they’d seen in magazines and hoped I could
copy. On instinct I found I could replicate even really tricky designs without
much of a problem. And it gave me the confidence to suggest my own
twists and ideas.
The supermarket students, who didn’t earn enough to buy what they
saw pop stars wearing, began spending some of their wages on things I’d
create for them for their favourite nightclubs. Even Selena, whose
circumstances precluded anything like a social life until her son Daniel was
older, took advantage of having a friend who could whip up a shoulder-
padded jacket in an evening.
It wasn’t long before all my nights found me holed up in the dining
room and hunched over a sewing machine with only a bottle of wine to
keep me company. I didn’t have time to stop and think how my eighteen-
hour days might be affecting my health.

28 October

It hurt like someone was kicking me in the stomach over and over again.
Even lifting my arm to stack the last box of cornflakes on the supermarket
shelf winded me.
My stomach had ached on and off for most of the day. But I had
painful cramps and I knew it wasn’t my usual time of the month. Eventually
I had to admit something was wrong. I struggled to catch my breath as I left
the pallet of boxes in the aisle, headed to a toilet cubicle to unbutton my
dungarees and examined what was making my groin feel damp. I panicked
when I saw lots of blood in the front of my knickers.
I clocked off and slipped out of the warehouse doors clenching my
tummy, and half-walked, half-stumbled a mile and a half to the doctor’s
surgery. The cramps were getting worse as I waited for Dr Willows, and
almost as soon as I lay on the bed, I felt a popping inside me. Then I leaked
more blood as she helped me to the toilet. And when the pain became too
intense, I fainted.
‘You’re having a miscarriage, Catherine,’ Dr Willows explained
slowly when I woke up. ‘The pains you’re feeling are contractions in the
uterus. They’re dilating your cervix to get the foetus out. There’s nothing
we can do but let your body do what it has to do.’
I struggled to get a grip on what she was saying. How could I be
pregnant? Was my motherly instinct now so rotten that the only time I felt
my baby inside me was when it was dying?
‘But I’ve been having my periods,’ I argued.
‘It can still happen, I’m afraid.’
‘How far gone am I?’
‘I can only hazard a guess, but probably about five months.’
I remembered the night Simon and I last made love. It was the
weekend before he disappeared and, once again, I’d instigated it. Neither of
us had said it, but we both knew we were still going through the motions.
I’d convinced myself that if we both kept trying to make an effort, we
would, in time, feel like us again. It never crossed my mind it would be the
last time, or that it’d leave me pregnant.
Dr Willows led me to the nurse’s room and I lay on my side until the
pain eased. She gave me a handful of sanitary towels, a bottle of painkillers
and offered me a lift home. I turned it down.
It’s hard to explain, but instead of feeling emotional like any ordinary
mother would after miscarrying, an eerie feeling of detachment came across
me. It was like the trauma of what had just happened belonged to someone
else, not me.
So I calmly lifted myself up and left the surgery. I made my slow way
back to the supermarket and clocked back in, and continued where I’d left
off. And as I priced up a new pallet of lemonade bottles, my colleagues had
no idea I’d left the aisle as two people and come back as one. Or that I’d
just killed my second child in less than two years.
 That night I put Emily to bed and asked James and Robbie to fend for
themselves, blaming a tummy ache on my need to hide myself away in the
bedroom.
I was still yet to shed one single, solitary tear. I shut my eyes tight and
dug my fingernails deep into my palm to force them out, but still I felt
nothing. I thought of a life without Billy and without Simon but that didn’t
work either. I was numb. I wondered if I’d shed so many tears in my
lifetime that I’d now run out.
I rubbed my belly where my child had been hiding and wondered how
I could have lost so much control of my life. I blamed losing it on the stress
of worrying about Simon, the kids, my finances . . . and maybe even the
bottle of wine that lay under the blanket next to me. I decided I was
hopeless and defective and that my baby had had a narrow escape with me
as its mother. No wonder it wanted to die – it probably had an inkling of
what was to come.
My head throbbed, so I reached over to the bedside table, took a third
painkiller from Dr Willows’s packet and washed it down with a swig of
wine, straight from the bottle. I hesitated, and then took a fourth pill. And a
fifth. Then a sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth. But before I swallowed my
tenth, I retched and vomited across the floor.
Resting in a puddle of alcohol and bile lay all nine tablets. I couldn’t
even kill myself properly.

7 December

‘Bloody thing!’ I shouted as I caught my finger in the sewing machine

needle for the second time in as many minutes. It was either exhaustion or
one too many drinks that blurred my vision. Regardless, I sucked my finger
to stem the bleeding and headed for the kitchen to find another sticking
plaster.
‘Sod you,’ I muttered to Mrs Kelly’s unfinished skirt on the dining
room table. I’d go back to it later when it had learned its lesson. I wrapped
the Band-Aid around my finger and thought back to when I was a child and
I’d lose myself in my mum’s fashion magazines and a world of women
draped in beautiful fabrics.
She had been an unappreciated seamstress with delusions of grandeur.
I’d sit transfixed as she assembled beautiful dresses and coats from nothing.
She’d get lost in a place a long way from the one she found herself stuck in
with my dad and me. She once admitted her teenage dream had been to
work for one of the great Parisian fashion houses, hand-stitching stunning
haute couture creations until her fingers numbed.
‘That would have given me greater pleasure than anything else life has
thrown my way,’ she said wistfully, then gave me a disappointed sideways
glance to emphasise her point. She needn’t have.
My mother was fascinated by the work of couture aristocrat Hubert de
Givenchy and his muse Audrey Hepburn. She would copy his refined,
immaculate designs in her own way. I shared her passion, but unfortunately
she had little interest in sharing any of her skills with me.
I begged her to teach me what she knew, but she’d ignore me. It was
like she was afraid she’d lose her gift if she passed it on to someone else –
even her only child. But as long as I kept quiet and didn’t ask questions, I
was allowed to watch her work from the other side of the room.
Even as a little girl, I never quite understood why my parents had
bothered to start a family – whether it was just the done thing in those days,
or because I was an unfortunate accident. Either way, they didn’t really
need me. I was never physically neglected, but my mum wasn’t shy in
reminding me of my place in her pecking order.
‘You’re a guest in this family,’ she once barked without provocation,
‘and don’t forget it.’
Despite being aware of her many faults, it was calming watching
beautiful clothes come from a cold heart. Sometimes I’d wait until she’d
left the house, then sneak into her wardrobe and shut the doors so I could
have them all to myself. I’d close my eyes and smell them or try to identify
the materials by the muffled sounds they made when I rubbed them between
my fingers.
I remembered a gift I made for her when I was nine. I’d saved up my
pocket money to buy four yards of ivory-cream polyester fabric, and every
night after school, I ran to my room and hand-sewed a blouse ready for her
birthday. Even then I knew it was crude, but I hoped she’d be proud of what
I’d learned and add her own spit and polish to it. As she unwrapped the
string and paper, she gave me a half-baked ‘thank you’ but never tried it on
for size, even to be polite.
A few days later, she asked me to polish the fireguard, so I went to the
cupboard under the kitchen sink for a tin of Brasso. Inside lay the tatters of
my blouse, cut into strips to use as dusters. It was a cruel lesson. You can
either learn from your parents’ mistakes, or repeat them and use them as an
excuse for your own behaviour. I vowed never to blame her for my failings.
And from then on, everything I made was in spite of her, and without the
need of her approval.
My mum’s dresses led long but lonely lives. Once complete, they
wouldn’t be shown off at parties or to her friends; instead, they would hang
in protective bags for only her to enjoy.
Dad worshipped the ground she laid fabric on. And his obsession with
keeping her happy overshadowed everything else in his life, including me. I
envied my friends when they admitted they were daddy’s girls. I was
nobody’s girl until I met Simon. But Dad knew my mum’s calling gave her
a happiness he couldn’t match.
‘Mummy!’ Emily’s panicked voice brought me out of my
recollections. She was standing by the door, her face scrunched up, and I
could see that she’d wet her pyjama bottoms.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up and back to bed.’ I took
her hand and as we walked up the stairs I racked my brains, but for the life
of me, I couldn’t ever remember a time I’d felt my mother’s skin held so
close against my own.

Christmas Day

Our house had never been so silent on a Christmas morning. In past years,
I’d watch as wrapping paper spun through the air like stray fireworks on
Bonfire Night. And I’d cover my ears at the deafening squeals of the kids.
They’d normally wake Simon and I up around four o’clock in the
morning, prodding our arms and anxiously whispering, ‘Has he been yet?’
And with no hope of settling them back to sleep, we’d give in to the
inevitable and follow them downstairs. We’d switch on the Christmas tree
lights, and take as much pleasure watching them tear open their presents as
we’d had in buying them.
But that year, eight o’clock arrived and the house was firework-free. I
dreaded the moment they’d wake up – not just because their dad wasn’t
there, but because I was ashamed of how pitiful the gifts waiting for them
were. I knew it, and soon they would too.
 It was the best I could do, as my choice was simple but bloody unfair
– piles of presents, or an empty dinner table for most of January.
Nevertheless, I got them up one by one myself and tried to spur them into
action.
‘Have we been naughty?’ asked James, when he saw there were only
two boxes waiting for him to open.
I sighed. But without admitting Father Christmas was a big fat fib and
what lay before them was all Mummy could afford, there wasn’t much I
could say to convince them they weren’t being punished.
‘Of course not, darling,’ I replied. ‘Santa just didn’t have much room
on his sleigh this year.’
It fell on deaf ears.
All day I tried my hardest to encourage them to wear those flimsy,
colourful Christmas cracker hats and play with the crappy plastic toys
inside. I even delayed dinner so James could watch the Top of the Pops
Christmas special. Robbie said very little, and lay on his bed in his room
stroking Oscar instead. Nothing I did lifted their spirits.
What should have been a day of celebration was missing its heart.
Instead of the beautiful madness of six, it had withered to one drunken
grown-up desperately pretending the Christmas chicken was really a small
turkey. I knew what James was asking for when we pulled the wishbone
together. Even a bottle of wine failed to bring me festive cheer.
I kept the house phone in my apron pocket for most of the day in the
hope that if Simon was still alive, by some miraculous turn of events, he’d
call. But, of course, he didn’t.
Suddenly there came a knock at the door and my heart jumped. Before
I could say a word, the children leaped from their chairs and ran towards it.
‘Daddy!’ squealed Emily as her little legs buckled beneath her in the
scramble. For a second, I thought they were right and chased after them,
praying for the kind of miracle you see in Christmas films. But as the door
opened, Roger, Steven, Paula and Baishali stood there, not him.
Their arms were full of gifts, but not even Santa could give us the only
thing we all really wanted.
 SIMON
Saint-Jean-de-Luz, twenty-five years earlier

10 September

I squatted on an upturned wooden box outside the hotel on the Rue du Jean.
I placed my plastic hard hat on the pavement and lit my seventh Gauloise of
the morning. Catherine had only ever allowed me to smoke socially or on
special occasions. So with nobody to complain that my breath reeked of
stale tobacco, my occasional habit had become a full-time addiction.
I stretched my legs out and winced as my knee joints cracked.
Climbing up and down scaffolding twenty times a day with my hostel
workforce was exhausting and took its toll on my body, but the results had
been worth every second.
While the capital investment from the Routard’s owner wasn’t enough
to restore it to its former glory, I’d thrown myself into my work to recreate
something of worth as best I could.
I allowed myself to think back to my first project, a ramshackle
collection of bricks and mortar that eventually became our first home.
Before she and I could afford a car, we’d passed the cottage dozens of times
on our way to and from the bus stop. It was in desperate need of restoration,
yet it always caught our eye.
Ivy had crept up its faded whitewashed walls, along the patchy tiled
roof, and clasped the chimney pot in its fingers. The wooden window
frames had bowed and the garden hadn’t seen a tool in a lifetime. Weeds
competed with trees to see which could grow taller.
But I liked that Catherine could see what I saw, a shared vision of its
potential: somewhere we could raise a family, our own perfect family. We
were living in a tiny apartment above a fish and chip shop when we heard
that a gas-meter reader had discovered the body of the cottage’s elderly
owner. Her withered shell had remained slumped face down on her kitchen
table for up to a month.
Her estranged son put her house up for sale for a snip, like he wanted
rid of both it and her memory as quickly as possible. Money wasn’t
abundant, what with me freshly qualified with a university BA in
architecture and employed at my first job with a small firm. Meanwhile, she
was window-dressing at a department store in town. But we calculated we
could afford the mortgage repayments if we scrimped. There’d be years of
work ahead of us before it matched the image we’d painted of it in our
heads. That didn’t matter – in fact, nothing mattered but buying the house.
Once our solicitor had handed us the keys, not even the stench left by
a decomposing carcass put us off. We simply covered our noses and mouths
with tea towels and toasted our first house with a bottle of Babycham in the
hallway. We had something to build on of our own, which neither of us had
experienced before.
As I stared at the progress I’d made in restoring the Routard, those
same feelings of accomplishment and excitement rushed through me – the
knowledge you are on your way to creating something flawless. Suddenly
the voice I’d first heard in the woods the day I left Catherine made itself
known: ‘Do I need to remind you of what happens to all perfect things?’
I shook my head, my euphoria evaporating in an instant.
‘It’s only a matter of time before they stop being perfect and destroy
you.’

October 18

I lifted the sledgehammer over my head, swung it towards the door handle
and smashed through the lock.
Bets had been placed on what secrets lay behind the keyless door in
the Routard’s mysterious storeroom. Skeletal remains, valuable artwork
concealed from the Nazis, an extensive wine cellar or perhaps a parallel
universe were all jokingly considered.
With two well-placed whacks, the door sprang back on its hinges to
reveal what not even the Dutch owner knew it contained – a six-feet-by-
eight-feet, pitch-black room. When Bradley shone his torch inside, the
spectators behind us gave a collective deflated sigh at the sight of crate after
crate crammed with paperwork, receipts and invoices.
It wasn’t until later in the day, when I’d consigned the splintered door
to the rubbish, that I caught a glimpse of a photograph poking out from one
of the crates I’d dropped into the garbage earlier. I leaned over the edge and
pulled it out for closer inspection.
 A family, possibly the original owners, stood dressed to the nines,
beaming proudly before the camera outside the pristine-looking Hôtel Près
de la Côte. I instantly recognised the chubby-faced man standing at their
side. It was Pierre Chareau, a classic modernist and art deco designer I’d
studied extensively at university. I had long admired his maverick vision.
Like me, he’d trained as an architect, but he’d added extra strings to his
bow by branching out into design and decoration. The pinnacle of his work
was the Maison de Verre – the first house in France to be constructed of
steel and glass.
I grabbed the crate and hauled it back into the hostel courtyard. I lit up
the first of many cigarettes as I ploughed through hundreds of pages of
designs, photographs, blueprints and illustrations. There were sheets of
handwritten notes and orders – all signed by Chareau. And they weren’t all
related to the hotel. There were sketches of buildings that had never been,
and designs of furniture that had.
When placed in chronological order, they offered a fascinating insight
into the creative mind of a genius and the projects he’d never publicly
acknowledged. Forty years after his death and I was residing in what had
once been just his vision. I’d been charged with returning it to the glory
he’d been responsible for. But with these papers, I’d also found my holy
grail, and my way out.

5 December

I’d thrown myself into the final stages of the hotel’s renovation. I’d become
obsessive, working all the hours God sent, day and night, only napping for a
handful of hours at a time. And it was starting to take its toll on me.
I was crouched in a bath, sealing its rim with adhesive against the tiled
walls, when the quite dry, very French tub before me was all at once
replaced by the bath in my old house in Northampton, complete with water
inside and bubbles, and a toy boat floating from one end to the other. I
blinked hard, and when I opened my eyes again, the image had vanished as
quickly as it appeared. I felt chills across my body so I climbed out and
started work on a staircase instead. Thank God that bit of madness was not
repeated, but the memory of it left a stain that took some weeks to wash out.
As the countdown to the festive period began, it became a challenge
not to think of the family I’d shared so many Christmases with. But when I
thought about Catherine, I kept reminding myself I was no longer a father
or a husband.
We’d both agreed we wanted to be young parents, and being a parent
was the greatest gift she ever gave me. Nothing she nor I subsequently did
to each other ever took away the feeling of utter elation in holding those
tiny, hope-filled hands for the first time in the house they’d been born into.
Over the years, as each midwife passed each baby to me, I’d gently slip my
finger between their tightly balled fists, plant a kiss on the centre of their
foreheads and whisper ‘I will never let you down’ into their ears. It
saddened me to think the first words they’d ever heard were lies.
‘Si, you need some sleep, man,’ yelled Bradley, bringing me back to
the present. ‘Look.’
He pointed to the banister I’d just sanded down to the grain – I’d only
painted and varnished it a night earlier.
I yawned and closed the lid on Catherine once again, and moved on to
the wooden arc of the entrance hall. It felt smooth to the touch, but it could
be better. I couldn’t bring myself to stop sanding it until it was beyond
compare.

Christmas Eve

I’d never spent the holidays in the company of strangers before, which was
probably why I’d been reluctant to embrace the forthcoming festivities. But
my apathy evaporated when I turned the corner into Christmas Eve.
Diminishing numbers wasn’t going to prevent us from indulging in
good food and all-round merriment. But it took queuing with crowds of
locals outside the boulangeries and patisseries to collect orders for fine
meats and cheeses to spark the kindling inside me. I fed off their gaiety
until I found myself grinning without reason.
In keeping with French tradition, the seven of us left at the Routard
International enjoyed an appetising midnight meal together before we
welcomed Christmas Day. We covered the dining room table in a clean
white bedsheet, treated our palates with the rich textures of foie gras on
sliced brioche and smoked salmon on blinis.
My bloated stomach was already close to bursting point when the
chef, who the Routard’s owner had hired as a reward for my renovation
work, brought out a platter of cooked meats. I was completely spoiled.
 ‘How did you used to spend Christmas?’ asked Bradley as we smoked
two plump cigars on the mild seafront.
I recalled a time two years earlier, sitting in the corner of our living
room watching all six of them caught up in the moment. My relationship
with Catherine was completely distorted by then, and I didn’t belong there.
He had made sure of that. I was like a coiled spring that longed to unravel
but didn’t know how or when to.
‘Not much,’ I replied ambiguously.
‘Thought you’d say that,’ said Bradley before we puffed away and
watched a trail of shooting stars blast their way across the sky.

Christmas Day

With only a handful of guests remaining under my retiled roof, the hostel
had been as restful as I’d known it.
‘Do you wanna call anyone?’ asked Bradley when he finished with the
phone, handing me the receiver. I paused. ‘Do you want to call any of your
family back in England or something? You know it’s Christmas Day, right?’
For the first time since I’d left Catherine, something unexpected in me
was curious to hear her voice. I took the receiver and, without giving myself
time to debate it, held it to my ear. I dialled the country code, then the area
code, and finally all but the last digit of our phone number.
My finger hovered over the last number, unable to press it. Because
even hearing her just say the word ‘hello’ as she picked up the phone, or the
voices of the children as they played with toys in the background, would do
me no good. The time of year for family and togetherness was weakening
my resolve, but I had to come to my senses or undo all my good work.
‘No, it’s okay,’ I told Bradley, passing the phone back to him. I had to
remain in the present, not the past.

Northampton, today

11.10 a.m.
He’d spent years holding himself back from allowing her sympathy. But
even he couldn’t ignore how traumatic it must have been to miscarry and
face it alone.
But as sorry as he felt for her, ultimately she had brought it on herself.
All of it. And she’d been right: the baby had had a narrow escape.
He was surprised by her tenacity when it came to working three jobs,
but he didn’t mention it, so as not to appear patronising. He’d expected her
to have quickly found a replacement for him, if only to provide financial
stability for the children. But he’d seen to it that one man in particular could
never have been an option for her.
So far, she’d not mentioned anyone else; it appeared she’d muddled
along alone. He admired that, as he did her return to dressmaking. He
recalled how she’d believed that hobby had destroyed their family. But
secretly he knew it wasn’t to blame. Not at all. And he understood how
financially destitute she must have been to have picked up a needle and
thread again.
For every story he’d recounted of his adventures without his boring
wife and children, she was torn between bringing him back to the brutal
reality he’d left behind and making sure he was aware of what she’d
accomplished.
No one could ever really appreciate her lows unless they’d lived
through them with her. She knew he understood grief, as they’d walked that
path together. But he couldn’t comprehend the pain of losing someone
without ever knowing if they were truly lost.
She wanted him to feel the same misery he’d inflicted upon them, but
she didn’t need his pity. Besides, with his golden tan and tailor-made suit,
he hardly resembled a man wracked with remorse or who had faced hard
times.
She just desperately needed to witness some human emotion in his
steely exterior, or proof that she’d not been completely blind to him
throughout their relationship. That inside him, some compassion remained.
She thought she’d spotted it briefly when she told him about their
Christmas without him. She noticed the uncomfortable twitch of his middle
finger against the print of his thumb. It meant he didn’t like what he was
hearing. She would use that to her advantage, she decided.
If he was going to play games by making her wait before he told his
truth, then she’d use that time to make him feel as awkward as possible.
And her children would be her weapons.
But, most importantly, she would try her hardest to show him she was
not the same naive fool he’d left behind.
 CHAPTER SEVEN
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-five years earlier

New Year’s Eve

‘You’re drunk, Mummy,’ whined James.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I snapped, yanking the hem of his costume down
further still. ‘And for God’s sake, stop fidgeting.’
‘Ow! You’re hurting me!’
I was trying to finish his Batman outfit for the New Year’s Eve fancy-
dress party at the village hall. I’d accidentally jabbed a pin into his ankle
and wasn’t in the mood for his whingeing.
It’d been a relentless week. I’d had all our costumes to make from
scratch for an event I couldn’t give two hoots about. I’d worked an extra
fifteen hours of overtime at the supermarket over two days and had a list of
sewing requests as long as my arm. And I hadn’t even begun to tackle the
baskets of unironed clothes stacked up in the hallway. There just weren’t
enough hours in my day. So who could blame me for having a glass of wine
here and there to help me through it?
Well, James, for starters.
Habitually, I’d uncorked the first by breakfast. And by early evening,
one more empty bottle was lying on its side by the kitchen bin. But I
certainly wasn’t drunk, I told myself, and it annoyed me my son had the
nerve to presume I was.
‘Shut up, it’s only a little prick,’ I barked. James’s eyes filled up,
which irritated me even more because he was only going to slow me down.
I raised my voice and dug my fingernails into his wrists until he squirmed.
‘Right, you can either stop your sniffling and let me get on with this, or you
can go to the party looking like a fool and have your friends laugh at you.
Which one are you going to choose?’
Even as the words tripped off my tongue, I knew I was sounding like
my mother. I heard a lot of her in myself these days and I didn’t like it. But
the colder I became, the more frequently she reared her head.
It wasn’t James’s fault I was in such a foul mood. I’d missed Simon
more than ever over Christmas. The new year was about to begin and I
couldn’t see how things were going to get any easier.
It wasn’t helping that it was also my thirty-fourth birthday – my first
birthday without him since we were eleven years old. I wanted to throw
myself under the quilt in an alcohol-induced coma and wake up seven
months earlier. Then I’d never let him out of my sight for the rest of our
lives. Instead, I was going to a party filled with couples who’d remind me
of what I was missing.
I also resented the kids for not remembering my birthday, even while I
was trying to forget it. Four unopened cards and gifts from friends lay on
the kitchen table, but there’d been no special kisses or cuddles from my
own family – just relentless demands for food, costumes and attention. I
longed to be the centre of someone else’s attention again.
‘There, it’s done, now take it off or you’ll get it creased,’ I grumbled
as James stomped out of the room.
I sat on the living room floor alone, staring at the last drop of wine in
both the glass and the house. I cursed the kids for taking up so much of my
time that I hadn’t got the chance to stock up at the off-licence before it
closed early. When everything else around me went wrong, wine was my
safety net, and it made me angry if there wasn’t a bottle to hand if I needed
it. I dreaded waiting another three hours for the party to begin before I
could have another drink.
A loud crash in the kitchen was the final straw. My mother and I
roared together. ‘Bloody shut up now, or there’ll be no party and you’ll all
go to bed early!’ I screamed, hoping the kids would give me an excuse to be
a hermit.
Their voices quietened to whispers, then giggles, then squeals.
‘Right,’ I bellowed and stood up, steadying my jelly legs against the
arm of the sofa and going to confront them. Their backs were towards me
but Robbie couldn’t hide the glue and scissors in his hands or the torn
newspapers scattered across the worktops and floor.
‘What the hell are you doing? Look at the mess in here! And you
know you’re not allowed to play with scissors. Get upstairs, now!’
My words were a little blurred but my outburst dazed them. As they
separated, a homemade birthday card with a drawing of our cottage and
family lay on the table. They’d framed it with dried pasta tubes and gold
Christmas glitter.
‘Happy birthday, Mummy,’ they mumbled together as Emily handed it
to me. Inside, it read: To the best Mummy in the world. We love you very
much. They’d all signed their names in different-coloured crayons and
wrapped up their favourite things for birthday gifts – a seashell, a dinosaur
and Flopsy.
‘They make us happy so we thought they’d make you happy too,’
added James, unable to look me in the eye.
I felt nothing but shame. I closed the card and noticed Simon wasn’t in
their drawing. They’d understood it was just the four of us now, and the
only person who hadn’t was me.
It was like someone had let the air out of me. My body deflated and
my mouth fell open as for the very first time, I began to cry in front of
them. My tears were so heavy they pushed my head forwards, then bent me
over double. The kids responded by gathering around me with the force of a
rugby scrum.
‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ said Robbie. ‘We’re sorry we made you sad.’
‘You haven’t,’ I sobbed. ‘They’re happy tears.’ And some of them
were. Not all of them, mind you, but some of them. In an instant, I
recognised everything that had been wrong with me since Simon
disappeared.
I’d known deep down I’d been relying on alcohol to keep me sane.
James had been right: I was drunk and I couldn’t remember a day since
Simon went when I hadn’t knocked back at least a couple of glasses.
I’d used wine to replace him. And gradually it had become my crutch
and the only glimmer of light in my dark corner of the world. It was the
only thing that sandpapered the rough edges away and made everything
bearable again. It prevented a night of tossing and turning by easing me to
sleep. It comforted me when I imagined all the bad things that might’ve
happened to him. It was my reward for getting through another day after my
miscarriage without falling apart.
But when too much of it flowed through me, it made me bitter. I hated
myself for it, but I blamed Simon for throwing me into a life I’d never
asked for. And worse than that, he made me take out my frustrations on my
babies. Of course, it wasn’t his fault – it was mine.
All four of us decided against the party at the village hall, and packed
the fancy-dress costumes into a bag and stuffed it into the cupboard under
the stairs. Then we stayed up until midnight to see the new year in together,
watching it on the TV. And the three pairs of arms that had held me up for
so long without me noticing gave me more strength and support than a
bottle of wine ever could – or would – again.

SIMON
Saint-Jean-de-Luz, twenty-four years earlier

New Year’s Day

Champagne corks flew through the air as a chorus of a thousand voices

cheered across the town square. Church bells in Saint-Jean-de-Luz chimed
to announce the arrival of the new year, while the townsfolk celebrated with
backslapping and cheek-pecking.
My first réveillon de la Saint-Sylvestre had begun earlier that evening
with a feast cooked, blanched and seared by the willing kitchen staff of
local restaurants, cafés and bars. Crockery stacked with mouth-watering
foods was piled upon every inch of available surface space at my restored
Hôtel Près de la Côte for its grand reopening. Wooden tables were pushed
together, draped in ivory lace and linen and decorated with plastic holly
branches and white pillar candles. Flames flickered across the room and
enshrouded each person in a tangerine blush, as if we were banqueting in
the belly of a bonfire.
 I was one of more than three hundred friends, neighbours and
tradesmen sitting side by side on wooden stools, indulging in the festivities.
Then, with the food still fresh in our stomachs, it was time for a traditional
walk through the balmy air to the church for midnight Mass. Even though
I’d misplaced my religion a lifetime ago, it was a place, somewhat
hypocritically, that I needed to visit to offer gratitude for my second chance.
And to prepare for a third.
As the church bells rang, I joined the extended congregation to walk
en masse with blazing torches towards the square, the final destination for
our celebrations. There, a uniformed brass band played traditional French
folk songs as balloons floated through the breezeless air and party poppers
decorated the sky.
‘Happy New Year, buddy!’ shouted Bradley as our glasses collided.
‘And you.’
‘Any resolutions?’
‘Just the one,’ I replied vaguely.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And what is it?’
‘I can’t tell you that, it’s unlucky.’
‘Unlucky? You Brits are weird.’ He shook his head, bemused, and
wandered off in the direction of a slender waitress who’d been catching his
eye all day.
I remained in my place under a leafless cherry tree, taking mental
pictures as the throng sang, drank and danced. I placed my half-full glass on
the base of a statue, stubbed my cigarette out on the cobbles and walked
slowly towards the Hôtel Près de la Côte. I stood on the opposite side of the
road and dissected how my months of intense restoration had radically
changed its appearance. I was thrilled with my achievement.
Unlocking the front door, I was greeted by the warm sound of silence.
I headed down the corridor to my room and pulled my recently purchased
green canvas rucksack from the cupboard. It held my sparse collection of
worldly possessions – clothes, a couple of books, maps and money I’d kept
hidden in rolled-up socks – all of which I’d packed earlier. And, of course,
Darren’s passport. The hotel wouldn’t be the only thing to see in the new
year with a fresh identity.
 I closed the bedroom door and walked back towards reception, only
stopping briefly to examine a photograph Bradley had pinned to a cork
noticeboard. It was of a dozen of us, including Darren, sitting in the
courtyard raising beer bottles towards the lens. I returned their smiles.
I’d spent the last six months of my life with people who had no idea
who I really was. Nobody had judged me, challenged me or bruised me, and
that suited me perfectly. I’d been safe, and I could have spent another year,
two years . . . maybe five years in this town. But I knew eventually it would
fail me. Everything that makes you happy eventually disappoints.
And it was pointless creating a new life for myself if I wasn’t going to
live it. It would all be for nothing. It was in my best interest to escape on
my own terms, while I had nothing but fond memories. So, with a heavy
heart, yet motivated by the thrill of expectation, I prepared to take flight.
I lit a candle for each of the three children I’d left behind and one
more for myself, and placed them in the dining room, the reception area,
my bedroom and by the rear door. It only took a minute before their inch-
high flames licked the curtain hems, then climbed towards the sky,
destroying everything in their paths.
I locked the front door behind me, strapped my rucksack to my back
and made my way up the long, steep road to the railway station. I paused
halfway for a final sentimental glance at the building responsible for
helping to rebuild me. A red glow had already illuminated a couple of
rooms, and it wouldn’t be long before more followed.
Like I had with my family, I’d created something almost perfect. But
perfection fades. Catherine’s had, and the Hôtel Près de la Côte would
follow suit. Nobody would feel the love for it I’d felt. No one would hear its
cry for help like I did, or restore it like it deserved. I would not let others
ruin it like they had done before. I would be the one to choose how it got
the finale it deserved.
Fifteen minutes later, I perched on the pavement outside a lifeless
station and drew the faint sea air into my lungs one last time. I placed my
rucksack behind my head, lay on the pavement and drifted off to the sounds
of pops, shouts and small explosions.
Northampton, today

12.30 p.m.

‘I don’t understand,’ she began, utterly confused. ‘You put your heart and
soul into renovating that building, and then you set fire to it?’
He nodded slowly and tapped his foot on the floor.
‘So is that what you do?’ she continued. ‘You work hard to create
something amazing and then destroy it because of something you think I
did to you twenty-five years ago?’
This time his head remained still, but she persisted.
‘Is that what the problem was with us? We were the perfect family
you’d always wanted, but once you got it, you realised you didn’t need us
after all?’
‘No,’ he replied with certainty. They were far from perfect, she had
seen to that. But he’d save that part for later.
Her initial anger was giving way to frustration. He appeared quite
determined to regale her with select stories from his past, but because there
were so many gaps open to interpretation, she naturally wanted to know
more. Then he’d clam up as tight as an oyster shell or change the subject.
She hated herself for letting him draw her in. Nevertheless, she wasn’t
prepared to end her line of questioning just because of his reluctance.
‘But you’d made friends there – while I was working like a slave and
selling off everything we owned, you didn’t have a bloody care in the
world!’
‘Nothing that satisfying ever lasts, Catherine,’ he replied. He was
smiling, but she could see it was underpinned by sadness. ‘Not the hotel,
not the people, not my life here or my life there. So it’s far better to leave on
your own terms than on someone else’s.’
‘Then you were depressed? I understand depression – you knew what
I went through before you went. But you could have talked to me about it,
let me be there for you like you were there for me. You didn’t have to run
away.’
‘I didn’t say I was depressed, Catherine. You’re making assumptions.’
She was exasperated. ‘Then, once again, I don’t understand! Why did
you leave? All these bloody riddles and you still haven’t told me the one
thing I want to know. What did I do that was so bad it made you run away?’
 Like the slow burning of a cigarette, he kept her waiting. She didn’t
know what game he was playing, but he was better practised than a
politician when it came to avoiding the answers that mattered.
As much as she hated being controlled by a puppetmaster, she got the
feeling she’d have to play along a lot longer before she could cut the strings
herself.
 CHAPTER EIGHT
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-four years earlier

4 January

I couldn’t have felt more out of place had I been dressed in a clown suit and
wearing deely boppers.
The bell above the door tinkled when I walked through the doors of
Fabien’s boutique. It was like stepping into the pages of Vogue magazine –
orange, rust and gold wallpaper covered the walls, and mahogany rails of
clothing were placed near display tables draped with select pieces. A crystal
chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. The whole shop was like
Joan Collins’s walk-in wardrobe.
I checked the designer labels on hangers but there wasn’t a price tag in
sight. A little matter of cost didn’t concern the kind of women lucky enough
to afford to shop there. Like my mum’s dresses, the clothes in Fabien’s were
always supposed to hang in someone else’s closet, not mine.
‘Stunning, aren’t they?’ a smoky voice crackled behind me. I turned
around, startled, and yanked back my hand like I’d been caught shoplifting.
Selena had asked if I could visit her mother after the Christmas
holidays. I’d presumed she’d wanted some alterations doing, but when she
revealed her mother owned Fabien’s, you could have knocked me down
with a feather. It was one of only a handful of independent clothes shops in
town selling high-end fashion imported from places like Italy and France.
I’d never had the guts to go inside: my experience of Fabien’s was limited
to lingering glances as I walked past the window to C&A.
 ‘I’m Selena’s mother, Margaret. You must be Catherine,’ she began,
extending a manicured hand towards mine. Her long, ruby-red fingernails
drew my eye to clusters of diamonds in her gold rings.
‘Yes, nice to meet you,’ I replied, ashamed of my own hands which
resembled pincushions.
Margaret was every inch the boutique she owned, and precisely the
reason I’d never set foot in it. Hovering somewhere around her mid-fifties,
she was the epitome of old-school glamour – part Joan Crawford, part Rita
Hayworth. Her chestnut-brown hair was tied into a neat bun. Lines running
vertically down her cheeks and above her lips gave away her fondness for
the sun and a cigarette. I wondered why she had a daughter who could
barely make ends meet.
‘Nothing like Selena, am I?’ she asked. ‘I’ve tried to help her,
financially I mean, but she’s inherited my stubbornness and refuses to take a
penny. I’m proud of her nonetheless. Anyway, please continue looking
around.’
I felt even more self-conscious as Margaret’s eyes bored into me to get
the measure of who I was by the clothes I was drawn to. Eventually, she
spoke again.
‘I’ll get to the point, darling. I want you to work for me.’
‘Um, I don’t know if I’d fit in here,’ I stuttered.
‘No, no,’ she laughed. ‘I don’t need you in the shop; assistants are ten
a penny. I want you to make a range of clothes for me.’
I must have looked baffled. It was too early for an April Fool.
Margaret explained how she’d seen the clothes I’d made for Selena
and her friends. And while the modern fashions teenage girls desired
weren’t to her taste, she’d been impressed by my attention to detail and the
quality of my work.
‘Oh, I just copy what I see in magazines,’ I said, a little flattered, a
little embarrassed.
‘Which is a skill in itself,’ Margaret said. ‘Darling, I don’t offer praise
lightly. I’ve taken a very close look at your work, to the point where I’ve
almost picked the bloody things apart looking for faults, much to my
daughter’s annoyance. But your standard is quite exceptional. Obviously
your choice of fabrics is – how can I put this without causing offence – a
tad “high street”. But you clearly have an instinct for what suits a woman.
And watching you wandering around my boutique like a child in a sweet
shop tells me you have greater aspirations than making school uniforms and
trendy frocks for mini-Madonnas.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, neither used to, nor entirely comfortable with,
compliments. I followed her like a puppy on a lead as she walked the shop
floor with a purposeful stride, sifting through rails and draping clothes over
my arm.
‘You’re not perfect, but none of us are, darling,’ she continued. ‘A few
of your clothes have room for improvement, but that’s something we can
work on. I want you take a few pieces away with you and examine them
closely. Look at how they’re pieced together – the use of appliqués,
grosgrain and shirring. The devil is in the detail. These are the intricacies
that separate clothes you’ll find on my rails from those you’ll see in a
Littlewoods catalogue. Then come back to me in, let’s say a month, with
three of your own creations. My customers don’t settle for anything less
than the best, and neither do I.’
Top-quality clothes were Margaret’s main income, but small,
independent, affordable labels were fast becoming popular – limited-edition
ranges aimed at the over-forties. However, Margaret’s clientele was
growing older and she needed to appeal to an equally lucrative younger
market with a disposable income. And I got the feeling that what Margaret
wanted, Margaret got.
‘If you can prove to me you’re the untapped talent I think you are,
then we can do business,’ she added, smiling.
One nervous handshake later and I was sitting on the top deck of the
number five bus, holding on to a thousand pounds’ worth of dresses for
dear life.

5 January

Making clothes for children who didn’t care about fashion trends and teens
that wanted designer rips in their jeans was entirely different from working
to meet Margaret’s expectations.
For the first time in my life, I had the chance to turn my talent into
something really profitable. But I was scared. What if she laughed my ideas
out of the boutique? What if it wasn’t in me to be original and I could only
stretch to copying clothes that already existed?
 I could have gone around in theoretical circles for days, but the only
way to find out was to stop dithering and get on with it. The day after
meeting Margaret, I sat down at the dining room table with a mug of tea,
and surrounded myself with Robbie’s coloured pencils, a blank sketchpad
and a mental image of her breathing down my neck. Then I drew. And
drew. And drew.
But nothing came close to matching what she’d asked for. My designs
were, at best, bland. They lacked oomph, and if I knew it, Margaret would
too.
If ever I needed a glass of wine for inspiration, it was then. But when
the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed four times, I retired to bed,
defeated but sober.
The following three nights were exactly the same. I’d already buckled
under pressure. On day five, I tossed and turned in bed and reluctantly
admitted it had all been pie in the sky. My mum was right: I’d never be as
good as her. Her work was so much better than mine, yet she’d known her
place, and it wasn’t creating something for someone else’s approval. I
wondered if she was still making clothes. It had been years since my
parents had moved out of the village and down to the south coast. We’d
send each other Christmas cards, but that’s where our contact started and
finished. They’d visited once, a couple of months after I had James, but that
was it. My children were bang out of luck when it came to having
grandparents who wanted to play an active role in their lives.
I thought about the clothes in Mum’s wardrobe – timeless pieces that
would still have looked fantastic on rails now, twenty years later. Well,
maybe with a raised hem here or a belt there. Or an extra couple of buttons
and a zip. Actually, there were a lot of her designs that could work as they
were, I told myself. Then I had an idea.
I padded down the stairs in my dressing gown and slippers, spread out
the silk fabric I’d been keeping for something special, and began to work
from memory, borrowing some of my mum’s designs for inspiration.
And I continued like that for the next four weeks with different
materials until I finished my three original pieces. Then I thanked my mum
and went to bed, knackered but smiling.

