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Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Claire Allan 2019
Cover design © Henry Steadman 2019
Claire Allan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008275082
Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008328764
Version: 2018-12-20
Praise for Claire Allan:
‘Amazing. I read it in one go.’
Marian Keyes
‘Utterly addictive! Literally couldn’t put it down all day! Compulsive, twisty, tense. And LOVED the ending.’
Claire Douglas
‘A powerful and emotional psychological thriller that will keep you guessing and leave you breathless.’
C.L. Taylor
‘SUCH a good read! It made me feel so uncomfortable, but I still kept gobbling up the pages.’
Lisa Hall
‘Her Name Was Rose is heck of a read! It’s a psychological thriller with a heart; it’s taut, emotionally challenging and, unlike so many thrillers, each twist and turn is here because it deserves to be and not for the sake of it.’
John Marrs
‘An exciting debut that I couldn’t put down, Her Name Was Rose got under my skin in a way I wasn’t expecting. An intriguing and menacing page turner.’
Mel Sherratt
‘The depth of characterisation and its fast pace is what makes Her Name Was Rose stand out as a thriller. It had me hooked until the end.’
Elisabeth Carpenter
‘A tight and twisted tale with a set of seriously complex characters – kept me guessing right ’til the end. This is going to be one of 2018’s smash hits.’
Cat Hogan
‘All I can say is wow! Such a great concept, expertly delivered to keep you turning the pages. This book toys with the reader until the last page. Trust me, this will be THE book of 2018!’
Caroline Finnerty
‘A brilliantly paced, intriguingly plotted and thoroughly enjoyable story. One of the best psych thrillers I’ve read this year.’
Liz Nugent
‘I devoured it in a couple of days. Claire Allan managed to maintain an unsettling sense of unease that started at the very beginning and didn’t let up at all.’
Elle Croft
‘A superior psychological thriller with an intriguing set-up, a flawed heroine and some great twists. Recommended!’
Mark Edwards
‘Claire Allan’s transition into crime writing is seamless. Her Name was Rose brings all the emotional heft and depth of characterisation her readers would expect, but with a taut, menacing plot line. A compulsively thrilling read from start to finish.’
Brian McGilloway
‘Mesmerizing to the point of complete distraction. I was totally engrossed in this book.’
Amanda Robson
‘I loved it. The plot is twisty and the issues being dealt with here are big scale but told beautifully through Emily. Her envy and confusion is so real as to be palpable and of course, all too relatable. Creepy and weepy.’
Niki Mackay
Dedication
In memory of my grandmother, Mary McGuinness, who raised ten children with a fierce love and pride and who always had time and love in abundance for every one of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Especially the bookworms x
Epigraph
The king said, ‘Bring me a sword.’ So they brought a sword before the king. And the king said: ‘Divide the living child in two, and give half to one, and half to the other.’
The Judgement of Solomon – 1 Kings 3:16–28
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Claire Allan
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue: Louise
Chapter One: Eli
Chapter Two: Eli
Chapter Three: Eli
Chapter Four: Louise
Chapter Five: Eli
Chapter Six: Eli
Chapter Seven: Louise
Chapter Eight: Eli
Chapter Nine: Eli
Chapter Ten: Louise
Chapter Eleven: Eli
Chapter Twelve: Eli
Chapter Thirteen: Eli
Chapter Fourteen: Louise
Chapter Fifteen: Eli
Chapter Sixteen: Eli
Chapter Seventeen: Louise
Chapter Eighteen: Eli
Chapter Nineteen: Eli
Chapter Twenty: Louise
Chapter Twenty-One: Eli
Chapter Twenty-Two: Eli
Chapter Twenty-Three: Louise
Chapter Twenty-Four: Eli
Chapter Twenty-Five: Eli
Chapter Twenty-Six: Louise
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Eli
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Eli
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Louise
Chapter Thirty: Eli
Chapter Thirty-One: Eli
Chapter Thirty-Two: Louise
Chapter Thirty-Three: Eli
Chapter Thirty-Four: Eli
Chapter Thirty-Five: Louise
Chapter Thirty-Six: Angela
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Angela
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Angela
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Louise
Chapter Forty: Angela
Chapter Forty-One: Angela
Chapter Forty-Two: Louise
Chapter Forty-Three: Angela
Chapter Forty-Four: Angela
Chapter Forty-Five: Louise
Chapter Forty-Six: Angela
Chapter Forty-Seven: Angela
