- -
- 100%
- +
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 HarperCollins 2020
Copyright © Lorna Cook 2020
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Cover photographs © Susan Fox/Trevillion Images (woman); © Shutterstock.com (landscape)
Lorna Cook 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: 9780008321888
Ebook Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008321895
Version: 2019-12-04
Dedication
For Mum, Dad & Luke
For being family. For being there. And just because.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Lorna Cook
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
Invermoray House, Scotland, end of August 1940
Sometimes it’s not the biggest lies, but the little white ones that bring about the most change. Although Constance couldn’t possibly have known that by pretending she had a migraine in order to escape the house, there would be such lasting consequences.
Constance sat on the edge of the large rock that jutted out over the loch and hitched her evening dress up in what her mother would call an unladylike fashion. She removed her satin shoes and peeled off her stockings, dipping her legs into the cool water, soothing her dance-sore feet. She needn’t be discreet; the edge of the loch was so far from the house that no one could possibly hear her, and given the strict blackout regime the housekeeper adhered to, no one could see her either.
Constance closed her eyes and then opened them almost immediately. Her migraine had been a fabrication, although the racket the band was making was exceedingly loud and growing louder the more enthusiastic both the players and the guests became. If she strained her ears now, she could hear them playing all the way from the loch. The need to escape her birthday party, to escape Henry, had engulfed her to the point she could think of no other way out but to lie.
Over the past few months she had found herself liking Henry. She had only known her brother Douglas’s friend a short while, spending time with him when the two men journeyed to Invermoray on rare days of leave. He was older than her by only a few years, and she had looked up to Henry, idolised him and found herself following her parents’ lead when they suggested he might be a good match. Henry had clearly liked her, or so she believed. Constance thought he would be different, not like the other suggestive and sometimes inappropriate men she’d met, of which there had not been that many, admittedly. But he had shocked her as they danced, as she nestled into him, enjoying the closeness. His hands had crept down her back until they were resting far too low, his fingertips grazing her bottom. She had become stiff, alert and then he had clutched her. It had taken all her courage to gently move his hands when she realised his behaviour was anything but romantic.
‘Henry?’ she had questioned, when he had pulled her closer again. He had smiled as if he’d done nothing wrong and she doubted herself. Was she being too prudish? The silver-grey silk ball gown clung to her skin as she danced, and she had caught Henry staring at her chest on more than one occasion. He had clearly found it a challenge to listen to her conversation, to drag his eyes up to meet hers. She had begun rambling, in order to cover her embarrassment, her growing sense of disappointment. When she had excused herself to powder her nose, uncertain as to what was happening and if she should allow it, he had cornered her, pulling her into the darkened orangery, which was unlit in case enemy aircraft should spot a light through the glass panes.
Constance knew men had needs and she wasn’t unworldly. She knew what those needs were and what part she’d be expected to play. While she’d been told that a girl should save herself for her husband, there were many girls at her Swiss school who had bragged joyously that they’d been up to far more than they should with the opposite sex. But as much as she thought she might eventually want it with Henry she wasn’t quite sure. Not yet. She didn’t want him to go off her but whatever was happening between them needed to permeate. Just a little longer. Just until she was sure.
‘You look beautiful tonight,’ he had said, his eyes raking her body.
And then he had kissed her, his lips crashing against hers, his hands holding her shoulders. She had tried to put her arms around his waist, her eyes wide open, uncertain if she was responding correctly, unfamiliar with how far she should let this go. His eyes were closed and he was slowly ushering her further into the deserted orangery, until she was up against an oversized hothouse palm her mother had been cultivating for the best part of a decade.
His whisky-soaked breath had coated her tongue as he kissed her harder and faster and she wasn’t sure if it was this, or the realisation her skirt was being lifted that made her suddenly rigid.
‘Henry!’ she chastised as she pushed free of his grasp. She attempted to laugh, to brush aside his behaviour.
‘Come here.’ Henry held out his hand. Tentatively she had taken it. Perhaps it was simply the party spirit and a little too much to drink that had motivated him into this small bout of madness. Maybe now he realised he had been pushing her a little too much and was relenting.
‘Haven’t you wanted this as long as I have?’ he asked, nuzzling her neck.
Disappointment flooded her. Had he noticed her reaction to him and simply disregarded it? She didn’t know what to say. Until this evening she had never seen this side of him and it had confused her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. It was all happening too fast, and not at all like she’d ever imagined. ‘I’m not sure … like this … here …?’
‘There’s nobody about. We could find a dark corner; over there looks good. I’ll lay my jacket down for you so you don’t get cold on the tiles.’ The suggestion of chivalry was misplaced.
‘No, Henry, I don’t …’
‘If you don’t know what to do, I’ll show you. Now come on, lie down over here.’
‘No, Henry.’ She was firmer now. She finally knew what she wanted and it wasn’t this. ‘No.’
‘If you loved me …’ he said, incensed, letting his suggestion hang.
She knew in that very moment that she did not. Disappointment had engulfed her. How could it all end like this, so horribly?
Without another word she had turned and left Henry standing in the orangery, breaking into a run until she had found safety in numbers in the ballroom.
She needed to be as far away from Henry as possible, to think. And so she had lied. A migraine so painful she thought her head would explode. Her mother had baulked at the picture Constance had drawn in front of their guests and excused her daughter – it was almost midnight, and guests would be leaving soon. But instead of running to her bedroom Constance ran into the cool night air, past the fountain, skirting the ornamental garden and down towards the loch in the distance where she had always found her own haven of peace and calm. No guests would brave the dark journey down to the water’s edge for fear they would trip to their deaths in the blackout and miss out on the Champagne her parents were doling out from their carefully hoarded supply in the cellars under the house. She was entirely alone.