4 February
Silence. Fifteen long, gut-wrenching minutes of it. I was so nervous my
palms were sweating.
After presenting Margaret with a business suit, a pair of stirrup pants
and a silk dress, my heart was in my throat as I watched her prod them, tug
at their seams, hold them up to the light and shake them like she was trying
to get the last drop of ketchup out of a bottle. Finally, she was done.
‘How quickly can you make another three?’ she asked. I wanted to
grab her and squeeze her until her bun burst or her shoulder pads split.
With a couple of minor alterations, my outfits were on Fabien’s
clothes rails by the end of the week. Every time I thought about what I’d
accomplished, I broke into a huge, beaming smile. I crossed my fingers and
hoped at least one of them might find a buyer.
I needn’t have worried. By the time I returned with more, the first
three had already been snapped up. Margaret handed me a cheque for one
hundred and forty pounds – the equivalent of two weeks’ supermarket
work. If I hadn’t needed the money so badly, I’d have framed it and stuck it
on the wall for the entire world to see.

28 March

Dividing my life between three jobs and three kids had worn me out.
I knew I could make so many more clothes if I had full days and not
just a few snatched hours here and there. When I fell asleep at the sewing
machine for the second time, I was ready to admit I wasn’t Wonder Woman.
Something had to give, so I took the plunge and handed my notice in
at the supermarket, but as I didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket, I
kept ironing my neighbours’ clothes. And I saved a little money from each
of Margaret’s payments to start refurnishing my home.
First I bought the children second-hand bikes. Then, gradually, I
replaced the pieces of furniture I’d sold and started kitting out my sewing
room. Soon, what was once the dining room became a space crammed with
clothes rails, stacks of magazines, rolls of fabric, two mannequin torsos and
multiple boxes containing bobbins of coloured cotton.
I thought back to a few months earlier, when I’d used that room to
come up with ridiculous theories as to what could’ve happened to Simon.
Now I was using it to leaf through borrowed library books on the modern
history of clothing, from classics like Christian Dior and Guccio Gucci to
newer stars.
As my ideas and inspirations flowed thick and fast, I began to realise
that when Simon found his way home, I wouldn’t be the Kitty he used to
know. I was moving in a new direction and becoming stronger, off my own
back. While I was getting to know – and like – the new me, I felt guilty for
thinking not all change was a bad thing.

2 April

In my dreams, Simon was only ever an outline of a man – a quiet blur

hiding in the corners of rooms, watching me.
But that night, I saw his face. I stood by my bedroom window as the
sun rose, watching his motionless body in the fields peering back at me.
Eventually, he smiled, and I felt myself blush like I had the first time he
looked at me, in English Lit class.
When he turned his back and walked away, I panicked and shouted for
him, but he ignored me. I hammered on the glass with my fists, but he
slipped into a speck of dust on the horizon. I screamed louder and louder
until I woke myself up, then lay there, angry with him.
Suddenly Dougie’s face burst into my head with such uninvited speed,
it made me jump.
For four years, I’d kept him at arm’s length, but I’d be a fool to think it
was that easy. I’d always believed I could read people quite well, because
the only way to stop myself from being burned by my mum’s acid tongue
was to judge her flavour before approaching her.
Simon’s friends Steven and Roger were easy to pigeonhole and they
hadn’t changed much as they’d grown from boys to men. But Dougie was
different. When it was just the two of them, they’d been a lot more serious;
with the others, Simon was one of the lads. I’d nicknamed him the
Chameleon and quite liked that he’d change his colours to suit his
environment without ever losing sight of who he was. Dougie, Steven,
Roger and I were all just pieces of him.
But Simon had been more to Dougie than just his best friend, and he
hadn’t exactly welcomed me with open arms once Simon invited me into
his little gang. He wasn’t just a boy whose head hadn’t been turned by
yucky girls. He genuinely couldn’t understand why his best friend had
fallen for one.
And when once he caught me watching him watching Simon, while
Simon remained oblivious to the both of us, his red face revealed what his
words didn’t say. I was a little jealous of how close they were, and Dougie
and I began playing childish games of one-upmanship. If I told him
something Simon had said to me, he’d antagonise me with a ‘yeah, I
already know’. And other times, in petty retaliation, I’d do the same. We’d
compete for Simon’s attention.
I’d always regretted Simon and I’s first kiss. Not that it happened, but
how and where. I instigated it in Dougie’s bedroom on purpose, aware that
he was about to walk in and catch us. I kissed him because I wanted to, but
I also knew that putting Dougie in his place, on his own territory, would end
our rivalry.
As soon as he saw us, I wished I hadn’t been such a bitch. He looked
so pitiful standing there with a tray of snacks and glasses of milk. The
corners of his mouth unravelled and the light in his eyes paled. I’d won
Simon’s heart, but trampled across Dougie’s.
That marked a turning point in Dougie and I’s relationship. We
reached an unspoken understanding that while we could share Simon, I
would always have the upper hand. And eventually we became unlikely
friends in our own right.
Then, one night, many years later, everything changed.

7 April

I was exhausted defending an invisible man for so many months.

I’d abandoned chanting ‘Simon is not dead’ in the bathroom mirror,
because in my heart of hearts, I’d begun to accept it might not be true. It
came down to one single fact – he couldn’t have been gone for ten months
without something having happened to him. And with no evidence telling
me he was still alive, I reluctantly came to terms with Roger’s theory he’d
most likely died in an accident the day he disappeared.
In the meantime, my children had come up with their own ideas.
‘Did Daddy commit soo-side?’ Robbie asked out of the blue on our
way home from the park.
‘Who told you that?’ I replied.
 He looked anxious. In truth, he’d been looking more and more anxious
of late and it was starting to worry me. He’d often take himself into his
dad’s garage-office and I’d hear him whispering to him about his day. I’d
thought I was the only one who did that. I wasn’t sure if leaving him to chat
to a memory was the best thing or not, but if it gave him the comfort his
mummy obviously couldn’t, then maybe it wasn’t doing any harm.
‘What’s soo-side?’ asked Emily.
‘My friend Melanie says that when people are sad and they want to go
to heaven, they commit soo-side,’ Robbie explained.
‘It’s called suicide,’ James chipped in before I could explain, ‘and it’s
when people hurt themselves on purpose because they don’t want to be with
their families anymore.’
‘No, Daddy didn’t commit suicide,’ I replied, unsure of how to end the
conversation.
‘But how can you know that?’ asked James. It was clear this wasn’t
the first time he’d given it thought.
‘Because Daddy had no reason to. People only do that when they don’t
think they have any other choice. Daddy loved us too much.’
I hadn’t told another living soul, but it had crossed my mind that
maybe he had. I mulled over everything that had happened with Billy and
wondered if I’d been too wrapped up in myself to notice how badly it had
affected him too. If I’d been a better wife, maybe I’d have noticed his
sadness instead of wallowing in mine.
‘Well, this is what I think happened,’ I began softly. ‘The day that
Daddy disappeared, I think he went out for one of his runs somewhere new.
And I think he got lost, and then he had an accident. But because nobody
knows where he went, we can’t find him.’
‘Shall we go and look for him again?’ asked Robbie.
‘I don’t think that will help. I don’t think he’s able to come back.’
I still couldn’t bring myself to say out loud that maybe he was dead.
We had arrived home, and Emily skipped over towards the swing in
the garden.
‘Is he in heaven?’ Robbie continued.
I paused, hating myself for what I was about to say. ‘Yes,’ I said at
last. ‘I think he might be.’
‘When will Daddy come back?’ yelled Emily from the swing.
‘I don’t think he will, sweetie.’
 ‘Oh,’ she replied, and frowned. ‘Push me really hard, Mummy.’
I began pushing her more gently than she’d expected, so she wriggled
her legs backwards and forwards to gain more height. ‘Harder, Mummy.
You’re not pushing hard enough!’
‘Why do you want to go so high?’
‘So I can kick God in the bum until he sends Daddy home.’
Good idea, I thought.

SIMON
Paris, twenty-four years earlier

10 January

I raised my head to look up at the publisher’s third-floor offices on

Boulevard Haussmann, and fumbled nervously with the twenty thousand
French francs crammed into my trouser pocket.
I felt a pang of disappointment in myself for being the man to have
sold all that Pierre Chareau had written, sketched and then shipped to the
Hôtel Près de la Côte for reasons unknown. But I’d done what was
necessary to carry me forward.
It had taken four trains and two buses to reach Paris. My backpack
contained very few personal belongings, to make room for the rarest items
I’d rescued from the garbage. The rest I’d sent by post six weeks earlier to
Madame Bernard, a publisher of art and historical work, to offer it for sale.
I had considered handing the collection to the Musée des Arts
Décoratifs, where it could be displayed alongside other notable works of
famous French visionaries. But the next part of my journey would be
expensive, and I was still more charity than charitable.
On my arrival, it took Madame Bernard several days to verify the
authenticity of the most recent deliveries. But once deemed genuine, I was
offered a fee and a percentage of future book sales, with a guarantee of
anonymity.
I congratulated myself on requesting that the royalties be forwarded to
an address in England. I doubted whether Darren Glasper’s family would
ever know why they were receiving intermittent cheques from a Parisian
publisher. But if it helped perpetuate the myth their deceased son had made
a success of his all-too-brief travels, then it was worth every centime.
Darren and I had shared the desire to cast aside our past lives and start
afresh on our own terms. So I knew he’d understand that, with him having
no further need of his passport, I could make use of both it and his identity.
If heaven existed, he’d be looking down on me with pride and egging me
on.
With no permanent address or bank account, I, however, preferred to
be paid in cash, and with the financial means to move forwards, my next
stop was a travel agent to book a one-way flight.

New York, USA

4 February

While everyone else slept soundly around us in designated bunkbeds, the

girl and I silently made love in hers.
I’d placed the palm of my hand against the breezeblock wall to stop
the bed’s metal frame from rocking against it. The other was held over her
mouth to mask from the slumbering masses her groans while she climaxed.
It wasn’t long before I joined her, then allowed my limp body to flop to her
side.
Her name had already escaped me, but it didn’t matter as she’d made
plans to leave for Chicago in the morning. I pulled on my underwear and
went to give her a polite peck on the cheek, but she had already fallen into a
drunken sleep.
The day after bidding adieu to Paris, my alter ego Darren Glasper had
landed in New York.
The ignorant often look upon America as a modern country lacking
history or culture. What I saw was a continent littered with small pockets of
culture in every person, in every building and on every street. Just because
no one creed, religion or class stood prouder than any other didn’t mean a
whole nation was lacking in essence.
And what better country in which to begin again than one at whose
gateway stood a landmark with broken chains at her feet and a torch to light
my way forward?
In the Lower Manhattan Youth Hostel, I lived the life of a teenager
trapped in a thirty-three-year-old man’s body. My days lacked routine;
spontaneity was the only call I answered to. I aspired to throw myself at
every new sensation I chanced upon, and that included the opposite sex. As
teenagers, my friends had experimented with any girls who’d indulge them.
But Catherine was the only one I’d ever been intimate with. And by
marrying the first girl I’d fallen for, there was so much I’d missed out on.
The hostel’s arteries constantly pumped with fresh young blood. I
enjoyed the company of women, and brief dalliances and one-night stands
meant there was no risk of them urging me to take things further or trying to
get to know me. I needed to connect with people physically, but rarely for
long and never emotionally. For just enough time to remind myself I could
still connect, even if it was only expressed through empty, near-anonymous
sexual acts with like-minded partners.
And it happened anywhere, from restaurant toilets to alleyways,
dormitories full of sleeping people to an underpass in Central Park. I had no
filter for shame and few boundaries. I had many wasted years to catch up
on, and sex without emotion brought immediate gratification. New York
was the city that never slept, and I had every intention of following suit.
I reached my bunkbed on the other side of the dorm, zipped myself up
in my sleeping bag and thought back to my first kiss.
I’d never told Catherine it wasn’t with her.

21 February

I’d already walked the length of the Brooklyn Bridge once that day. On my
return, I paused and leaned against the sidewalk railings to stare across the
vast expanse of the East River.
I thought back to when I was eleven, and Dougie and I spent an
afternoon on a long bike ride into town, eventually reaching Abington Park.
Feeling mischievous, we stuffed decaying elm tree leaves, and a stack of
discarded Mercury & Herald newspapers dumped by a lazy paperboy, into
an overflow pipe leading from an adjacent stream. Finally, when our
masterpiece of modern engineering was complete, we waited patiently for a
watery wrath to sweep over the town once the stream burst its banks. It was,
however, an overly ambitious plan, and after an hour, Northampton was still
as dry as a bone.
Bored, I’d leaned back on my elbows on the grass and closed my eyes.
Suddenly, something soft gently pressed itself against my lips. It remained
there momentarily as I puzzled over whether I was awake or midway
between sleep and consciousness. I opened my eyes to find Dougie’s lips
upon mine.
He withdrew them as quickly as they’d been planted. He stared at me
with eyes so wide they appeared to have developed a life of their own,
beyond his control. We remained motionless, one taking in the action and
the other waiting for the reaction.
‘Sorry,’ he finally blurted out, before picking up his bike and cycling
away as fast as his gangly legs could pedal.
I remained rooted to the grass, bewildered. Boys didn’t kiss boys: boys
kissed girls. If a boy kissed a boy, he was queer. All I knew about
homosexuality was that queers were to be feared and, if found, given a good
kicking. They were dirty old men who sat alone in cinemas waiting to touch
young lads if the opportunity arose. Or they ended up in prison for doing
filthy things to each other that I didn’t really understand.
I was at a loss as to how I should respond, so I hurried through the
consequences of confiding in someone else. Should I tell my father or
Roger what had happened? Or would they think I was a queer too, for not
knocking his block off? I didn’t want to be found guilty by association. And
if others knew, I wouldn’t be allowed to play with Dougie again, to spend
time at his house and be a part of his family. I didn’t want to be the one to
blame for sending my best friend to jail. So, because I had more to lose than
him, I kept quiet.
The next morning, I stopped at Dougie’s house as normal to walk with
him to school.
‘Come on, we’re going to be late,’ I said.
He looked at me – confounded, I’m sure, that I’d gone anywhere near
him again. And as we walked briskly down the High Street, from the corner
of my eye I kept seeing his mouth opening and words forming, before
sentences evaporated into nothing. Eventually, he spoke.
 ‘The other day . . .’ he began.
‘Forget about it.’
‘Have you told—’
‘Of course not. Now hurry up, or we’ll get detention.’
It was the last time the subject was ever touched on. But it didn’t mean
I ever forgot.
My second first kiss was with Catherine, not long after. As we sat
together on Dougie’s bed reading an interview with David Bowie in Melody
Maker magazine, she leaned over without warning, cupped her hand under
my chin, pulled my face close to hers and kissed me.
It was a wonderful, warm, sweet kiss. She tasted of Parma Violets. I
knew the longer it lasted, the more chance Dougie would catch us. She
gradually pulled away and gave me the most beautiful grin I’d ever seen.
Then a shadow caught our eye, and we turned to find Dougie standing in
the doorway holding a tray of snacks.
He processed what he’d witnessed before he reanimated his blank face
and placed the crisps and sweets in the centre of the bed, pretending he
hadn’t seen anything.
I knew I’d wounded him, but I didn’t know then how long he would
wait to retaliate.

20 March

I scanned the row of Brooklyn brownstones a second time, then slipped

across the street to a shabby vehicle wedged in among the line of cars
tightly parked by the curb. I’d watched its owner forget to lock the door as
she struggled up the stairs with two bags of groceries and a whining toddler.
There was a fist-sized dent in the passenger door, and the simulated-
woodgrain vinyl panels were sun-bleached and had begun to peel from its
body. The rear seats bore the scratches from a large dog’s claws. A sticker
with the name ‘Betty’ had been placed in the bottom left-hand corner of the
rear windscreen. She had a history, but then so had I.
I slipped casually inside the Buick Roadmaster station wagon and
entwined the wires beneath the steering-wheel column like Roger had
shown me when I’d lost the keys to the Volvo. Then, after trial, error, a
spark and a splutter, Betty burst into life.
 I could have chosen something a little grander and perhaps a little
more modern. But she possessed the basic criteria required – she was
practical and unremarkable to look at. She had plenty of space inside her to
offer passage to other travellers, and her two rows of back seats folded
forwards, enabling me to sleep inside her if I wished.
I’d grown restless after two months of exploring New York’s nooks
and crannies. The signs of better days ahead in the dilapidated Meatpacking
District, the magnitude of Central Park, the illuminated glory of Broadway,
and the bars and brothels of Soho had nothing more to offer. City life had
exhausted me and it was time to explore further.
I pulled out into the street and scowled at the crucifix swinging from
the rear-view mirror. I yanked it off its chain and threw it onto the back seat.
It bounced off something – a child seat. Suddenly I recalled the long car
journeys we’d taken to the Lake District and the Devonshire coast, with
three young children in the rear of the car. I remembered listening to James
and Robbie fighting over whose turn it was to use my Walkman. Emily was
still a baby and more concerned with her rattle. Catherine was asleep in the
front seat, gently snoring, and as I drove I listened to the buzz of the family
we’d created together and smiled.
I didn’t want to miss any of that, but I did.
Now I was about to take another journey into the great wide open,
although this time, I’d be alone.

Northampton, today

1.20 p.m.

She’d watched him grow uncomfortable and tap his finger against his lip
each time their children were mentioned by either of them. She was pleased
that her plan was working. Slowly and surely, she would break him down
piece by piece until he showed some remorse for what he’d done to his
family.
Remember why you’re here, he told himself. Remember who’s in
charge. He’d fought quite successfully at the start to convince himself that
not seeing the children the morning he left had been the correct thing to do.
But deep in the pit of his belly, it was his one regret. Because after forcing
himself to erase their young faces from his memory, it had later proved an
impossible task to bring them back to life.
He’d thought about them more and more since meeting Luciana, and
had to rely on guesswork as to how they might look now. He wondered
whom they’d taken after genetically, and if it was just James who’d
inherited his father’s smile. How did their laughter sound? What were their
personalities like? He felt a little downhearted knowing his own would’ve
had little bearing on theirs. No matter what they’d taken from him
biologically, she’d shaped them, not him.
He imagined what might happen if they were to meet under other
circumstances. Would they like him? Ideally they’d get to know him first as
an old family friend, and decide he was a decent fellow. Then, when the
truth finally came out about who he was, it would be harder for them to
burn bridges with someone they liked.
While he daydreamed, Catherine stewed on his recollections of sleazy
liaisons with whores and pretty young things.
‘So you ran away because I couldn’t satisfy you in bed? Or did you
just want to sleep with girls half your age?’ she asked indignantly. ‘You
sound like a pervert.’
‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Well, you’ll forgive me for saying so, but all I’ve heard so far is that
your wife was a lousy lover and your morals were no better than a dirty old
man’s. And while I was coming to terms with your death, you were burning
down hotels and screwing your way around America!’
Heard from someone else’s perspective, he conceded that’s exactly
how it sounded, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth. He bit his
lip, frustrated both by his tactlessness and by her, for being too focused on
the finer details to understand the big picture. He needed to regain control
of the situation, but it was proving hard to wrestle from her grip.
‘At any point are you going to ask about your children, or how they
managed without you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘How are they?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
One–nil, she marked on an imaginary scoreboard.
 ‘Don’t be childish,’ he snapped. It was the first time he’d grown
impatient with her.
‘Don’t you dare call me childish.’ Her voice deepened. ‘Don’t you
dare.’
‘I’m sorry, that was wrong of me.’ He began to feel a dull ache in his
head. He knew what it meant.
For the first time since the ghost appeared, she felt she had the upper
hand. Now he wanted something from her, and she could either pretend her
kids’ lives without him had been a bed of roses, or twist the knife by telling
him the truth.
‘For the record,’ she answered finally, ‘I have raised three wonderful,
loving children. And none of it has been thanks to you.’
It was only then that she noticed he’d been holding his breath, waiting
for confirmation they were all well. She felt her eyes narrow when he let
out a barely audible, but relieved sigh. She remembered they had a father
too. It had been a long time since she’d thought of him as that.
So she made a snap decision to explain their ups and not to exploit
their downs. And she’d make sure he understood that, in retrospect, she
wouldn’t have changed a minute of their lives without him for anything.
 CHAPTER NINE
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-four years earlier

15 April

It was my own stupid fault for not thinking it through properly. It didn’t
happen straight away, but cracks gradually appeared in the kids after I
admitted I no longer thought Simon was alive.
Despite the birthday card they’d made me with just the four of us
drawn on it, they’d quietly held on to the hope he could still be found. Then
I’d opened my big mouth. They didn’t know how to express their grief
other than to be angry with someone. And as he wasn’t around, I took the
brunt of it.
Becoming a single mum was made all the harder having known what
it was like to have shared the responsibilities. Now I was forced to make
decisions on my own. I was good cop and bad cop; nurturer and provider;
friend, parent and enemy. I permanently sat under a cloud of guilt – guilt
over how I used to drink; for telling them off when they were naughty; for
neglecting them when I worked; for letting their daddy vanish . . . for
everything.
Of course, they were too young to recognise my limits, what buttons
not to push, so reacted to not getting their own way by erupting like small
volcanoes, which in turn released my changing emotions towards Simon. I
was grateful he was never far from their thoughts, but I also longed for the
time when he’d gradually fade from their memories. It was selfish, I knew,
but it would make my life much easier.
 James rebelled by upsetting others. I was called to his school several
times by his headmistress because of his temper. Eventually she had no
choice but to suspend him for a week after a fight that left another boy
missing a tooth. I tried spending that time rationalising, sympathising and
punishing him, and I thought I was getting through to him. Then Roger
brought him home one night in a police car after he was seen throwing
stones at cars parked outside the church. I was back to square one.
James was furious at his dad for leaving him, and I was at my wits’
end. He lost interest in playing with the friends he hadn’t walloped, so he
took his animosity out on his battle-weary toy soldiers and Ninja Turtles,
staging bloody battles to the death. He even stopped reading the Hardy
Boys books Simon had bought him, or watching fat men in colourful
leotards wrestle on Saturday afternoon TV.
He only seemed to find a kind of peace when he was playing his
records. He spent all his pocket money on CD singles, which gave me an
idea. I dragged the old acoustic guitar Simon had given him for his fifth
birthday from where James had shoved it under his bed. I dusted it down,
paid to get it restrung and handed it to him for a predictably underwhelmed
reaction.
‘I’ve also bought you these,’ I added, passing him a Teach Yourself
Guitar book, along with some sheet music from his new favourite group,
U2.
‘Do you think they got where they are by just bloodying their knuckles
and getting kicked out of school?’ I asked, quietly assuming that’s where
and how all rock stars indeed got their first taste of anarchy.
He shrugged.
‘Well, they didn’t. They worked at their music until they could say
what they wanted with it. If you want to be like them, you can start by
learning how to play this. If you enjoy it and practise every day, I’ll pay for
proper lessons for you. And one day, you might even make a record of your
own.’
Of course, I was sure he wouldn’t, but a little white lie wouldn’t do
him any harm. A tiny, curious glint appeared in his eyes, but he tried to hide
it. And when he thought I wasn’t listening, he began learning chords behind
his closed bedroom door.
Over the weeks his enthusiasm came loaded with its own problems,
namely the repetition of hearing ‘Mysterious Ways’ – strummed dreadfully
– again and again until the cows came home. But if it kept his mind busy
and his fists occupied, my sanity was a small price to pay.
But poor Robbie was a different kettle of fish altogether.

1 May

Convincing James he could become the next Bono was a doddle in

comparison to coaxing Robbie out of himself. I’d underestimated how deep
his problems lay.
As he grew from baby to toddler to little boy, I’d accepted he wasn’t
like his brother or our friends’ children. He was a sensitive, insular child
who carried the weight of the world on his young shoulders at a time when
it should have been carrying him. He could make a minor problem ten times
worse by dwelling on it rather than sharing it with me.
And while James and Emily were adapting to a new set of rules,
Robbie retreated further into himself. I needed one of those small forks you
get with a plate of escargots in a French restaurant to pull him out from his
shell.
His teachers said he behaved well. He was intelligent for his age and
his spelling and maths were way above his six years. But he had no interest
in showing how bright he was in front of his class. Socially, he was
becoming reclusive.
Robbie seemed to enjoy his siblings’ company – he just didn’t need it.
They hit brick walls when they begged him to join in with conversations or
to play. And, gradually, he used words less and less, until one day, he fell
completely silent.
In her usual matter-of-fact way, Paula tried to convince me he was
merely looking for attention, while Baishali was more sensitive to my
concerns. And after a week of constant quiet, I was out of my mind with
worry. So began a series of doctor’s and child psychologist’s appointments,
until eventually we found ourselves sitting in a room with a specialist in
mental welfare.
‘He’s not stupid,’ I told Dr Phillips defensively, following a barrage of
questions and profile tests. I held Robbie’s hand tightly, scared of the
assessment she was going to make about my son.
‘I know that, Mrs Nicholson,’ she said, smiling reassuringly. ‘The
purpose of this meeting is to ascertain what the problem might be and not to
judge Robbie.’
‘What do you think is wrong?’
‘I believe he has what’s called selective mutism. It means that he can
talk if he wants to, but he’s chosen not to.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I said, frowning. ‘You’re saying he just
doesn’t want to speak to me anymore?’
‘Not just to you, but to anyone. It’s rare, but it happens. Children,
particularly ones sensitive to a change in environment or a family unit like
he’s had, can feel they have little control over their lives. The one thing they
can control, however, is how they react to those situations. And Robbie’s
reacted to his by electing not to speak.’
‘So it’s just a phase he’s going through?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. I’ve seen cases like Robbie’s last for years.
Others remain for a few weeks and then they’re back to normal. There is no
way of determining it.’
I turned anxiously towards Robbie, who listened intently but didn’t let
out a peep.
‘Robbie, please say something. Tell Dr Phillips she’s wrong.’
He looked at me and began to open his mouth, considered it, then
closed it again. His eyes fell to the floor.
Billy, my breakdown, and then his father’s disappearance had clearly
had a knock-on effect I should’ve predicted. The world was too huge and
scary for my little boy, and he was afraid for anyone to hear his voice.
‘I suggest you go home and carry on as normal,’ added Dr Phillips.
‘There’s an excellent therapist I can recommend – and, Mrs Nicholson, I’ve
yet to see a case continue indefinitely. Just try not to worry and be patient.’
It was easy for her to say.

30 May

Making Robbie feel even more self-conscious wasn’t going to help him. So
while we didn’t pretend something in him hadn’t changed, we didn’t place
him under any pressure either.
I learned never to underestimate the tenderness of children. His
brother and sister might not have understood his reasons, but they accepted
them and treated him like they always did. His teacher even stopped asking
him questions in front of the class so she wouldn’t embarrass him.
 But Robbie’s alienation meant he spent his playtimes alone. I dropped
him off one morning and hovered outside the school gates, watching the
other kids play with Transformer toys and hopscotch across chalk squares.
My chest tightened at Robbie, sitting in a corner, alone. I wanted to
run over, scoop him up in my arms, stroke his thick blond hair, and carry
him home where I could make everything all right. But I knew that wasn’t
possible. I had to let him work through it in his own way. I was to blame for
this, not him.

4 June

Within a year of Simon’s disappearance, Emily had spent almost a quarter

of her life without her daddy. He’d helped create a beautiful ball of energy,
but hadn’t been lucky enough to watch her grow into an astonishing little
girl. And without getting to know her dad, she’d missed out on a wonderful
role model. It made me sad.
She’d inherited Simon’s compassion for animals. Abandoned baby
starlings, snails with broken shells, worms with half a body, and a jar of
tadpoles she once told me ‘missed their daddy frog’ had all lain on our
kitchen table at one time or another.
By the time the first anniversary of her daddy’s disappearance arrived,
our family was very much intact. We’d been scared, lonely, battered,
abandoned, confused, silenced, angered and still had our bruises. But we
were not beaten.
My work was earning me a healthy, regular wage, the bills and the
mortgage were paid on time and I’d learned to keep my emotions in check
each time I thought of Simon. I realised I wanted him more than I needed
him.
The baby steps we’d taken meant we were finally ready to say
goodbye to him. We each dressed in our smartest clothes and walked hand
in hand from the house to the bridge over the stream, a year to the day after
he vanished. Oscar lagged behind, determined to catch one of the wild
rabbits that always outsmarted him. There had been times when I’d
wondered what it would feel like to wade into the water and be taken away
in the current. But that was all behind me.
‘I want to say that I miss you very much, Daddy, and thank you for my
guitar,’ began James as we sat. Then he tore the words of a song he’d
written about his father from an exercise book, dropped the page between
the wooden railings and let it float away.
All Robbie could muster up was a smile as he placed a drawing of
Simon on a cloud sitting next to an angel into the stream. Emily, excited by
our trip but unable to grasp its significance, sang ‘Happy Birthday to You’
instead, unsure of why the rest of her family was giggling. I gave her a hug.
I’d had a print made of the last photograph we’d ever had taken of us
together, at Easter, and let it drift below.
‘Thank you, Simon, for the wonderful years we had together and for
the family we made. I’ll love you forever.’
We sat on the bridge until well beyond teatime, reliving memories and
anecdotes, from how he and I had met, to the best game of football he’d
ever taken the boys to watch.
A year that had begun so miserably and so painfully had closed with
warmth and with love.

SIMON
Georgia, USA, twenty-four years earlier

19 April

I felt like the luckiest man alive as my American reincarnation continued.

Hotels and motels were comfortable and offered practical amenities,
but they were characterless, lonely places. I appreciated my own company,
but being around like-minded others made the adventure that much more
exciting. So hostels became my first choice for off-road respite.
I’d scan the noticeboards where travellers asked for lifts to one place
or another. Most days, Betty was packed with new faces as we dipped in
and out of the East Coast, passing through Indianapolis, Memphis, Atlanta
and Savannah.
 These micro-relationships were, by their very nature, only ever going
to offer me short-term satisfaction. Because maps, wanderlust and free will
meant sooner or later we’d each begin our separate journeys, destined never
to meet again.
And from time to time, it made me think about those I’d left behind.
Because of my lifestyle, I would never find anyone to replace them all, but I
was beginning to wonder if, one day, I might want to.
For years Catherine had been the only constant in my life. We became
inseparable the day our English teacher partnered us to study Macbeth. It
was her brown curly hair and apple-cheeked smile that drew my eye. She
wasn’t like her peers – she made no attempt to make herself look older by
hitching up her hemline or undoing an extra button on her shirt. Her lips
lacked artificial colour and she didn’t frame her eyes with mascara. Her
clothes were fashionable and fitted but garnished with her own twists, like a
rogue ribbon or belt. I liked that she was different because so was I.
My love wasn’t powerful enough to make my mother want to stay, so I
was constantly amazed Catherine chose to remain by my side.
Many things tied us together, but I was especially struck by the way
our home lives mirrored each other’s. Doreen destroyed my family, and
Catherine’s was slowly disintegrating all by itself but without such drama.
However, she never allowed her great sadness to define her. Somehow, she
steered clear of the dark place where I dwelled.
And she seemed to know that she’d get everything she wanted from
life in the end if she just believed. She inspired me to do the same – but,
looking back, I wondered if she’d only wanted to fix me, and once I was
repaired she lost interest. Because in the end, she turned out to be the same
as everyone else who tried to break me.
But back then her strength and spirit had been infectious, and just
being around her made me feel I could conquer the world.
And I did – only without her.

Miami, USA

4 June

I’d ordered my second bottle of beer from the server when a newspaper on
the next table caught my eye.
 I’d spent much of the morning tranquilised under the aquamarine sky
of the beach in Miami’s Bal Harbour. Dana and Angie, two mischievous
Canadian girls I’d met over a hotel breakfast, had kept me company. We’d
just finished a lunchtime picnic they’d assembled at the beach. But when
the still-soaring, ninety-degree sun started burning my shoulders, I swapped
the sand for a shady café.
I’d avoided newspapers for much of my journey, preferring to remain
oblivious to events outside my own bubble. But the date on the Miami
Herald felt familiar. Then it struck me – I was now one year old. Exactly
twelve months ago, I’d left my house and the people in it and was en route
to a tatty old caravan park. If I’d known then just how magnificent life
could be, I think I’d have left much sooner.
I put the newspaper down and stared at the endless ocean. My year
alone had felt like a lifetime, but in a positive way. I wondered if Catherine
was now feeling the same.
I recalled how, when we were just shy of twenty-three, I’d taken her to
the local art-house cinema for a matinee performance of Breakfast at
Tiffany’s. We were almost a decade into our relationship, but still gravitated
towards the back row like love-struck teenagers. I was in my last year at
university and living with Arthur and Shirley. So until we bought the
cottage together, our romance was restricted to stolen moments where and
when we could find them.
‘Do you think we’ll get married one day?’ I asked the top of her head
as it rested on my shoulder.
‘Of course,’ she replied without hesitation, clearly surprised I’d even
questioned it. She pulled another toffee from the paper bag and popped it
into her mouth.
‘When did you have in mind?’ I continued, trying to mirror her breezy
mood.
‘Whenever you like. I’ve been waiting for ten years, but if I have to
wait another ten I might run off with Dougie instead.’ I don’t think that’s
going to happen anytime soon, I thought.
‘Okay, Kitty – will you marry me?’
‘Yep,’ she replied, without taking her eyes off Audrey Hepburn. Her
cool facade was only belied by a squeeze of my arm.
That weekend we caught a train to London, still a place haunted by
memories of my mother and biological father Kenneth, and returned with a
modest gold band and tiny centred diamond that only the Hubble Telescope
could locate. I was grateful I’d found a girl who didn’t need material things
to feel self-worth.
Later that evening, I held Catherine’s hand tightly in the living room,
where my father and Shirley were eating their Saturday night salad in front
of The Generation Game.
‘We’ve got something to tell you,’ I announced. ‘We’re getting
married.’
Our joy was greeted with silence. I hadn’t expected streamers and
balloons to fall from the ceiling – a simple ‘congratulations’ would’ve
sufficed. Instead, they looked at each other, then us, and then back towards
the show’s presenter.
‘I’m going to head home, Simon. Come round later,’ Catherine
suggested, sensing a shift in temperature. She pecked me on the cheek and
left. I waited until the front door closed before I spoke.
‘What was that about?’ I began.
My father swallowed his food, placed his cutlery back on his tray and
folded his arms.
‘Simon, you’re too young for marriage.’
‘I’m twenty-two. You were only a couple of years older than me when
you met Doreen.’
‘Precisely. Catherine’s a lovely girl, but she’s not worldly-wise enough
to settle down. The girls of today . . . they’re different to my day. They’re
more spirited, they expect more from life. Sooner or later she’ll realise she
wants more than you and then it’ll be too late. I promise you, she will break
your heart.’
I swallowed hard.
‘She isn’t Doreen,’ I said. ‘Just because you drove my mother away
doesn’t mean I’ll do the same.’
Both were too flabbergasted to respond, but I hadn’t finished.
‘I love Kitty, and I always will. There’s nothing that could happen to
make either of us leave each other. Ever.’
I stormed out of the house still fuming and caught up with Catherine.
If only I’d paused to listen to them instead of my heart before we walked
down the aisle.
‘Darren, are you coming for a swim?’ Dana’s voice came from behind,
bringing me back to the present.
 ‘Let me finish this and I’ll be with you.’
I liked answering to a different name. I swigged the final mouthful of
lukewarm beer and cast a panoramic sweep of my surroundings.
‘Did you know it’s my birthday today?’
‘No way, dude!’ squealed Angie. ‘Guess what? We’ve got the best
way to celebrate!’
Thirty minutes later and the three of us were in my hotel bedroom,
snorting the first of many lines of a bitter white powder that allowed me to
make love to them until late afternoon.
If my second year was to be as rewarding as the first, I was going to
be a very lucky man.

Northampton, today

2.05 p.m.

She wasn’t sure what bewildered her the most about him – his seeming lack
of regret for any of his actions, or his complete insensitivity.
First had come his disgusting admission that he’d wiped them all from
his memory. Then came the all-too-detailed account of his life of Riley on
his extended holiday. And now he’d desecrated the memory of the
anniversary of his disappearance – such a pivotal moment in her family’s
lives – by celebrating it with drugs and two tarts.
Drugs, at his age? He was a bloody idiot. And he’d hurt her once
again by admitting he wished he’d listened to his know-it-all father and
never married her. She detested him for making her feel like a mistake.
What she hadn’t noticed was that he’d found it equally as hard
listening to her. He appreciated that she’d explained how the children had
grappled with his absence – he wouldn’t have blamed her for keeping him
in the dark. But they hadn’t been on the straightforward journey of
acceptance and healing he’d imagined for them. Naively, he’d presumed
that, because their minds were young and malleable, they’d have muddled
along and eventually forgotten about him. He hadn’t envisaged how
necessary he’d been. The mental picture of a faceless son isolating himself
from those who loved him was a sobering thought.
While he’d suspected Robbie might prove to be a little different from
the others, his lack of understanding of just how fragile the boy had been
placed knots in his stomach.
And they wouldn’t be the last.
 CHAPTER TEN
SIMON

Key West, USA, twenty-three years earlier

1 February, 6.15 p.m.

Five miles square. Twenty-five thousand people. Fifty hotels. Twenty

guesthouses. Three hostels. Four thousand five hundred miles from home.
The odds against it were almost too high to calculate. Yet fate still
managed to marry my new life with my old in the shape of two familiar
faces.
Key West’s location at the southernmost tip of America made it an
attractive destination for fishermen and scuba divers. Having acquired my
basic diving skills from Bradley in France, I had promised myself that, if
the opportunity arose, I’d explore the oceans where and when I could.
I’d been pushing myself further and further offshore throughout the
week with a party of other semi-novice divers. The crystal clarity of the
water by the outer bar and the rainbow of coral colours had been
intoxicating. I swam after curtains of reef fish, envious of the surroundings
they took for granted.
I pencilled in my first wreck dive for the coming weekend, to explore
the remains of the Benwood – a three-hundred-and-sixty-foot former
freighter sunk off the coast of Key Largo. But after my fifth consecutive
day of diving, my muscles were strained and I welcomed a night alone at an
oceanside bar and diner.
As I’d spent so much time in the company of fish, it seemed heartless
to then feast on them. So I ordered a Caesar salad from the bar, sat at a
brightly lit table outside, and sparked up a cigarette as I readied myself to
enjoy watching the sun sink over boats bobbing along the horizon.
A couple walking hand in hand on the opposite side of the road caught
my eye when they stopped and kissed outside a hotel. At first they offered
nothing extraordinary or significant, but even from a distance there seemed
something familiar in their body language. I wondered if we’d crossed
paths at a hostel somewhere. However, when the headlights of a passing car
illuminated their faces, my heart stopped.
There stood Roger and Paula.
I stared, drop-jawed, as Roger took a camera from around his neck and
headed up the steps and into the hotel. Paula remained on the path, fiddling
with an earring.
Idly taking in her surroundings before I had a chance to react, her gaze
swept over me and continued on. But when she did a double take and our
eyes met, I knew the game was up.

CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-three years earlier

1 February

They had remained on the porch floor gathering dust for so long, they’d
become a part of the furniture. I used to give Simon’s running shoes a quick
glance each time I passed them, longing to see him fill them again. But I’d
grown to accept they were always going to stay empty.
Moving them was like reaching the final page of a book I wasn’t ready
to put down. But fighting my way through small challenges one at a time
meant the giant ones were less daunting. I picked them up and placed them
with my wellies under the saucepan shelf in the pantry.
Later that day, they’d reappeared in the porch. I moved them again,
but by morning they’d returned. I told myself I was being a silly cow when
I imagined my husband’s ghost had put them back where it thought they
belonged.
I guessed Robbie was the real culprit. His speech therapist was very
slowly encouraging him to find his voice and confidence again, so I didn’t
want to confront him and risk making him feel like he was doing something
wrong. But, just to be sure, I moved them once more. A couple of days
later, I was sitting quietly in the kitchen unpicking the stitching on a jacket
pocket. I heard the patter of Oscar’s paws making their way through the
house and watched, without him noticing me, as he picked up the first shoe
by its laces and carefully walked away with it. Then he returned and took
the second one.
I followed him and watched as he placed them by the front door in
exactly the same position as they’d sat for close to two years. He was
startled when he saw me, then regained his composure and wandered off.
I’d taken into account everyone’s feelings in the house except those of
Simon’s faithful friend.
So I didn’t try to move them again, until he left us too.