Chapter Forty-Eight: Louise
Chapter Forty-Nine: Angela
Chapter Fifty: Angela
Chapter Fifty-One: Angela
Chapter Fifty-Two: Louise
Chapter Fifty-Three: Angela
Chapter Fifty-Four: Eli
Chapter Fifty-Five: Louise
Chapter Fifty-Six: Eli
Chapter Fifty-Seven: Eli
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Eli
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Angela
Chapter Sixty: Louise
Chapter Sixty-One: Angela
Chapter Sixty-Two: Eli
Chapter Sixty-Three: Eli
Chapter Sixty-Four: Angela
Chapter Sixty-Five: Louise
Chapter Sixty-Six: Eli
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Louise
Chapter Sixty-Eight: Eli
Chapter Sixty-Nine: Angela
Chapter Seventy: Angela
Chapter Seventy-One: Eli
Chapter Seventy-Two: Angela
Chapter Seventy-Three: Eli
Chapter Seventy-Four: Angela
Chapter Seventy-Five: Eli
Chapter Seventy-Six: Angela
Chapter Seventy-Seven: Eli
Epilogue: Eli
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the same author
About the Publisher
Prologue
Louise
As soon as I saw her I knew that she didn’t deserve to be a mother. She was squeezed in behind a table in the café, her face pale, drawn. She rubbed her stomach for the briefest of seconds, as if it were something she’d just remembered she was expected to do. Act the part of the happy mum-to-be; rub your expanding stomach, push it out, flaunt your fecundity to the world.
Everything about her body language screamed that this wasn’t a wanted or loved baby. That she didn’t appreciate what she had. What a gift she’d been given.
She looked like a woman who saw pregnancy as an ordeal. Something to be endured. If only she knew.
When it was me, I’d welcomed every pregnancy symptom. Every single one. The sickness. The sore and swollen breasts. The bleeding gums. The swollen ankles. The backache. Even the acid reflux. It was proof I was doing something miraculous. Making a new life and bringing a new soul into this world.
I’d gone to sleep every night with my hands on my bump, whispering stories and hopes and dreams to my baby. Telling him or her of the life they’d have. Of the love that would be showered down on them. God, I was never as happy as I was when I could feel my baby wriggle and kick. I felt more alive with every movement. The symbiosis of my child and me as we shared each breath.
I deserved to be a mother.
This woman, tired and worn out and miserable, didn’t. Not as much as I did, anyway.
Holding my breath, I watched her across the café as she pushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, listened as she sighed loudly.
The thing is, babies don’t really need their mothers. Once they’re delivered, all they want is someone to see to their every need. To feed them, change them, pat them gently on the back to bring up their milky-scented burps. To bathe them and dress and rock them gently to sleep.
Other people could do that.
I could do that.
CHAPTER ONE
Eli
The crisp white envelope sticks out from where it’s been stuffed into my pigeonhole. I lift it, along with the rest of my post, and make my way to the staffroom.
It’s probably a note from one of my families. I both love and hate receiving them. A note or thank-you card of course means I’ve done my job well, but it also usually follows a death. One of my patients will have gone, and a thank-you note will mark part of the admin for a poor family to complete while they’re still shaken from grief.
My name’s printed neatly on the cover. Almost as if it’s been typed, but there’s a small smudge of ink that betrays its handwritten status.
Eli Hughes
Senior Staff Nurse
Cherrygreen Hospice
I don’t think much of it at first. I’m focusing on getting fifteen minutes to compose myself. To try to eat something before my hunger turns to nausea. Drink some coffee before my fatigue overwhelms me. Put my feet up before my ankles swell further. Yes, I’m at the retaining-water stage of pregnancy – seven and a half months – and still waiting for the sickness to pass. I’ve long ago given up on the notion that it’s just morning sickness. Hyperemesis is beyond morning sickness. They should call it pregnancy poisoning. I’m only able to function because of anti-sickness medication, and even then …
There’s a plain ham sandwich – white bread, thin layer of real butter – wrapped in tinfoil in the fridge. My stomach turns at the thought. I’ll try a coffee, even though I shouldn’t. Even though the smell makes me feel woozy and I’ve had my one daily cup already. I need caffeine.
I make a cup and sit down, a plain Rich Tea biscuit in front of me. Lunch. Once this baby’s born, I’ll never, ever eat plain biscuits again.