SIMON
Key West, USA, twenty-three years earlier

1 February, 6.20 p.m.

The speed at which I turned my head forced a burning, shooting pain up my

neck and into the back of my skull.
But there was no time to acknowledge it or to readjust my posture. I
focused on her reflection in the smoky glass of the restaurant window
instead, and prayed I’d gone unnoticed. But she remained there, squinting at
a memory.
Surely Roger couldn’t have tracked me down in Florida? I never knew
which direction I was going to choose until I reached a crossroads. So it
would take a crystal ball for anyone else to predict where to find me from
one week to the next. Besides, Simon had left no trail. I was Darren
Glasper.
So it must have been coincidence that had brought us to exactly the
same place, on exactly the same street at exactly the same time. Fate was an
unpredictable bastard.
I prayed Paula would quickly come to the conclusion her eyes had
deceived her. I continued watching her reflection as, behind me, she shook
her head, believing, like me, it was too far-fetched to be true. Indecision
made her hover from foot to foot like she needed someone to confirm she
was being ridiculous. But there was no one to help.
I began to relax slightly when she twisted her body towards the hotel
steps Roger had walked up moments earlier. Then she hesitated, turned
back around, and repeated her movements like she was being rewound and
fast-forwarded with a remote control.
My heart palpitated, and I hoped she’d run inside to find Roger and
give me the opportunity to escape. But she didn’t. Instead, she edged
towards the curb for closer inspection.
Self-preservation set in and, without rotating my head, I threw my
blazing cigarette onto the pavement, stood up and began to walk away. I
hungered to look over my shoulder to make sure I was alone, but I was
terrified of what I might find. I picked up my pace.
‘Simon! ’
The sound of her voice cut me like glass. My chest became inflamed
and I felt the urgent need to empty my bowels. My breath was short and my
legs threatened to flop beneath me. All I could do was ignore her and
continue.
‘Simon!’
It came again, but with more authority.
The proximity of her voice told me she’d gained ground but was still
on the opposite side of the road. Just give up, I screamed inside, and
accelerated my pace to a near-run. But Paula must have jogged to keep up
with me. I’d forgotten how annoyingly determined she could be when she
wanted something. She was like a dog with a bone. Much of the time I’d
only tolerated her because she was Catherine’s best friend and Roger’s
girlfriend. I much preferred Baishali, a passive soul who didn’t like to rock
the boat. Why couldn’t it have been her who’d seen me?
 My frustration became impossible to suppress, so I went against my
better judgement and turned to see her struggling to find a break between
moving cars to cross. I used it to my advantage and ran, the prey desperate
to avoid the hunter.
‘It’s you, isn’t it!’ she shouted above the noise of the vehicles. Red
traffic lights gave her the opportunity she needed and she flew across the
road with the speed of a tornado.
‘Stop running, you coward!’ she shrieked. ‘I know it’s you!’
My body already ached from my ocean dives and my increased
anxiety. My daily cigarette intake left me breathless. Short of a miracle, I
knew I would have to face the inevitable. So I stopped.
Within seconds, her fingers dug into my shoulder and she spun me
around. Even though she’d been so confident it was me, disbelief in the
actual confirmation spread across her face. We glared at each other in
silence before she unleashed her fury.
‘You selfish fucking idiot! How could you do that to them?’ she
shouted, jabbing me in the chest.
I remained poker-faced and silent.
‘Your family has gone through hell without you,’ she continued. ‘Do
you know that?’
I didn’t want to know.
‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’
Nothing, actually.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she yelled, growing increasingly frustrated
by my blank expression.
Everything had been very much right with me until a few minutes
earlier.
She slapped me across the cheek. It smarted. She slapped me again. It
became numb. Another slap. I felt nothing.
‘Jesus Christ, Simon. Do you have any idea what you’ve put everyone
through?’
I wasn’t interested.
‘Say something, you coward! You owe me an explanation!’
I didn’t. In fact, I felt no urge to justify myself or my actions to Paula,
or to anyone else for that matter. I owed the world nothing and it pissed me
off that she was arrogant enough to assume I did.
‘Well? Are you just going to stand there?’
 No, I wasn’t.
Using all the strength I could muster, with the force of everything that
drove me forwards, I clamped both my hands around her cheeks, forced her
backwards off the curb and then pushed her into the road and into the path
of oncoming traffic.
She didn’t even have time to scream.
Neither the crunching of her bones under the van’s wheels nor the
screeching of its brakes persuaded me to stop walking and to turn around.

Northampton, today

2.40 p.m.

Catherine remained motionless as she processed the horror of his

confession. Her husband was a killer.
She didn’t want to believe it, because what he’d just admitted made no
sense at all. She had never met anyone who had murdered another human
being. Certainly not someone who she’d allowed into her home. And not
one she had loved. She had no idea how to respond.
What seemed to him like an age passed by, while neither of them
spoke. He focused his eyes on the rug; hers burrowed right through him. He
didn’t think it fitting to interrupt.
‘You . . . you killed Paula?’ she stuttered slowly.
‘Yes, Catherine, I did,’ came his reply, reticent but showing little
remorse.
‘She was pregnant,’ she said quietly.
He inhaled deeply. ‘I did not know that.’
The colour drained from her face and she felt sick. Actually, she more
than just felt sick: she knew she was going to vomit. She leaped up from her
chair and winced as her weight took her weak ankle by surprise. She
faltered upstairs to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t
have time to lift the toilet seat before the first wave struck and she made a
mess on the floor. But the second time, she was prepared and it reached the
pan.
 He remained downstairs, saddened to hear two lives had been lost that
day, and not just one like he’d assumed. But he had done what was
necessary at the time.
He stood up, paced around the room and heard her retching upstairs.
He’d always known that if he was going to be completely honest with her –
and that was, after all, why he was here – it was going to be unpleasant.
And it was going to get worse. Much, much worse. Because Paula wasn’t
the first person he’d killed, and she hadn’t been the last. But Catherine
didn’t need to know that yet.
Upstairs, her sickness eventually passed, but she remained on the
floor, her arm still clutching the cistern, her back square against the radiator.
Suddenly she became frightened of the monster below, now he’d
revealed what he was capable of. Her body swivelled around and she
stretched her arm to turn the lock on the handle. The doors were old and
heavy but not impossible to break. A few kicks were all it might take.
She asked herself how someone she’d known so deeply – built a life
and family with – could’ve hurt a beautiful soul like Paula. Although it had
been a while since she’d thought about her old friend, she remembered the
horror of first hearing she’d been knocked down and killed in a random,
apparently utterly senseless attack abroad. Despite a lengthy investigation,
no one had ever been arrested or charged.
She’d been devastated, of course. Just before Paula and Roger had left
for their holiday, Paula had confided in her, like best friends do, that she
was pregnant. Catherine was over the moon for her and bashed out three
Babygros and a jumpsuit to give her when they got back. She cried into
them when Paula’s mother told her the news.
She recalled the day of the funeral, when the whole village turned out
without exception to pay their last respects. Then, afterwards, she spent
much time consoling Roger, who blamed himself for leaving Paula alone
for those few crucial, fatal minutes. He’d never discovered where she’d
been going when she was murdered.
Without warning, the door handle turned and she jumped.
‘Leave me alone!’ she croaked, her throat acidic and sore. But he had
no intention of leaving yet.
‘Catherine,’ he said calmly. ‘Please come out.’
‘Why are you telling me all this? Are you going to kill me next? Is
that why you’ve come back?’
 He might have laughed under different circumstances. ‘No, of course
not.’
‘How can I be sure? I have no idea who you are. You’re a stranger.’
‘As are you, but we all change, Catherine. All of us change.’
‘But we don’t all change into murderers and kill our friends!’
He couldn’t disagree. ‘Come back downstairs and let’s talk.’
‘About what? There’s nothing you can say that can justify what you
did.’
‘And I’m not going to try to. What’s done is done and I won’t take
anything back. I’ve come a long way to see you, Catherine. Please.’
She paused and heard him walk slowly down the stairs. She took a few
deep breaths and then splashed cold water across her face. She patted
herself dry with a hand towel and was surprised by her reflection in the
mirror. An old woman stared at her. In the time he’d been in her house,
she’d been thirty-three again. Now she was every inch her fifty-eight years.
She cleaned up the mess on the bathroom floor, then disregarded
common sense and unlocked the door. As she made her way to the landing,
she resolved that, if she was going to die at his hands, she was going to put
up a bloody good fight first.
 CHAPTER ELEVEN
SIMON

Colorado, USA, twenty-three years earlier

2 May

The faces of the others I’d killed hadn’t haunted me like Paula’s.
Again and again, I recalled the warmth of her soft cheeks and her hair
as it brushed against the back of my fingers. I remembered thinking how
surprisingly light she felt when I threw her body into the road.
I could still hear the bursting of her skin and bones as the van crushed
her. I still felt the adrenaline soaring through my blood as I ran back to my
hotel to grab my backpack and then vanished into the night.
But when my foot pressed hard on Betty’s accelerator and Key West
faded behind me, all I saw was my imaginary passenger Paula’s face in the
rear-view mirror.
Over the next three months, Tennessee, Kentucky, Missouri, Nebraska,
Kansas and Colorado all flashed past like a wheel of photos in a red plastic
View-Master. The majority of my time was spent on the road manipulating
fellow runaways into helping fill my hours – new groups of friends for the
days and women for the nights. And when female volunteers were sparse,
I’d seek out those who required payment by the hour.
Bony or Rubenesque, dark-chocolate complexions or as pale as death
– appearances never mattered when I knelt behind them as they balanced on
their hands and knees. And if they could provide the chemical stimulants
I’d grown to enjoy since my first time with the two girls in Miami, then
even better.
 I offered transportation to anyone who needed to be somewhere else,
even to a state hundreds of miles from the route I’d intended. I did anything
to avoid being ensnared by myself, because that’s when I dissected my
actions.
I didn’t doubt for a moment that killing Paula had been the right thing
to do. In fact, I was still galled by her for backing me into a corner. Paula
had had a choice; I hadn’t. By following me, she’d made the wrong one. I
had made the correct one.
I’d gone to great pains to keep my past and present separate. And
when she’d demanded reasons, I could predict the chain of events that
would’ve followed my allowing her to walk away. She’d have hurried back
to the hotel to inform Roger his departed friend was actually thriving under
the Floridian sun. Then, on their return to England, he’d have felt duty-
bound to tell Catherine that she’d been abandoned, not widowed. While I
was missing, there was doubt and an assumption of death. With
confirmation came certainty and I did not want to be thought of in either a
negative or positive light.
Paula had paid the price of interfering with what was meant to be. And
I was not responsible for that.

Utah, USA

20 July

I removed my belongings from my backpack and spread them out in a

semicircle across the saline terrain. I built two heaps – the ‘keep’ pile and
the ‘toss’ pile. The first contained essentials such as clothing, maps,
Darren’s passport, and money.
The second pile was for items I wouldn’t need or use again, such as
the telephone numbers of people I’d already forgotten. Souvenirs only
served to remind me of experiences I’d already had. It was what was to
come that interested me. And if I wanted to travel light, sentiment would
only weigh me down.
I placed a faded denim shirt between the piles, repacked my backpack
and stored it behind a nearby boulder. My discarded items were consigned
to Betty’s trunk. I cut through the denim shirtsleeve, then unscrewed the
petrol cap and carefully fed it inch by inch into the hole.
 Betty had been the perfect travelling companion for six thousand
miles, but her time had reached an end. Her rear axle throbbed over the
feeblest of bumps. She required a thirty-minute rest after every three hours
of travel, or steam would burst from her radiator like Old Faithful.
I chose the Bonneville Salt Flats as her final resting place. Its fifty
square miles of empty, horizontal earth was so flat and brilliantly white, it
was like God had run out of time when creating the world and thrown his
paint pots down in frustration. Betty could make her mark there.
I pulled a cigarette lighter from my jeans, and after several flicks of its
flint, the shirt’s cuff caught light. I stepped back and stared hard into her
windows, desperate to find the memories of those I’d been forced to
sacrifice, slowly cremating in the flames inside the car. But the only thing to
burn was my reflection.
I lit a cigarette, walked away from Betty and awaited a climactic
explosion. Instead of a giant fireball came a belly rumble. Flames slowly
lapped from under her doors and scorched her windows. One by one, her
tyres burst, then her windows popped and shattered.
‘You okay there, sir?’ a man shouted from inside his truck as he pulled
over to the side of the road. ‘What happened to your wagon?’
‘She overheated and caught fire.’
‘Shit, man. You’re lucky you got clear, I guess. Can I give you a ride?’
‘That would be great.’
‘Where to? The nearest town?’
‘Anywhere you’re headed, actually. There’s nothing to salvage here
and I can’t afford to pay to deal with it.’
The man considered Betty’s blazing remains, then looked me up and
down, as if asking what kind of person wasn’t more bothered that their only
mode of transport had just gone up in flames. Then he shrugged. ‘I’m
heading to Nevada. That okay?’
I accepted his offer, and as we drove off into the distance, I watched
through the wing mirror as my girl smouldered, then bid farewell by finally
exploding into the sky like a comet.
 CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-three years earlier

17 July

‘I’m retiring, Catherine,’ began Margaret. I nearly spat my tea across the
kitchen table.
‘Jim and I are moving to Spain,’ she continued, oblivious to my
dismay. ‘We’ve bought a nice little villa on the coast in Andalusia. I plan to
start scaling down next summer, and all being well, we should be there by
New Year.’
‘Oh,’ I replied. She might as well have slapped me across the face.
I’d thrown myself into making clothes for Fabien’s and had even
given up ironing for others so I’d have the time to plough through well over
a hundred outfits in a year and a half. It was also a therapeutic way of
keeping my mind off poor Paula. Baishali and I missed her so much. It was
almost too much to bear, and we took comfort in each other and tried our
best to help Paula’s parents cope with their loss.
Now, with Margaret’s news, all I saw was my future behind checkout
number seven at the supermarket again.
‘Do you have a buyer?’ I enquired, hoping my new boss would be just
as keen on my work.
‘That depends on you, darling,’ she replied, screwing a cigarette into a
plastic holder. ‘I’m giving you the first option to buy me out.’
I laughed out loud. Clearly the prospect of spending the rest of her life
under the Spanish sun, drunk on sangrias served by hunky waiters, had sent
her a little doolally.
‘You know I don’t have that kind of money!’ I answered. ‘Look
around you. Everything in this house is second- or third-hand, or broken
and held together with Blu-Tack. How on earth could I afford to buy your
shop?’
‘Oh, you should never let money get in the way of a good idea,’ she
tutted. ‘As far as I can see, you have three options – either get yourself a
bank loan, remortgage your house, or you and I can come to a financial
agreement until the balance is paid off.’
 ‘But I know nothing about business!’
‘You’re full of excuses, aren’t you? I didn’t have a bloody clue about
it either when I started, but did that stop me? Did it hell. So what’s stopping
you?’
‘Margaret, I’m not like you,’ I sighed, reminding her of the obvious.
‘You have the confidence to do anything you put your mind to – and the
money. I’ve got the kids and keeping a roof over our heads to worry about.
It’s impossible.’
She took a long drag from her cigarette and poured herself a third cup
of tea from the pot.
‘Do you remember when you told me about your mother, and what a
bitch she was to you?’
‘I didn’t call her a bitch,’ I interrupted, a little surprised.
‘Well, she was, so learn to live with it. You took everything negative
she ever threw at you and turned it into something positive. What did you
do after Billy? You picked yourself up and got on with life. And what about
when Simon disappeared? I bet you felt sorry for yourself, licked your
wounds then put your children first, didn’t you?’
I nodded.
‘See? You’re a survivor, darling. You always find a way, that’s what
you do. You’re a much stronger person than I am. An opportunity like this
doesn’t come knocking at your door every day, so I implore you to grab it
with both hands.’
I kept quiet for a moment and mulled over her suggestion. On the
surface, pole-vaulting across the Grand Canyon looked easier.
‘Be honest, do you really think I can do it?’
‘When have I ever been anything but honest with you, Catherine? If I
didn’t think you were capable, I’d have never put the offer on the table.
Now, what do you say?’

26 November

The months went by like a whirlwind.

Since Margaret had made her offer, it’d been all I could think about.
The old me would have dismissed it as a pretty ridiculous suggestion. But
times had changed, and so had I. Now I owed it to myself to at least think
about it.
 I’d calculated I had enough savings to pay the mortgage for five
months, and I could show my bank manager my accounts to prove I was
now loan-worthy. But that wouldn’t cover all of Margaret’s asking price.
And it wasn’t my only problem.
‘The college has a night school,’ she’d explained back in the summer,
pre-empting another excuse. ‘Two evenings a week in business,
bookkeeping and accounts.’
‘But what about my clothes? I won’t have time to make them and run
a shop.’
‘That’s what staff are for, dear. Ask some of the girls at the local
fashion college to help – they’ll bite your hand off for the experience. And
while Selena’s reluctant to accept my offer of employment, I’m sure she’d
be more than willing to step up for you.’
For every argument I had to oppose her, Margaret found reasons why I
could do it. And it lit a fire in my belly that I’d never felt before. I was like
Dorothy caught up in a cyclone; only no matter how many times I clicked
my ruby-red slippers, I was still in Oz. I had to give it a shot.
But in doing so, I needed to lead two separate lives. At home I’d have
to continue being Mum to my brood, while at the boutique I’d be a budding
businesswoman learning the ropes.
Over the following months, I followed Margaret to meetings in
London with designers and manufacturers, and she even paid for my flights
to Paris, Milan and Madrid for catwalk shows. It was a different world, one
that scared and fascinated me. It was like jumping into the pages of the
fashion magazines I read. And, if I’m honest, at times I didn’t think I
deserved to be in places like the third row of the runway as Thierry Mugler
launched his spring collection.
My mother’s voice told me I was a fraud and Margaret’s charity case.
So to spite her, I stuck with it to see how far I could go.
I doubted whether I’d have had the courage or confidence to do it if
Simon had still been alive. I’d got all the fulfilment I’d needed in being his
wife and the mother to his children. But I’d been a different woman two
years ago. With each new challenge, I discovered I had passions, ambitions
and a desire to be my own person.
And I was about to find something else I’d never expected to see
again.
Northampton, today

3.30 p.m.

She’d listened intently to every word he’d said, hanging on to a glimmer of

hope that he might show some regret over killing Paula. But when he
blamed Paula for her own death, it merely revealed the true character of the
man. In fact, he was no man, she thought.
He was a shade: a lifeless, colourless shade.
Try as she might, she couldn’t understand why he’d come back after
all this time to confess to something he knew would disgust her. He could
have taken his secret to the grave and she’d have been none the wiser. So
why did he want to hurt her? And surely only someone who realises he has
nothing to lose would so readily admit to such evil deeds? What had he
already lost that had made him so unafraid?
His mind was elsewhere. To hear how far she’d come bolstered his
belief that leaving had been the best thing for her. But for the children? He
was still undecided and his head hurt the more he thought about it.
‘Is that what you do when something stops being useful to you or gets
in your way?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Paula. The car you set fire to. The hotel you burned down. Me. The
children. If it becomes an inconvenience or interferes with your plans, you
destroy it.’
‘No, no,’ he replied, unsure how she’d failed to grasp the significance
of incinerating Betty or the hotel. He’d thought she’d understand they had
been selfless acts, and the closing of chapters. But it wasn’t an argument
worth pursuing. Maybe later she might realise it was just those who’d
sought to ruin him who’d fallen foul of his sourness.
‘If you’re not here to hurt me, then give me one good reason why I
shouldn’t call the police and tell them what you did to Paula?’
‘I don’t have one, and you have every right to. But if you’re going to
call them, at least wait until you’ve heard everything first.’
 ‘And when will that be?’ she asked, as the sick feeling in her stomach
made itself known again.
Soon, he thought. Soon.
 CHAPTER TWELVE
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-two years earlier

7 January

I can honestly admit, with my hand on my heart, that I hadn’t given another
man a second glance in the two and a half years Simon had been gone.
Sometimes I’d daydream about how it might feel to fall in love again,
but there’d never been a face attached to the strapping hunk who swept me
off my imaginary feet. Besides, falling in love scared me – it meant running
the risk of once again losing someone. I was terrified of feeling that all over
again. So I vowed to keep potential aggravation at arm’s length for the time
being.
Instead, I threw all my attention towards my dressmaking – and, more
urgently, trying to find the money to buy Fabien’s from Margaret. Steven
had done a wonderful job making a success of his and Simon’s business,
and he now employed a staff of five. I still owned Simon’s half, and when I
told Steven about Margaret’s offer, he thought I’d be mad to turn her down.
I suggested he could give me the extra capital I needed if he bought me out.
In theory, it was the perfect solution, but before I asked him, I had to
give it a lot of thought. Simon had invested so many hours in building it
from scratch that giving up his share was another way I’d be letting him go.
But I had to put myself first, and although I’d be waving goodbye to his
dreams, he’d be helping me to reach mine. So with Steven’s money and a
small bank loan, I was soon to have a business of my very own.
 But just when I had everything mapped out for the year ahead,
something – or more accurately someone – came along to throw a spanner
in the works.
Tom caught my eye the first night I began the bookkeeping course
Margaret had suggested. He was the only person who smiled when I walked
nervously through the classroom door. He was classically handsome, with
dark, wavy hair and greying temples, and his few laughter lines drew me to
his chestnut-brown eyes.
I was stacked from waist to chest with textbooks when Emily’s Barbie
pencil case toppled from the top to the floor. Tom’s hand shot out and
caught it, and he chuckled at the doll’s smiling, plastic face and impossibly
thin waistline. I blushed.
‘I don’t think you’ll be needing all of them tonight,’ he began as we
queued for a vending-machine coffee during the first lesson break.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘All your textbooks, they’re for the entire course,’ he said, pointing to
my desk. ‘Unless you’re planning to condense six months into one night?’
My nervous laugh came out like a pig’s snort and I died a little inside.
Tom introduced himself and explained how he was about to start his
own business in wood sculpture and furniture design. He’d recently quit a
successful career as a solicitor to follow his dreams – a brave decision for a
man in his late thirties. And, like me, he didn’t know the first thing about
accounts. Already we had something in common.
‘Are you busy later?’ he asked as we returned to our seats. ‘Do you
fancy a drink after school?’
‘Me?’ I asked, taken aback. ‘Oh, um, well, I’ve got to get home.’
‘How about the weekend then . . . Saturday night? Dinner? That’s if
you’re free. Or if you want to.’
‘I barely know you,’ I replied, sounding like an uptight virgin from a
Brontë sisters novel.
He grinned. ‘That’s what dinner’s for.’
I stared at him blankly. Then my mouth stepped in before my brain
had a chance to.
‘I’ve got three kids and my husband’s disappeared and he’s probably
dead but I can’t be sure because we haven’t seen him in years and I’ve not
been on a date since ABBA won Eurovision,’ I blurted out in a babbling
stream.
 He responded with a silent smile until he was sure the onslaught of
information had peaked.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from,’ I mumbled.
‘Well, I’m divorced with a money-grabbing ex-wife who’s sadly very
much alive and I’d love to go on a date with you.’ He smiled at me. ‘So
how’s about it?’

11 January

I wasn’t sure how I’d found myself in a Chinese restaurant sharing a

chicken chow mein with a single, drop-dead-gorgeous man.
Dating in my thirties was not such a different experience to dating as a
teenager. As a sixteen-year-old, I’d been embarrassed by my growing boobs
and pimply skin. As a thirty-six-year-old, I was embarrassed by my sagging
boobs and stretch-marked skin.
When I started putting my make-up on for my ‘date’ – a word that
seemed ridiculous for a woman of my age to use – I glared into that
unforgiving bathroom mirror. I remembered how naturally Simon and I had
fitted together, how from the start I didn’t want to be chatted up by anyone
else. Other boys had asked me out, but there’d been a vulnerability that
came with him that they didn’t have. And the Simon I remembered was
funny and spontaneous, able to make me laugh with his uncanny
impressions of teachers. He’d sketch beautifully detailed pictures of me and
hide them in my exercise books for me to find. He made me feel like I was
his all.
Now I asked myself what Tom thought he saw in me. I had more
baggage than an airport check-in, my once-sparkling blue eyes had been
dulled by circumstances beyond my control and my confidence with the
opposite sex was at rock bottom. Actually, it was lower than that. I was not
what you’d call ‘a catch’.
Twice I almost phoned him to cancel, blaming a sick child, before I
reminded myself dating was just another mountain waiting to be conquered.
In the end, I had nothing to worry about. Once the butterflies stopped
circling my stomach, I was drawn in by his sense of humour, his self-
confidence and honesty.
Tom recalled how his ex-wife had walked out on him to live with a
much younger man. He’d distracted himself from his divorce and high-
pressured job by wood carving and creating incredible sculptures and
furniture.
‘I don’t know if I can explain it properly without sounding like an
idealist or a hippy,’ he began, ‘but one day it was like I had an epiphany. I
realised that I was actually capable of doing anything I wanted to if I put
my heart and soul into it. And being creative with wood gives me more
fulfilment than the path I’d mapped out for myself in law. The other
lawyers in the firm thought I was mad when I resigned, but I had to give it
my best shot even if the odds were stacked against me. Do you understand
what I mean?’
I identified with every word he said. And, like me, Tom was new to
the dating scene.
‘I quickly learned that a man who’d quit being a lawyer to follow his
heart into the unknown isn’t as attractive to women as one who knows
where he belongs,’ he continued. ‘That’s what I like about you. You didn’t
look at me like I was barking mad.’
Likewise, I examined his reactions to my story when I went into more
detail than my blurted summary at our first meeting: one morning, my
husband simply fell off the face of the earth.
‘Do you think he’s still alive?’ Tom asked.
‘No, I don’t think he is,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been through every scenario
of what might have happened, but I don’t think I’ll ever really know. So the
kids and I have accepted we’ve lost him.’
‘And you’re ready to move on?’
‘Yes,’ I replied with certainty. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Good.’ He smiled, and reached out to hold my hand.

12 June

Tom knew without me ever having to explain that I was a repair in progress.
I took our relationship slowly and cautiously, with post-lesson drinks,
pub lunches, coffees and then finally a kiss. Although the front seat of his
car outside a DIY store wasn’t quite straight from the pages of a Jackie
Collins novel, it didn’t matter. He’d given my life a much-needed thrill.
And with that came guilt. Was I cheating on Simon’s memory? It was
all very well promising till death do us part, but there was no clause in our
wedding vows to cover an unexpected disappearance.
 I asked myself what he’d do if the roles were reversed, and I wasn’t
convinced he’d have moved on. But after all I’d been through, I felt I
deserved a spring in my step.
That said, I still made Tom wait nearly four months before I was ready
to make love. I’d become used to my body as a solitary vessel navigated by
a crew of one. And Tom was someone who wanted to steer her into fresh
waters. With each touch, each stroke and each kiss, I found it hard to
concentrate on pleasuring him or feeling him pleasuring me, as I was too
focused on stopping my body from involuntarily shaking. But when the
second time came around, I was much more relaxed, and by the third, I
couldn’t wait for more. And there was a lot more.
I still had inhibitions over what my body had to offer to Tom or any
man, so lights-on lovemaking was a strict no-no. The war wounds of five
pregnancies gave me as many hang-ups as hang-downs. But Tom didn’t
appear bothered. He was no Kevin Costner, but I didn’t need a six-pack,
tree-trunk thighs or the libido of an eighteen-year-old to satisfy me.
I enjoyed doing couply things like visiting the cinema and the theatre,
taking long walks by the canal with Oscar or visiting woodwork and textile
museums. We each took an interest in what the other liked, and slowly I
began to develop real feelings for Tom, so much more than just a crush on
the first boy who’d shown me a glimmer of attention.
The kids were the only part of my life I wasn’t ready to share. My
relationship with them was as honest as it could possibly be, so I didn’t
want to lie by keeping him hidden like a dirty little secret. But I didn’t want
to rock the boat either.
James’s temper no longer had me on tenterhooks, as he focused all his
energies on his guitar. I was so proud the first time I saw him on stage
playing in the school orchestra, and I embarrassed him by standing up and
cheering when he finished his first public solo. Robbie’s conversational
skills were also gradually improving. I’d resigned myself to the fact he was
never going to be a chatterbox like Emily. But when he started accepting
invitations to school friends’ birthday parties, I knew we’d turned a corner.
So I began by slipping Tom’s name into conversations here and there,
explaining he was a friend of Mummy’s from night school. As our dates
became more frequent, Emily was the first to cotton on that there might be
more to him than just the man who helped Mummy with her maths
homework.
 ‘Can we meet your friend, please?’ she asked as we fed stale bread to
the ducks in the park.
‘Which friend?’
‘The one who makes you smile. Tom.’
‘Why do you say he makes me smile?’ I asked, and felt my face go
bright red.
‘Whenever you tell us you’re seeing him, the corners of your mouth
go up like this,’ she replied, giving me a huge, cheeky grin. ‘You love him!’
‘Yes, Mummy, why can’t we meet him?’ chirped James.
So, to my delight and terror, the decision had been made for me.

9 July

I’d both looked forward to and dreaded Tom meeting the children in equal
measure. It’d just been the four of us for so long that I’d forgotten what it
felt like to be five.
The day before he came, I had a sit-down chat with the kids to explain
that Tom wasn’t going to replace their daddy, and if they didn’t like him,
they should tell me. I’d always put their feelings before mine, so if it meant
Tom and I were going to be prematurely nipped in the bud, then so be it.
By the time he knocked at the door, I was fully prepared for them to
charge through the full gamut of childhood emotions like tantrums,
awkward silences, hostility and general boundary-pushing. How wrong
could I have been? They were so inquisitive, well mannered and polite that
I thought I might have to reassure Tom I hadn’t kidnapped them from
Stepford. I also felt bad for not giving them more credit.
Tom was relaxed and had a natural chemistry with them, despite not
being a father himself. He paid each one equal attention, and they couldn’t
wait to show him their bedrooms and toys. Even Robbie spoke a little to
him – a huge sign of his approval.
As I stood at the kitchen sink washing up the dishes after dinner, I
closed my eyes and took a moment to listen to my children’s laughter and a
man’s voice echoing around the house.
I’d not expected to hear either of those things under this roof again.

24 November
Introducing another ball into my juggling act was tricky, but I found a way
to make it work.
I was winning in my battle with basic bookkeeping, and Margaret was
winding down and dreaming of sunnier climes. Tom knew he was going to
come third in line for my attention, after the kids and the boutique. And
although we weren’t able to see each other as often as we’d have liked, he
understood.
Twice a week he slept at our house, and once a week when Selena
babysat, I’d stay at his. Most evenings he joined us for dinner and would
end his day being pulled in three different directions by six hands for
bedtime stories and baths.
Tom had been in a rock group during his university days but his
attempts to seduce me away from my George Michael and Phil Collins CDs
and towards his Led Zeppelin collection were wasted. But James was more
than willing to soak up different sounds, so Tom took him to see bands I’d
never heard of at music arenas in Birmingham and London, and they’d
arrive home singing at the top of their voices and holding armfuls of tour
merchandise.
I let him move his tools and wood into Simon’s garage-workspace,
and soon the smell of fresh sawdust wafted regularly around the garden.
Tom was aware Simon was a presence that would remain in the
cottage for as long as his family did. But if it bothered him, he never
showed it. I grew used to having a man around the house, and he reminded
me of how much I’d enjoyed it with my husband.
And then, from beyond the grave, Simon destroyed it all.

SIMON
San Francisco, USA, twenty-two years earlier

7 January
With Betty transmuted to a smelted shell wedged into the desert floor, I had
been relying on railways and Greyhound coaches to ferry me around.
They carried me up to Canada, then back down into America and
towards middle states like Colorado and Nevada. My surroundings were
unimportant, as long as I kept active. Solitude posed the greatest threat to
my state of mind because it allowed me time to think.
On my arrival in France, I’d had a firm understanding of how my
thought process operated and I’d manipulated it accordingly. If I didn’t
want to think about something, it was consigned to a box and then closed
tight. But I couldn’t shut Paula away with such ease. And her death began
to eat at me like a slowly growing cancer. No matter how hard I tried, I
couldn’t make the lid fit. Flashbacks of her last, fateful moments haunted
me so often that I began to question whether I’d dealt with our
confrontation correctly. Because if I had, then why was she playing so
heavy on my mind? Why could I not stop hearing her voice as it screamed
my name? Why did my cheek still sting from her slaps? Why couldn’t I
blank out the confusion in her eyes when I’d pushed her?
I reminded myself countless times it was Paula who’d forced my hand,
and not the other way round. But it wasn’t enough.
Every town and city housed an area of dodgy repute, making narcotics
easy to source once you spotted the familiar signs of decay in its residents.
Cocaine became the only thing that kept my thoughts of Paula sedated.
I still enjoyed cannabis, but only as my night-time buttress. I’d smoke
a few joints and delay retiring to bed for as long as possible, so the moment
I slipped into my sleeping bag I was too exhausted and relaxed to analyse
anything.
I constantly kept moving, and crammed as many activities as I could
into my weeks. I’d visit notable landmarks, seek adrenaline thrills like
white-water rafting and rock climbing, or spend time with other travellers
discussing the next place to visit. The more unmarked paths I explored, the
less opportunity there was to revisit those I knew too well.
The prospect of being more than a few days in one location and
risking further muddling scared me. But I couldn’t spend the rest of my life
running. Eventually, something had to give.
Two years in perpetual motion had left my bones begging for rest and
my mind longing for unclouded breathing space. And so, on the
recommendation of others, I settled on San Francisco as a bolthole.
 I stood at the summit of one of the city’s twin peaks on my arrival, and
understood why so many out-of-towners had left their hearts there. Its
magnificent panoramic views, adorable Victorian-style houses and misty
skies were as beguiling as they were calming.
I stayed at the Haight-Ashbury Hostel, which nestled quietly in the
centre of what, twenty-five years earlier, had been the heart of the hippy
insurgence. Many of the peace-and-love generation had remained, and
weren’t hard to spot by clothing alone.
San Francisco’s compact nature enabled me to work my way around it
by foot and cable car. It was a world away from the sprawling landscapes
I’d scoped from train and bus windows. And as my body slowed down,
gradually my brain followed suit.
There were plenty of parks, museums, galleries and coffee houses for
me to relax in and gawk at the absurd walking shoulder to shoulder with the
elegant. I was at home in a city of misfits.
The hostel’s vibe reflected its surroundings, reminding me of the
temporary safety I’d found at the Routard International. Like its
predecessor, it too was a former hotel that had seen better days.
However, the only restoration project I had a vested interest in was
me. Until someone made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

20 April

My exposure to dozens of hostels of varying standards qualified me to

advise Mike, the relatively inexperienced proprietor of the Haight-Ashbury
Hostel. I’d become an expert in the minimal requirements a budget traveller
expected, and he lent a willing ear to my suggestions. What began as a
casual proffering of opinions over a pitcher of Budweiser escalated to an
offer of employment as manager.
I had drifted towards the city to gather myself, and three and a half
months of self-medication in a fresh environment brought me closer to who
I’d been when I first embarked on my adventure.
And my old self appreciated a challenge. So a free rein to build a
business from scraps was too interesting an opportunity to reject. It would
also help my ever-active mind to remain focused with constructive ideas. I
hadn’t felt such purpose since I’d walked along Rue du Jean as flames from
a burning hotel nipped at my heels.
 I held court at twice-weekly travel workshops in which I’d advise
guests of off-the-beaten-track destinations, where to find work without a
green card and how to stretch their dollars. I liaised with hostels cross-
country to set up discounts for mutual recommendations. And having
briefly once been the guest of a homeless shelter myself in London, I
encouraged our patrons to spare a few hours to serve lunches in a
downtown soup kitchen.
But away from my distractions, sleep still proved elusive. So when I
wasn’t inducing a nocturnal cannabis coma, I was leading guests out on bar
and club crawls around the Mission District. Darren Glasper was a decade
my junior, and I found it physically challenging to keep up with the
partying of those even younger than him. The only way to gain stamina for
those interminably energetic nights was to up my cocaine intake. And when
crippling hangovers ate too far into the following morning or my nostrils
felt too numb to snort any more, I introduced powdered amphetamines into
my daily routine via my gums, to remain conscious and functioning. It
seemed a sensible solution to the internal chaos of burning my candle at
both ends.
It was much more rewarding to be Darren’s caricature than it was to
be Simon Nicholson. I threw myself into the role with such gusto that I
often struggled to distinguish where he ended and I began.

3 July

My lips tingled as gusts of cold salty wind and water splashed against my
face and ruffled my hair.
As the ferry made its wavering return from Alcatraz towards its dock
at Pier 33, I couldn’t stop thinking about the five-by-eight-foot cells I’d just
visited. Although it had been decommissioned as a prison back in 1963 and
transformed into a major tourist attraction, it was still a haunting presence.
I sympathised with the thirty-six former inmates who’d attempted to
escape its claustrophobia. Many had chosen death within the bay’s currents
over spending the rest of their lives locked behind bars. I knew the anxiety
of being trapped better than most, but so had my old friend Dougie, albeit
for very different reasons.
More than twenty-five years had passed, but I’d never forgotten
Dougie’s kiss or spoken of it with anyone else, not even Catherine. As we
got older, his disguise had occasionally become transparent and I knew he’d
retained feelings for me that went beyond friendship. It was small things,
like his lingering glances when I spoke, or when he’d focus his attention on
me at the pub instead of trying to woo girls like Roger and Steven did.
Yet his attention neither bothered me nor made me uncomfortable.
Quite the opposite, in fact. I felt privileged to have two people in my life
who helped to make up for my fractured family.
However, I worried for Dougie. Whether it was with a girl or a boy, I
hoped he’d eventually find the happiness I had. I didn’t want to see him
pained, or be the one to inflict it upon him. But our opposing natures meant
it was inevitable.
‘I’m getting married,’ I blurted out on our way to meet Catherine and
Paula at a disco in town. ‘I asked her last week.’
Dougie stared at me momentarily, then formed an instant, forced
smile. ‘That’s brilliant!’ he shouted, leaning over to embrace me. ‘I’m
really pleased for you both. She’s a smashing girl.’
‘I’d like you to be my best man,’ I replied, aware I might be adding
insult to injury.
‘It’d be an honour, thank you. I’ll get the drinks in to celebrate.’ He
sprinted to the bar, where mirrored tiles reflected him biting hard on his
bottom lip. Then, quick as lightning, he flashed the same grin to the
barmaid as he had to me.
Within three months, Dougie had proposed to Beth, a schoolteacher he
met later that night, and the two became husband and wife a year after
Catherine and I married.
Suddenly, the ferry’s engines began to labour and churn the bay’s
water before docking.
As I navigated the wooden gangway back towards Fisherman’s Wharf,
I wondered what had become of Beth. I hoped she’d found happiness with a
man who truly loved her, and hadn’t been ruined by the man Dougie
became.

11 November

Chemicals ricocheted around my artery walls as I wrung every last morsel

of pleasure from my hedonistic lifestyle. But when I randomly caught sight
of my reflection in the glass panel of a bookshop door, I did a double take,
repulsed by a face and body that resembled mine, but which were more
haunted and dishevelled than I remembered.
Now I finally accepted there’d been a correlation between Paula’s
death more than eighteen months earlier and my hollowed cheeks and the
dark crescents that circled my dimmed eyes. The gums above my top teeth
were red raw, and my left cheek had developed a tiny, visible twitch that
only pulsated when my engine was running low on stimulants.
I looked so much more than my thirty-six years, and double Darren’s
twenty-seven. I had lost myself in the place where I’d gone to find me. The
identity I’d assumed was consuming me. Yet that wasn’t enough to shame
or coax me into re-evaluating my lifestyle choices. Instead, I walked away
vowing to repair myself by eating more fruit and vegetables.
Besides, I had more pressing matters on my mind. In less than a year,
since my arrival in San Francisco, I’d snorted and drunk my way through
the remainder of the French publisher’s money, and was stealing from Mike
the hostel owner to boost my reserves. There were plenty of rooms for me
to check guests in and out of without including their names in the register.
They remained anonymous to all but me and I’d pocket the cash.
Grateful contributions from a drug dealer I’d permitted to ply her trade
with discretion around the building also helped to swell my coffers. Only
she and I knew that the broken dispenser in the ladies’ toilets contained
more than a hundred plastic tampon applicators packing half a gram of
cocaine each.
Darren took gratification in being the centre of attention. He was
boisterous; he was unpredictable; he inspired others to push themselves to
explore; he was an expert purveyor of anecdotes, even if most of them were
lies. He was the protagonist to my reactionary. And, most importantly,
Darren was impervious to Simon’s darkness.
But what eventually demolished my prison of fakery was a man I’d
never met, who’d come to find me.

2 December

Once a month, I led excursions down the Californian coast in a modified

Greyhound bus that Mike had bought at an auction on a whim. For fifty
dollars a time, hostellers climbed on-board the ‘Purple Turtle’ for a
sightseeing tour through Santa Cruz, Santa Barbara, Los Angeles and San
Diego, eventually stopping over the Mexican border, in Tijuana.
Mike had removed most of the bus’s seats and replaced them with
mattresses, creating a portable hostel where guests could explore, sleep, and
feel part of a mini-community on wheels.
With my bag packed, my only requirement was a hearty breakfast
before I set off on my next guided tour.
‘Is anyone sitting there, mate?’ a British voice asked as I attacked a
mountain of pancakes in the hostel’s busy dining area.
‘Help yourself,’ I replied, and looked up to find a shaggy-haired man
in his late twenties I hadn’t checked in myself. His smile reminded me of
someone. ‘Have you just arrived?’
He was ravenous as he tucked into his scrambled eggs and hash
browns. ‘Yeah, about an hour ago. I’m bloody knackered. I landed in New
York four weeks ago and have zigzagged my way across ever since.’
‘That’s good going. Why such a whistle-stop tour?’
‘I’m trying to find someone. You might be able to help, actually. Have
you ever come across a bloke who calls himself Darren Glasper?’
A chill ran through me.
‘Darren Glasper?’ I repeated, making sure the amphetamines I’d just
washed down with a pot of coffee weren’t making me hallucinate.
‘Yeah. It’s not his real name. He’s been pretending to be my brother.’
Suddenly I recognised him from the family photographs that had been
pinned to the wall around Darren’s bed at the Routard in France. My first
response was to want to throw my plate to one side and bolt, but his lack of
hostility meant he didn’t know I was his man.
‘No, the name doesn’t ring any bells,’ I lied. ‘Why’s he been doing
that?’
‘That’s what I’ve come to find out.’
Richard Glasper introduced himself and explained how French police
had informed his family of Darren’s untimely death from a weak heart five
months after Bradley and I discovered his body. We’d confirmed to them
his nationality, but Bradley was ignorant of his surname and I’d kept it quiet
to buy myself time.
An impression of Darren’s teeth was sent across the English Channel,
and only after his family reported him missing were both sets of dental
records cross-checked and matched.
 But it was already too late to bring his body home. A clerical error
meant Darren had been logged as a vagrant, and cremated as such. His
family was presented with a plastic tub of ashes and nothing else.
‘It broke my mam’s heart,’ Richard continued. ‘Months later we
started getting these weird cheques from some French book publisher, and
then the police told us my brother’s name had been flagged up in New York
for overstaying his American visa. The address he gave of where he was
staying was a youth hostel. The manager checked his photocopied records,
and someone using Darren’s passport had been staying there.’
I nodded along as he spoke, but inside I was furious with myself for
not having the foresight to cover my tracks. What the hell had I been
thinking in donating the book royalties to his family? I might as well have
left them a trail of breadcrumbs to follow, right to my front door. Not for a
second had I ever considered my deception would come back to haunt me
like this – I’d been too busy congratulating myself on my philanthropy.
I moved my hands under the table so Richard wouldn’t notice them
shake.
‘My mam was convinced there’d been a mistake and Darren was
alive,’ he continued. ‘But the police investigated and were adamant he
wasn’t. She didn’t believe them. We contacted the Youth Hostel
Association, and city by city found out this fella had been travelling and
using my brother’s name for the best part of three years. And the manager
of the Seattle hostel reckons he speaks to Darren regularly here. They have
some kind of recommendation deal between them.’
I cleared my dry throat. ‘What are you going to say if you find him?’
‘It’s not what I’m going to say, it’s what I’m going to do,’ replied
Richard, his eyes narrowing. ‘That bastard destroyed me mam. She went to
her grave with a broken heart believing her youngest didn’t want anything
to do with us. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll put an end to this.’
‘Well, the best of luck,’ I replied as I rose. ‘I don’t mean to be rude,
but I have an excursion to organise.’
‘No worries mate, nice to meet you. If you hear anything, you’ll let me
know, yeah? I’m in room 401.’
‘Of course.’
I left my half-eaten breakfast where it lay, and forced myself not to run
to reach my bedroom. I crammed my meagre belongings into my rucksack
and headed to the ladies bathroom, and then to Richard’s room to ensure he
would never bother me again.

3 December

As the Purple Turtle trundled down the Pacific Coast Highway, I knew that
living vicariously through a person who no longer existed had left me
exposed. I’d thought I had created a new life for myself by erasing my
identity. But it wasn’t my life to build upon; it had belonged to somebody
else.
And there was another person’s life I’d changed too. As we’d made
our first stop in Santa Cruz, I’d phoned the San Francisco Police
Department and informed them of a British man who was working his way
around the country’s hostels dealing drugs. His name was Richard Glasper
and they’d find him in room 401 of the Haight-Ashbury Hostel with a
dozen cocaine-filled tampon applicators hidden in his suitcase pockets.
It was in Richard’s best interests for it to happen this way. I wasn’t
alarmed by his threats of what he’d do to the person posing as his brother. I
was afraid of what I might do to him if he confronted me. And it would
certainly have happened if I’d stayed.
I had sucked so much marrow out of America that there was no bone
left to feast on. The halfway mark of our trip was almost complete, and I
knew I couldn’t show my face in San Francisco again without being
unmasked.

Tijuana, Mexico

4 December

I had no qualms about leaving my party of hostellers to fend for themselves

without a driver or navigator once we reached Tijuana. If I’d taught them
anything in my workshops, it was that the most successful travellers were
the most resourceful ones.
With my dollars converted to pesos, my rucksack strapped to my back
and my passengers distracted in a tequila bar, I slipped away to Highway
1D in search of the Baja coast.
 Within minutes, I’d resuscitated Simon Nicholson and he was sharing
the back of a pickup truck with a dozen wooden crates of watermelons.

Northampton, today

4.15 p.m.

He wasn’t stupid. He’d presumed, if not expected, her to have found love at
some point. In fact, it would’ve been peculiar if she hadn’t.
But now his replacement had an identity and it didn’t sit comfortably
with him. To hear her talk of this ‘Tom’ with such fondness; for him to have
slipped so easily into his shoes, his house and his bed . . . He couldn’t help
but resent the man. He’d stopped loving her long before he left, so he was
surprised by how it made him feel. Almost jealous, he conceded. His
temples began to throb.
He knew he had no right to judge what she did with her life or who
with. But allowing a stranger to play father to his children irritated him.
‘Would you have preferred it if I’d stayed alone forever?’ she asked
suddenly, as his expression betrayed his thoughts.
‘No, no,’ he stuttered, ‘of course not.’
The aching in his head grew more impatient and demanded attention.
But her unrelenting stare that analysed his every gesture meant he couldn’t
check his watch to see how late he was in taking his tablets, not without her
asking why.
She’d taken discreet pleasure in watching him recoil as she’d spoken
of Tom. Even adulterous, gutless murderers can feel envy when hearing
how replaceable they are, she’d learned, and she smiled to herself.
However, she remained alert to the potential danger of the man in
front of her, even if she was no longer as scared as she had been. Though
she did feel a slight sense of relief when he admitted how Paula’s death had
eventually plagued his conscience. Maybe there was a smattering of hope
for him yet. She understood why he’d used drugs to deal with his
conscience; she’d used alcohol to cope with his loss.
‘Are you and – I forget his name – still together?’ he asked.
 ‘No, Tom and I are not. Although we’re still good friends,’ she
replied, proud of that rare feat.
‘What did you mean when you said I destroyed it all?’
She glared at him. ‘Things began to break down between Tom and me
when I discovered you were still alive.’
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-one years earlier

16 February

My eyes darted back and forth, examining every red brick and lick of
mortar of Fabien’s shopfront.
Even when Margaret and I signed the contracts, it still took a while to
sink in that the boutique now belonged to me. Somewhere along the line,
I’d become the owner of a shop I was once too frightened to step inside.
‘Well done, girl,’ came Margaret’s voice from behind me. ‘You have
no idea how proud I am of you.’
I did, actually, because I was so chuffed with myself that I couldn’t
stop grinning. But I wasn’t daft. It was all very well taking over a business
with a proven track record, but it was going to take gumption and elbow
grease to keep it a success.
I continued making a range of my own clothes, either at home or in
the back room of the shop while my old supermarket co-worker Selena
worked front of house, dealing with the day-to-day running and charming
the clientele.
Emily started showing an interest in my work like I’d done with my
mum’s. But even when she got under my feet or slowed me down, I refused
to follow the example I’d been set. She wasn’t even eight, but I was already
teaching her to sew on buttons and chalk up hemlines. And I’d encourage
her to help me pore through fashion magazines looking for inspiration and
to keep up with current trends.
 While Robbie found a new interest in computer games and Tom taught
James new songs on his guitar, I cherished the time Emily and I spent
together. But at the same time, I pitied Simon for what he’d lost.

1 August

Silence didn’t come to the cottage very often, but when it did, I welcomed it
like an old friend.
Tom enjoyed taking the kids out on his own every now and again, and
it gave me a few rare hours without the TV blaring or the sound of a
football banging against the garage door. So while the rabble was at the
park, I fulfilled a long-delayed promise to myself to clear Simon’s clothes
from our wardrobe.
I’d thought about it several times over the past few months with Tom
now in our lives. But it always seemed such a daunting prospect, like
throwing another part of him away. And even if he were to miraculously
reappear on our doorstep, I didn’t think it would be for a change of shirt.
So I closed my eyes and opened the wardrobe door. Then, one by one,
I carefully removed Simon’s things from the wooden hangers, folded them
up neatly and placed them into plastic bags I’d earmarked for the charity
shop.
Each item brought with it a forgotten memory, like watching him
unwrap a new jumper I’d bought for his birthday, or a shirt he’d worn to a
party. I lifted the lapels of his brown corduroy jacket to my nose and found
a vague trace of his Blue Stratos aftershave. Around my hand I wound the
blue-striped tie he’d had on for his first appointment with the bank manager
to ask for a business loan. I’d tied him a Windsor knot because his hands
were shaking too much to do it himself.
I’d expected to break down in tears, but I felt warmth, not sadness. I
was giving his clothes away, not him. The bags were spreading across the
floor when the telephone rang.
‘Could I speak to Mr Simon Nicholson, please?’ a gruff male voice
asked.
‘I’m afraid my husband has passed away,’ I said. ‘Who’s calling,
please?’
‘My name is Jeff Yaxley. I’m a warden at Wormwood Scrubs prison in
London.’ That piqued my curiosity.
 ‘Mr Nicholson’s father died a few months back and I have one of his
possessions he asked us to send his son,’ he continued.
‘Arthur’s dead?’ I asked, shocked. ‘Sorry, did you say you were
calling from a prison?’
‘Arthur? No, Kenneth Jagger. When Mr Nicholson visited him, he put
down your address.’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong Simon Nicholson,’ I replied. ‘His dad is
called Arthur and lives in the next village. And as far as I’m aware, Arthur’s
never been to prison.’ A mental picture of the old coot behind bars made me
smile.
‘Oh, there must have been a mix-up,’ he replied. ‘Sorry to have
troubled you.’
‘Wait,’ I said quickly before he hung up. ‘So someone using my
husband’s name and address visited this man in prison? When was this?’
‘Bear with me a minute,’ he said, and I heard the rustling of papers.
‘According to the visitor’s book, it was June eighth, four years ago.’
‘Well, that definitely couldn’t be Simon, because he went missing on
June fourth.’
‘Missing?’
‘Yes, my husband disappeared that day and hasn’t been seen since.
The case is still open but he’s presumed dead.’
I mulled it over but I couldn’t work out who might’ve pretended to be
him.
‘What did this man Kenneth leave for him?’ I asked.
‘A watch.’
Suddenly the dim glow of a lightbulb emerged in my brain. I
swallowed hard.
‘It’s a gold Rolex,’ he continued. ‘It feels quite heavy. Nice-looking
piece . . .’ But by then I’d stopped listening. I felt a stabbing pain in my
chest as his words bloomed like a drop of blood in a glass of water, staining
everything.
I hung up, then raced up the stairs and back into the bedroom to face a
square green box lying on a shelf at the back of the wardrobe. Inside should
have been the watch from Simon’s mother: the only thing she’d ever given
him, yet I’d never once seen him wear it.
I held the box in the palm of my hand and then stopped myself from
opening it. If his watch was inside, someone had used his identity. If it was
empty, it could only mean one thing: that Simon had taken it with him and
that he’d left me on purpose.
‘Please, please, please,’ I whispered as the gold hinges creaked open.
There was nothing inside.
No, you must have put it somewhere else, I thought. So I rooted around
the rest of the wardrobe, but it was almost bare. I yanked all the folded
clothes from inside the bin bags and rifled through each pocket. Nothing. I
felt inside each pair of shoes to see if he’d put it there, then rummaged
through the drawers of his bedside table. Every time I drew a blank I
thought of somewhere else to look. I searched each nook and cranny of the
house, even places I’d already hunted through when he first disappeared.
Then I threw my trainers on and ran to see the one person who could put
my mind at ease – Arthur.
Fifteen minutes later, I was at his front door, almost breathless from
running.
‘Who is Kenneth Jagger?’ I gasped.
I prayed for him to plead ignorance. Instead, Arthur’s face
immediately drained of all colour. Two things I was now sure of – that a
man called Kenneth Jagger was Simon’s real father, and that my husband
had planned to leave me.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he replied nervously and tried to close his
front door. I stuck my foot out to block it.
‘Who is Kenneth Jagger?’ I repeated.
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. Now, please leave.’
‘You’re lying, Arthur, and I’m staying here until you tell me the truth.
Or would you like me to involve Shirley in this?’
He soon surrendered when he saw my threat wasn’t an empty one.
‘I’ll meet you behind the garage in five minutes,’ he replied. He was
there in two.
‘How do you know his name?’ Arthur demanded, keeping a deliberate
distance from me.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I replied, unwilling to tell him it was likely Simon
was still alive.
‘Has Kenneth been in touch?’
‘Not unless it was through a clairvoyant. He’s dead.’
Arthur looked relieved.
‘Well? Was he Simon’s father?’
 ‘No, I am,’ he snapped, then paused. ‘But Kenneth is, biologically.’
Arthur may have been a browbeaten, pathetic little man, but he wasn’t
a liar. He reluctantly told me the story of meeting Doreen while she was
pregnant, and how during her many absences, she’d often gone back to
Kenneth.
‘And Simon knew all about this?’ I asked, amazed I’d not known.
‘Yes, but not until he went to visit her in London when he was
thirteen. Kenneth was there and Simon found out who he was. It devastated
him. Simon never saw him again.’
But I had proof he was wrong.
‘Now, what’s all this about?’ he added.
I hesitated. I could tell him everything I knew: Simon had upped and
left of his own free will, and four days later went to visit that Jagger man in
prison. But what would be the point? If he’d planned to come back, he’d
have done it long ago. So I’d only be giving Arthur false hope. And once he
told his wife Shirley, she’d inform Roger and old wounds that were still
healing would be reopened, all to find a man who didn’t want to be found.
What on earth would I tell the kids? For four years I’d led them to
believe their dad was dead – how was I supposed to explain I was wrong
and that he’d left them? God only knows how much damage that could do.
So all I told Arthur was that a prison warden had been trying to trace
Kenneth’s next of kin after his death.
‘Catherine,’ he asked as I began to walk away, ‘how are the children?’
‘You lost the right to ask about them the moment you accused me of
murder,’ I replied, and left him to wallow in guilt alone.
I was beyond angry and I needed to hurt Simon. I hurried home with
my fists balled, furious at Simon’s gut-wrenching betrayal. Once inside, I
grabbed a pair of scissors and tore into his clothes. Ribbons of material
from every jumper, pair of trousers, T-shirt and jacket flew through the air
and scattered around the room. I didn’t want anybody else to wear clothes
stained by his lies.
Framed photographs of him I’d kept on the sideboard were hurled into
bins. Any visible trace of my bastard husband was erased from the house
there and then. Suddenly I remembered the pink rosebushes he’d planted
for me by the kitchen window.
I ran to the garage, took the shears from a hook and hacked them to
the ground. He’d planted them for me when I was at my lowest, and they’d
become a place I’d visit when I needed comforting. He’d even ruined that.
When I finished, I sat on the lawn, too numb to blink, cry or be sick
despite wanting to do all three. By the time everyone arrived home late in
the afternoon, Simon was dead to me. Again.
‘Where have Dad’s pictures gone?’ frowned James, the first to notice.
‘They’re in the loft,’ I lied.
‘Why?’
‘Because I put them there,’ I replied sharply.
The kids looked at each other, puzzled, but rightly sensed not to push
me any further. Tom followed me upstairs to the bedroom.
‘What’s going on, Catherine?’ he asked. When I didn’t reply, he put
his hand on my shoulder and tried to pull me towards him. I couldn’t even
look him in the eye.
‘I’ve cleaned out the wardrobe. You can use it for your clothes if you
like.’
‘What happened today?’
‘I woke up.’
Then I locked myself in the bathroom to try and put the roof back on
my rage. It was only the second time I’d kept something from Tom – the
first was something I’d never told a soul, not even Simon.
But Simon’s secret was far worse than mine.

Christmas Day

Tom and the children were fast asleep while I spent the early hours of
Christmas morning in the attic, tearing up my wedding photographs.
I’d been struggling to get to sleep when I suddenly remembered where
they were, and I couldn’t let Simon’s face remain in my house for even one
more night. I didn’t look at any of them as I took them out of the albums
and ripped them into pieces. By the time I finished, they surrounded my
cold bare feet like confetti. I was too angry to go back to bed. I sat on the
floorboards listening to the central heating gurgle, thinking about him again.
I was livid with myself for the time I’d wasted crying over him;
worrying about him; making ‘missing’ posters; phoning hospitals;
mourning him . . . It had all been for nothing. He’d simply run away.
While we’d left no stone unturned in our frantic search, he’d been on
his way to London to visit a man he barely knew to give him his most
treasured possession. His body wasn’t rotting in a ditch somewhere – it was
very much alive and out there, away from us.
I wished he were dead.
I clenched my fists every time I thought what an idiot and a liar he’d
made of me. I was embarrassed and humiliated. The only person who I
might’ve possibly confided in was Paula, but I’d lost her too. And even then
I don’t think she could’ve taken on that burden without telling Roger.
It was like someone had attached a valve to my heart, and any love I’d
ever felt for Simon was leaking into the air like a foul-smelling gas. And,
all the time, I kept returning to the same three-letter word: Why?
I knew one place on earth he’d gone after leaving us, to see his
biological father in prison, but it threw up so many new questions, each
more impossible to answer than the last. Where did he go after he saw
Kenneth? Who else knew he wasn’t dead? How long had he dreamed of
running away? Was it a spur-of-the-moment decision or part of a twisted
plan to marry me, play the doting dad and then move on? Why had I never
felt him slipping away?
Was he more like his mother than he’d let on? Like her, did he have
other lovers scattered around the country? Where does someone go when
they have no friends and no money? Did he regret it, but didn’t know how
to come home?
Why, Simon? Why?
My frustration rang louder than the church bells would later that day.
But the only thing I prayed for was that he was roaming the earth in an
eternal state of wretched misery.
Because that’s exactly how he’d left me.

Northampton, twenty years earlier

11 April

There was nothing wrong with Tom: he was what most women would
describe as Mr Right. But Simon had taught me even the right people can
wrong you when you least expect it.
I hadn’t jumped into Simon and I’s marriage wearing rose-tinted
glasses. I’d known, given our history with both sets of dysfunctional
parents, that we’d be lucky to get through life without a bump or two in the
road. And when we bickered, or when screaming kids made the house feel
like a prison, it was normal to fantasise about running away.
But that’s precisely what it should have remained – a fantasy. Only
he’d made it his reality. And my logic reasoned that if he, the man I’d loved
and trusted since forever, could do that to me, then Tom, someone I’d only
known five minutes in comparison, was going to do the same.
After finding out about Simon’s deceit, I took out my rage towards
him on that poor innocent heart, without Tom ever understanding why. I’d
watch him over dinner and wonder why someone so attractive, funny and
caring would ever want to be saddled with a family that wasn’t his. Instead
of feeling lucky or grateful and that I deserved him, I didn’t trust him.
I asked myself if I was just a stopgap until he found a younger, better-
looking model who could give him kids of his own. Then I gave serious
thought to having his baby. It was a man’s basic instinct to reproduce, and I
was stopping him from doing that, even though he’d shown no inkling of
wanting his own children. But having ours hadn’t stopped my husband from
running away.
Besides, I had a business to run, and I knew I couldn’t deal with all the
craziness and upheaval another child would bring. And that meant it was a
given Tom would leave me. That’s what people I loved did. They left me.
Mum, Dad, Billy, Simon, Paula . . .
So, before he had the chance to run, I spent months trying to drive him
away. I had to be aware of his every move, winding myself up a treat over
what he was doing if he wasn’t doing it with me. I rifled through the
glovebox of his car hoping to find a pair of some other woman’s knickers. I
flicked through his wallet for receipts from places he hadn’t told me he’d
visited. I checked the suitcases he stored in his garage to see if they were
packed in case he wanted to do a moonlight flit. One night, I even left the
kids to sleep home alone while I stood behind a conifer outside his house
waiting for female visitors.
But despite every sneaky, stupid way I tried to prove myself right,
there was no evidence to suggest he was anything other than a decent,
honest man. And that frustrated the hell out of me – if I’d missed traces of
Simon’s unhappiness, I probably couldn’t see Tom’s either.
So I created arguments over nothing – missing groceries he’d
forgotten to buy; not putting the bins out before they were collected; even
how he wasn’t satisfying me in bed.
 All the time I knew exactly what I was doing. I just couldn’t stop
myself from tarring all men with Simon’s filthy brush. They say the
quickest way to drive a dog mad is to stroke it then smack it.
But my dog just kept running back for more.

12 May

‘Let me move in,’ Tom asked suddenly.

‘What – why?’ I replied, confused that after all my goading, he’d still
not cracked. Quite the opposite, it seemed.
‘I’m not stupid, Catherine. Something happened the day you threw
Simon’s clothes away. And while you’re obviously not ready to tell me
about it, I know you need to feel more secure about us. So let me prove to
you I’m serious. I love you; I love the children. We’ve been together more
than two years now, so let’s see where this takes us. Let me move in.’
I looked him in the eye, pushed him onto the bed and made love to
him there and then, all the time knowing we were never going to last. All it
did was extend the inevitable.
I went through the motions of pretending we were a family – trying to
convince myself we might just work. But eventually my resentment towards
Simon reared its ugly head again. I’d wake up in the night and stretch my
arm across the bed to check Tom was still there. Once I shouted at him for
not being next to me when all he’d done was go to the bathroom.
I gave him the silent treatment for the best part of a week when he
came home from the pub later than usual. And when I found two phone
numbers I didn’t recognise on my itemised bill, I refused to believe he
wasn’t having an affair.
No matter how often Tom assured me he understood my unforgivable
behaviour, Simon had already ruined any future we could’ve had together.
And six weeks after he came to live with us, I asked him to leave.

SIMON
Los Telaros, Mexico, twenty-one years earlier

13 April

The pool cue snapped in half as effortlessly as a toothpick when it made

contact with the old man’s shoulders. He grunted as it thrust him forwards
and he sprawled across the table.
His attacker, equally as drunk and elderly as his victim, swung one
hundred and eighty degrees with the remaining half of the cue in his hand,
and collapsed into a disorientated heap. His counterpart fumbled around the
table for a ball to smack against his assailant’s head, but when he heaved it,
one too many bourbons made him lose his grip and the ball nosedived a few
feet across the room instead, barely nudging the skirting board.
Trying our best not to laugh at the clumsy fight before us, Miguel and
I stepped in to lift the two drunken pensioners to their feet. Their arms spun
aimlessly, like hurricane-damaged windmill sails, only making contact with
the smoky air around them as they fought for the attention of the same
prostitute.
‘They’re like this every time,’ explained Miguel as he pulled the
frailer-looking of the two up from the floor where he’d just landed.
‘Aren’t they friends? I saw them arrive together,’ I asked, safely
concealing the other behind me.
‘Friends? They’re father and son!’ he laughed. ‘They share the same
taste in women. By the time you leave this whorehouse, there won’t be
much of life you ain’t seen.’
I’d been drug-free and hitchhiking around Mexico for the best part of
four months when I’d walked through the bordello’s doors for the first time.
Many towns I’d blown through had their own whiskerias – brothels that
sold much more than Wild Turkey in their back rooms. Their neon signs
targeted long-haul truck drivers who wanted to take their minds off the
endless roads ahead with female company.
But with its orange-tiled roof and black wrought-iron balconies
scattered across the first-floor facade, this bordello in Los Telaros
resembled a hotel. There was no signage or indication it was anything else.
I hadn’t intended to look for work, and sex had been the last thing on my
mind. All I’d required was something alcohol-based to quench my thirst
and a place to rest my blistered feet.
 Inside, porcelain lamps on smoked-glass tables discreetly illuminated
purple walls. Glass chandeliers hung from wooden rafters above white
leather sofas and a solitary reception desk. Scented candles masked cigar
smoke with hints of sandalwood and vanilla. The crushed velvet curtains
remained closed to prying eyes.
Its true purpose was revealed at the bar, where men of all ages were
fussed over by attentive girls in varying states of undress.
I’d sat at the counter, swirling ice cubes around my glass of Jim Beam,
amused by the show. The girls’ acting abilities were faultless as they
pretended to desire the customers and not the pesos in their pockets.
‘Can I introduce you to a young lady, señor?’ said the barman.
‘No, I’m just here for a drink,’ I replied.
‘That’s what all first-timers say,’ he laughed as he refilled my glass.
‘Are you European?’
‘Yes, British.’
‘You’re a long way from home. What brings you here?’
‘I’m seeing the world, and picking up a bit of work here and there.’
‘What kind of work?’ he asked, carefully stroking his goatee.
‘Carpentry, repairs, building work, decorating . . . that kind of thing.’
‘You ever hit a woman?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Do you do drugs?’
‘No.’ Well, not since I’d left San Francisco.
‘Do you like to fuck pretty girls?’
‘What?’ I laughed, stopping just short of snorting whiskey through my
nostrils.
‘Do you like to fuck pretty girls?’
‘Sometimes! But like I said, I’m only in here for a drink.’
He turned his head and shouted towards a room. ‘Madama! Oiga,
madama! ’ A middle-aged niblet of a woman, with grey hair swept back
into a ponytail, limped quickly towards us.
‘Cuál es el problema, Miguel?’
‘I’ve found your man. What’s your name, hombre?’
‘Simon,’ I replied.
The woman scowled as she looked me up and down, muttering
something under her breath. Then she grabbed my hand and bent my fingers
backwards.
 ‘Ow!’ I winced and tried to pull them back. But her grip was
remarkably strong.
‘Don’t drink my spirits, do the jobs you’re given properly and make
sure the men don’t hurt the girls,’ she spat in an unidentifiable accent. ‘And
don’t fuck the pretty ones.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I replied, snatching my hand back and nursing my
throbbing fingers. She disappeared into a back room and I stared at Miguel,
puzzled.
‘What just happened there?’ I asked.
‘Welcome to Madame Lola’s.’ He smiled, raising a shot glass. ‘You
got yourself a job!’

1 August

I was accorded a peculiar mixture of respect and envy from the male
townsfolk for working in a bordello. A walk into town to pick up supplies
saw me ignored by patrons if accompanied by their wives, but I was
acknowledged with a nod or a knowing smile when they were alone.
I’d acclimatised quickly to my unusual surroundings. It became the
norm to hear a leather riding crop beating the skin of a repressed
businessman from behind a closed bedroom door. I didn’t think twice when
a misplaced key meant I had to cut a naked police officer from a bedpost
he’d handcuffed himself to. And I barely noticed the priest in women’s
underwear being chased through the corridors by girls in French maid
outfits, like a Mexican Benny Hill.
The brothel had been standing there for as long as the village, a forty-
five-minute drive away from Guadalajara, Mexico’s second-biggest city.
While some men travelled miles for its courteous and discreet reputation
and highly desirable girls, at least a quarter of the bordello’s clientele came
from within a mile or two of its own doorstep. Some even slipped out of
their marital beds once their wives were deep in sleep, and crept back home
a couple of hours later with a smile on their face and a non-the-wiser
partner.
For me, it was a place of work and not play. Of course, I had urges,
but the purpose of exiting San Francisco was to leave behind all that had
been faulty in Darren and myself.
 However, the course of my life was to change yet again when I fell in
love with a whore.

23 October

‘You got it bad for her, don’t you, hombre?’

I almost fell off my stepladder when Miguel crept up behind me.
‘She’s going to break your heart,’ he laughed. ‘Chicas like that always
do.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I replied, lying to the both of us. I
replaced the lightbulb, folded my ladder up, returned it to the storeroom and
left the girl alone.
I headed towards the pickup truck to drive into town and buy new
electrical cables. As I looked towards her bedroom window, her closed
curtain moved ever so slightly. I longed to be behind them with her. The
truth was, I was smitten.
I decided as I drove that those who worked for Madame Lola believed
themselves to be the fortunate ones. Skinny women, Oriental women,
ageing women, tattooed women, European women, redheads, shaven heads,
and one who tipped the scales at a quarter of a ton . . . all flavours and tastes
were catered to on secure, clean premises.
Other prostitutes weren’t so lucky. As I approached town I spotted
them, barely clothed and standing by roadsides, or sitting on broken plastic
chairs with their knees pulled apart to attract passing trade. Others hovered
in fields like worn-out scarecrows.
Most men visiting Madame Lola’s brothel behaved respectfully
towards the girls, but the exceptions believed they’d also paid for the right
to be heavy-handed if it heightened their sexual pleasure. And that’s when
Miguel and I stepped in.
I’d always deplored violence, especially towards women. My mother,
Dougie’s mother . . . both of their lives had been destroyed by the
unwarranted rage of a man.
Beth had walked out on Dougie five years into their marriage. I’d
arrived home to find him sharing dinner with my family, desperate to avoid
returning to an empty house. When I wasn’t there to offer support, he’d
bent Catherine’s ear instead. But I’m sure there was much he hadn’t told
her.
 ‘I’ll never have what you have,’ he slurred one evening after she left
him. He misjudged the distance between his empty can of lager and the
kitchen table. Catherine was upstairs asleep and I longed to join her.
‘What do I have then?’ I sighed, opening myself up for a fresh wave
of self-pity.
‘Someone who loves you. A family.’
‘You’ll find that. You just need to meet the right person.’
‘No, I won’t, because I’m just like my father. Sooner or later we all
end up like our parents, no matter how hard we try and fight it. You will
too.’
‘That’s rubbish. I’m nothing like Doreen and you’re nothing like your
dad.’
‘Yes, I am.’ He stopped and rubbed his eyes before he whispered, ‘I
hit her.’
‘Who? Your mum?’
‘No, Beth.’
‘What?’ I hoped I’d heard misheard him. ‘Do you mean “hit her” as in
you did it by accident, or as in on purpose?’
‘A lot.’ He hung his head in shame.
I leaned against the back of my chair, astounded and disappointed.
After witnessing all his mother had been subjected to, he’d still been
inclined to repeat history. ‘Why would you do that?’ I asked, baffled.
‘I don’t know. I just get angry and frustrated all the time and then I
lash out. I can’t help it.’
‘Of course you can help it! You don’t just hit your wife for no reason.
Why?’
He looked up at me slowly, his eyes channelling deep into mine. ‘If
anyone should know, it’s you . . .’ His voice trailed off, and he picked up his
jacket and stumbled out of the house.
I had reluctantly followed him, propping him up with my arm around
his waist, ready for a long walk on a short journey.
Memories of that night left my head as I pulled the pickup truck over
to the side of the road by the storefront. I wondered what the girl behind the
curtain was doing right now. Did she ever notice me like I noticed her? I
could only hope.

11 February
For months, I’d watched her lose herself in different books each day. She
was loyal to the authors she chose – always works by Dickens, Huxley,
Shakespeare and Hemingway. I presumed they offered her an escape to
somewhere far from the whorehouse she’d made her home.
Wherever I was carrying out maintenance work around the bordello,
she would stop me in my tracks through proximity alone. Of the thirty or so
women who lived or worked in the brothel, she was the only one who
ground my world to a halt just by being.
It wasn’t the delicate shine of her shoulder-length auburn hair, her
olive skin or her plump, rose-pink lips. It wasn’t the silk camisoles that
clung to her hips and breasts, or the brown abyss of her eyes that
intoxicated me.
It was her air of complete indifference towards the world she found
herself in. While other girls competed for a customer’s attention, she was
aloof. And that made her an all-the-more-attractive purchase for those with
deep pockets.
Her colleagues took as many men as were willing, but she was
discerning – accepting just one per day, and never at weekends. And her
self-rationing put her in great demand. Her time between clients was spent
in Madame Lola’s office or making herself invisible in her bedroom at the
back of the building.
We never spoke; we never made eye contact; and as far as she was
aware, I did not exist. But it didn’t matter. I was obsessed with Luciana.

Northampton, today

5.05 p.m.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about Kenneth Jagger?’ she began.

He paused to reflect on his teenaged self’s decision to keep his
biological father to himself. Then she listened closely as he revealed things
about his life he’d kept hidden when they were a partnership.
He explained why London had been his first destination after fleeing,
and how he’d discovered the circumstances surrounding Doreen’s death. He
spoke of meeting Kenneth, but neglected to mention what he’d whispered
into his ear or why his biological father had branded his only son a monster.
She’d never met Doreen and had only heard bits and bobs about her
through the years. Naturally, she’d been curious about the mother of the
man she loved and wanted to know more. But it was obvious he’d been hurt
by his mother more than he’d ever admitted. She’d never even seen a
photograph of Doreen, so she’d built a mental picture instead. To her, she
looked like Dusty Springfield. She’d told him that once and he’d laughed.
When he spoke of spending time by Doreen’s grave so she wouldn’t
be alone, it reminded her of the sensitivity he was capable of. She would
always be grateful to him for the four children he’d given her, but his
subsequent actions had all but erased any of the good he’d done in the past.
‘I didn’t tell you about Kenneth because I didn’t want to acknowledge
him as my father,’ he admitted. ‘I hated the man from the moment we met,
and I didn’t want you to see in me what I saw in him.’
‘Yet he was exactly what you’ve become, if not worse.’ She knew it
was a callous thing to say, but he hadn’t spared her feelings so she wasn’t
going to pull her punches either.
‘Not now,’ he corrected, ‘but for a while, maybe, yes.’
‘So if you hated him that much, why go to the trouble of trying to find
him?’
‘Closure.’
‘But it took you twenty-five years to offer me the same courtesy,
didn’t it?’
He said nothing.
She was hurt that he hadn’t trusted her with such an important secret,
but she was angry he hadn’t mentioned Dougie’s violent streak towards
poor Beth. Although she and Beth hadn’t been as close as she, Paula and
Baishali were, she was sure the three of them could have helped Beth. And
that might have changed so much that followed.
Meanwhile, he was glad it hadn’t worked out with her fancy man. He
didn’t like the sound of him. No one was that perfect; she’d have found that
out eventually. She should thank him for saving her the heartache.
‘Are you aware you’re dead?’ she asked out of the blue. ‘I mean,
legally dead. You have to wait seven years before you can declare a missing
person deceased. So on your seventh anniversary, I hired a solicitor, and a
few months later I held your death certificate in my hand.’
 ‘But you knew I was alive?’ he replied, unsettled by her sudden deceit.
‘That’s true. But if you didn’t value your life with us, then why should
it have mattered to me?’
He understood her motives, yet her nonchalance made him
uncomfortable. She enjoyed playing with him.
‘It wasn’t easy, either legally or morally,’ she continued, ‘and I had to
keep up the pretence you were dead to the children and the authorities.
Then I had to prove I’d exhausted all avenues in looking for you. But that
was the easy part, because as Roger and our friends testified, I’d been very
thorough. After a high court hearing, you weren’t just dead to us, but in the
eyes of the law as well.’
‘Why go to all that effort? It sounds a little pointless.’
‘I don’t care what it sounds like to you. I did it because had you
decided to rise like Lazarus – which you have – and I wasn’t going to make
it easy for you. Plus, your insurance money helped to put Emily and Robbie
through university, so the legalities of your death benefited us all.’
She’d knocked a little of the wind from his sails, as he realised once
again he’d underestimated her strength of character. And he wasn’t sure
how her course of action made him feel.
‘Did I have a funeral?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Yes, but only for the kids’ sake. In fact, they were delighted to draw a
line under you, because having a dad who vanished into thin air was a
millstone around their necks. So it helped them move on. They rarely spoke
about you as they got older, anyway.’
That last part was untrue, but he didn’t need to know that. She’d
actually learned to bite her tongue when they brought his name up, and
particularly when they talked of him with longing.
He also knew it was a lie, and remembered word for word what James
had told that website.
‘Could you tell me a little about my funeral?’ he asked, still wounded
by her frosty relish.
‘What else is there to say? You have an empty grave and a headstone
in the village cemetery. I don’t really remember much about it other than it
came as a relief.’
Again, she was not being honest, and he saw through her
inconsistencies.
 ‘You buried your husband and you don’t remember much about it? I
don’t believe you.’
‘And what makes you think I care what you believe?’ She laughed as
people do when talking about something that’s not actually funny.
‘Because if you cared so little, why did you bother with a gravestone?’
‘Like I said, for the kids’ sake.’
‘But you said they never spoke about me, so why would they want me
to have a grave?’
She looked away and didn’t reply. Every few months, one of the
children still took flowers to the churchyard, and arranged them in a vase
Emily had made in pottery class when she was eight. At Christmas, they all
still made an annual pilgrimage there together – even her, to keep up
appearances. It was the only time of year she allowed herself to think about
him.
He pleaded to her better nature. ‘Catherine, I promise you, after today,
this will be the last you’ll see of me. So please. Let’s be honest with each
other.’
‘What do you know about honesty, Simon?’ she replied flatly.
‘I’ve learned it’s what people need before they can move on. There is
so much we should have said to each other back then. But I’m here to
explain everything, even though a lot of it will hurt you.’
You’re right there, she thought. He had hurt her many times already in
the past few hours, and she had a gut feeling it might only be the tip of the
iceberg. She inhaled sharply.
‘The kids begged me to organise a funeral because they felt robbed of
a proper goodbye, as there was no body to bury,’ she explained reluctantly.
‘Is that what you want to hear? Everyone you’d ever known turned up for it.
I even ordered a maple coffin – your favourite wood – for people to place
reminders of you inside, like your pub beer tankard and football medals.
And after the service, we had a party at the house where they celebrated
your life.’
He listened intently and smiled, touched by the effort she’d gone to
despite what she knew.
‘I didn’t do it for you,’ she added sharply. ‘I felt sick every second you
forced me to play the grieving widow. You made me complicit in your lie,
and I hated you for that. Still do. Had it been my choice, I’d have cremated
everything you’d ever touched.’
His eyes sank to the floor like a scolded dog’s.
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SIMON

Los Telaros, Mexico, twenty years earlier

13 May

No matter where in the world I went, death was sure to follow.