I turn my attention to the post, the neatly handwritten envelope first. It contains just one sheet of paper: small, blue, lined – the kind on which I’d have written pages and pages of letters to my pen pals when I was a teen. Unfolding it, I see just two lines of text, written in the same neat print:
YOU SHOULDN’T BELIEVE
EVERYTHING HE TELLS YOU
I look at the words and read them again. I turn the page around to see if I’m missing anything on the back page to put these words in context. I even check inside the envelope, peering in, shaking it out. A strange feeling washes over me. Is this some silly joke, or meant for someone else, or a clever marketing scheme for something? I hadn’t the first notion what that could be, but wasn’t that the whole point with clever marketing schemes these days? Get everyone talking. Then bam! The big reveal …
I shouldn’t believe whom? What? I put the note down, then gingerly bite on my biscuit, which crumbles into sawdust in my mouth. I know I won’t finish it.
I don’t have the patience for silly games or puzzles. But I can’t deny my inner nosiness.
Rachel arrives, walks to the fridge, mutters about it being a long day and stares at the wilted salad she’s brought in with her, closing the fridge door in disgust.
‘I think I might run out and grab something from the shop. A sandwich or something. Can I tempt you?’
Rachel does this a lot. Brings in a healthy lunch and forsakes it for something laden with mayonnaise and cheese when push comes to shove. Still maintains an enviable figure – one I envy even more now that I’m expanding at an exponential rate.
‘There’s a ham sandwich in there you can have. It’s good ham. I’m not going to eat it. Will save you nipping out.’
‘And take food from a pregnant woman? Do you think I’m some sort of monster?’ She laughs but opens the fridge anyway and lifts out my tinfoil parcel. She points it in my direction. ‘Are you sure you don’t want it?’
My stomach turns in response and the involuntary face I pull answers her question.
‘You poor thing. You know, Eli, maybe you really should think of starting maternity leave early.’
I shake my head. ‘Nonsense.’ Keen to change the conversation, I push the note in her direction. ‘Look at this note I got. Did you get one like it? Have you any idea what it’s about?’
Sitting down, she takes the note and looks at it. I watch for a reaction on her face. Her eyebrows rise just a little but she shakes her head.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she says. ‘But no, I didn’t get one. Ooh! Eliana Hughes, have you got a stalker?’
She laughs but I don’t. I force a smile but feel my chest tighten. She must notice my expression.
‘Eli, I’m kidding. I’m sure it’s nothing. Someone’s idea of a joke or something. Or mistaken identity. Sure, it’s bound to be that. Who would you have to mistrust? You and Martin have the most solid marriage I’ve ever seen. There’s no way he’d play away.’
Martin.
It didn’t even cross my mind it could be about Martin. Until now. I want to nod and say yes, we’re the most solid couple people know. Because we were … but lately … There’s a disconnect there that I can’t quite put my finger on.
The coffee I’ve been drinking tastes bitter. Of bile. Just like everything else tastes off that I’ve had to eat or drink over the last seven months. Just like everything in my life feels off.
We’d tried so hard to have this baby. Months of disappointment and finally tests. Then ‘There’s nothing we can find, just give it time,’ and more disappointment until, finally, two lines.
It should be the happiest time of our lives. Certainly the happiest time of my life; nurturing a new human life deep within me, bonding with this kicking, wriggling person made of love about to become our baby.
I expected to love every moment of pregnancy, but I realise now I’d been naïve. This kicking, wriggling person who seems to be made of right angles, jabs and pokes at my stomach muscles, which are permanently aching from the daily retching. It makes me feel sorry for myself. I feel angry that I’ve been robbed of a positive pregnancy experience that most women get. And I feel guilty that I resent this pregnancy not being what I wanted it to be. Sure, won’t the end result be the same? Isn’t that what’s important?
And Martin, try as he might, can’t understand how I feel. I suppose I’ve been taking that anger and frustration out on him a little.
I feel tears prick at my eyes. Swear at myself. I can’t cry again today.
‘Eli.’ Rachel’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I look up at her, her eyes filled with concern. Her hand reaches across the table and takes mine.
‘Eli, you do know Martin would never, ever cheat on you. This isn’t about Martin. This is somebody’s idea of a stupid joke, or it’s about something else we’ve just not figured out yet. But we will.’
I nod, two fat tears rolling down my cheeks. My nose running, I sniff loudly, grab a tissue from the box on the table and roughly rub at my eyes.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Of course you’re right.’
I look at the letter again. It doesn’t reveal anything new, so in a rage I crumple it up and throw it into the bin beside the fridge.
Rachel smiles. Tells me I’ve done the right thing and gives my hand a rub before her pager calls her back to a patient.
When she’s gone, I take it back out and thrust it deep into the bottom of my handbag.