It was commonplace for the sounds of grown men, bawling and
shrieking from ecstasy and pain, to seep under bedroom doors and echo
around the corridors of the bordello.
But the screams I was hearing that afternoon were female and born out
of distress, not pleasure. And noises rarely carried from Luciana’s room. I
dropped my paint pot and brush and bolted up the staircase, across the
corridor, and banged on her door with my fists.
‘Are you all right?’ I yelled anxiously. ‘Luciana!’
Inside, a male voice shouted something as he suppressed her muffled
cries. I turned the handle but it didn’t budge, so I panicked, raised my leg,
and kicked and kicked at the door as the scuffle inside continued.
Finally the door split from its frame and I ran inside, but before I
could focus on anything or anyone, something weighty collided with the
side of my head. My body hit the wall and I dropped to the floor like a bag
of rocks. Disorientated, I began to lift myself up until the second blow
stopped me in my tracks.
This time my reaction was instinctive and I grabbed the bare ankle of
my assailant and twisted it hard. Its owner was felled like a tree in a storm,
but then he climbed atop me and unleashed a flurry of fists upon my head
and neck. I tried to shelter myself as they rained down on me in a pounding,
furious barrage, my head becoming increasingly numb to the pain. A lucky
jab to his bare genitals left him curled to one side and temporarily disabled,
and I almost reached my feet but he beat me to it and his fist broke my
nose.
As his face moved towards mine, I grabbed both sides of his head, but
he took advantage of my exposed torso and hit me in both kidneys. Dazed
and winded, I landed two clumsy whacks somewhere around his ears but
they only riled him further.
For the first time, I took in his appearance. At six foot five and at least
sixteen stone of sculpted muscle, I questioned whether the naked, hairy
creature before me was man or beast. I erred towards the latter.
Then he picked up an ornament, raised it above his head and spat as he
laughed. I expected his black, widened pupils and salivating mouth to be
the last things I’d ever see and had accepted the inevitable when, suddenly,
a metal table lamp appeared from nowhere and smashed against his crown.
He fell to his knees, his face contorted by shock and incomprehension. The
lamp swung backwards, then crashed into him over and over again. The
man’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, leaving shiny white ovals, before
he slumped face down onto the wet carpet, convulsing.
It was only then I noticed Luciana, her face – smeared in murky
redness – hiding behind matted hair. Her underwear was in shreds, and the
lamp shook in her trembling hands.
I crawled towards the floored titan and rolled him over, face up, to
steady his spasming body.
The first words she ever spoke to me were devoid of all emotion.
‘Leave him.’
‘We should call an ambulance.’
‘We do nothing. When I refused to let him force objects inside me, he
said his daughter bites her lip and stays quiet when he does it to her. Let the
animal die in the way he deserves.’
I had no case to offer for the defence. Instead, I fixated on the pulp of
a man biting deeply into his own tongue. Together we watched as his mouth
effervesced with delicate pink bubbles, until the convulsions petered out
into nothing. Finally, his brain stopped fighting and his soul began its
journey from whence it came, back into the arms of the devil.
From the moment I limped downstairs and alerted Madam Lola to the
battle in Luciana’s room, she responded with military precision to remove
any trace of the man or his rage. She gave every impression it wasn’t the
first time she’d been forced to clean up an unexpected mess.
She slipped into autopilot as she relayed orders to a crowd of horrified
girls, gawping at the remains by the door. They scuttled in numerous
directions like stray fireworks.
‘Miguel – is there enough gasoline in the truck to reach the ravines?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bueno. Take it around the back. The rest of you, go back downstairs
and see to your guests.’
She looked directly at Luciana. ‘Who did this to him?’ she asked.
‘I did,’ I replied, and Madam Lola nodded her head approvingly.
‘Good. No man here would touch her again if they ever learned of
this. So you will make sure they don’t.’
An hour later, and Luciana’s face had been occupied by an observant
silence for much of the journey, the hush only peppered by her directions.
She gazed at the passing fields from the passenger window. I longed to
talk to her but the circumstances were hardly appropriate considering the
body of the man she’d just killed lay wrapped up behind us in the back of
the truck.
I drove along dirt-track lanes away from the main roads, and
wondered how much rage must have been bottled up inside her to watch
without pity as the man dissolved into nothing. I understood it completely. I
had once been where she was now.
‘Over there.’ She pointed with a torn fingernail.
I pulled the truck over to the side of the road between fields of
scorched corn. We removed two shovels and began to dig a grave. The
ground was arid and stubborn, so it took us an age to burrow a ditch deep
enough for spring’s flash floods not to send his body sailing down the
valley like a polythene raft.
The man’s features were indistinguishable under the tightly wound
plastic. I used all my strength to pull his hulking frame by his ankles from
the truck to the ground below. Then I dragged him along the rough terrain
before I rolled him into his hole.
Luciana kneeled down to unwind the plastic covering his head. Then
suddenly she pulled out a silver pistol from the back of her jeans. I froze as
without hesitation she pulled the trigger twice, shooting him first in the left
eye and then in the right. I stumbled backwards as my ears rang.
 ‘It’s a calling card of the gangs,’ she explained. ‘A bullet in each eye
means he’s seen something he shouldn’t have and has been punished. If his
body is ever found, the police will think he was executed by one of his
own.’
I gave an agitated nod as she wound the plastic back around his head
and we shovelled dirt upon him. We threw the shovels back in the truck, but
when I turned around, she was standing inches away from me. Then she
pushed my aching shoulders against the door, pulled my mouth towards
hers and kissed me with a passion my body had never experienced. The
pain from her nose brushing against my broken one was excruciating and
spread across my face, but it was worth the sacrifice to be so close to her.
She loosened my belt buckle, I removed her T-shirt and we winced as
our cuts, swelling skin and emerging kaleidoscopes of blue, yellow and
purple bruises collided against each other. And when we had finished, we
drove back to the bordello as silently as we’d left.

23 July

Each night she crept into my bed, and we’d make love silently. It was
always a slow and sensual experience, unlike our first time with the bitter
taste of death and lust in our throats. Then, when she’d decided we were
done, she’d slip back into her clothes and vanish like nothing had happened.
Luciana and I never spoke of the day she’d killed a man. In fact, we
never spoke at all. I wondered if she made love to me out of gratitude, or
whether it was a way of controlling me. Her profession meant surrendering
herself to men for their money, so by dictating to me when we had sex,
there was no doubt who was in charge.
Her reasoning didn’t matter. If sex was the only means by which I
could breathe her air and feel her skin against mine, then I was grateful for
anything she offered. And as the days progressed to weeks and then to
months, she remained in my room a little longer with each visit.
My deepest fear had always been discovering the one I loved was
finding love with another. But because Luciana’s profession was to have
sex with other men for money, it wasn’t adultery. It was business. I didn’t
doubt for a moment that I was her only extracurricular activity. It was the
perfect partnership, and the most mutually monogamous relationship I’d
ever had.
14 November

I rolled onto my side and faced the door when I heard the handle turn. I
smiled and pulled back the bedsheet to invite her in, but she chose to sit in
an armchair by the window opposite my bed. She lit a cigarette and began
to blow smoke rings.
Finally, following six months of nocturnal liaisons, Luciana cast her
die and waited cautiously to see where it might land.
‘My name is Luciana Fiorentino Marcanio,’ she began carefully, ‘and
I was born and raised in Italy.’
I propped myself up against the headboard and listened closely.
‘I came to Mexico with my mother after my father tried to have us
killed. He was a wealthy but vicious man who abused her, convinced she
was having affairs with anyone who paid her attention. He was her only
love, but his paranoia and insecurities wouldn’t allow him to believe that.
My mother was not strong enough to leave him. She tried her best to please
him and win his trust, but when you accuse someone so often, eventually
they will give in and prove you right. He drove her into the arms of one of
his business colleagues. And eventually my father found out. He paid for
her lover to be killed, but not until he’d had him castrated. The first my
mother knew of this was when she found his genitals in a gift-wrapped box
on her dressing room table.’
I lit up a cigarette of my own and took a long drag. I was captivated by
her story.
‘As my sister Caterina and I grew up, he told himself we too would
become whores like my mother,’ she continued. ‘He was suspicious of our
every move and hired guards to escort us to and from school so we would
not mix with boys. But Caterina and our gardener’s son Federico became
close – he was probably her only friend apart from me. And when my father
saw them talking together, he had Federico beaten so badly the poor boy
could never work again. Caterina was inconsolable and blamed herself.
When she looked to the future, all she saw was more of the same and she
could not live like that. She waited until my father’s birthday before she cut
her wrists and died in one of his vineyards. I found her body.’
She paused and glanced down at her feet.
‘Naturally my mother and I were devastated. But it was like someone
flicked a switch in her head. She’d already failed one daughter and she
wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. So with only our passports
and some money our housekeeper gave us from her savings, we ran away
and never saw him again.’
Luciana closed her eyes.
‘The man I killed who attacked me . . . he was not the first to have
died at my hands. My mother and I fled to London to stay with cousins, and
finally life was good. It wasn’t like Italy where we lived in a gilded cage –
we had nothing of material value, but we had our freedom. Then my
father’s people tracked us down. A man appeared at our apartment and shot
my mother’s cousin and her son through their heads. He was going to kill
her too, but he didn’t see me in the kitchen behind him. I took a knife and
stabbed him in the neck, but not before he pulled the trigger and hit my
mother in the leg. I patched her up and we fled, eventually making our way
to Mexico, where my father would never think to find us. We began
working here, selling our bodies to survive, and over time, it became like
any other job.’
‘The man we buried,’ I interrupted, ‘did your father send him too?’
‘No, he was just a monster who couldn’t recognise the monster in me.
I have killed twice, and I know you have killed too.’
She paused again and watched as I froze.
‘I saw the way you looked at me in my room that day. Most men
would have run for the hills, but you stayed. You had fallen in love with me
because you thought you had found a kindred spirit. I knew then that, for
whatever reason, you had done something awful but necessary to protect
yourself. And there is nothing more awful than taking a life. You knew me.’
I considered telling her there and then about my past, but it was her
moment, not mine.
‘What happened to your mother?’ I asked. ‘Is she still in Mexico?’
‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘She’s downstairs. And her name is Lola Marcanio.’
‘Your mother is Madame Lola?’ I asked, taken aback.
She nodded. ‘I know what you’re thinking – how could she allow her
daughter to keep working as a whore? Well, she has no choice! When we
eventually saved enough money to buy out the previous madam, Mama
tried to persuade me to give it up and help her manage the place instead.
But it’s not what I wanted. I assist her with the bookkeeping but I continue
to prostitute myself. Maybe I do it to spite my father; maybe I just like
being in control of something when I grew up controlling nothing . . . I
don’t know. But, right or wrong, I make my own choices and my own
living, and this job is what I choose to do.’
Luciana stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray and stared outside at
the rooftops of the dimly lit town.
‘Why are you telling me this now?’ I asked.
‘Only our old housekeeper knew where we were and she didn’t tell a
soul. I received a letter from her this morning informing me my father was
dead. So now I’m ready to go home to Italy. And you are coming with me.’

CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty years earlier

22 October

The swirling ‘s’ in Nicholson gave away the name of its author before I
opened the envelope.
I wondered why Simon’s stepmother Shirley had written to me after
five years of mutual silence.
A white card lay inside with a photograph of Arthur attached. An
added Post-it note read: I would really appreciate it if you all could come.
I gazed out of the window and into the garden. Arthur’s and my paths
hadn’t crossed since I’d barged back into his life demanding to know who
Kenneth Jagger was. And it had been a long time since I’d given either of
them any thought.
And now I held an order of service for his funeral in my hand.

25 October

‘I’m convinced he died of a broken heart,’ Shirley admitted quietly after

Arthur’s cremation. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not blaming you.
But after your visit, he was never the same again.’
 The children, unamused at being dragged to the funeral of a
grandparent they barely remembered, sat in the corner of Shirley’s living
room huddled around a game on a mobile phone. Meanwhile, she’d ushered
me into the kitchen, away from the small number of mourners.
‘He’s alive, isn’t he?’ she asked solemnly, looking me straight in the
eye. ‘I mean Simon: he’s alive.’
I hesitated, reluctant to reopen a can of worms I’d struggled to keep a
lid on. But secretly, I longed to tell someone. She poured herself a glass of
wine and offered me one, but I shook my head.
‘A few days after you last saw Arthur,’ she continued, ‘he told me
you’d been to the house to ask about Kenneth. Then he told me the story
about Kenneth being Simon’s real dad. Well, I hadn’t had a clue but I could
understand why he’d not said anything, because he loved Simon like he was
his own. It hurt him having to rake it all up.’
‘I’m sorry, but I had no one else to ask,’ I replied, now wondering if
I’d done the right thing in dragging up his painful past.
‘He knew you must have asked for a reason, so he contacted Roger for
help in finding Kenneth. I think Arthur told him Kenneth was an old
schoolfriend or some fib like that. To cut a long story short, Roger put
Arthur in touch with the prison and they told Arthur what they’d told you –
that after Simon went missing he’d turned up there.’
‘I haven’t said anything to the kids,’ I replied defensively. ‘I don’t
think they should know.’
‘I wouldn’t have either,’ said Shirley firmly. ‘It would only cause more
damage. I saw what it did to Arthur. He couldn’t understand what he’d done
to make Doreen and his only child abandon him. Try as I might, I couldn’t
convince him it wasn’t his fault. He did his best to put a brave face on it,
but he became very depressed. He knew deep down Simon wouldn’t be
coming home, and eventually his heart became too heavy for him. He just
gave up.’
No matter what I’d thought of Arthur in the past, he’d always tried to
do his best by his son, but it wasn’t enough.
‘Do you still not have any idea why he left?’
‘I don’t know, Shirley. I just don’t know.’
‘This is long overdue, but I’m sorry,’ she added, grasping both my
hands. ‘On behalf of both of us, I’m sorry we didn’t give you the support
we should have, and I’m sorry for the accusations. We were awful to you –
and I, like Arthur, will go to my grave regretting that.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied. I knew she meant it. And now that I realised
she and Arthur were two more of Simon’s casualties, all those years of
bitterness between us began to drain away. I would not let him destroy
anyone else.
Shirley smiled appreciatively, took her glass and made her way back
into the living room.
‘Do you have any plans for Saturday night?’ I asked. She shook her
head. ‘Come to ours around six for something to eat so you can meet your
grandchildren properly.’
She gave a grateful nod, and a new chapter in our relationship began.

Northampton, today

5.50 p.m.

It began as a smirk, but it wasn’t long before she was unable to mask it,
even by pretending to cough.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, placing a hand over her mouth to stem a fit of
giggles. He glared at her, spooked by her reaction. He’d witnessed a range
of them throughout the day, but none that resembled amusement.
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she continued, ‘I really don’t. But how am I
supposed to react when you tell me you fell in love with a prostitute?’
She removed a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes, still
chuckling at the absurdity of it. She wouldn’t have believed it if someone
had told her yesterday that her missing husband was about to reappear and
explain how he’d been on a twenty-five-year, round-the-world jaunt. Oh,
and along the way he’d murdered one of her best friends and given his heart
to a whore, who, like him, had no qualms about killing people.
As her laughter faded, she wondered if she’d ever be able to
completely get to grips with all he’d said and done. Every time she tried to
get her head around a new revelation, along came another that dwarfed the
last. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts, alone.
 She said nothing when she left the room and headed for the garden.
Once outside, she didn’t know what to do with herself, so she unpegged the
clothes from the washing line and put to good use the breathing techniques
she’d learned in her Pilates classes.
He remained in the living room, thinking about Arthur. For so long,
memories of his father had been attached to unhappy ones of Doreen. He’d
failed to appreciate the man behind the mother, the man who’d loved him as
his own.
Neither of his parents had gone to their graves knowing what had
happened to their son. Only Kenneth had had matters resolved, and he’d
been the one who least deserved it.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ he whispered, and wiped the corners of his eyes with his
hand.

6.00 p.m.

‘If it’s any consolation, I didn’t plan to fall in love again,’ came his voice
from behind, startling her.
She stood in the kitchen with a red tea towel in her hands, like a
matador in a bullring. The more she’d asked herself how a whore could
give him a better life than she had, the more she wound herself up.
‘How much did she charge you?’ she snapped. ‘Fifty pounds? A
hundred? Or did you get a discount for being a regular customer?’
He didn’t respond because it was clear that anger was bringing out a
petty side to her. He weighed up whether it was worth trying to explain it to
her again, or if she was only going to hear what she wanted to hear.
‘Well, you sound like a perfect match,’ she continued. ‘I mean, you’re
both able to murder at the drop of a hat. At least you buried that body and
didn’t just leave it in the middle of the street like you did with Paula.
Actually, is that why you’re here? Is the tart back on the game, so now
you’ve come home?’
‘No, Catherine,’ he replied wearily. ‘I promised Luciana I’d put things
right with you before it was too late.’
‘You can never put right what you did to me. And I don’t need a
prostitute’s pity.’
A wall next to the pantry, covered with ornately carved wooden
picture frames she’d bought in Bali, distracted him. He got distracted a lot
these days.
They contained photographs of their children. The snapshots of life
without him spanned two decades, and he couldn’t help but wonder what
might have been.
‘Is this Robbie?’ he asked, pointing to a boy standing by a blue Ford
Fiesta. She nodded. ‘He looks so much like Luca.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘My son,’ he replied. ‘I have a daughter too.’
Her jaw dropped. But before she had the chance to fly off the handle
again, they were stopped in their tracks by the sound of the front door
opening. Time froze until Emily breezed into the kitchen.
‘Mum, did I leave my purse in—’ she began, before noticing her
mother had company. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, oblivious to the panic spreading
across her mother’s face. Her parents glared at each other like a clandestine
affair had been interrupted.
Mum, he silently repeated to himself. He recognised her as the girl
who’d passed him when he arrived at the cottage that morning and he lost
himself in the daughter he’d last seen as a toddler. How much have I missed
out on? he thought. Just how much?
Catherine’s brain went into slow motion, unable to muster a word of
explanation to her daughter as to the identity of the stranger before them.
She was petrified when he opened his mouth to speak.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m Darren.’ He smiled politely and held his hand
out towards Emily. It was the first name that sprang to mind. Old habits die
hard.
‘Hi,’ she replied, shaking it but still unsure who the dapper gentleman
with such warm hands was.
‘I’m an old schoolfriend of your mother’s,’ he said.
‘Really?’ asked Emily, enthusiastically. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
‘Yes, and you. I’ve not seen Catherine for many years and I was
passing through, so I thought I’d drop in on the off-chance she still lived
here.’
He was a convincing liar, Catherine conceded, but then he’d had so
much practice. She felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights as father and
daughter conversed, not knowing how to bring herself out of their glare.
‘I’m her daughter, Emily,’ she offered. ‘So what was my mum like at
school then? I bet she was a real goody two shoes.’
 He laughed. ‘You could say that. She was a bright thing, always
destined to do well.’
‘Has she told you about her shops?’ Emily asked, clearly proud of her
mother’s achievements. ‘She’s got eight now . . . even one on the King’s
Road in London.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, she’s done very well for herself.’
‘Anyway, Mum, did I leave my purse here?’
‘I’m . . . I’m not sure,’ she stuttered.
‘I’ll have a look,’ replied Emily as she headed towards the living
room. In her absence, Emily’s mother and father stared at each other – he
delighted to have met Emily, and her grateful he’d not revealed his identity.
They remained silent until she returned with her purse.
‘Found it. Do you still want to come round for dinner tonight, Mum?
Olivia’s been asking to see her granny, but if you’re busy with your friend,
we can do it another night?’
She saw him react when Emily said the word ‘granny’, and became
irritated he was learning things about her family he had no right to know.
‘Can I come tomorrow instead?’ she asked, her voice close to breaking. She
willed her daughter to leave.
‘Of course,’ Emily replied, and reached the door, then turned around.
‘Darren, if you went to school with my mum, you must have known my
dad, Simon?’
He dug his fingernails into his palm. ‘I recall him, but didn’t know
him very well, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh,’ said Emily, clearly disappointed. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you.
See you tomorrow, Mum.’
The door closed and they gradually made their descent back to earth,
remaining in a relieved but awkward silence.
‘She looks like you . . .’ he began eventually, but she wasn’t
interested.
‘Don’t,’ she replied. ‘Just don’t.’
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CATHERINE

Northampton, ten years earlier

14 August

We sat huddled together staring at a television hanging on the wall of the

Fox & Hounds’ function room. I switched between tapping my nails on a
tabletop with nervous excitement, and fiddling with a damp beer mat,
waiting.
Ten minutes felt like an eternity before the chirpy young presenter
announced what we’d gathered to see. The landlord turned the volume up
and an instant hush fell across the packed room.
‘Next up, it’s a band making their debut Top of The Pops performance.
In at this week’s number four, it’s Driver, with “Find Your Way Home”.’
A jubilant pub clapped and cheered as the camera cut to a close-up of
the guitarist strumming the opening bars of the song.
‘That’s him! That’s him!’ I yelled, unable to stop myself. There for all
to see was my son James, on the TV, playing with his band.
James had never given university a first, let alone second thought,
especially after forming a group with three other music-minded friends at
his upper school. They’d spent hours every night rehearsing in Simon’s old
garage-office, and I made them cover the walls with empty egg boxes from
the local poultry farm to stop the neighbours complaining about their
racket.
When James turned sixteen, my little boy became a free man, and his
first act of rebellion was to leave school with a handful of average GCSE
results and all the time in the world to follow his heart. It wasn’t what I’d
have chosen for him. I’d read enough over the years about showbiz
casualties to know it was a notoriously unpredictable and unforgiving
industry. But like I had done with my dreams and the boutique, I
encouraged my son to follow his even if they’d only lead him to the
unemployment office.
It took his band six long years of playing spit-and-sawdust venues
before their determination paid off. A record company A & R man watched
them on the bill at a small rock festival in Cornwall and spotted their
potential.
Eventually, their third single, ‘Find Your Way Home’, was picked up
by Radio 1, and before long their youthful good looks propelled them into
the pages of magazines, gossip columns and the charts. And Top of the Pops
was their first major TV exposure.
Robbie handed his grandmother Shirley and Emily tissues to dab their
eyes, and they weren’t the only ones who needed them. Tom had remained
in the kids’ lives even though we were no longer together and had joined us
at the pub with his lovely fiancée Amanda. He’d often been to Driver’s
gigs, and by the time their three and a half minutes of TV fame had ended,
he and I were both in tears. Everyone in the local pub had known James his
whole life and shared my sense of pride.
But I was proud of all my children, of course. Robbie had remained
the quietest of the bunch, even into his teenage years. But he’d overcome
his self-imposed exile and surprised us all by moving as far away as
Sunderland University to study things I didn’t really understand involving
computers, hard drives and mega-somethings. And with his graduation still
some time away, he’d already been offered and accepted a job in South
London designing graphics for games.
Emily took her mother’s and grandmother’s interest in clothing and
design one step further and couldn’t wait to start her first year at the London
College of Fashion. And while there was probably no easier way of
attracting boys than to tell them your brother’s been on Top of the Pops, she
only had eyes for Daniel, Selena’s son.
They’d been sweethearts forever, and watching them together making
each other laugh reminded me of Simon and I at their age. I prayed to God
Daniel would never hurt her like Simon had hurt me.
 I glanced around the pub at my family and friends, happy with my lot.
There was no significant other in my life, but I had three children I adored
and a business that had expanded to five boutiques across the county. And
with plans for three more, including one in London, my life was as close to
perfect as it was ever going to be. But the greatest moments of your life are
exactly that – just moments.
And by their design, moments don’t last.

SIMON
Montefalco, Italy, ten years earlier

3 July

‘That’s my lot. You win, my friend,’ I gasped, and dragged my leaden legs
across the red clay and towards the iced water under the pagoda’s shade.
Stefan, my coach, smiled and gave me a thumbs-up sign while I
downed the entire bottle’s contents to quench my thirst. I waved him
goodbye, mopped my sweating brow with a towel and caught my breath. I
cursed myself for being both a mad dog and an Englishman to schedule a
mid-afternoon tennis lesson under the searing Italian summer sun.
I was constantly in awe of my surroundings. I must have stared at our
breathtaking valleys and vineyards a hundred times, but I never took for
granted the warm embrace of the magnificent country around me.
When we first arrived in Italy, I’d been hesitant about the prospective
life that lay ahead for Luciana and me. It had been second nature for me to
live hand to mouth from limited means, but suddenly I’d found myself in
love with a woman who’d inherited a wealth I’d never dared to imagine.
And the potential for stability would take me worryingly far from what I’d
been accustomed to. I’d known the warmth of normality once, and I knew
the agony of having it torn away from me.
 Luciana sensed my trepidation on our arrival and squeezed my hand
reassuringly as her chauffeur drove his late padrone’s Bentley through the
open iron gates and up the brick-paved driveway.
I squinted as the sun played hide and seek behind the vast sprawling
villa ahead of us that Luciana had once called home. Lavender plants in
flowerbeds and terracotta pots filled the air with their scent.
We walked through its colossal wooden doors as she explained how a
house had stood in that spot for three hundred years. It was deliberately
constructed a mile above the town of Montefalco, as if to remind those
living under its shadow of its owner’s importance.
As soon as Luciana saw Marianna, her housekeeper, saviour and old
friend, she collapsed into her arms and cried with gratitude for her past
help. It was the first time I’d seen such vulnerability in her. Together they
wandered the villa’s haunted corridors, reliving lost memories of Luciana’s
sister and confronting the ghosts of her father.
I’d heard no positive stories about Signor Marcanio from Luciana’s
childhood recollections. But, quietly, I found something to admire in a man
so vulgar through his home.
He had restored the building’s charm with sympathetic and meticulous
effort. The gaping dual-aspect living room formed the centrepiece, its walls
supporting an exposed beamed ceiling some twenty feet high. The fireplace
was the room’s focal point, standing like a church altar ready for a
congregation that would never be invited inside.
But the pristine decor lacked any personal touch and there were no
family photographs or knick-knacks scattered around, only carefully
selected abstract paintings, ornate glass ornaments and an exotic fish tank.
Luciana had grown up within a man’s design, not his heart.
We weaved our way into the gardens, where cobbled patios cut into
vast, luscious lawns, some hidden from the sun’s reach under wooden
pagodas strewn with leafy vines. The positioning of the main terrace
enabled a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view, and a cobbled pathway
sloped downwards to a tennis court and swimming pool. And what a view it
was: mile after mile of vineyards and valleys painted in alternate shades of
greens and browns as far as the eye could see.
‘Do you think you could be happy here?’ she asked me tentatively as
we sat perched on a wall overlooking the canyons and lowlands.
 ‘It’ll take some getting used to, but yes, I could. More importantly, can
you?’
‘As long as I’m with you, I could be happy anywhere,’ she replied.
Luciana’s voyage into her past was relatively smooth. Signor
Marcanio had left no will before his fatal stroke, so his estate and
businesses were automatically awarded to a wife he’d not divorced. But
Madame Lola had no desire to return permanently, and remained in Mexico,
visiting us every few months for two weeks at a time. It was Luciana who
needed to be there and had something to prove.
She threw herself into her father’s business interests, but it took years
to wipe away his presence. His investments were wide and many, and their
value far exceeded what she’d first predicted. Her own accountants
unearthed an Aladdin’s cave of below-the-radar dealings masquerading as
reputable, so she culled each black sheep from the company portfolio until
only legitimate enterprises remained.
Luciana saw to it that removal men cleansed the house of the few
remaining traces of Signor Marcanio. His clothes were given away to
charity and his jewellery sent to auction, and the proceeds were donated to a
shelter for victims of domestic abuse. I briefly wondered what Catherine
had done with my things when I’d left.
Next, she reassured the small army of browbeaten maids, cleaners,
cooks and gardeners who’d scuttle past us, heads bowed, that this new
regime would not mirror the last.
And while she was kept busy untangling her father’s affairs, I focused
on Signor Marcanio’s sprawling, largely ignored vineyards. He’d treated the
production of wine as a hobby, and because it was the place of Caterina’s
suicide, it wasn’t an area Luciana was ready to be reminded of just yet.
I, however, wondered about its potential, as my desire to create and
construct reared its head once again. I knew nothing about the workings of
a winery, but I was a fast learner and a willing student. While the manager
patiently taught me all its aspects from land irrigation to pressing harvested
grapes and sourcing bottling plants, I knew it would take many years of
hard work and determination before I might turn her father’s pastime into a
profitable product.
Never had I imagined I could live a life so perfect, but that is what
Luciana and I came close to. But perfection comes at a price, and I was
scared of how much I’d pay in telling her my truths. As our years together
progressed, it became an increasing burden to hide the man I’d been from
the woman who’d rebuilt me.

1 September

I’d held Luciana’s hand while she bravely walked me through the
complicated chapters of her past. But what had she known of mine?
In truth, I had given away mere morsels – snapshots of a life lived
through the destruction of others. She had guessed children had once played
a part in my life, by observing my paternal instinct when our daughter Sofia
was born.
The first time I held her body in the crook of my arm, I whispered into
her ear words I never thought I’d use again: ‘I will never let you down.’
And when our son Luca followed a little over a year later, I vowed never to
have reason to go back on my promise, no matter how precarious my
journey became.
Most people are fortunate even to be given a second chance. My
family was my third chance and I no longer wanted to hide my flaws, mis-
sell my adventures or conceal my truths from her. I had shown Luciana
unconditional love and loyalty, but by keeping many past actions, reactions
and repercussions buried deep beneath my skin, I had little integrity.
We were sitting on the lowest tier of the garden terraces watching the
sun melt like ice cream over the vineyards, when she commented on my
silence.
‘You have the face of a troubled man,’ she began.
I considered denying it, but she could see through my every mask.
‘There are things I think you should know about me,’ I replied, afraid
to disfigure the beauty around us with my ugly words.
‘Tell me because you’re ready and not because you feel you should.’
‘I am, really, but I’m scared of how you’ll react.’
‘There is nothing you can tell me that will ever make me think any
less of you, Simon.’
Neither my head nor the pounding heart rattling against my ribcage
was convinced. But I couldn’t stop my ribbons from unspooling as I
explained how I’d met Catherine, and the children we’d had together. Then
I recalled in detail how it had gone so very, very wrong; about Billy; why
I’d had no option but to leave her; where I’d gone; about my mother, both
my fathers and then my travels.
I described how I’d relieved a dead man of his identity, why I’d muted
an old friend in Key West and how my guilt had manifested in my near self-
destruction. And I admitted that given the same circumstances, I’d probably
do exactly the same all over again because in its own twisted way, it had
been worth it. It had led me to Luciana.
I was prepared to accept any punishment or consequence she felt
necessary. For the first time, I was in the presence of someone who knew
almost as much about me as I did. And only when my history was complete
did my fists unclench as I waited for her to break the silence.
‘You did what you had to do,’ she said, finally. ‘Nobody can judge you
but God, Simon. I won’t. While I cannot lie and say the things you’ve done
haven’t been cruel and selfish, or that you haven’t hurt people who might
not have deserved it, you know that for yourself. And if you had to suffer
all of that to become the man and the father I love now, then so be it.’
She left her seat, sat on my lap and wrapped her arms around my
shoulders while the dam I’d spent fifteen years building crumbled under the
weight of my tears.
‘But you cannot hide from your family forever,’ she whispered.
‘Catherine deserves to know what happened to her husband, and your
children deserve to know why their father left. You, them . . . everyone
needs the chance to put the pieces together.’
My head pressed against a heart I knew would always be open to
mine. But hers wasn’t destined to beat for long.

Northampton, today

6.15 p.m.

The picture he painted of his life in Italy was all too vivid and left her
feeling bitterly cheated.
‘Those were our dreams,’ she said sorely. ‘We were going to retire to
Italy – you and I. They weren’t yours to take away and live with somebody
else.’
She moved across the kitchen, avoiding his eye, and removed a bottle
of wine from the cupboard. She kept alcohol in the house only for guests,
and it had been two decades since a drop had passed her lips. But if ever
she’d needed a glass, it was today.
‘It’s a good year,’ he offered inappropriately as she uncorked it.
‘What is?’
‘The wine. It’s one of ours – 2008, if I’m not mistaken.’
She glanced at the label: Caterina’s Vineyard, it read. She rolled her
eyes, poured herself a glass regardless and took a hesitant sip, but wine
didn’t taste like she remembered it – or maybe it was just that anything he’d
come into contact with was destined to leave a sour taste in her mouth. She
poured the rest of the glass down the sink.
She mulled over Luciana’s reaction to his confession and couldn’t
comprehend why she’d forgiven him so readily. And it irked her that it had
taken a whore to set his moral compass straight when it came to facing up
to his crimes.
‘I suppose it says something about her, doesn’t it,’ she began
rhetorically. ‘I mean, I don’t know why I’m surprised that a woman who
sold her body and had two bastard children with a married man could
forgive him for murder. She’s hardly Mother Teresa, is she?’
‘Say what you want about me, Catherine, I’m old enough and ugly
enough to take it,’ he began defensively, ‘and a little of it I probably
deserve, but do not bring Luciana and my children into this. They have
done nothing to you. I’m sorry if you haven’t liked what you’ve heard, but
it’s the truth, and in the great scheme of things, it doesn’t matter how I got
here. Because I’m here now, and I want to make my peace with you.’
‘Make your peace? How generous of you! Jesus, man, you should be
on your hands and knees begging for my forgiveness! You should be here
because you realised all by your stupid self that what you did to us was
terrible, not because you were told to by my replacement.’
‘She wasn’t your replacement.’
‘You replaced all of us with them.’
‘I didn’t plan to start another family.’
‘With a whore, let’s not forget.’
‘No, with Luciana.’
‘A whore – you even called her that yourself. And a murderer.’
 ‘Don’t call her those things, please.’
‘But that’s what she is, isn’t she? A whore who killed two people. At
least you had a lot in common.’
‘It doesn’t matter what she did,’ he shouted. ‘She’s the mother of my
children.’
By the time he’d realised the irony of his words, it was too late.
‘And what was I?’ she yelled, throwing the glass into the sink,
shattering it. ‘A trial run? You didn’t give a damn about the mother of your
other children! You traded us in for a woman who’d screw any man if he
had cash in his wallet! And you expect me to offer her some respect?’
‘You really don’t understand,’ he replied, shaking his head.
Once again he was disappointed by her reaction. He thought he’d
explained there was so much more to Luciana’s make-up than the choices
she’d made to survive. But repeatedly, she’d chosen to focus only on the
negative. He began to feel tired and disappointed that even after all this
time, she was still so bitter.
‘I didn’t leave you to run off with another woman and start another
family,’ he continued.
‘You might not have set out to do it, but you did it all the same.’
‘Could I use your bathroom, please?’ he asked, his head now hurting
from her ill-tempered reaction.
His ability to change the subject at the most inopportune moments
frustrated her. Several times he’d cut her off in the midst of her responses.
Either he was trying to defuse the situation or he’d lost his ability to focus
on one subject for any length of time.
‘Yes,’ she replied, fatigued.
He turned to leave the kitchen and walked towards the staircase before
pausing.
‘I’m sorry, can you remind me where it is?’
She frowned; he’d lived in the house for almost ten years, and earlier
that day he had stood on the other side of the door as she vomited after he
recalled what he’d done to Paula.
‘Upstairs, on the left.’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Of course it is.’
When he’d finished urinating, he rinsed his hands in the sink and
stared into the mirror she’d referred to as the unforgiving one. She was
right, he thought. It made his cheeks look puffy and paled his skin like an
old man’s.
He noticed the bathroom still had the faint odour of bile as he removed
the blister pack of tablets from his jacket pocket and scowled at the enemy.
He cupped a hand under the tap and swallowed two of the pink pills. He
considered taking one of the antidepressants his doctor had also prescribed,
but he hated the synthetic happiness it brought him.
He surveyed a room he never thought he’d be standing in again as he
felt the tablets sink slowly into his belly. The layout was the same, but the
suite was no longer a dowdy avocado colour; it was plain white with silver
fixtures and sandstone tiles. He approved of her taste. It wouldn’t look out of
place in my home.
His eyes were drawn to the bath and the mat that lay in front of it,
when a cold breeze suddenly swept through the room. The chill made the
hairs on his arms reach for the heavens. He panicked and struggled to catch
his breath. His eyes darted back and forth as he remembered the aroma of
the bubble bath and the sound of her muffled voice in the bedroom that day.
He shook his head until the thoughts disappeared, and he took a long, hard
breath.
Just hang in there, he told himself, and hoped his brain was listening.
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CATHERINE

Northampton, three years earlier

2 February

‘Bloody useless,’ I grumbled as I yanked off my glasses and stuffed them

back into their case on the kitchen table.
I left the accounts ledger I’d been ploughing through all morning to
fend for itself, rubbed my weary eyes and rummaged through a drawer for
my painkillers.
Arthritis was making its way through my ankle and I didn’t have the
energy I’d once had to work all the hours I needed to.
I’d survived for so long without the need of a second set of eyes, and
had thought of it as a minor triumph in my war against age. However, the
nature of my work relied on a strong eye for detail and an even more
tenacious one for flaws. Together, they’d gradually taken their toll on my
vision.
So when blurriness and headaches went from occasional to daily and
then to just bloody annoying, I finally gave up fighting and made an
optician’s appointment. My reward was a £200 bill and a pair of glasses I
resented. They made me look like my mother, and to be honest, they were a
fat lot of use. My eyesight had improved a little but the headaches still
came. So I swallowed two tablets, and left the spreadsheets for another day.
The growling of two very loud engines above the house caught my
ear, so I went out onto the lawn and squinted at the sky. Three yellow
vintage biplanes flew so low overhead I could see their pilots. Then,
without warning, my head exploded.
There was no noise, just a pain I’d never felt before, followed by
complete disorientation. I saw nothing but blackness peppered with bright
shining stars. My eyes burned and my whole head throbbed like one of
James’s guitar amplifiers when he turned it up loud. I dropped to my knees
and steadied myself by digging my fingernails into the grass.
The pain dissolved after a few moments, but my body was trembling
and I was hit by a savage migraine and sickness straight away. I slowly
stood up and fumbled my way into an empty house, grasping onto
windowsills and furniture to keep from keeling over. I fell onto the sofa,
breathing quickly as my vision slowly returned.
Then I closed my eyes and slept for the rest of the day and night.

SIMON
Montefalco, Italy, three years earlier

11 February

It had begun as an innocuous little lump on her left index finger – nothing
you’d notice without searching for it, and certainly no bigger than a small
ball bearing.
It itched, Luciana told me, and the more she scratched it, the sorer it
became. Two weeks passed and it continued to irritate her, so I persuaded
her to make an appointment to see her doctor to check it wasn’t an infected
insect bite. He admitted it puzzled him, so he erred on the side of caution
and took a biopsy. Within five days, we were called back to his surgery to
discover that innocuous little lump we could barely see was going to make
our perfect lives implode.
It was malignant.
 We carried on with our lives regardless and with relative normality
while we awaited the results of an urgent barrage of tests to ensure it was
just a one-off, random cluster of cancerous cells. Luciana remained
convinced we had nothing to fear, but inside I knew the darkness I’d eluded
for two decades had found me again.
Our wealth paid for speedier results, but it couldn’t pay for positive
ones. Her cancer was not a rogue occurrence, but a secondary form. Its
parasitic parent had already made a home in her right breast before silently
creeping around her body.
‘I believe it’s an intrusive cancer that’s already spread to a kidney and
your stomach,’ her doctor began solemnly, then paused as we absorbed the
news.
Luciana reacted like she would towards one of her businesses failing.
Without a hint of self-pity, she was collected, optimistic and sought to
formulate a plan of attack. ‘What are my options?’ she asked without
expression, staring her doctor firmly in the eye.
‘It has moved far too quickly and it’s incurable, Luciana,’ he replied
softly. ‘I’m very, very sorry.’
‘There are always options,’ she said firmly, gripping my hand tightly.
‘We can try and control it as best we can. But the best-case scenario is
a year to eighteen months.’
She nodded her head slowly. ‘That’s good,’ she replied. ‘That’s a good
time. I can get a lot done in that time.’
We left his surgery too stunned to speak and with a schedule of
medical treatments designed to slow down her cancer’s rate of growth. We
each had one eye on the clock. Hers was to remind herself of how much
longer she had left as the centre of my universe.
Mine was to decide on the right time to leave her.

CATHERINE
Northampton
14 February

The second explosion walloped me almost a fortnight after the first, as I

wandered around the supermarket shopping for groceries. It followed the
same course as its predecessor – unexpected, excruciating stabs to the brain,
darkness, white lights and then dizziness – and it scared me to death. Not
just because of how much it hurt, but because it meant the first wasn’t a
one-off.
I tried in vain to steady myself against a freezer chest, but I missed the
lid and fell into an ungainly heap on the floor. Someone helped me to my
feet and took me to the manager’s office, where a kind boy asked if he
should call me an ambulance. But I reassured him I’d just had a funny turn
and all I needed was to sit down and compose myself.
I tried to fool myself into thinking it was nothing more than a delayed
but extreme reaction to my new HRT medication. But I knew the difference
between a hot flush and something that was trying to blow my scalp off.
And naively keeping my fingers crossed and praying it would go away as
quickly as it had appeared probably wouldn’t work.
Nevertheless, I chose denial. I took a few days off and left Selena in
charge of the shops so I could hide in the safety of my home. And when a
week passed without incident, I almost began to stop waiting for another
one. More fool me, because the next was by far the worst.
I was in my granddaughter Olivia’s bedroom at Emily and Daniel’s
house, playing imaginary tea parties, when my words became slurred and
jumbled.
‘Teddy cake go and find to him,’ I mumbled, unable to correct myself.
In my mind, I knew what I was trying to say but when it came out, it made
no sense. I tried again, then again and again, but it made no difference.
‘Nana, you’re being funny,’ giggled Olivia, but it was only amusing to
a three-year-old. I tried several more sentences but each one failed.
Terrified, I lifted myself off the floor and perched on her bed.
‘Mummy for Nana,’ I begged. ‘Mummy . . . Nana.’
Her little face fell and I could tell I was scaring her. She ran from the
room yelling for Emily.
I remained frozen on her bed, and the last thing I heard were her feet
scampering down the staircase before I fell unconscious.
 SIMON
Monte Falco

16 February

It was a myth that God is merciful. To me, he was a cruel, cold-hearted,

vindictive bastard who was predominantly interested in punishing me. From
birth, he had strewn my path with a deceitful mother, cunning friends and
disloyal lovers.
I’d tried so hard to live a good life since I met Luciana, and for a time,
he’d fooled me into believing he’d taken notice. He’d blessed me with two
incredible children and the love of a woman I didn’t deserve.
I showed my gratitude by being a worthy husband, a doting father and
a charitable man. A third of the profits from our winery went directly to a
foundation providing aid to the children of poverty-stricken widows in the
region. We sponsored five scholarships for gifted students from low-income
families to attend the same private school as Sofia and Luca. We’d even
donated three acres of land to a sanctuary for retired working horses.
But that wasn’t enough for God. Not nearly enough. By granting us a
life of privilege, he’d merely lulled me into a false sense of security before
striking me with his next blow. He could have taken Luciana away from me
in an instant with a sudden, fatal accident. But he decided he’d gain more
pleasure in watching me suffer, watching her suffer.
I’d already experienced life with someone so utterly tortured by
sorrow that they were unable to recognise night from day. I’d been the one
who had hovered in the corners of rooms, watching as grief devoured
Catherine.
Now history was about to repeat itself and I was going to be forced to
see the love of my life slipping away. The only way I could prevent his
victory was to do what I knew best – run. And when I was miles and miles
from her failing body, I would remember with fondness her love – and not
someone locked into a death sentence.
 Our house had not been built of brick, as I’d thought, but of feathers.
A wind I couldn’t harness would destroy it whether I was present or not.

CATHERINE
Northampton

18 February

‘I’m sorry to tell you this, Mrs Nicholson, but the scans suggest you have
an intracranial solid neoplasm, otherwise known as a brain tumour, on the
left-hand side of your temple,’ explained Dr Lewis, as sympathetically as he
could.
Four days after my last attack, I had yet to leave the hospital. When
Dr Lewis came to my room with the results of the MRI scans and blood
tests, I wished I’d not insisted Emily leave her bedside vigil and go home to
rest, so that I had somebody’s hand to hold.
‘We will need to operate as soon as possible to take a sample, then test
if it’s malignant or benign,’ Dr Lewis continued. ‘I’d like to arrange it for
first thing tomorrow morning, if that would be convenient?’
‘Is it going to kill me?’ was all I could think to ask.
‘Once we get the results of the biopsy we can decide which approach
to take. The tumour is most likely the cause of your headaches – blood
vessels in your brain bursting under the pressure as it grows.’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ I said. ‘Is it going to kill me?’
He paused. ‘We’ll know its severity once we do the biopsy. Then we’ll
talk again.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied politely, and picked up Emily’s iPod, put the
headphones into my ears, closed my eyes and blasted her music as loud as I
could to drown out my fears.
 SIMON
Montefalco

20 February

I walked away from Luciana with only what I’d brought with me – the
clothes on my back and an uncertain future.
I knew starting afresh would be a much harder task, as my years were
more advanced than when I’d last decamped. Nevertheless, my mind was
made up.
I waited until she was alone at a doctor’s appointment and the children
were at school before I packed my old rucksack with the bare essentials and
began the steep walk downhill to the town in the shadow of the villa.
I planned to make my way up to Switzerland and then through
Austria, before exploring the Eastern bloc. According to the bus stop
timetable, it would be another hour before my ride arrived, so I sat by the
side of the road and began the process of putting the life I had cherished so
much out of my mind.
Only I couldn’t.
The boxes were open and waiting, but the beautiful spirits I loved so
dearly were too large a presence to be contained. I had left my other
children when they were too young to be affected by my absence. I’d only
left Catherine when she was finally well enough to cope with it.
But Luciana, Sofia and Luca were different – and now so was I. They
had made me a better man. I thought about how, through Catherine’s
sadness, I’d learned to tend to fragility and incite a person into believing
that, against all hope, there was always hope to be found if they just kept
searching.
I couldn’t find that hope for Luciana, so she would need me more than
Catherine ever did. I’d spent half my life running away from my
responsibilities and I was an idiot for thinking I could do it again. But if I
stayed, I’d need to muster up all my strength to help the three of them and
the four of us.
I couldn’t allow myself to shed a tear or feel an ounce of self-pity until
Luciana surrendered to the inevitable. It would be our cancer, not just hers –
we would both take ownership of it.
By the time my bus appeared, I was already half the way home. I
didn’t hear the car pull up next to me until its rear door opened. Inside sat
Luciana. She looked at my sweating brow and my rucksack and she knew
instantly what I had planned. She saw the coward in me. But her eyes
softened when she understood I was walking towards our life and not from
it.
She stepped out of the car, closed the door, entwined her arm through
mine and we climbed the rest of the steep hill together.

CATHERINE
Northampton

1 March

All of my children were sitting around my hospital bed when I came round
from my operation. Even though they were normally scattered far and wide
across the country and beyond, they’d always remained a close-knit bunch,
phoning and texting each other to keep up to speed. I wondered if they’d
have been like that had we not been forced to close ranks after their father
deserted them.
Emily and Daniel’s wedding four months earlier had been the last time
we’d all been together in the same room. Giving my daughter away was one
of the proudest moments of my life, and I pitied Simon for throwing away
his chance to be in my place.
Emily had broken my news to the boys earlier that week despite my
pleas not to worry them. Robbie drove up from his flat in London, and
James flew back from Los Angeles where he’d been recording with his
band.
I kept my eyes closed at first just to listen to their chatter. Then the
urge to vomit took hold as my anaesthetic wore off. The first words they
heard their post-op mother mumbling were ‘I’m going to be sick’ followed
by the act itself, all over the bedsheets. Charming.
The morphine either knocked me out or left me barely conscious for
two days. Even in sleep, my headaches were constant – but because of the
operation, not the tumour, Dr Lewis explained. A few days later, he was
back to remove my bandages and check on my healing.
‘Can I take a look, please?’ I asked tentatively.
I held my breath as he passed me my mirror from the bedside table
and I slowly examined from all angles what looked like a machete wound.
The hair had been shaved on the left side of my still swollen head, leaving
me with a three-inch, crescent-shaped wound, pinned together with large
black staples.
There was also a prominent concave dip in my head, and I wondered
for a moment if it was deep enough to catch rainwater. I tried really hard to
take it on the chin, but my emotions were as raw as the cut. When I was
alone I couldn’t help but pick up the mirror and stare at my grotesque self.
All I needed was a bolt though my neck and Dr Frankenstein could have
claimed me as his own creation.
Dr Lewis came to see me a few days later. But my brain, in its own
infinite but damaged wisdom, decided to filter out what he was explaining.
Once he’d confirmed the remains of my tumour were indeed cancerous,
there was very little else I wanted to hear.
I saw him almost every morning during my hospital stay. His skilled
hands had tinkered around inside my brain like it was the engine of an old
jalopy. But I still didn’t know a thing about the man who’d seen a part of
me that no one else ever had. So instead of listening to his words – which I
knew early on were going to make me unhappy – I focused on the man
delivering them.
I placed him in his mid-fifties. He was blessed with a thick head of
greying hair. His teeth had been capped but the wrinkles etched on his
forehead from years of puzzling over cases like mine showed he wasn’t
vain enough to use Botox. He reminded me of a slightly less swarthy
Antonio Banderas.
He didn’t wear a wedding ring, so he was either eligible or just one of
those men who wasn’t comfortable with jewellery. And when he spoke, I
couldn’t decide if I was attracted to him because every girl loves a doctor,
or because he was the only man I’d ever met who could really see inside a
woman’s head.
‘Catherine?’
Suddenly I was back in the room.
‘Do you need a minute, Catherine?’
‘No, I’m fine, please carry on,’ I replied in an exaggerated, cheerful
way.
‘On a positive note, we know it’s not a secondary tumour, so there’s
no cancer elsewhere in your body. We managed to scrape much of it out,
but because of its awkward positioning, we couldn’t remove it all. So the
next course of action will be radiotherapy to try and prevent it from
destroying any other parts of the brain.’
‘Okay then, well, thank you very much,’ I chirped.
I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to shake his hand like we’d just
completed a business deal.

SIMON
Montefalco

18 March

Breaking the news to Luca and Sofia that their mother wasn’t immortal was
the hardest illusion I’d ever shattered. I took them to lunch at a restaurant
near Lake Trasimeno, a place where I’d occasionally brought them as
children, to hike and to pretend to fish.
Luca at fourteen and Sofia at almost sixteen responded to the news
with tears, disbelief and denial. They were angry with their father for failing
to protect their mother, at her doctors for not repairing her, and at Luciana
for instilling a time limit on their relationship.
But I made them promise to take their distress out on me and not her.
Instead they gave her cuddles, picked her flowers from the gardens and
filled her iPhone with music to listen to during her first hospital stay.
It’s difficult to reconcile the knowledge there’s something feeding on
your body when you can’t see it or swipe it away. Only when the
physicality of its damage becomes visible does it make it real. In Luciana’s
case, the gravity of the situation hit home when she had her double
mastectomy. While it wouldn’t cure her, it might give us more time.
‘Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped on a conveyor belt but if I try and
get off it, I’ll die,’ Luciana muttered.
I stroked her arm as she floated on a glorious cloud of morphine above
her sterile hospital bed. ‘I know, darling,’ I whispered, ‘but if it means the
kids and I get to share more time with you, then it’s worth it.’
‘Remind me of that after the chemotherapy begins,’ she replied, before
closing her eyes and setting sail for the skies again.

CATHERINE
Northampton

18 March

Telling the children my tumour was cancerous was almost as hard as when I
explained their daddy wasn’t coming home and was likely dead.
Even though they were adults, I still reassured them everything was
going to be okay, like mothers do, although I couldn’t be sure it would.
Emily responded practically, by planning care rotas and making sure I never
went for treatment alone.
Robbie drove home every Friday night to stay for weekends and help
out where he could around the house, and James promised to call every day
no matter where in the world he was.
Shirley, Baishali, and Tom’s new bride Amanda filled my freezer
drawers with a never-ending supply of hot pots, pastries and casseroles.
Selena was already responsible for area-managing my boutiques, so it made
sense for her to take the reins and oversee the rest of the business too.
It was only when the fuss died down and I was home alone that the
seriousness of my situation hit me. I wrote a card for Olivia’s fourth
birthday and wondered if I’d be around to see her next one, then couldn’t
stop myself from crying my eyes out.
I hadn’t sobbed that hard since we’d found Oscar’s lifeless body in his
basket a decade earlier. I remembered how each one of us took it in turns to
hold him, stroke him and brush his ginger and black wiry coat and tell him
how much we’d miss him. Then I wrapped him in a blanket and carried him
to the bottom of the garden, where Robbie had dug a hole under the crab-
apple tree as deep as his arms could stretch.
We gently placed Oscar into the ground and lay Simon’s running shoes
by his side, before heaping soil and tears on his final resting place. I smiled
when I wondered if that’s what the kids would do to me, too.
At an age where I should have been thinking about taking my foot off
the accelerator, I was desperately trying to stay in the car.

SIMON
Montefalco

17 April

Luciana had shied away from examining her altered appearance in the
hospital room, preferring to do it in the cosiness of our home.
She stood before our bedroom mirror, unbuttoned her loose-fitting
blouse and carefully unravelled the zigzag of bandages that covered her
torso like an Egyptian mummy. A six-inch horizontal scar lay beneath, lip-
red and raised. At a glance you’d be mistaken for thinking it had been
clumsily hacked off with pinking shears.
 ‘I once kept a roof over my mother’s and my head with these,’ she
lamented. ‘Now I’m a monstrosity.’
I wrapped my arms around her waist but she tried to edge away. So I
held on tighter. And looking her reflection in the eye, I tenderly traced her
scar from right to left as she steadied her shaking hands on my arm.
‘I hate it,’ she continued.
‘I don’t,’ I replied. ‘Your loss is my gain. It’s a beautiful scar because
it means I get to keep you for longer.’

CATHERINE
Northampton

18 April

Information and a positive mental attitude were the most powerful weapons
I could have in my armoury. At least that’s what the Internet told me.
I began my fight by taking the laptop to my bedroom, placing it on my
knees and learning about the enemy within from the comfort of my own
duvet. I searched on Google for survival statistics, then message boards and
forums, asking questions and weeping at stories written in memoriam about
those who’d lost the fight.
No matter how many positive things I read, it was always the negative
ones that stuck in my head. And sometimes I’d have rock-bottom moments
where I thought ‘sod it’ and wondered how much easier it’d be if I gave in
and let nature take its course. But there was still so much of life I wanted to
experience, so many places I hadn’t travelled to and business opportunities I
wanted to explore. I wasn’t ready to give up.
I drank cup after cup of herbal tea and munched on snacks high in
antioxidants while researching complementary treatments and holistic
remedies.
 When I next found myself at the hospital, with my face covered in wet
plaster bandages, my scar was healing and my hair was gradually growing
back from when it had been shaved for the operation. Staff at the
radiotherapy unit had to make a mould of my head to create a Perspex mask
before my treatment began.
Once it was complete, I sat with my mask in my lap, tracing the
impression of the curves, crevices, lumps and bumps of my head. It was
then attached to a table and, with my head slotted inside it, I was kept
perfectly still while, five days a week for seven weeks, a machine blasted
my dent with a ten-minute burst of radiation.
The sessions often left me nauseous, so I was never more than a few
feet away from a bucket. But mostly I was just exhausted. And as a result, I
lost interest in anything that didn’t involve me.
I couldn’t be bothered to read newspapers, listen to the news or Radio
4’s Desert Island Discs. Instead I dipped in and out of OK! Magazine and
watched This Morning on breakfast TV for my fix of world events.
The seventeen types of tablets I took each day controlled when I ate,
what I drank, when I woke up, what time I napped and how far away I
could be from the nearest toilet. I hated them, but by controlling my life,
they were saving it.
But nothing I read on the Internet had warned me of how much cancer
treatment could drain your femininity. Lack of regular exercise and steroids
gave me a moon-face and made my weight balloon. Make-up only
highlighted how ugly I’d become and made me look like a cheap drag act,
so even the basics like lipstick and mascara were left to gather dust on the
dressing table. In fact, my entire beauty regime was given the heave-ho.
I hadn’t coloured my hair for so long, it looked like I’d taken to
wearing a silver skullcap. My legs resembled the Forest of Dean, and the
skin on my left cheek near the radiotherapy zone was corrugated and sore.
The pricey moisturisers I’d bought on my trips to Paris were boxed up
and put into a cupboard, and replaced with E45 cream and aloe vera. I
avoided my beautiful wardrobe of Gucci and Versace outfits and asked
Selena to order me a selection of brightly coloured, elasticated leisure suits.
I went from couture to velour.
And I all but ignored my own reflection. I wouldn’t give that bloody
bathroom mirror the satisfaction of seeing me in such a state.
 SIMON
Montefalco

27 July

Our family crammed so many memories into the time we’d been allowed.
A former colleague of Luciana’s father with a shady reputation
secured me a forged British passport of my own. So the four of us flew
from city to city across Europe for weekend breaks and explorations.
And when the short bursts of chemotherapy on Luciana’s kidney and
stomach weakened her resolve, we hid indoors and watched old Jimmy
Stewart and Audrey Hepburn films with subtitles instead.
A large proportion of her hospital appointments involved tests and
scans. They could be fraught affairs not only because many were invasive,
but because each time, her disease had advanced that little bit further.
The shame I felt over my earlier plan to abandon her and teach God a
lesson pushed me to double my efforts to be there for her. I became more
than just Luciana’s chauffeur and helper; I was also part of her treatment
team.
I never missed a single appointment again, and even when her doctors
and specialists probably didn’t welcome my presence, I sat by her side and
irritated them with questions and suggested drug trials and treatments I’d
read about on the Internet. I didn’t care what they thought of my silly ideas.
She was my soulmate, not theirs.
The side effects of Luciana’s treatment were undignified when
occasionally she’d soil herself. Sometimes the palms of her hands felt like
ice blocks, and I’d rub them hard between mine to make her feel human
again. Or she could spend days in bed poleaxed by crippling stomach pains.
All I could do was fill her plastic beaker with water or rub her arm as she
vomited. It was heartbreaking to witness and feel so useless.
Madame Lola frequently flew from Mexico to stay with us.
Sometimes Luciana wanted both of us around her, and other times, it was
just one of us. And occasionally she took herself down to the vineyards to
sit alone on a blanket her sister had crocheted and watch the grape pickers
come and go.
Whatever made her happy made me happy.

CATHERINE
Northampton

8 October

‘It’s looking good, Catherine, it’s looking good,’ said Dr Lewis, nodding as
he examined my latest X-ray against a light box.
I didn’t feel it, I thought, but I kept quiet for fear of sounding like an
old whingebag. My check-ups with him were the only highlight of my
miserable weeks. Sometimes, the dishy doctor dropped by on treatment
days to say hello and offer words of encouragement. He’d pat me on the
shoulder each time he left and I’d always get goosebumps.
I’d had no significant other in my life since Tom. I holidayed alone; I
shopped alone; I went to parties alone; to Selena’s wedding and Olivia’s
christening alone; to Emily and Robbie’s graduations alone. I’d been on
dinner dates with several men over the years, sometimes set up by friends
and others who I’d met through the boutique. But there was nobody who’d
reacquainted me with romance. Or maybe I just hadn’t given them much of
a chance.
I’d spent so long throwing myself into my business and my children’s
lives that it hadn’t given me time to think about what I might be lacking.
Now I was spending time at home recovering, and I began to realise what
I’d been missing out on. I was lonely, and fed up with being everybody’s
single friend.
Dr Lewis was the first man who’d turned my head in some time.
Albeit a bulbous and, in places, dented head. So I made a deal with myself:
if I could make it through my treatment and get a second shot at life, I’d
throw my hat in the ring, open myself up and take a gamble on love.

SIMON
Montefalco

18 November

Luciana insisted on taking care of all the details of her birthday party
herself. Despite my protestations, nothing was going to prevent her from
leading the team of caterers and planners she’d hired to throw a lavish
fortieth birthday party.
‘I am bored, Simon – I need to do this,’ she explained with a passion I
thought her disease had extinguished. ‘I need to have one day where we’re
all thinking about the present, not the future.’
I decided against arguing with her. Friends, our children’s friends, our
staff and their families, the doctors and nurses who treated her, and villagers
joined us as we threw open the doors to our home.
Waiters served drinks as ice sculptures slowly melted into lawns; a
casino in the dining room made temporary millionaires out of some, while
others danced to a twenty-five-piece swing band playing Rat Pack classics
on the terrace. It had been many months since I’d last heard laughter
echoing through the corridors.
Mid-evening, I searched high and low for Luciana until I found her
perched on a stone wall, her bare feet resting in the infinity pool that
overlooked the valley. I placed my arm around her shoulder and she rested
her head on it as we stared into a distance we could never reach.
‘It’s not working,’ she whispered.
‘Of course it is. There are two hundred people behind us having the
time of their lives.’
 ‘No. The treatment. Sometimes at night when I’m trying to sleep, I
can feel the disease finding new bones to dine on.’
I shivered. ‘No, it’s your imagination. I’ve read about it, plenty of
people with cancer think they can hear the cells growing but—’
She gave me a gentle look that asked me not to doubt her. ‘You know
this party isn’t just to celebrate my birthday, don’t you? It’s my way of
saying—’
‘Please don’t,’ I interrupted, my throat tightening.
‘I’m ready, Simon.’
‘I’m not. Please don’t go without me.’
‘I have to. And we have two wonderful children who need you.’
‘But I need you.’
‘And one day, by God’s good grace, we will find each other again. But
for now, let’s enjoy the time we have together, shall we?’
She rose to her feet and moved her hand towards mine. We linked
fingers and I wrapped my other arm around her skeletal waist as we swayed
together for the last time. And, as if on cue, the band began to play the
opening bars of ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance’.

CATHERINE
Northampton, two years earlier

9 April

Radiotherapy and chemotherapy had ravaged my looks, sapped my strength

and ruined my wardrobe, but thirteen months after my diagnosis, they gave
me back my life.
‘The tumorous cells have entered a phase where they’ve stopped
growing or multiplying,’ explained Dr Lewis, with a broad smile on his
face. He looked like the news was going to change his life, not mine. ‘I’m
really pleased, Catherine.’
 I slumped down in my chair and nearly screamed with relief. He might
have delivered news like that to a thousand patients over the years, but
Dr Lewis couldn’t possibly have known just how much it meant for me to
hear I was going to live. It meant God had listened when I’d asked him for
more time: that now I’d have the chance to see my granddaughter grow up,
watch my children get older, and to do all the things I’d never made time to
do on my wish list.
‘It doesn’t mean the cells will never appear again,’ he warned, ‘but it
could mean the tumour has been destroyed and the area it occupied in the
brain is composed of only dead tissue.’
‘So what you’re telling me is I’m brain-dead.’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes. Now you won’t need to come back to
see me for another three months.’
I stood up to leave, and was about to thank him for all he had done
when I remembered the promise I’d made to myself about taking a gamble.
So instead I asked: ‘Does it have to be that long until I see you again?’

SIMON
Montefalco

9 April

The end came too close to our beginning.

The most gifted Italian specialists money could hire were unable to
prevent the cancer from wreaking havoc on her body. The tumours wouldn’t
shrink, only the eighteen months we’d hoped for. Once they infected
Luciana’s lungs and seeped into her bones, there was very little any clinic
could do but send her home so we could make her remaining weeks
comfortable. Drugs eased her pain considerably but transformed her into a
vacant, slumbering shell.
 Our children had already bid farewell to the mother they’d known
when a diseased impostor took her place. Hearing and observing her
obvious discomfort began to scar them, so I encouraged them to embrace
their youth with their friends and shun death’s waiting room. Only when she
slept would I allow them into our bedroom to visit.
I employed a round-the-clock staff of nurses to attend to Luciana’s
needs, but for the most part, I took care of her myself as best I could. I had
not wanted to admit how vulnerable she was, but begrudgingly I accepted
that was exactly what she’d become. The emaciated frame that barely
dented our bedsheets bore little resemblance to the enigma I’d loved. Her
angular bones jutted out of her paper-thin flesh. Her olive skin had greyed
and her eyes remained glued tight.
I felt her pain as much as anyone watching a loved one in physical
distress could. It didn’t matter what dose of anaesthetic the syringe driver
regulated her body with – it simply wasn’t enough.
After one awful night in our crepuscular hole, she clasped my fingers
tightly as lucidity made its slight return.
‘You know what to do, Simon,’ she groaned, opening her eyelids to
reveal whites pricked with brown flecks. She referred to a conversation
we’d never had, yet both understood.
Please don’t ask me to do this, I yearned to reply. But if you truly love
someone with every ounce of your being, you’ll die for them, or you’ll help
them to die if waiting for the inevitable is too much for them to bear.
‘You’re sure?’ I hardly needed to ask.
She nodded slowly. ‘Tell our children I love them. And promise me
that before you join me, you will make things right with God and with
Catherine. She must know what you did and that you are sorry.’
She felt my hesitancy and squeezed my fingers again. ‘I hurt too much
to live,’ she continued, ‘but I’m terrified to leave in case I never see you
again. You must give me your word.’
She stared at me with such expectation that I knew I couldn’t make my
last promise to her a lie.
‘You have my word,’ I replied.
The corners of her darkened lips rose very slightly before her eyes
closed one last time.
My legs were heavy as I walked from her bed towards the medicine
trolley in the bathroom. My hands shook as I followed her nurse’s
instructions on how to prep a syringe.
I drew triple the required amount of morphine from the vial and went
back to her. It took all the courage left in my heart to place the needle tip
into a near-invisible vein in her forearm. Then I reluctantly pushed the
plunger until the glass barrel drained.
In less than a minute, her agony made way for sweet relief.
As she lay before me, I climbed onto our bed, placed my head on her
chest and listened to the ever-quieting sound of her heartbeat. Its gentle,
diminishing rhythm eased me to sleep where I dreamed of the day my own
would do the same.
When I awoke, I was alone in the world again.

Northampton, today

6.40 p.m.

It was the first time in twenty-five years either of them had a true
understanding of the other’s suffering.
Being with Luciana at her worst allowed him a much clearer
impression of what Catherine had been through when she was sick. Maybe
God’s wrath hadn’t only been directed at him, but at all those he’d touched,
too. He regretted she’d not had a soulmate to take care of her. She’d had the
support of their children, but if he and she were anything alike, she would
have shielded them from the worst of it and carried her pain alone as best
she could.
There had been little about him she could identify with that day. From
the gutlessness of his escape to the lives he’d ruined and taken away,
sometimes she felt like he was reading extracts from a stranger’s diary.
But his tender description of their relationship during Luciana’s final
months reminded her of who he’d been. And it made her envious because
she remembered what his undivided attention had felt like; she had
benefited from it when she’d needed it most. When all she’d wanted to do
was run outside and scream at the thunder, he’d been the one to hold her
back until the storm passed. But when she’d needed to be held like that
again, he was holding someone else.
She knew it was pointless begrudging a dead woman. Luciana hadn’t
fallen in love with the wrong man; it was she who had. And remarkably, she
respected him for having the courage to end the life of the only thing he’d
wanted to live. Maybe he knew what love was, after all.
Eventually he broke their contemplative lull.
‘Are you well now?’ he asked, genuinely concerned.
‘Yes,’ she replied quietly. ‘I still have check-ups every six months, but
so far, so good. Touch wood.’ She tapped the dent in her head.
‘Good,’ he replied, ‘good.’ He paused. ‘And was James a big help,
what with him being away so much?’
She wondered why he’d singled out the eldest of all their children.
‘Yes, he was. He often texted and phoned, and came home when he could.’
However, he didn’t appear to be listening to her reply and it wasn’t the
first time she’d noticed it. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it
was, but chinks were appearing in the armour he’d arrived wearing.
Granted, it had been a mentally exhausting day for both of them, but
something about his ever-increasing vacantness perturbed her. The room
went silent again as he stared out of the window and into the garden.
‘Simon?’ she asked, baffled by his stillness.
‘Yes?’ he said with a start.
‘Are you all right? You look a little dazed.’
‘Would you mind if I had a glass of water?’
She nodded and went to the kitchen, removed a filter jug from the
fridge and poured some water into a glass. When she returned, he was
examining a framed platinum disc hanging on the wall that James had given
her.
‘James looks a lot like you,’ she said, handing him the glass. ‘He has
your eyes and your skinny legs. Sometimes I find myself staring at him
because he looks like your double.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I’ve met him, Catherine.’
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SIMON

Montefalco, Italy, one year earlier

26 January

I sat under the shade of a plump, lemon-yellow umbrella and watched the
locals go about their business from the cobbled village square.
Since Luciana’s passing, there was just too much time. My capable
staff ensured the winery ran smoothly, and the management structure she’d
put into place before her death took care of our business interests.
Everything had been plotted, planned for and preserved, with the sole
exception of me. I took pleasure in seeing glimpses of Luciana in both Sofia
and Luca, but glimpses were not enough. I ached for her.
My life and our home were stark without her. I moved into a different
bedroom when her citrusy perfumes that lingered on the fabrics in our own
became too much to bear. I craved her presence with such force that it
disorientated me. I’d talk myself into believing her death had been an awful
dream and that when I awoke I’d find her out in the garden, lost in a novel
or chatting to our grape pickers. It never happened, of course; I was alone in
my coma.
I found it impossible to concentrate on anything for long, and I’d have
to write down my ‘to do’ lists, otherwise I’d forget my chores from one
hour to the next. Grief’s malevolence crippled me.
When Luca and Sofia were out of the house, I’d pass the time by
walking down to the town, installing myself outside Senatori’s café and
nursing a latte with cinnamon sprinkles. People-watching eased the
loneliness a little. I’d appraise the tourists as they passed me by and try to
spot obvious signs of Britishness – milky-white or sunburned skin; trainers
worn for every occasion.
Every so often I pondered whether I’d recognise one of my other
offspring if they stood in front of me. More than likely, neither of us would
ever know we’d been in touching distance of faded flesh and blood. I
remembered parts of them all, like eye shapes, hair colours and bone
structures, but I couldn’t put enough pieces together to make them anything
other than excerpts of children.
Luca reminded me of James, in the way the corners of his mouth hid
under his cheeks when he giggled, or how his ankle rested on the shin of the
opposing leg as he slept.
Sofia was an amalgamation of the best aspects of Luciana and the
worst of Doreen, and that frightened me. As she grew older, she became
more listless. I had admired her mother’s independent spirit but I prayed she
wouldn’t follow her grandmother’s path. I wanted her to take time to smell
the flowers growing beneath her feet before she trampled over them. I loved
Sofia like any father loves his daughter, but slowly I began to pull away
from her, knowing I’d never be able to harness her true nature.
Luca was her opposite and I admit I put more into our relationship
than I did with his sister. Perhaps I tried to replicate what I’d had with my
first-born with my second from a third life. I even bought him an acoustic
guitar for his birthday like I had with James – only he didn’t abandon it like
his brother had. I smiled as I recalled how painful it was trying to teach
James the three chords to ‘Mull of Kintyre’.
As he grew older, Luca discovered rock music, and in particular, a
British band having worldwide success called Driver. I couldn’t escape his
obsession with them, and if their music wasn’t thundering from his
bedroom stereo, then it was booming from the speakers of my car.
About a month ago, he’d been devastated when his alarm clock failed
to go off the morning tickets went on sale for their Italian tour. Ever since,
I’d watched him mope around the villa, cursing it.
Suddenly a motorcycle engine interrupted my coffee break as it pulled
up in front of the café. A courier removed his black crash helmet and spoke
to me.
‘Signor Marcanio?’ he asked. I nodded and he handed me a brown
padded envelope. I thanked him, picked myself up off the chair and began
the slow walk back uphill to the house.
I hoped at least one of the children would be there to fill its hollow
corridors with the life that had been sucked out of it.

2 April

Luca beamed up at me after opening the envelope to find two tickets for
Driver’s concert. ‘How, Papa?’
‘I have my ways,’ I replied with the mysterious smile fathers only give
when they want to prove they’re still of some value to their growing
offspring. I’d pulled a few strings with the venue’s bar manager, who I
supplied wine to, and then kept it a secret until a few days before we were
due to fly.
‘Who are these scruffy devils then?’ I asked, pointing to a photograph
of the group on his computer screen.
‘That’s Kevin Butler, the singer and bass guitarist,’ he began excitedly,
‘and on drums Paul Goodman, on keyboards David Webb, and James
Nicholson on lead guitar.’
Two seconds passed before the latter’s name sank in. ‘James
Nicholson?’ I repeated.
With a click of his mouse, Luca blew up a thumbnail-sized picture.
Immediately I was certain I was staring at a man I’d only known as a boy.
His dark-brown hair was shoulder-length. Stubble had sprouted from his
cheeks and chin, and his shoulders were broad. But there was no mistaking
his smile or the sparkle in his green eyes.
No, I told myself. Your head’s playing tricks on you again.
‘Can you get me a bottle of water while I read up on them?’ I asked
Luca, trying to get a grip on my nerves.
As he bounced downstairs to the kitchen, I typed ‘James Nicholson’
into a search engine and thousands of threads appeared. I refined my search,
trying ‘James Nicholson’ and ‘Northampton’, and there were plenty of
mentions of the two together. I clicked on his Wikipedia page and it
confirmed his date of birth as October 8.
I leaned back and felt the blood drain from my face. It was James. It
was my James. I was staring at a picture of the son I had abandoned. I
scrolled through online newspaper features and found an interview.
 The eldest of three siblings, James was raised
single-handedly by his mother after his father
suddenly disappeared. ‘I don’t remember a whole
lot about him,’ James tells me, clearly
uncomfortable with the topic. ‘I do know that he
loved us all, but when he disappeared, our lives
changed forever.’

I stopped and closed my eyes. The ghosts in the machine had found
me.

‘Nobody knows what happened to him. It was

hardest on my mum, though . . . Everyone who
knew Dad says it wasn’t like him to just vanish and
that something must have happened. And it hurts
that we’ll probably never know what. Do I still think
about him? Yeah, of course. Not every day, maybe
not even every week. But he’s always in the back of
my mind, somewhere.’

I was a naive idiot for not predicting how much the uncertainty might
have haunted him. I glanced up at the wall in front of me to see a poster of
Driver staring back. I’d walked past it dozens of times, never knowing my
son was in my house.
‘He’s an amazing guitarist,’ said Luca when he reappeared with my
drink, oblivious to the earthquake rocking his father. ‘He’s been giving me
advice.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’ My heart beat faster than I ever thought
possible. ‘How?’
‘On Twitter. I messaged him to say how I think he’s really good and
how I play the guitar too. I don’t know why I did, but I told him about
having trouble with this one chord. He wrote back with advice and we’ve
been direct messaging for a few weeks. Can you imagine how many kids
write to him? But he makes time for me. He’s really cool.’
My two sons had been corresponding from opposite sides of Europe,
neither of them knowing who the other really was.
 ‘That’s great,’ I replied before making an excuse to retreat to my
bedroom balcony for air.
In organising Luca’s tickets, I had unwittingly unlocked Pandora’s
box. But what scared me the most wasn’t that I was being forced to
confront my past.
It was that maybe I was actually ready to.

Rome, Italy

7 April

I barely noticed the moisture pouring down the walls or the ringing in my
ears as my son James played an energetic guitar solo on the colossal stage
in front of me. As everyone around us cheered and sang, I stood motionless
in the PalaLottomatica arena, gazing at him in awe. Luca was doing the
same, but for very different reasons.
Goosebumps spread across my skin and made me itch, but I was
unable to tear my eyes away from the boy I’d once tried to forget. I
wondered how that scrawny, anxious little lad who’d urinated in his
shepherd’s costume during the school nativity play had gained the mastery
and confidence to enthral ten thousand strangers. I don’t think I absorbed a
single lyric or was aware of how long Driver had remained on stage by the
time the house lights illuminated the room.
‘Come on, Papa,’ yelled Luca, tugging my arm. But instead of heading
for an exit sign, he dragged me against the flow of human traffic and
towards the metal barriers at the side of the stage.
‘This isn’t the way out,’ I protested as discarded food cartons and
plastic bottles crunched under our feet.
‘I know – we’re going to meet the band!’ He grinned. ‘I tweeted
James and told him you got us tickets, so he put us on the guest list for the
after-show party.’
My unprepared mind raced through a list of excuses. ‘We can’t, you’re
too young,’ was all I could offer on such short notice.
‘I’m sixteen,’ he chirped, dragging me ever closer. ‘It’s cool.’
‘Luca, no. It’s late. I’m tired. Let’s go back to the hotel.’
He stopped in his tracks and shot me the most wounded of glances.
‘Papa! Please,’ he begged.
 I desperately wanted to explain that we couldn’t meet his hero
because, against all odds, they shared the same blood. Watching James
perform at arm’s length was one thing, but being in the same room when he
met his half-brother wasn’t something I was prepared for.
I’d promised Luciana I’d make things right with my past, but it was
not the right time. I cursed God for playing more of his cruel games with
me.
‘Luca Marcanio,’ shouted my son to a balding hulk wielding a
clipboard and a headset. ‘We’re on the list.’
The man eyed us suspiciously, checked his list, crossed our names off
and directed us backstage with a grunt. My breathing was shallow as we
stepped into a sterile, whitewashed corridor and followed the sound of
distant music. Eventually, we turned a corner to find a bar and a group of
young people drinking and eating exotic canapés from waitresses’ trays.
Luca grabbed two glass bottles of cola from an ice bucket and passed
one to me. I clenched mine to my wrist, hoping it would cool down my
growing fever. He pointed out the other band members one by one as he
scanned the room, desperate to see James.
Eventually his hero entered, clad in black jeans, a belt with a silver
ram’s head buckle, and a white shirt. Quick as lightning, Luca scampered
towards him.
I watched intently as, out of earshot, they shook hands. They shared
the same dark, wavy hair, dimpled chins and my green eyes. I wondered if I
alone was struck by their similarities.
I assumed James would be polite but brief with him. Instead, he
reacted like they were old friends. I attempted to blend into the background
until both pairs of the same eyes reached mine.
‘Papa!’ I looked down, pretending not to hear as my stomach dropped.
‘Papa!’ Luca repeated, a little louder. There was nothing for it but to look
up. He beckoned me over. My legs threatened to give way as I joined them.
‘This is James.’
He smiled and held out his hand to shake mine. His fingernails were
painted black and they drew me towards his cufflinks. They were ruby-red
with small black squares in the centre. Catherine had bought them for my
thirtieth birthday, the day everything changed.
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Marcanio,’ he began. ‘You have a good kid
here.’
 ‘Thanks for inviting us,’ was all I could think to say.
‘Hey, a fellow Brit!’ said James, engaging me in a conversation I
didn’t know how to have. I just wanted to throw my arms around him
without explanation and then leave. ‘Where are you from?’ he continued.
‘I travelled around a lot.’
‘He comes from the same place as you,’ Luca chipped in. I instantly
regretted offering him scant details of his father’s origins.
‘Northampton? No way! Small world,’ replied James. ‘How long have
you been in Italy?’
‘Eighteen years or so.’
‘Papa gave me my first guitar,’ Luca said proudly, smiling at me.
‘That’s how I got introduced to music – my dad did the same for me,’
said James. ‘I still have it, although it’s kind of battered now. He taught me
how to play “Mull of Kintyre” on it, but I was pretty bad to start off.’
I swallowed hard. I hadn’t been in his life for so many years, but he
had remembered that. I still had a place in his memories.
‘It’s at my mum’s house now. She keeps threatening to put it on eBay.’
He laughed. I fixated on the words ‘she keeps’. He’d used the present tense.
It meant Catherine was still alive.
‘Does she still live in Northampton?’ I asked without thinking.
‘Yes, all her life. I don’t get the chance to go back much, but when I
do I always stay at hers. Do you go home very often?’
‘No, not for a long time.’
Suddenly a young woman appeared behind James and passed him a
deep-red Gibson Les Paul electric guitar.
‘This is for you, Luca.’ He handed it to his brother, who was too lost
for words to respond. ‘If you keep practising hard, there’s no reason why
you can’t be doing what I’m doing in a few years.’
‘Grazie, grazie,’ Luca replied breathlessly. ‘I . . . I promise I will look
after it.’
‘Don’t look after it – use it. Play it until you wear it out!’
Luca accepted the gift like Jesus had offered him a blessing, and held
it close to his chest. A hand tapped James on the shoulder and a man
whispered in his ear.
‘Luca, it was great to meet you, but I’ve gotta shoot. Email me an
MP3 when you’ve mastered the break in “Find Your Way Home”.’
‘I will, I will.’
 James turned to me. ‘Nice to meet you too . . . Sorry, I didn’t catch
your first name?’
‘It’s Simon,’ said Luca before I could reply.
Suddenly something happened. Something so infinitesimally small,
that if you freeze-framed it on a television screen, nobody but James or I
would have noticed it.
It was recognition.
As he shook my hand, for a fraction of a second James’s irises
expanded and his handshake lost its brawn. I knew exactly what was he was
thinking. At first he’d asked himself if we’d met before. Then my name and
place of origin had made him think of his father. Now he was allowing
himself to consider that maybe he wasn’t dead after all and was standing
right there before him.
He’d be trying to recall from his youth his dad’s voice and appearance
– the scent of his aftershave, the direction he parted his hair, his posture, the
sound of his laugh and shape of his smile – and comparing them all to the
stranger before him. Then his rational side took charge and he realised his
imagination had got the better of him. Fate didn’t work that way, and he’d
be feeling foolish for even considering it.
He regained his composure, his irises shrank and the strength
reappeared in his grip.
‘See you guys again,’ he smiled, and followed his assistant.
An animated Luca jumped up and down, gabbling in his excitement,
but I couldn’t hear him. Instead I watched my James walk away, turn
around to give me a final glance, and then disappear from my life as quickly
as he’d arrived.