CHAPTER TWO
Eli
By the time my shift is done, I’m exhausted and I’m pretty sure my ankles have doubled in size. I can’t wait to get home, kick off my shoes and feel the cool marble floors of our living space under my tired feet.
But my car’s in the garage and I have to wait for Martin to collect me. As usual, he’s late. Probably stuck on a work call he can’t get out of.
I’m standing with my coat on, looking out at the rain falling onto the hospice car park, when Rachel asks if I need a lift.
‘It’s not on your way home,’ I tell her. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’
‘You didn’t. I offered,’ she says with a smile. ‘It’ll save that husband of yours coming out on a night like this and sure, it’s not that far out of my way. The kids are at their dad’s, so it’s not like I’m in a rush to get home anyway. You’ve had a long day,’ she says, and I want to hug her.
‘If you’re sure?’ I ask. ‘I’ll just check Martin hasn’t left.’
‘I’m sure,’ she smiles.
I dial my husband, who answers after two rings, apologises and says he’ll be with me shortly. I can hear from the background noises that he’s still at home.
‘Rachel’s going to drop me over. You’ve no need to come out,’ I tell him.
He sounds relieved. ‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘I can get on with some work while dinner’s cooking. It’s been a mad day, so busy. But look, I’ll talk to you about it when you get home.’
Work has been ‘mad’ for months now. Longer hours. More trips away. A big project that could bring a lot more work his way. When he wants to talk about it, it generally means he’ll tell me about another ‘vital’ trip away. It’s a good thing I’m not the suspicious type.
Or wasn’t.
I end the call and tell Rachel I’ll take her up on her offer.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks as she leads the way to her car. ‘You’re not still mulling over that silly note, are you?’
I force a smile. Shake my head. Lie and say I’m fine and that I’m just tired. Change the conversation to something less likely to make me feel tightness in my chest. We talk about who we’re rooting for in Strictly Come Dancing until we pull up outside my house.
I feel as if I should invite her in, but I’m too tired to play the gracious host.
‘We must get you round for dinner some time,’ I say to her. ‘Have a proper catch-up outside work, when we aren’t both so tired.’ I hope that makes up for the lack of invite tonight.
‘That’d be lovely,’ she says with genuine warmth.
I give her a quick hug then climb out of the car and walk to the front door of my dream home, nervous about what my husband will tell me.
When we first moved to this house just over eighteen months ago, after several years of enduring a three-hour commute between Belfast and Derry, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. There were certain perks to marrying an architect, not that it really mattered to me what Martin did for a living. I’d fallen head over heels in love within weeks of meeting him.
Set on the banks of Enagh Lough, just outside Derry city, Martin had overseen the renovation of the old farmhouse himself. It had taken a year – and lots of blood, sweat and tears – but he’d made our home magnificent.
The rear of the house, which looked out over the lake and the surrounding woods, was mostly glazed. Large plate glass windows set in natural wood frames. Bifold doors onto wooden decking, leading to our own personal jetty – it was stunning in all seasons.
It had felt like our home from the moment we’d walked over the threshold of that ramshackle farmhouse; of course, it felt more so now. It was our bubble in a hectic world that moved at a breakneck speed.
It feels less of a bubble these days. Pregnancy has made me feel vulnerable in a way I never did before. Reliant, not so much on Martin as an individual but on Martin and I as a team. A couple. Ready to work together on this next scary chapter. I’d watched my mother struggle as a single parent. I don’t want that struggle. I don’t want my child to grow up not knowing their father. I think of the note, that stupid piece of paper, and a shiver runs through me.
Dropping my bag on the marble floor in the hall, I hang up my coat and call out to Martin that I’m home.
He walks out of the kitchen, apron on, wine glass in hand, and says hello with a smile. His smile still has the power to make me feel weak at the knees. Even now, ten years after we first met. I smile back, for a moment feeling comforted by his presence.
But even from several feet way, the smell of wine makes me feel nauseous. I take a deep breath, try to swallow down the sickness. If I just take a few minutes to settle myself, take another anti-sickness pill, I might be okay to sit with him for dinner.
‘Did you not invite Rachel in with you?’ he asks, looking behind me.
‘Erm, no. I thought you wanted to talk, and I’m so tired. I didn’t think …’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘She’s good company.’
I tense. Am I not good company on my own? ‘Well, I said we’ll have her over for dinner sometime soon.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ Martin says, moving towards me and pulling me into a hug.
‘I’m just going to grab a bath,’ I say, pulling back a little. The smell of garlic is assailing my nostrils. ‘Do I have time?’