Montefalco, Italy

19 December

My driver parked the Bentley in front of the villa and opened the rear door
for me. I smiled at a housemaid whose name eluded me as she flirted with a
handsome young handyman. I made my way to a patio that overlooked our
valley of vineyards.
I searched the sky for an invisible crop duster, which was giving off a
gentle buzz. The midday crickets chirped as they rubbed their wings
together in the hope of finding a mate. The horizon I’d stared into so often
with crystal clarity now mimicked a melted oil painting as the sun blended
sky, field and lake into one.
‘This is your life, Simon. Not the one you walked away from,’ came a
long-forgotten voice. ‘This is your reality.’ But my reality was vacant
without Luciana.
Eight months had passed since James and I had breathed the same air,
and he was still all I thought about. And no matter how many times I told
myself his world was a worthier place while he was ignorant of my
existence, I was beginning to crumple under the pressure of keeping myself
a secret and a promise I’d made.
Everyone and everything I’d stored in secure boxes had escaped since
that day. I was haunted by untethered memories that disorientated me. My
darling had been right when she told me I had to find peace. Maybe then I’d
feel more like my old self again.
I had to learn what had become of Catherine and our other two
children. She deserved to know I was still alive and what she’d done to
drive me away. And there were things I also needed her to understand.
Time was running out, as fate threatened to erase a life she had never
known I’d lived. I was almost ready to face her.

CATHERINE
Northampton, one year earlier

3 February

I dreamed about Simon that night. I don’t know what prompted his
reappearance, as he hadn’t visited me for years. But suddenly, there he was,
every bit as youthful and as handsome as I remembered, standing in my
garden, deadheading my pink rosebushes. Oscar was still a puppy and
bounced excitedly around his bare feet.
 ‘Why are you here?’ I asked, neither upset nor delighted to see him.
He didn’t reply.
‘Simon,’ I repeated, firmly. ‘Why are you here?’
Again, nothing, and I felt a sudden urge to slap him across the face
and beat my fists against his chest like wronged women do in black-and-
white films. But the moment soon passed, and instead I put my arms around
his shoulders and kissed his cheek.
‘Goodbye, Simon.’ I smiled before turning my back on him and
walking away.
Then I heard his voice for the first time since he’d left me twenty-four
years ago.
‘Kitty, where are you going?’ he asked, but I didn’t respond or turn
around. I walked towards the kitchen and quietly closed the door behind
me, on him and on us.
I woke up, disorientated, and just to be sure it was a dream, pulled
back the curtains and glanced across an empty garden. I smiled to myself,
then climbed back under the duvet, turned on my side and slid my arm
across Edward’s chest.
‘Is everything all right?’ he mumbled.
‘It’s perfect,’ I replied. ‘Go back to sleep, Doctor.’

15 April

I likened being in remission from cancer to a soldier returning home from

war. You put your life on the line to fight an unseen enemy that wants to kill
you. Then, if you’re lucky enough to return in one piece, it can be a struggle
to find your place in the world you left behind.
While I’d been at battle, everyone else had simply gotten on with their
lives. Selena ran my businesses more than competently; the kids returned to
work and no longer worried about me on a daily basis. In short, nothing had
changed, except for me. I was restless. I’d accomplished so much and was
ready to share it with someone else. And Dr Edward Lewis was the
someone who wanted to come along for the ride.
The day he told me my radiotherapy had been successful, I’d asked
him to join me for dinner.
‘You must have received plenty of offers from single women,’ I asked
over our meal at a posh fish restaurant in town.
 ‘I suppose so, and not all of them single.’ He blushed. ‘But I usually
politely decline.’
‘Should I be flattered then?’
He smiled. ‘Actually, I’ve had no interest in meeting anyone, even
platonically. I felt blessed to have had twenty-seven years married to a
wonderful woman, and probably didn’t deserve a second chance.’
‘If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that we’re all entitled to a second
chance. Why did you change your mind?’
‘Not once during your treatment did I hear you feeling sorry for
yourself. You showed strength and courage and I could see what a good
person you were by how much your children adored you.’
‘Oh, I had my moments.’
‘We all have our moments. But you and I don’t give in to them for
long.’
Hook, line and sinker, I fell for Edward. Our fledgling courtship went
from back to front. He’d already seen me feeling my worst, looking my
least attractive and knocking on death’s door. Yet it hadn’t put him off.
Gradually our dinner dates became more frequent, and any time we
spent apart, I wanted to be near him. He was charming, attentive and had a
sense of adventure and spontaneity. He made me feel like I carried no
baggage and, like me, he discovered he enjoyed having a companion.
His late wife, Pamela, had died suddenly of a heart attack six years
earlier, and he’d taken awkwardly to life as a widower. He was bitter they’d
been robbed of an early retirement together, making up for the years they
were separated by his work while she raised their sons Richard and Patrick.
With one studying economics at Cambridge and the other working in
finance in the Netherlands, he admitted his days were too long as an ‘only’.
I knew how that felt. I’d lived it for twenty-four years.
I reintroduced him to my children, but this time as Edward and not as
Dr Lewis. And slowly our families integrated, as he became a regular
fixture around our dining table.
He’d brought me back to life not once, but twice.

19 December

A dark-grey car with tinted windows and a lot of doors pulled up outside
the cottage six days before Christmas. A firm rap at the front door made the
ivy wreath shudder. Before me, a young uniformed driver with a grey
peaked cap clutched tightly under his arm handed me an envelope.
Your suitcase is under the bed, a note in Edward’s handwriting read.
Pack enough warm clothes for a week. You only have thirty minutes. All my
love, Edward.
‘Where am I going?’ I asked the driver, bemused.
‘I’m not at liberty to say, madam.’ He smiled. ‘But I’m under strict
instructions to get you there on time.’
My work and family had made me an expert in timetable juggling and
forward planning, so spontaneity wasn’t something I was entirely used to
until Edward came along. Whether it was supper on a hired canal boat or
golfing lessons at Gleneagles, he loved his little last-minute surprises. So as
I scrambled around for suitable clothes, I texted Emily to warn her I was off
on another of Edward’s jollies.
An hour and a half later, we pulled up outside Heathrow’s Terminal 4.
Edward stood waiting for me with his suitcase by the revolving doors. He
grinned.
‘Where are we going then?’ I asked.
‘To see Holly,’ he replied, and pointed to the destination board. When
I realised where we were headed, I threw my arms around him like a child
meeting Father Christmas for the first time.
I’d wanted to visit New York ever since I was a little girl. Breakfast at
Tiffany’s was the only film Mum had ever taken me to and I’d watched it a
dozen times since. I grew up wishing I could have Holly Golightly’s
carefree life, instead of the glum one my parents had thrown at me.
My friends’ bedroom walls were plastered with posters of The Beatles
and Elvis, but mine were decorated with black-and-white postcards of
Audrey Hepburn. I’d pretend she was my long-lost big sister, and while I
followed her every move in the newspapers, Mum found inspiration in her
wardrobe.
Looking back on it, I’m sure people must have laughed behind my
mum’s back as she sauntered through the village wearing her designer
scarves and stylish hats even at the height of summer. But she didn’t care,
and it was one of the few things about her I actually admired. Audrey
offered us both an escape.
And whether it was because Breakfast at Tiffany’s was the only piece
of herself Mum had ever given away, or the lure of a magical city across the
pond that had more love to offer than my parents, New York was a place I’d
fantasised about most of my life.
I’d never found the time to go, or maybe I was just scared it might not
live up to my expectations as a little girl. But Edward never accepted a
packed diary or the fear of disappointment as excuses for not following a
dream.
After landing and checking into our hotel, we’d not even had time to
unpack before Edward whisked me off to Fifth Avenue’s Tiffany & Co. It
was every bit as timeless as I’d imagined it. I didn’t think my day could be
any more perfect until I peered into glass counters and tried on sparkling
bracelets and necklaces displayed in boxes as blue as a robin’s egg. I
grinned at a framed photograph of Audrey hanging from the wall on the
second floor. I was in my element, but typically, Edward found a way of
making it even better.
He ushered me into the centre of the shop floor, held both my hands
and cleared his throat as the room hushed.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, feeling my face redden.
‘I never thought I’d ever ask this question again. But, Catherine, will
you do me the honour of being my wife?’
My eyes opened so wide I thought they might pop. ‘Yes, of course,’ I
sobbed as staff and customers began a ripple of applause around us.
‘We are ready for you, Dr Lewis,’ smiled a manager in a smart tailored
suit, and he led us upstairs into a private viewing room. Row after row of
twinkling rings had been laid before us on dark cushions like stars across
our own private universe.
‘I don’t believe in long engagements, so why don’t you choose your
wedding ring instead?’ suggested Edward.
I wasn’t going to argue. And after much deliberation, I chose a gold
cobblestone-band diamond ring that simply cried out for my finger. And
once placed inside a box and Tiffany’s iconic bag, I skipped out of the shop
and floated back to our hotel leaving a twenty-four-carat chunk missing
from the Big Apple.
Holly was right. To anyone who ever gave you confidence – you owe
them a lot.
Later, and too excited to give in to jet lag, Edward and I went out for a
celebratory meal at an Italian restaurant in Manhattan that a friend of his
had recommended. As he opened the frosted-glass door, I nearly fell
backwards when a huge roar rang out. In front of me sat my family and
friends, with champagne flutes raised high in the air like Gabriel’s trumpet.
Edward had paid for my children, their partners and my granddaughter
to fly to New York earlier that morning. James had arrived from Mexico
where he was touring, and Roger, Tom and Amanda and Selena had landed
a day earlier with Edward’s sons. Steven and Baishali had travelled directly
from their villa in the South of France, and even Simon’s stepmum Shirley
had overcome her lifelong fear of aeroplanes for the first flight she’d ever
taken in her eighty-seven years.
‘Edward called us all one by one to ask for our blessing,’ whispered
Emily. ‘If you’d said no, Shirley was going to say yes!’
I didn’t think it was possible to love anyone as much as I loved
Edward right at that moment. I would have done anything for Edward with
one exception – tell him the truth about how Simon had left us. Shirley and
I had kept that secret to ourselves.
‘I take it that’s the end of the surprises for one day?’ I asked later,
tucking into a delicious amaretto cheesecake dessert. ‘Because I don’t know
how much more my nerves can take.’
He smiled. ‘There’s just one more small thing we need to do. But
you’ll have to wait till tomorrow for that.’

20 December

As the Five Boroughs Children’s Choir sang ‘Silent Night’, I glided up the
mauve carpet towards a white iron altar in Central Park.
The heavenly Vera Wang wedding dress Selena had chosen for me
fitted perfectly. My bridesmaids – Emily and my granddaughter Olivia –
reached the minister before I joined them, clinging to my boys’ arms for
dear life. The fairy lights wrapped around the plinth bounced off a light
dusting of snow on the ground, then I greeted my husband-to-be and his
two best men, my new stepsons.
And as I faced the love of my life I’d waited so long to find and
sobbed ‘I do’, it was impossible to feel the freezing December temperatures
when I glowed so warm inside.
Today, 7.05 p.m.

She’d howled in anger, tried to gain his sympathy and reluctantly appealed
to his better nature, but nothing worked. He had yet to offer a single
explanation for his sudden departure.
But the mood in the room, and specifically his, had shifted. When he
spoke of James, he sounded wracked with remorse. And there was more to
it than being reminded of the family he’d left, or a promise to the dead.
She needed to change her tack if she was going to get her answers.
‘Why now?’ she coaxed calmly. ‘You said time was running out? Is it
because we’re getting older?’
His eyes surveyed the room. He looked forwards and sideways but not
directly at her. He absent-mindedly chewed the inside of his cheek until he
penetrated the skin.
She couldn’t decide if he was choosing to ignore the question or if
he’d heard something completely different altogether. He’d become
unreadable.
‘What do you have to put right with me, Simon?’ she said, like she
was talking to a frightened child. ‘What do you need me to know?’
He looked like she’d woken him from a bad dream, and that he’d been
further confused by unfamiliar surroundings. He was ageing before her eyes
and it alarmed her.
She broke off from analysing him to ask herself why she was feeling
concern for a man who hadn’t given a damn about her. But that was her
nature. And he was pained.
Regardless of learning about Paula’s brutal killing, she no longer
feared him. Even the hatred had lessened slightly. Now she felt pity for the
obviously troubled soul before her. She’d wondered during their
conversation if sometimes he was even listening to what she was saying,
because his expression would switch from engaged to blank in a heartbeat.
His vacancy reminded her of someone else, and her mind raced through a
lifetime of mugshots, trying to recall who it was.
He tasted the blood trickling from the bite mark inside his cheek. He
clenched his fists once again. He knew his eyes had glazed over and his
brain was sluggish, but there was nothing he could do but wait until it
passed, like it always did. He dug his fingernails into his palms, hoping it
might let him focus on what he needed to say.
 He’d dipped in and out of her recollections of her second wedding and
now was finding it difficult to respond. His words were caught up in a
swirling current and the faster he swam, the more they collided.
‘My brain feels like Swiss cheese,’ he’d told Dr Salvatore. His
physician had warned him it was one of the symptoms. A year he had lived
like this, blaming his altered state of mind on grief, stress and remorse
before the truth was revealed. God had had one last plan for him. He could
run away from everyone else in the world, but not himself.
‘You have Alzheimer’s!’ she gasped, startling both of them.
Suddenly it made sense to her. She’d witnessed the same behaviour
with Margaret, her old mentor at Fabien’s and Selena’s mum. Margaret’s
husband had brought her back to England from Spain and placed her in a
nursing home after she’d been diagnosed. Catherine had visited her many
times, and when Margaret was less blurred, she chatted in minute detail
about her past. It was as if she needed to get it all off her chest while she
was still able to.
And Simon had been doing the same.
The resigned look he offered said more than his muddled sentences
could. Soon their shared memories would only belong to her.
‘Why did you leave, Simon?’ she asked softly.
He stared at her while he chose the right words and tried to put them
in the correct order.
‘I saw you with him,’ he replied. ‘I know what you did.’
It was her turn to embrace confusion. ‘Who?’
‘Dougie. My best friend. You had an affair with my best friend.’
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SIMON

Northampton, twenty-eight years earlier

14 March, 11.15 p.m.

The stylus lurched backwards and forwards like a ball in a roulette wheel,
until it settled into a groove it could work with.
Baishali and Paula had twice bumped into the record player as they
stood back to back, imitating the girls from ABBA. ‘Knowing Me,
Knowing You’ blasted out from speakers mounted on wall brackets, and a
circle of people formed around them as they recreated the band’s iconic
routine.
But I paid them little attention, as I was fixated by my wife and
Dougie dancing together in the corner of the living room.
By early evening, the party she’d thrown to celebrate my thirtieth
birthday was in full swing. Our friends and neighbours had marched up the
path like worker ants, carrying cheap French wine and trays of cling film–
wrapped sandwiches.
Neither she nor Dougie were aware of anyone else’s presence. They
faced each other, his hands on her hips and her arms draped around his
neck, as she swayed drunkenly to the music.
Dougie had spent more time of late offloading his woes onto her than
onto me. And in all honesty, I’d found it arduous listening to the complaints
of a man who’d been deserted by his marital punchbag, so Catherine’s
willing ear came as a relief.
 But I hadn’t thought twice about their growing closeness until tonight.
Despite the many distractions, neither of them lost eye contact – not when
the song skipped, when the ABBA tribute act disbanded, nor when an
excited Oscar began bursting balloons with his claws.
You’re reading too much into it, I rationalised, fiddling nervously with
the new cufflinks she’d bought me. They’re friends. So I dismissed my
insecurities and headed into the garden for a cigarette. When I gave it more
thought, I knew all I’d witnessed were two pals sharing a boozy dance.
‘Happy birthday, mate!’ shouted my inebriated business partner,
throwing his arm around my shoulder.
‘Cheers,’ I replied, and held my pint out in front of me to toast the
occasion.
‘Baishali would never throw a party like this for me,’ Steven said.
‘She’d be terrified of what the house would look like afterwards. You’ve
got a good girl there.’
‘I know,’ I said, smiling. ‘I have.’
He was right. I’d been a fool for having doubted her, even for a
minute. I would go back inside to find her, give her a cuddle and thank her
for her efforts. And I’d apologise for having put my work before her in
recent months. I’d lost my sense of fun and spontaneity, and I knew it had
created distance between us. I’d been selfish for ignoring it.
I stubbed my cigarette out on the path and went inside, but the corner
of the room they’d dominated was vacant. My eyes combed the living room
but Catherine was nowhere to be seen. I scanned the dining room and the
kitchen before going back through the patio doors, into the garden and
towards Roger.
‘Is Kitty out here?’ I asked.
‘No, mate,’ slurred Roger. ‘Do you want another beer?’
I shook my head, but as I turned to go back into the house, I was
drawn to our bedroom window. I looked up to see the shadow of two
figures behind the curtain before the lights went out.
I remained there for a moment, temporarily paralysed.
 CATHERINE
14 March, 11.15 p.m.

I enjoyed spending time with Dougie. I understood why women fancied

him. He was broad-shouldered and ruggedly handsome; he knew how to
dress well and he was a great listener. If I were single, he’d probably have
caught my eye.
And as Simon threw all his attention into setting up his business, and
Dougie adjusted to his single life after Beth walked out on him, we’d both
found ourselves in the same lonely boat together.
The children took up most of my time, but Dougie had nothing to take
his mind off her. I hated to think of him rattling around his house without
her. So he came to ours on weeknights for dinner with the kids and me.
They adored their Uncle D because he chased them around the house
pretending to be a monster from the Ghostbusters film and gave them the
attention their father used to give.
After I’d packed them off to bed, Dougie and I might sit in the garden
or around the kitchen table, unscrew a bottle of wine and wait for Simon to
come home and join us. Invariably, we’d chat for a couple of hours – he’d
complain about his directionless life and I’d moan about my lack of a
husband. He’d always defend Simon, though, reminding me his long hours
were a means to an end. I knew he was right, but occasionally I needed
someone else to turn on the light at the end of our tunnel.
Despite our many conversations about Beth, Dougie never really
explained why she’d left. Instead, he danced around the subject, making it
clear he wasn’t ready to confide all in me just yet. I wondered if he’d told
Simon, because my husband hadn’t said anything either.
‘Was there someone else?’ I’d asked him a week earlier, opening a
second bottle of Lambrusco.
‘No, Beth would never do that,’ he replied.
‘I didn’t mean her.’
‘I’d never have an affair,’ he said, a little put out I’d suggested such a
thing.
‘You don’t need to have an affair to want someone else.’
 He knew what I was getting at. I don’t know why, but something in
me wanted to hear him admit it was my husband he wanted. But instead I
changed the subject to Simon’s impending birthday party.
We’d both begged him to take a Saturday night off for a knees-up –
he’d have nothing to do but turn up to his own living room. But even that,
he did reluctantly.
Making food for the buffet, blowing up balloons, organising a
babysitter and rearranging the furniture by myself meant that by the time
the party was in full flow, I was shattered – and drunk as a skunk by nine
o’clock. But despite all my efforts to encourage Simon to let his hair down,
his eighty-hour working weeks meant he found it hard to unwind. I
playfully pulled at his arm to dance, but he yanked it away and chose
another pint of beer instead of me.
Sod you, I thought and grabbed the next best thing, Dougie, to stamp
my dance card.
I wrapped my arms around Dougie’s neck to stop myself from
slumping to the floor, and he propped me up around my waist. As we
danced, his thoughts and eyes were fixated on me.
‘You’re in love with Simon, aren’t you?’ I blurted out so suddenly, I
even let out a surprised gasp. Then I held my breath as I waited for his
denial.
But Dougie’s expression didn’t change. And for the next few
moments, we just swayed, holding each other’s gaze. Without needing to
put it into words, I told him I didn’t mind, and I read gratitude in his eyes.
‘Come with me and we’ll talk properly,’ he finally whispered.

Northampton, today

7.25 p.m.

She remained silent as she mulled over how to proceed.

He’d brought up her mistakes and stupid decisions she had long
chosen to forget. She had no idea he’d seen her with Dougie in the
bedroom. Of all the reasons he could have chosen to walk away from her,
she’d never thought that to be the one.
She cleared her throat. ‘You think I had an affair with Dougie?’
He nodded and tapped his head. ‘I may have this thing growing inside
me now, erasing my memories, but I know what I saw and I know what I
heard.’
She looked towards her feet and brushed her hand through her hair.
Her face felt flushed and her bottom lip quivered. Going up the stairs with
Dougie was still the second biggest regret of her life. She was ashamed of
what had happened between them and she never thought she’d have to talk
about it with anyone, let alone her husband.
Then she shot him a look of absolute contempt.
‘You stupid man,’ she growled. ‘You stupid fucking man.’
 CHAPTER NINETEEN
SIMON

Northampton, twenty-seven years earlier

14 March, 11.25 p.m.

I took two stairs at a time but I still couldn’t climb them fast enough. The
higher I reached, the steeper they became, and by the time I reached the top,
I was nauseous. I had wanted to be wrong and for the people behind the
door to be two neighbours getting a thrill from having sex in someone else’s
house.
I placed my hand on the bedroom doorknob and began to turn it.
Inside came the stifled noise of two bodies colliding that did not belong
together. I recognised the sounds of Catherine’s muffled groans the moment
I heard them.
I stopped, removed my hand from the doorknob and the world fell
silent. I clenched my stomach as a dozen invisible fists punched me over
and over again. I didn’t need to open the door to know what was happening.
All I’d accomplish would be to solidify a mental picture that would etch
itself into my brain forever. So I left her and Dougie alone to continue my
ruin.
I suppressed my tears and crept back downstairs, weaving my way
through our friends, then snuck out through the front door and down the
darkened lane towards the woods. I bulldozed my way through bushes and
bracken before the moon’s glow illuminated a clearing. I threw myself on a
fallen tree trunk, buried my head in my hands and wept.
 She was the one who knew the most about me. She’d accepted all my
insecurities and knew how important faithfulness was to me. She was the
only one who understood how much emphasis I placed on honesty. It was
her who’d encouraged me to believe not everyone was like my mother.
But she’d lied. It was all lies. She’d made the ultimate betrayal – and
with Dougie, of all people.
I wracked my brain to work out how long I could have been oblivious
to their poisoned coupling. Had it been weeks, months or even years? I
thought back to the many occasions I’d returned home late to find him in
the company of my family. My family. Not his. And tonight they’d decided
to rub their relationship in my face, under my roof and in my bedroom.
How could I have been so mistaken about him? Everything I had
presumed to know about Dougie had been a figment of my own
imagination. The kiss he’d given me as a lad had been a foolish, one-off
impulse. The covert glances he’d thrown at us over the years had nothing to
do with unrequited feelings towards me – they’d all been directed at
Catherine.
His willingness to cross such a sacred boundary horrified me. His
desire for what was mine had more than likely directed his anger towards
Beth. She and I were collateral damage in a war we were unaware we’d
been fighting.

CATHERINE
14 March, 11.20 p.m.

We squeezed past everyone as I followed Dougie upstairs and into the

bedroom. I closed the door and sat on the bed.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,’ I began. ‘It’s the wine
talking. I just wanted you to know that I understand and I’m fine with it.’
‘You’ve always known though, haven’t you?’ he asked, his forehead
furrowed.
 ‘Yes, ever since school. It doesn’t matter though, because Simon’s
lucky to have both of us who care about him so much.’
Dougie smiled and looked to the floor. Suddenly his face fell. ‘Yes,
he’s really lucky to have someone like you, isn’t he, Catherine?’ His
sarcastic tone took me by surprise. ‘Is that why you invite me over – so you
can rub my nose in it? So you can keep showing me that you won?’
‘What? No! No . . .’ I stuttered. ‘Don’t be silly. I like spending time
with you. We all do.’
‘Don’t bullshit me – I’m your charity case,’ he shouted. ‘You do it to
feel better about yourself. I listen to you complain about how little time
Simon spends with you, while you sit in your perfect house with your
perfect children as your perfect husband works all the hours God sends to
keep his perfect little princess happy. Except you’re not perfect, are you?’
I’d never heard Dougie speak to anyone like this and it made me
nervous.
‘And despite everything you have, still you moan,’ he added. ‘But
what do I have, Catherine? What do I have? Nothing. And whose fault is
that?’
‘You can’t blame me for Beth leaving!’
‘I’m not talking about that stupid bitch. You know who I mean. You
took away the only good thing I had in my life.’
‘What? Dougie, this is silly,’ I reasoned. ‘Simon never wanted you as
anything more than a friend!’
‘And what makes you think you’re better for him than me?’
‘Because he chose me over you!’
Dougie said nothing and the room went quiet. I wanted to leave, and
leave quickly. I didn’t know the man Dougie had become. He wasn’t my
friend anymore. He was a stranger with a temper I didn’t like.
He glared at me with utter distaste as I stood up and moved towards
the door, but he blocked my path with his arm. My pulse raced and I
swallowed hard.
‘I haven’t finished,’ he growled. ‘What’s so special about you then,
eh? What exactly does he see in you? ’Cos I’m fucked if I can see it.’
‘What’s got into you?’ I replied, trying to stop my voice from
cracking.
‘You have. You get under my skin and you make it crawl. You
deliberately hurt people, then you sit back and enjoy watching them suffer.
You think you know everything about everybody, but you don’t. You make
me sick.’
‘You’re drunk and talking rubbish. Now get out of my way.’
I tried in vain to push him to one side, but he wouldn’t budge. Instead,
he grabbed my wrists and pulled his face close to mine.
‘You aren’t going anywhere, sweetheart,’ he spat.
Before I could struggle, he turned me around, twisted my arm behind
my back and marched me towards the bed. I opened my mouth to scream
for help but, before I could make a sound, he clamped his hand over it.
Then he shoved me face down onto the bed. Instinctively I twisted and sank
my teeth into his hand but he retaliated by punching the back of my head,
dazing me. He gripped my hair and pressed my face into the bed. I kicked
my legs but they wouldn’t budge under the weight of his body.
‘No, Dougie, let me go,’ I shouted, but my cries were muffled by the
bedspread.
From behind, I felt him push up my skirt and yank down my
underwear, then he pulled down his trousers before forcing himself into me.
The searing, agonising pain felt as though he were tearing me in two. I
shook, squirmed and fought, but eventually his brute strength pummelled
me into submission.
His hot, foul, beery breath scorched the back of my neck. I wrenched
my head to the side and tried to yell again but the pain made me retch, and I
covered my cheek and the sheets with sick. Every part of me throbbed at the
same time, struggling to eject the parasite.
Suddenly, amongst the music and voices echoing around the house, I
heard footsteps running up the stairs. I begged God to guide whoever it was
into the bedroom and end my hell.
Dougie was oblivious to the person outside the door. Then the
footsteps stopped as quickly as they’d started. My scream came out as a
muffled moan as his hand drove my head ever deeper into the mattress. I
begged for the bedroom door to open but my guardian angel paused, and
walked away.
I let out my last cry and then, to my eternal shame, I gave up my
struggle. Everything fell quiet and all I heard was his shallow breath and the
sound of his belt buckle shaking before he climaxed.
Even when he finished, he continued to lie on me, his whole wretched
body suffocating me. But I was no longer in pain. I’d been swallowed by
numbness. My senses shut down until his weight lifted off me.
Then he pulled his trousers up and left without saying another word.
I lay there for I don’t know how long, immobilised and still partially
undressed, trying to make sense of what had happened. It didn’t make
sense, but I needed it to.
I realised Dougie had punished me for taking Simon away from him.
Somehow I’d been responsible for my husband having a mind of his own
and making his own choices. I’d become the one Dougie blamed for
everything that went wrong in his life, and he’d needed to force me to
understand how helpless he felt by making me feel the same as him.
A voice shouted my name from the garden and it brought me back to
reality. I stood up, took clean underwear from the chest of drawers and
headed for the en-suite bathroom. I wiped myself and saw blood on the
toilet paper. I flushed it away and then fell to my knees. I was sick in the
toilet until there was nothing left to bring up. I was empty in every sense of
the word.
I raised my head and glanced at myself in the mirror. I’d never noticed
how unforgiving it was until then. I wiped my eyes and mouth and forced
myself not to cry. I held my hands together so tightly to stop my arms from
shaking that I thought my fingers might break.
Then, after a time, slowly and awkwardly, I re-joined the party. I
looked around nervously, but Dougie must have left. I was relieved when I
couldn’t find Simon either. I had no idea how to tell him what had just
happened.
So I carried on, as best I could, like nothing was out of the ordinary. I
smiled, I laughed and I topped up people’s glasses. But the life and soul of
the party was dying inside.
You have just been raped. You have just been raped. You have just
been raped. A voice inside me kept repeating the words like it desperately
wanted me to understand what had just happened. But I couldn’t process it,
not now, not yet.
When the numbers finally dwindled in the early hours of the morning,
and Simon, I presumed, was asleep in one of the kids’ empty bedrooms, I
remained wide awake. I washed dishes, scooped rubbish into black bin bags
and cleaned the house until everything was spotless.
Except for me.
Northampton, today

7.40 p.m.

The world beyond her front doorstep could have exploded into a tumbling
mass of fire and brimstone but it still wouldn’t have been enough to break
the eye contact between them.
He knew that for twenty-five years he had got things very, very wrong.
And that was by no means the end of it.
 CHAPTER TWENTY
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-eight years earlier

18 March

I pretended I was asleep when I heard Simon get up and leave the bedroom,
then quietly close the front door.
I knew he’d been having difficulties sleeping and guessed he’d
probably gone to put in a few more hours in the office in the garage. He’d
done that a lot lately, and secretly I was glad. What Dougie had done to me
wasn’t my fault, but it didn’t stop me feeling like I was the most disgusting
human being on the planet.
I’d never been more in control of my emotions than I’d been during
these past few days after his attack. I was afraid that if I stopped running
even for a minute, I’d grind to a halt and fall to the floor in a thousand
shattered pieces. If I kept moving, I wouldn’t have time to think. I occupied
every waking moment of my day with multiple trips to the supermarket to
buy groceries we didn’t need, playing pirate games with children who’d
rather have been with their friends, digging the garden until there was no
soil left unturned.
But being in bed alone – or with Simon – scared me. It gave me time
to think. I considered telling him everything, but in the end I decided I’d
have been the only one it would help. Trusting those closest to him was
such a huge part of his make-up that I knew the truth about his best pal
would destroy him. I’d have been in even smaller pieces seeing him so
unhappy.
 He might also urge me to report the attack, but I’d been drunk, so
who’s to say I hadn’t willingly consented then had an attack of conscience?
There were no witnesses and I’d taken so many baths to wash him out of
me, there was no physical evidence anything had ever happened. It was
absolutely my word against his.
Even if there’d been enough proof for the police to charge him, a court
case would have meant everyone knowing about that night. I’d have been
forced to relive it to a room full of strangers judging me, and his barrister
ripping me to shreds. I wasn’t strong enough to be humiliated like that.
But most important to me was my marriage. I was terrified that Simon
would never look at me in the same way again: that he’d think of me as
damaged goods. If he’d have grasped even a small measure of how dirty I
felt, I couldn’t have borne seeing my pain reflected in him. When all things
were considered, our family had too much to lose.
Instead I bottled up my tears, and when no one was around, I’d slip
inside the garage, shut the door and uncork that bottle until they spilled
across the floor. And when it was empty, I’d pull myself together and go
back to pretending I wasn’t on the brink of a breakdown.

22 March

The thought of ever seeing Dougie’s face again petrified me and, in a small
village, our paths were bound to cross eventually.
When I was outside, I stopped at each street corner and looked around
in fear of coming face to face with him. And home alone, I’d lock the doors
and keep the curtains closed. Anyone in their right mind wouldn’t have
dared to return to the house of a woman he’d raped. But someone who
could so degrade and violate another person – and someone who was
supposed to be their friend – wasn’t in their right mind anyway.
I never brought his name up again, but strangely, neither did Simon.
He just disappeared from our conversations. Simon didn’t go to the pub
with him again. He never asked why Dougie hadn’t been round for dinner,
and never invited him over to watch a football match on TV. It was like
he’d suddenly ceased to exist to Simon, too. The kids were the only ones
who seemed to miss him.
‘Is Uncle D coming for tea tonight?’ Robbie asked us over breakfast.
‘No,’ Simon replied quickly, without raising his head.
 I can’t explain how relieved I was to hear that two-letter word, but I
couldn’t ask why. So it was only when we were invited to Steven and
Baishali’s house for drinks to celebrate Simon and him winning a large
county council commission that the murky waters cleared.
‘Is everything all right?’ Baishali asked when I joined her in the
kitchen. The truth was that I was as anxious as hell and clearly I was
showing it. I’d avoided Paula of late because she’d have seen straight
through me and demanded I take action – or worse, started the ball rolling
without my permission. But Baishali didn’t like confrontation, so I’d picked
her and Steven as my first social engagement since the attack to try and
navigate my life back to normality.
‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ I replied, and gave her a fixed grin.
‘It’s a shame about Dougie, isn’t it?’
I swallowed hard. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s gone back to Scotland, hasn’t he? He popped a note through our
letterbox saying goodbye. Seems very sudden, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, trying to disguise my relief.
‘Simon must be disappointed.’
I had no idea what my husband was thinking anymore. I asked myself
why he hadn’t told me his best friend of twenty years had suddenly moved
away. I was growing increasingly uneasy over how our lines of
communication were becoming disconnected. But if it was true, that the
animal had crawled back to Scotland, maybe I could start to try and live
again.
At a time when every part of me craved normality, Simon and I were
drifting apart in separate lifeboats.
Sex and intimacy were the furthest things from my mind, but when we
got home from Steven and Baishali’s, I was crying out to feel like a normal
woman again. I desperately hoped that by making love to Simon, I could
push that night from my mind.
Physically I was still sore, but I forced myself to make him want me
because I didn’t want to equate sex with pain and violence for the rest of
my life. Even during the act, which is exactly what it was, I knew we were
both only going through the motions. And if I felt it, I’m sure he did too.
But it was the start I needed to repair what someone else had almost
ruined.
14 May

I hadn’t guessed I was pregnant, even when I missed my period.

I presumed that while I’d been focused on blanking things out, I’d
simply neglected my body by skipping meals and sleeping badly. I chalked
it up as an off-kilter cycle and my body’s delayed reaction to trauma.
But when the second month rolled by with no sign of its arrival, I
nervously made a doctor’s appointment. Three days after my test,
Dr Willows rang with the results. I slumped onto the stool by the telephone,
the wind knocked out of my sails. I was pregnant and I had no idea what to
do.
I was already stretched to breaking point. I was a mum to three
children under the age of five, I was married to a workaholic husband and I
was trying to hide the mental scars Dougie had left me with. The thought of
having to cope with another little one mortified me. It would be another
distraction that stopped Simon and I from repairing our relationship. I’d
accepted that our sex life had shifted from passionate to sporadic and
unfulfilling, but at least we’d made a little effort to be intimate. And while
neither of us had climaxed and so it was unlikely, biologically it didn’t
mean I couldn’t fall pregnant.
I seriously considered an abortion. I imagined organising it while
Simon was at work and the kids were at school. And by the time they’d all
pour through the door at teatime, none of them would be any the wiser.
But I’d know. I loved motherhood and I had no right to stop a second
heart beating inside me because mine was broken. Poor timing was an
excuse, not a reason, and a pretty weak one at that. So I forced myself to
come to terms with it. I had gotten through tougher times.
I didn’t know what the future would bring for Simon and I. But I knew
there was a future for the baby inside me.

SIMON
Northampton, twenty-eight years earlier

18 March

‘Why? Why?’ I bellowed while my fists took on lives of their own, raining
blow after blow upon Dougie’s face and body.
Four days had passed since I’d heard my best friend and my wife
together, and I’d barely been able to look at her. She’d been uncommonly
quiet and withdrawn – ravaged, I hoped, by guilt for what they had been
doing behind my back.
I made a backlog of office work my excuse for spending time away
from both her and the scene of their crime. But concentration was
impossible and I’d sit at my desk, haunted by the noises they’d made
behind our bedroom door. And although she’d desecrated my faith in her,
my physical fury was directed towards Dougie.
I was unsure if I was more enraged by his devious, cowardly betrayal
of our friendship or at my own naivety for never having doubted his loyalty.
Catherine aside, I’d been closer to him than any of my friends. But he’d
made a mockery of all I’d presumed, and try as I might to contain it, my
anger refused to simmer until I’d made him feel as weak and vulnerable as I
was.
I waited until the early hours of the morning when she was asleep
before I walked to his rented house. Both the upstairs and downstairs
curtains sealed off the inside from unwanted prying eyes, so I ventured to
the rear and peered through his kitchen window.
The light was on and an unconscious Dougie was sitting inside on a
plastic patio chair, his head tilted backwards, surrounded by empty beer
cans lying like fallen soldiers. While my life was imploding, he’d been
celebrating. My rage peaked.
He only became aware of my presence when I slipped my arm around
his neck and jolted him backwards to the floor. Startled, his blurred eyes
opened wide but the alcohol in his system made any attempt to reclaim
gravity futile. I straddled him and rapidly recast the structure of his face
into a tapestry of blood, hair and mucus. My knees pinned his helpless,
flailing arms to the ground, but even bruising my knuckles as I broke his
nose and jaw was not enough to curb my ferocity.
‘Why her?’ I spat. ‘Why my wife?’
 ‘I’m sorry,’ he choked. ‘Stop, please stop—’ But I didn’t allow him to
continue: another blow thrust his front teeth to the back of his throat like
pins in a bowling alley.
I dragged him to his feet by his stained shirt collar and held him
against the wall. His head hit a clock and it fell, spraying glass across the
lino.
‘I don’t know why,’ he gasped, his breath reeking of booze and blood.
‘I didn’t plan to—’
‘Shut up!’ I snarled. ‘You’ve destroyed us, Dougie. You and me, her
and me, all of us. Everything . . .’
My voice had weakened, then faded into nothing. Hearing myself
verbalise what he had done to me suddenly made the sheer enormity of it all
too real. I let him drop to the floor and he curled up into a sobbing, bloody
ball. I gawped at him like he was a strange, injured creature in the last
throes of life. I questioned how I could have been so foolish as to have
loved something that worthless.
I needed to get out of his house and stop breathing the same polluted
air as him. I headed towards the back door, his wheezing growing quieter
with every footstep.
I could have left him there to remain in his stink, but deep inside me, I
knew it wouldn’t have been enough. I stopped in my tracks and turned to
face him.
His swelling, blackened eyes were already reduced to slits, so he was
only aware of my shadow when it hovered over him. Even when he
watched me take the bread knife from the sink, he didn’t try to protect
himself.
I slowly pulled back my arm and plunged the blade into his stomach
once, twice, then a third time. It took surprisingly little effort. His face
remained expressionless but the physical trauma forced his body bolt
upright. There he remained conscious, but still.
I stood back to share his final moments. His last few shallow breaths
merged with the sound of gases escaping through his wounds. He didn’t try
to clutch at them or fight for his life. He simply waited five long minutes
before life drained from his carcass and his neck lapsed limply to one side.
We both knew what I had done was right.
I reacted to the events of the night with clarity.
 Beth’s family had removed almost every stick of furniture from her
house when she sold it, so he had little to furnish his new hovel with. I
searched each room for something suitable to put his body into. But all he
possessed were empty takeaway containers, beer cans and free newspapers.
It was a pathetic legacy.
I wiped his blood from the floor with newspapers and dirty towels.
Then I bundled his body into the boot of his car. I drove through the village,
passing our house, before I turned off the headlights and navigated by
memory the lane by the woods.
I grabbed the spade and torch I’d taken from Dougie’s garage and
headed deep into the copse. The ground was frosty and hardened, so it took
sweat and determination to dig. But after an hour, his makeshift grave lay
ready for him. My arms, weakened and jarred by fury and determination,
made dragging his bulky frame to the hole arduous, but I persisted until I’d
rolled him into the earth.
I threw the stained towels and papers in, and without giving him a
second glance, I shifted the soil back into the hole, trampled the ground to
an even level and scattered fallen leaves to disguise my movements. I used
an old blue rope that lay on the ground near the dried-up pond to mark his
grave.
I left his car in a notorious area of town with the keys in the ignition,
then caught two nightbuses home. I made my way to the bridge where I’d
take the kids pretend-fishing, and washed his filth from my hands in the
water below. And with my adrenaline spent, my physical pain began to
manifest itself as sharp bolts of lightning. They ran from my knuckles up
into my shoulders and made my chest tight. The letters I’d type to Roger
and Steven on behalf of Dougie, explaining his sudden move home, could
wait until morning.
With my fists locked tight, I could barely extend a hand to brush the
tracks of my tears from my cheeks and chin.

27 April

I longed to hear Catherine confess and beg for my forgiveness. Because

only then might she understand how far from my old self I’d shifted since
I’d heard her and Dougie together.
 She had asphyxiated the ‘me’ she thought she knew. Now she only
lived with an impression of Simon Nicholson: a man so anaesthetised and
glacial, the fluids inside him ran cold. I would never be the same man again.
I was so detached from everything that had happened before that
week, I’d wiped Dougie from my history. Even having my best friend’s
blood on my hands had failed to humanise me. My actions were justified, I
knew that. I had the strength to do what my father should have done to the
many lovers Doreen had humiliated us with.
But dealing with Catherine was a different matter. I reckoned I’d gain
more satisfaction from slowly snuffing out her flame than from any
physical retribution. I wasn’t sure how I’d do it, but somehow I would eke a
confession from her. Then I’d make her hang with uncertainty for weeks
while I pretended to make up my mind about our future.
And once she thought she could see a glimmer of hope in my open,
forgiving arms, I’d abandon her and make sure my children and all her
friends knew exactly what she had done. They would hate her like I did.
But I underestimated her. While I was allowing her to believe she had
got away with it, she suddenly blindsided me.

14 May

I may have terminated Dougie’s life, but he’d found a way to live on, inside
my wife. Inside all of us.
It hadn’t been enough for him to decimate our marriage while he was
alive. Even one mile away from my house and six feet under the ground, he
still rubbed salt into my open wounds.
Catherine wore the cloak of a troubled woman the night she put the
children to bed early and ushered me into the dining room.
‘We need to talk about something,’ she began nervously, ‘and I’m not
sure how you’re going to react.’
She dabbed her cheeks with a paper tissue before she spoke again.
‘I’m pregnant.’
Then she leaned over the table and took my hand in her devil’s claw.
‘I’ll need your help and it’ll mean cutting back on some of your hours
at work, but I think another baby could be just what we need.’
It was the last thing I’d expected to hear – another hammer blow to my
fragile ego. I knew then she could never be honest with me. I’d have to
rethink my plan to punish her.
‘So what do you think?’ she asked.
‘It’s great news,’ I lied, and she immediately released the rest of her
crocodile tears.
It was obvious that the evil seed inside her bore no relation to me. On
the few occasions we’d made love, I’d had to summon up all the powers of
my imagination to become aroused. It was soulless, remorseful sex between
an adulterer and the wronged, and it never resulted in me climaxing.
Yet she was willing to pass her bastard off as mine now her lover, to
the best of her knowledge, had cast her adrift and returned to Scotland.
I recalled her panicked eyes when Robbie had asked when Dougie was
coming to dinner again. She neither lifted her head nor questioned me when
I told him he wouldn’t be. It made me wonder if she knew that I knew. But
if she did, she played her cards close to her chest and said nothing. Inside it
must be killing her, never understanding quite why he’d dumped her. I took
some satisfaction in that.
She’d upped the ante and had been overcompensating for her
wrongdoings by using every calculating trick in the book not to appear the
desperate housewife. She’d wait until I arrived home from work late so we
could eat together; she forced her way into every aspect of the children’s
lives and redecorated our verminous bedroom by herself.
On occasions when she thought she was alone, I’d see her skulk into
the garage. And as I peered through the cobwebbed windows I’d witness
her kneeling on the dirty floor, crying. I hoped she’d never stop.

19 August

As the months passed and the parasite in her belly grew, I resented it as
much as the vehicle carrying it. I daydreamed about watching her fall down
the stairs and miscarry, or of Dr Willows confirming the baby had died in
her womb.
Yet despite everything I despised about her and how ghastly she made
me feel, I wasn’t able to confront her or pack up my things and leave.
All I’d ever wanted was a family of my own and I wasn’t ready to
leave my children like my mother had. Living with them all, I was
miserable. If I walked out, I would be Doreen. Staying, at least for the time
being, was the lesser of two evils.
 So I played along with her charade.

25 November

She lay fast asleep in our bed, exhausted by a labour that had ravaged and
contorted her body for much of the day and night.
I sat on the tatty green armchair in the bedroom cradling her son in a
white shawl she’d knitted especially for his arrival. The midwife packed up
her equipment and let herself out. She’d named him William after her late
grandfather, and he was deep in slumber and only an hour old. His skin was
still sticky and sweet-smelling, and covered in a fine, white, downy fur.
Once he’d been placed into my arms, I tried with all my might to
imagine him as one of my own brood. But I wasn’t able to press my lips to
his delicate ear and whisper to him like I had the others.
I couldn’t tell that little boy that I’d always be there for him and would
never let him down. Because he was not my son and never would be. Even
the product of an untruth didn’t deserve a lie – I knew that better than most.
Weeks passed and I spent hours watching him, identifying traces of
the father I’d killed in his smiles and frowns. He was the spitting image of
Dougie, even down to his few strands of auburn hair.
He’d never experience a male role model who’d love him
unconditionally, or a mother who’d be completely honest with him about
his origins. So soon into his life, he was weighed down like an anchor by
his conception.
However, my steely facade had begun to melt a little when I witnessed
Catherine giving birth. In her vulnerability I saw pieces of the woman I’d
loved, who’d already blessed me with three children of my own.
And for the first time in months, I’d even allowed myself to wonder if
we could get through this. But while Billy was in our lives – a constant
reminder of her transgression – I couldn’t forgive her, I couldn’t heal and
we could never move forward.
His fragile existence meant nothing would ever be the same again.

Northampton, today
8.00 p.m.

He struggled to draw breath.

His bleak, lethargic pupils fluttered to life like a loose-fitting
lightbulb, then collapsed back into the murkiness of his irises.
On the surface he continued to offer little reaction to what she’d told
him, but inside, he was fractured. Her disclosures had forced all one
hundred billion neurons scattered about his ailing brain to shoot their
electrical impulses in unison, rendering him disabled.
When he finally flickered back to life, his eyes bored deeply into hers,
observing her from all angles with microscopic detail. He desperately
searched her face for evidence that she was lying, but all he could see was
the truth. What he’d too readily believed he had heard behind the bedroom
door had created a chain of events that had changed and ended lives. Now
he considered whether, deep down, he’d been waiting their entire life
together to catch her out, and that had been the excuse he was looking for.
She had just demolished the framework of twenty-eight years’ worth
of assumptions. He could no longer blame his actions on her. It was
Dougie’s fault. It was Kenneth’s fault. It was Doreen’s fault. It isn’t my
fault, it isn’t my fault, he kept telling himself.
So much distress and sorrow could have been avoided if only he’d
turned the door handle another forty degrees. He could have protected her
like a husband was supposed to protect his wife.
She had been a victim of the unresolved issues between two best
friends and the parents who’d shaped them. And it broke the charred
remnants of his heart when she explained how she’d sacrificed a justice
she’d deserved for his sake. She’d even been willing to love a baby sired by
hate just so she wouldn’t upset him. He couldn’t understand how someone
could be that selfless.
‘I – I . . .’ he began to whisper but couldn’t finish.
She remembered a time when words from this man mattered. Now
they meant nothing.
Finally, the question that had harangued her for so long had been
answered. A thousand times she’d asked herself what she’d done to make
him cast her aside, and now she knew.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
 If the roles had been reversed, she’d have opened that door. She’d
never have doubted him until she’d seen it with her own eyes. She also
knew she’d have been a better person had she forgiven Dougie. And she
had tried, so very, very hard. But it had been impossible, and now she knew
he was dead, she felt gratitude, even if it had only happened as a result of
misplaced pride.
But that gratitude was short-lived. She could never forget Paula’s
murder, the life of abandon he’d lived and the children he’d left behind.
They’d all been dreadful things to hear. And nothing shocked her more than
the depth of his dislike for a child he’d quietly rejected as his own.
‘How could you have hated something so innocent?’ she asked,
determined to gain an insight into his thinking. ‘You treated Billy like you
treated your other children. I saw you with him. I watched you love him.’
‘I didn’t,’ he replied. ‘It was a lie because I knew he wasn’t mine. I’m
so, so sorry for what happened to you, but you have to remember, I thought
you were having an affair. I was crushed.’
‘Why didn’t you open the door? Why didn’t you open the bloody
door?’
‘I was scared of what I’d find.’
‘You mean you thought you’d find Doreen. How dare you, Simon.
How bloody dare you. That’s what you always believed, wasn’t it? That I’d
turn out to be like her, because you think all women are like that. You even
compared your daughter in Italy to Doreen. Your own daughter! You only
see in people what you see in yourself – damaged goods.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She wasn’t interested in his apology. ‘I don’t know what’s worse: that
you thought I could cheat on you, or that you pretended to love your son.’
‘That’s the point, Catherine. Billy could never, ever have been my son,
no matter how much I pretended. And if I’d have known how he was
conceived, I’d have hated him all the more.’
‘You and I created him!’ she stressed, increasingly exasperated. ‘He
was your flesh and blood.’
‘That’s ridiculous. You know I never even completed the act with you
those few times we tried. The odds are astronomically against him being
mine. And he was so clearly Dougie’s! I saw Dougie in every inch of him.
He looked nothing like his brothers and sister, and even less like me.’
 ‘No, again, you believed what your twisted mind wanted to believe.
Take my word for it, Simon, you were his father.’
He dug his heels in.
‘No. I only wish I could believe it like you want me to, but you can’t
promise me that. I understand why you need to think it but—’
‘Please don’t make me spell it out for you.’
‘You’re going to have to, because without a DNA test, I will never
accept you’re right.’
She held her breath and closed her eyes before she responded. She was
too angry and humiliated to look at him.
‘There is no possibility Billy could have been Dougie’s child because
he sodomised me.’
And there it was. His last remaining excuse for any of his subsequent
actions disintegrated as fast as the ground beneath him.
She struggled to understand what he muttered as he clung tightly to
the arms of his chair.
All she could make out were the words ‘God’ and what sounded like
‘forgive me’.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CATHERINE

Northampton, twenty-six years earlier

3 January

My gorgeous Billy giggled in delight as he threw his favourite toy from one
end of the bath to the other and chased it on his hands and knees. ‘Slow
down!’ I told him.
The blue and white plastic boat and its painted smiley face had been
passed down from James to Robbie and finally to their fourteen-month-old
brother. And like them, Billy never grew bored of picking it up and hurling
it around.
His development was coming on leaps and bounds and he was often
crawling around the house and trying to stand by himself like his brothers
and sister. ‘No, Billy,’ I warned as he tried to lift himself up using the sides
of the bath. He sat back down and then splashed me again with his boat.
Robbie was at an age where cleanliness was so far removed from
godliness that he’d rather be playing dinosaurs with the devil than take his
evening bath, and Emily always demanded that her daddy gave her one.
And as James demanded privacy, Billy was the only boy who’d let his
mummy share these precious moments with him. I relished every one of
them.
I was shampooing the ever-increasing tufts of hair finally spreading
across his crown when the phone rang. I’d been expecting a call from my
friend Sharon to tell me how her wedding had gone a day earlier. I was so
honoured when she’d asked me to make her three bridesmaids’ dresses, as it
was the biggest project I’d ever taken on. She’d invited us to the reception
but Simon and I had been forced to turn it down at the last minute when our
usual babysitter got chickenpox and couldn’t look after the kids.
Sharon had promised to find the time to ring me tonight, before she
and her new husband flew off on their Tenerife honeymoon.
‘Simon!’ I shouted at the top of my voice when the phone went.
‘Watch Billy, please.’
Once I heard his muffled reply from another room, I dashed across the
landing into our bedroom and picked up the receiver. By all accounts
everything had gone like clockwork, but more importantly, my dresses
hadn’t fallen apart at the seams. I was momentarily distracted by a thud
coming from outside the bedroom but I’d learned from experience that if no
child’s wail followed an unexpected noise, chances were all was well.
Sharon chatted for a few more minutes filling me in on her big day
before we hung up. I was proud of myself and couldn’t help but smile as I
went back to the bathroom to tell Simon.
‘Sharon says everyone loved them,’ I began as I reached the door. ‘It’s
a shame we couldn’t . . .’
Only he wasn’t there. But Billy was, lying in the bath, his face under
no more than two inches of water.
His fine baby hair floated aimlessly, his body completely devoid of the
life I’d given him. His boat was close to him, anchored in the bubbles, still
smiling.
I froze until the full horror of what had happened sunk in, and then I
screamed for Simon and dashed those few feet from the door to my baby. I
threw my arms into the water and grabbed at him, picking him up by the
waist and placing his body onto the fluffy bathroom mat.
The children appeared from nowhere and stared from the doorway in
confusion. Robbie yelled ‘Daddy’ and I heard his heavy feet pounding
towards us.
‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ I repeated as I picked Billy up again and
held him in front of me. His neck flopped forwards.
Simon pushed me away and took charge. He lay him on the floor,
tilted his head backwards, pinched his button nose and gave him the kiss of
life. I knelt by his side, helpless, my arms as wet as my eyes, sobbing as his
dad pushed down heavy on his chest to encourage his heart to beat again. I
heard the crack of a rib under Simon’s pressure and it felt like it was my
own.
‘Call an ambulance,’ Simon kept repeating, but I remained deadlocked
and torn between hope and despair. James must have heard his pleas and
ran. I listened to Simon’s warm breath as he blew hard into our son’s
mouth; saw his palms sliding across his wet body; heard the crack of a
second rib and the brush of his spine against the mat with every push.
I reached out to grab Billy’s still-warm hand and begged God to give
him the strength to move his fingers and clasp one around mine. But God
had neglected my son when Billy needed him, just like I had. Robbie and
Emily were crying behind us when James returned and led them away to his
room.
Simon wouldn’t give up, even when the paramedics arrived and tried
to take over. They had to pull him to one side, but there was nothing they
could do that he hadn’t tried already.
Eventually they looked at us with empathy and shook their heads
apologetically.
Despair dragged my body to the floor and I clawed at my chest to take
the weight off my heart. I reached for the mat, desperate to grasp something
after losing so much. I tried to pull myself closer to my baby but my body
was stuck to the floor. Simon scooped my head onto his thigh as I screamed
so hard my eyes and throat burned.
‘It’s my fault, I’m sorry,’ I wailed. ‘It’s my fault . . .’
‘No, don’t blame yourself,’ he replied as he stroked my hair. But we
both knew it was.
‘I thought you were here with him,’ I cried. ‘I shouted for you.’
‘I was downstairs.’
I begged the paramedics not to take Billy away from us, but Simon
quietly explained it was time to let him go. I tenderly dried his body and put
him in his Mr Men pyjamas before they carried him downstairs. I couldn’t
bring myself to watch as he left our home for the last time.
Instead, I lay with my cheek pressed to the cold lino, holding on to his
toy boat and wishing it could sail me back an hour in time, before I left my
baby to die.

7 February
My bedroom was a tortured sanctuary. I wanted to seal off the door and
windows and turn it into a coffin, like the one my little boy lay in, deep
underground.
Days had passed before I could even stand up unaided by Simon. Each
time I tried it alone, the ground swayed beneath me and I’d go back to my
bed dizzy and defeated. The phone rang so often that he unplugged it from
the wall socket so it didn’t disturb me.
I’d hear the muffled voices of friends stopping by with food parcels
and offers of support, or to take the children out of our mausoleum to play
with their friends. I was glad when they were out of the house because it
meant they were safer than when they were with me.
But I couldn’t stop them from quietly opening my bedroom door,
crawling under the quilt and curling their warm bodies around mine. I’d
wrap my arms around them and hold them tight before I realised what I was
doing, then I’d reject their love and send them away. They were too young
to understand why their mummy didn’t want to be with them. It was for
their own good: I didn’t deserve them.
Simon became both mum and dad and told them that, although I was
very sad, I still loved them and I’d come out of my room when I was ready.
But until then, they had to be patient.
Throughout Billy’s funeral, Simon had never let go of me, holding my
head against his shoulder as my mascara melted into the lapels of his jacket.
And when we arrived home, he let me stay in our bed for weeks without
complaining.
I always felt worse when I woke up than when I tried getting to sleep.
Because for the first few seconds of consciousness, I’d forget what had
happened. Then it would all come flooding back to me and the grieving
process would start again from scratch.
When I tried to focus on anything else, I’d recall the moment I found
Billy’s body and it hijacked all other thoughts. Some nights I was convinced
I could hear him crying, and on motherly instinct I’d jump out of bed and
be by the door before realising I was hallucinating.
My body and mind operated separately. My head knew I’d lost him,
but my breasts punished me further by continuing to produce milk.
I missed Billy’s babyness and longed for the cherished droop of his
head on my shoulder as he slept. I missed wiping the sleep caught in his
eyelashes. I missed how he’d made me feel like a woman again after what
Dougie had done to me.
No matter how much Simon tried to reassure me it had just been a
terrible, terrible accident, deep in his heart he must have hated me. How
could he not? I did.

12 April

Simon’s support never ended, but no amount of reassurance was enough. I

even took my self-loathing out on him, blaming him for not being in the
bathroom where I’d expected him to be.
But he never took the anger he must have felt out on me. He dealt with
his grief in his own stoic way. And he was always there for me when I
needed to roar or bawl. He was the perfect husband.
I’d always said Billy had the smell of pink roses about him. So Simon
dug up a patch of land under the kitchen window and planted six rose
bushes there. It was a place where I later grew to find peace, by just sitting
near or inhaling through the open window while I washed the dishes. It was
just what I needed for my healing to begin.

22 October

When I was so completely, utterly empty and there were no tears left to fall
and nothing left of myself to hate, there was only one direction left for me
to go.
So I gradually opened my eyes and allowed myself to slowly fill up
with the love that had surrounded me for months, but that I’d shunned.
The love from my family; the love from my friends; but mostly, the
love from my husband.

SIMON
Northampton, twenty-six years earlier

3 January

I paused under the architrave behind Robbie and James, riveted by the pain
that forced her body into awkward angles as she endeavoured to bring life
to a little body for the second time in fourteen months.
Billy lay wet and motionless on the floor; his eyes held their sparkle
but his body was lifeless. I’d often caught myself looking into them and
wondering what they saw when they looked back at me.
It was the second time I’d been in the bathroom in the space of a few
minutes.
When she’d called me to keep an eye on him, I’d been in Emily’s
bedroom helping to dry her hair after her bath. I heard Catherine’s muffled
conversation behind our bedroom door as I made my way to the bathroom.
Billy was playing with his smiley-faced boat when he saw me and offered a
gummy grin. I gave him nothing.
I watched him throw the boat too far to reach with ease, and he looked
at me, expecting me to sail it back. I didn’t move. Frustrated, his arms, still
just doughy rolls of skin, reached out to bring it closer. When he failed
again, he clambered to his feet, holding the sides of the bath with his hands
for support. Then, as he shuffled along, he lost his footing and slipped,
spinning as he went down and smacking the side of his head on the tap and
then again on the brutally hard porcelain. As I watched, his body came to
rest face down in the water.
After a long, still moment, he startled me by lurching to life, arching
his back and trying to force himself free of the water, but when he opened
his mouth to scream, it filled with water and bubbles. His arms flapped as
he tried to prop himself up but he possessed neither the strength nor the
coordination to push himself back up.
And then I waited for the inevitable.
I remained stationary, as almost two years of fogginess began to clear.
I knew what I was supposed to do, what anyone with an ounce of
humanity would have done. But I was no longer that person. Catherine had
drained me of my compassion and left a cold, cold man in his place. Billy
and I were both her victims.
 My reaction was the fault of Billy’s abhorrent chromosomes. And I
couldn’t live with him in my home, pretending to be like those I loved any
longer. So I watched as he slowly and quietly drowned; the helpless leaving
the helpless to flounder in a fight only one of us could win.
As the last bubble of air left his lungs and bathwater seeped in, I
glided out of the room as quietly as I’d arrived.

18 January

In the weeks following Billy’s death, I would lie with Catherine in the
darkened cocoon she’d created in our bedroom, listening to her agony until
she fell asleep. Then I would replay the moments in my head that had
destroyed her.
‘Oh God,’ she’d repeated after yelling my name. ‘Oh God, oh God.’
I’d run along the corridor and stood behind Robbie, James and Emily
as the consequences of my inaction became clear. I panicked, and needed to
take back what I’d allowed to happen. I pushed the boys out of the way and
began CPR, attempting to take back the madness of those five minutes and
to repair my damage.
Billy’s mouth tasted like washing-up liquid as I struggled to get a firm
pinch on his nose and give him back the life I’d allowed to slip away. I felt
sick with adrenaline and fear as his first rib broke in my heavy-handed
desperation.
You were wrong, I heard my inner voice tell me. You could treat him
like your own. A second rib snapped. It will take small steps, but you could
spend more time with him; buy him a bigger and better boat; teach him how
to ride a bike like you did with the others; watch him from the sidelines as
he scores the winning goal for his football team . . . Yes, you could do all of
that if you were given a second chance. But you won’t be.
In the time it took me to watch him die, I had mapped out our next
sixteen years together as father and son. My son. Not biologically, but my
son nonetheless.
Even when the ambulance men appeared from nowhere, I refused to
admit failure. But inside I knew it was too late. Billy was dead and I had let
it happen.
I’d stroked Catherine’s hair as she lay deep in the floor sobbing her
heart out, her baby by her side. Her world had been shattered and she was
reduced to rubble and ruin. The hurt she had caused me was nothing
compared to what I had done to her.

20 March

For weeks Catherine did little but blame herself, my decision condemning
her to an intolerable purgatory. And my inability to reveal the man she
loved had been responsible for her son’s death cast a shadow over all our
lives.
Each time she chose sleep over reality, I’d put on my running shoes
and sprint as fast as I could until my legs folded beneath me. I deliberately
chose hard surfaces so I could feel every jolt of concrete jar my knees and
spine, because the physical pain eased the mental one.
Each time I hurt myself, I’d hope it would take some of hers away, but
there was nothing I could possibly have done for that to happen.

12 May

To the outside world, I was the portrait of a consummate husband. But

inside, I was in bedlam. I dragged myself through the motions to keep the
family engine running. I became an expert in forging smiles and convincing
the concerned that everything would be all right in the end, given a little
time.
I made myself responsible for all the children’s needs while Catherine
was too empty to cope. I was the face that friends saw when they turned up
on our doorstep to see how we were.
I took a leave of absence from the business to take charge of the
everyday tasks like shopping, housework and gardening. I cooked all our
meals, made sure the children had clean school uniforms and kept them
occupied when their mum needed to be alone.
We spent hours together pretending to fish in the stream near the
cottage. Sometimes I’d stare into the water, convinced I could see Dougie’s
blood caught in a whirlpool and unable to dissolve. We took drawn-out
walks through the fields searching for snaggle-waggles or spent time in the
garden playing board games. At a time I should have been close to them,
I’d never been so far away.
 I juggled so many balls at once and only I knew what the
repercussions of dropping them would be. I saw the consequences of my
actions in my wife every day. And it helped me to understand that it wasn’t
just remorse over Billy’s death I was feeling, but towards the death of our
marriage. Opportunity had presented me with a chance for revenge I’d
never considered. Yet once my mission was complete, I felt nothing. It
hadn’t healed me like I’d hoped it might; we were broken, with or without
him.
I’d been weak when I’d tried to bring him back to life. Filling his
lungs with a stranger’s air would not have helped me long-term. Even with
his blood on my hands, I still felt the same kind of rawness as when I’d
discovered Catherine’s affair. All I’d done was force four people to feel as
worthless as myself. And my misery didn’t love company.
I frequently had to remind myself it was her duplicity that provoked
my reaction. She had brought this on us. I watched in silence as she floated
without aim through the house, unable to associate herself with the world.
Now she knew how I’d felt when I found out about her and Dougie.
The pressure on me to keep up my facade was immense, as I had
nobody to confide in. So I took to sitting in the woodland near to the man
buried below the blue rope. It was the only place where things made sense.
I’d talk to Dougie like I did when we were innocents. He understood
me and I believed that wherever he was, he knew what he’d done to me was
wrong. I became envious of how easy it was for him to accept it and how
uncomplicated things were for him now he was resting beneath a carpet of
dirt.
It would be so much simpler if I, too, were six feet under.

22 October

For nine long months, Catherine remained in darkness. Then, gradually, the
sun began to reveal itself and she rose from the bottom of the hill and
navigated her way back up it.
We were sitting watching The Two Ronnies when she unexpectedly
laughed at a sketch. We all turned sharply to look at her, as it was a sound
we’d not heard for so long.
‘What?’ she asked, surprised by our attention.
‘Nothing,’ I replied, and I knew my time was coming.
 As she slowly healed, my disintegration was close to completion. My
wife was on her way home, but in doing so, she was leaving me behind. She
had learned to live with what she thought she’d done. But I couldn’t live
with what she’d done to me.
Christmas and New Year passed, and as winter merged into spring and
then summer, my trips to the woodland copse grew more frequent. I’d pick
up the rope from the ground and feel my way around it, tugging it between
both hands until it was taut. Then I’d face the canopy to search for the
strongest, sturdiest-looking tree branch. Several times I thought I was ready
to kill myself, then I’d make an excuse as to why it didn’t feel like the right
day to complete my mission. Each time I’d walk back home, cursing myself
for not having the strength to go that extra mile.
Tomorrow, I’d tell myself. I’ll be able to do it tomorrow.
And eventually tomorrow came.

Northampton, today

8.20 p.m.

She shook her head vigorously. She was adamant that the horror story he’d
told her about Billy wasn’t true.
‘No, your Alzheimer’s is making you confused,’ she began faintly.
‘Let me call Edward. He can come back from the golf club and help you.’
To this point, making anyone else aware of his secret existence had
been the last thing she wanted to do. But now her need to prove that his
confession was actually confusion became a much higher priority for her.
Edward could examine him, test him. Allow her to dismiss the abomination
he’d just admitted to committing.
But Simon fixed a watery gaze upon her and slowly shook his head.
Her stomach began the first of many somersaults.
‘I was there, don’t you remember?’ she continued, gently coaxing him.
‘I left Billy alone, not you. I was the one who found him and shouted for
help. It wasn’t your fault: it was mine, wasn’t it? Remember?’
 He gave her the weakest, most apologetic look she’d ever seen, but
still she could not believe him. She did not want to, because over time, she
had learned to accept her pivotal role in Billy’s death. It had been an
accident.
For it to have been deliberate . . . for her husband – the boy’s father –
to have allowed him to die . . . that was so much worse than her negligence.
It was evil. And she had loved this evil man. She raised her voice in a last-
ditch attempt to persuade him to concede he was muddled.
‘I accept you’ve done a lot of wicked things,’ she continued, ‘but the
man I adored back then would never have let that happen. You could never
have held me and dried my tears and kept our family together like you did,
knowing it wasn’t my fault. So I’m begging you to tell me now that you’re
confused and that you didn’t let Billy die.’
He couldn’t have answered even if he’d wanted to. The stranglehold
guilt had on him was so tight it barely allowed him to breathe. He couldn’t
move, yet he swore he felt his body convulsing.
She sank deep into her armchair while she evaluated what it all meant.
She had never got over Billy’s death, because no parent ever does when
something so tender and innocent is wrenched away from your arms
without warning. But gradually, the image of his lifeless body in the bath
wasn’t the first that came to mind when she thought of him. It was of his
warm, toothless smile in photographs she’d taken during his first and
second Christmases. She’d pored over them hundreds of times since.
And every year on his birthday, she’d lock herself in her bedroom
away from everyone, take his tiny blue satin booties from the crushed-
velvet box in her wardrobe, and rub them gently between her fingers like
she’d done as a child with her mother’s clothes. She’d hold them to her
nose and inhale deeply in the hope of picking up a long-faded scent.
Only, now she’d learned Billy hadn’t died because of her careless
parenting, but because of the insanely misdirected spite of his own father.
She pictured him standing over Billy like the Grim Reaper, captivated by
the panicking infant drowning before him.
It enraged her. She wanted to kill him.
He was oblivious to the escalating fury before him. He’d been used to
finding ways of justifying his aberrations by blaming other people. But now
there was no one left to blame. Kenneth had been right when he told his
only son he was a monster.
 The first physical contact in twenty-five years between Simon and
Catherine Nicholson came after she jumped from her chair with such speed
for a woman of her age, it terrified him.
‘You bastard!’ she screamed as her fists pummelled his head, over and
over again. He had little time to raise his arms to protect himself from her
blows. He struggled to push her away at first, but when he succeeded, she
came back more ferocious than before.
He grabbed her arms, so she kneed him in the groin. He bent double in
excruciating pain as an onslaught of slaps and scratches began. She caught
slivers of flesh from his cheeks under her fingernails. Finally, he was able to
muster up the strength to grab her arms and twist them behind her back. She
shrieked in pain.
‘Kitty, Kitty, please,’ he begged, trying to catch his breath and calm
her.
‘Get off me!’ she screamed, and squirmed to release herself from his
grip, but to no avail.
‘I’m sorry for what I did to Billy and for not trusting you. You have to
know that.’
‘Don’t you dare use his name! You aren’t fit to use his name!’
‘I know, I know, but I had to tell you the truth before my disease made
it impossible.’
‘Am I supposed to be grateful? How could you let me spend my life
believing it was my fault when it was you who’d killed him? His own
father!’
She tried to jab her elbow in his stomach but her arm wouldn’t budge
against his clutch. The last time she’d been forcibly restrained by a man,
she’d eventually given in and accepted her fate. She would not make that
mistake again.
‘Please, please forgive me,’ he cried. ‘Don’t let me die knowing you
couldn’t find it in your heart to accept my apology.’
His desperate hope filled the room as it fell silent. Finally, she replied
in a voice so fuelled by venom, he barely recognised it.
‘Never.’
Her response immediately drained him of his energy and she wriggled
until one of her arms came free. It flailed around behind her, trying to hit
anything that felt like him. A fingernail scraped across his eyeball, and
instinctively his hand reached to cover it.
 While he was temporarily blinded, he failed to notice her grab a metal
picture frame of his children before it smashed against the side of his head.
He fell to the sofa, dazed, but moved just before the orange glass vase from
the fireplace shattered against the wall above him.
‘Kitty, please!’ he yelled, but she would not listen. A man capable of
such evil did not deserve to be heard.
As he opened his mouth to beg for her forgiveness one last time, she
reached for a brass poker from the fireplace and swung it above her head.
He backed away but not fast enough to avoid the brunt of its force on his
wrist. They both heard the bone crack, but he felt nothing as he fell to the
floor.
Then, as she raised the poker again, he didn’t flinch or try to protect
himself. Instead, he lay there, sodden and shaking, accepting his fate, as
weak and pathetic as she’d ever seen a man. With a final lift, the poker was
as high as she could carry it.
Then she threw it against the fireplace with all her might.
‘You don’t deserve the easy way out,’ she spat. ‘I want your disease to
slowly eat away at you until your one and only memory is of the son you
killed. Now get out of my house!’
He used the wall to support him as he slowly rose. He backed away
from her towards the door, while blood poured from the open wound to his
head. He touched his temple to stem the bleeding and pricked his finger on
a shard of glass that jutted out from it.
He opened his mouth to make one final apology but his vocabulary
was barren. And when she glared at him with such menace, he knew there
was nothing he could say with his hollow words that would make any of
this better.
So he fumbled for the handle, opened the door and stumbled down the
gravel path, his heavy feet shunting stones in all directions.
He didn’t hear the door slam behind him, or see her slump to the floor
and wail like no other person had wailed before.
 EPILOGUE

Northampton, today

8.40pm

Simon steadied himself against the church railings as he lurched through the
village, his body as traumatised as his mind.
He failed to notice the school he’d once attended, the Fox & Hounds
where he’d tasted his first pint of beer, or the village green where he, Roger,
Steven and Dougie had spent so much of their youth playing.
Finally, when he reached the graveyard, he could breathe again. He
scrambled as best his shaking legs would allow from grave to grave,
hunting for the plot that housed the unhinged soul so many had thought
they’d known. But they’d never understood it had abandoned his body long
before he’d left them.
His eyes prickled from the tears of regret he shed for lives lived, lives
wasted and lives taken. And he cried for the forgiveness he had no right to
expect and would never receive.
Catherine had deserved the truth no matter how much it had hurt her.
He’d wanted her to apologise for what she’d done and for her to understand
why he’d allowed Billy to die. Before he left Italy, he’d convinced himself
that when she learned she was equally to blame, then she would understand.
Then he would return home to his children Sofia and Luca and await the
day he could take Luciana once again in his arms.
But now he knew what a stupid old fool he’d been. Because he had
never considered in all that time they were apart that he might have got it
wrong. And in the end, he had been savaged by the truth just as much as
her.
 Eventually he found the charcoal-grey granite headstone he was
searching for. The sandblasted lettering on the epitaph was as brief as that
written on his mother’s marker.
Simon Nicholson – loving father, gone but never far.
It was an ambiguous tribute and open to interpretation, but only he and
Catherine knew that. Oh, and Shirley of all people, thanks to Catherine
taking her into her confidence. Whatever her considerable faults, his
stepmother wasn’t one to blab for blabbing’s sake.
He inched his aching limbs towards the ground and knelt. With few
burial spaces remaining in the three-hundred-year-old churchyard, he
wondered if another corpse lay beneath where his should have been. It
would’ve been apt if so, he thought, as wherever he roamed, a dead body
was never that far away.
He removed the silver hip flask Luciana had given him for his fiftieth
birthday from his jacket pocket. He frequently topped it up with Jim Beam
to take away the bitterness of his medication. It also helped to relax him on
the days confusion made him feel like a tightly balled fist.
He took out both packets of pills. He knew the ones designed to slow
the pace of his advancing Alzheimer’s were no longer powerful enough,
and he’d barely touched the antidepressants. But he hoped there were
enough of them combined to put him out of his misery. One by one, he
popped them from their blister packs into his bloodied palm and then to his
mouth. After each four or five, he took a swig from his hip flask and
swallowed hard.
Then he sat motionless, numb to everything but the sensation of the
tablets as they slipped down his throat and settled in his empty stomach.
Nobody in this world had understood him like Luciana, and if God
were willing to show him just one act of mercy, he would soon be with her.
But he knew it was a lot to ask, considering all he’d said of the Lord and the
torment he’d inflicted on the undeserved.
Finally he accepted it hadn’t been God, Doreen, Kenneth, Billy,
Dougie or Catherine who had caused his suffering, but himself. He’d been
so hasty to blame everyone else for not living up to the perfection he’d
expected from them, yet he was the least perfect of them all. He’d been the
architect of his own misery.
He began to think about his death and the complications it would
create for those he loved. Luca and Sofia would be financially secure for
the rest of their lives. But when they were to learn of his passing, they
would surely have questions only Kitty could answer. He hoped that when
they finally traced her, she might respond to their confusion and grief with
kindness.
As for his other children – well, keeping his return a secret would be
too tall an order for her. His body, less than a mile from her home, would be
impossible to conceal. He hoped they wouldn’t hate their mother for lying
to them for most of their lives.
Conscious there was nowhere left for him to hide, he wished he’d
hanged himself from the tree in the woods when he’d had the opportunity,
all those years ago.
‘You know what to do,’ came the voice that only appeared when his
options were few and far between. ‘This is the place. Right here, right now.’
‘I do,’ he said out loud. It was a solution that would help everyone. He
could bury himself where no one would think to find him – in the ready-
made grave below. If he could disappear once, then he could do it again.
So he lifted his aching head and began to dig.
As he clawed his way through the sharp turquoise gravel chips, he
failed to notice the blood that dripped from his cracked fingertips and
temple was making the soil underneath syrupy. He tried to ignore the
numbness of his broken wrist and that made digging much harder.
He just needed to scrape a little deeper, he imagined, and then heap the
earth back upon himself, and nobody would be any the wiser.
‘Focus, focus, focus,’ he repeated, determined not to be defeated by an
ageing body that ached to admit defeat. But his arms smarted and his knees
grew weaker.
He began to topple forwards until he steadied himself and then made
one last frantic attempt to scoop away the broken earth and push it to one
side. But it was no use: he no longer had the strength to support his weight.
I’ll rest for a minute then continue, he reasoned, and with all his
remaining strength, he pushed himself onto his back and lay on a blanket of
grass. He watched carefully as the burnt-orange sky gradually faded to a
darkening twilight.
And with a final anxious sigh, he closed his eyes and wondered if God
would listen when he apologised for all he had done.
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I offer my heartfelt gratitude to those friends who read early versions of this
story and were then subjected to a barrage of questioning.
Thanks to my mum, Pamela Marrs, the biggest reader I know and who
inspired my love of books. Thank you to Tracy Fenton from Facebook’s
THE Book Club for discovering this story and helping it to take on a life of
its own. And in alphabetical order, thank you to my early readers Katie
Begley, Lorna Fitch, Fiona Goodman, Jenny Goodman, Stuart Goodman,
Sam Kelly, Kath Middleton, Jules Osmany, Sheila Stevens and Carole
Watson. Also thanks to John Russell for his constant encouragement and
Oscar, my four-legged friend, for sacrificing walks around the park for this
book.
My gratitude also goes to Jane Snelgrove who found this story, out of
the millions and millions of books out there, and started a whole new
chapter in my career. Thanks also to my editor David Downing for his eagle
eye, superb suggestions and advice on tongue biting.
Finally, thank you to the woman who inspired this novel. I don’t know
your name, where you are from or if you will ever know that this story was
inspired by you and the struggles you faced. I’ll always be grateful to have
read your story and I will never forget you.
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2016 Jocelyn Woo/Everly Studios, New York

John Marrs is a freelance journalist based in London and Northampton. He

has spent the past twenty years interviewing celebrities from the worlds of
television, film and music for numerous national newspapers and
magazines. When You Disappeared is his third novel. Follow him on
Twitter @johnmarrs1, on Instagram @johnmarrs.author and on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/johnmarrsauthor.