Dangling her feet into the cool water, Constance looked back through the darkness to where she could just about make out the outline of the baronial mansion. Inside were fifty or so of her mother and father’s closest friends, and barely any of her own, still celebrating Constance’s birthday with little regard for her absence and even less for the war outside Invermoray House.
It was no longer the faint noise of the band playing, but rather another sound that suddenly caught her attention, causing her to look skyward. A smattering of low grey cloud hid something she sensed was looming closer in the dark night sky.
It took Constance a few seconds to understand she was listening to the sound of a Spitfire engine. But far from its usual smooth whir, it sputtered and whined as if gasping for breath. She saw its outline against the darkness of the sky above and the black mass of forest on the horizon as the plane dropped from the sky. Its engine went almost completely silent before it juddered to life and then died again, the propellers slowing to a complete stop. And Constance realised the pilot must still be inside, trying to restart the engine instead of doing the sensible thing and parachuting himself to safety. Perhaps in the blackout he had no idea how close to the ground he was.
As the plane sank even further, Constance knew it was going to crash and she scrambled to her feet, moving quickly over the jutting rock in case the plane should bank suddenly towards her. But it did not.
The Spitfire came level with her before hitting the water at such a horrific angle, Constance was sure one of its wings had been ripped clean away, sending spray high into the air. Instinctively she turned away to avoid the large splashes. After the loss of its wing the plane spun and tumbled on the water until Constance didn’t know which way round it was. Where was the pilot? It took only a few seconds for the weight of water to fill the vessel before the plane gurgled and disappeared below the surface; the water smothering it entirely as if it had never been there at all. There was no sign of the pilot. No noise of him swimming to safety in the darkness. The false tide from the crash lapped strongly against the rock.
She stood shaking, her eyes wide, her breaths coming in quick succession, her hands still tightly clutching her shoes and stockings. Constance knew she had to do something, but her body refused her call to action. She was rooted to the spot, staring across the water at where the plane had been. She was torn. If she ran back to the house for help there would be no time. If she did not do something, he would be dead within minutes, if not already. She had to save the pilot.
Forcing herself to move, Constance clambered down the rock and into the water, cutting her leg on a sharp edge as she did so. She couldn’t feel the pain, or the blood as it trickled down her ankle mixing with the water; so intense was her need to reach the stricken pilot, who she imagined hopelessly fighting with his safety belts and the hatch above. Her silk evening dress clung to her legs as she strode as quickly as she could through the water in the direction of where the plane had sunk from view.
Inside the house the grandfather clock in the entrance hall struck midnight, and the band played on to revellers unaware of the events outside. Congratulations were passed to Constance at the close of her twenty-first birthday. Such a shame she had felt unwell. Perhaps too much Champagne had taken its toll. Her bed was the best place for her. Shortly the band would finish, guests dispersing – their carefully saved petrol coupons taking them the distance to their homes and neighbouring estates – and then the housekeeper would begin the ritual of closing Invermoray House down for the night.
As the water reached Constance’s waist she pushed her feet off from the pebbled loch-bed and let go of her shoes and stockings, so that they drifted away behind her as she swam further into the darkness.
CHAPTER 2
Scotland, August 2020
Kate should never have said no to the offer of a satnav for the hire car. There had even been a promotional discount at the car rental desk at the airport but she had, somewhat smugly, waved her mobile phone at the clerk and explained she had a free GPS app already installed.
But her signal had dropped out long ago and with the countryside becoming even wilder she reasoned her phone data wasn’t about to return anytime soon. Kate pulled the little hatchback over by the side of the road and looked around for any sign of life. Any kind of sign at all would have been nice. She couldn’t remember how far she’d gone down the long B road before she had glanced at her phone and found the app unresponsive. How long had it been like that? The last village she’d passed had been at least ten minutes ago and she couldn’t even remember what it had been called.
As the sun dipped in the sky, she spread the map out across the bonnet and scanned it for something familiar. Thank God someone at the car rental office had placed one in the glove compartment. She would be arriving much later than she’d said she would. It would be the worst kind of first impression, turning up for her new live-in job as night was falling. There was no way Kate was going to find her way in the dark so she was just going to have to keep heading down the road in the hope it would lead her to civilisation where she could get some sort of data reception on her phone. You don’t get this sort of nonsense in London, she thought. Although London was the last place she wanted to be right then. She glanced up and down the desolate road. She’d wanted peace and quiet. But maybe not this quiet.
Kate folded the map up as best as she could, but it was a poor effort and she’d managed to fold creases where there hadn’t been any a few seconds ago. She started the engine and drove, holding her phone in one hand, and somewhat dangerously glancing down, hitting refresh on the app every few minutes. There was still no joy. She needed to restart her phone in a last-ditch effort. She glanced down, holding the off button an interminably long amount of time until it gave the chance to swipe to confirm that yes, she really did want to turn the phone off.
As Kate glanced back up she screamed. A man was standing at the side of the road facing her, his mouth open with horror as she drove towards him. What was he doing in the road? He lifted his hands up to shield his face. At the very last second Kate dropped her phone, turned the wheel quickly to swerve away from him and stamped her foot down on the brake. The car skidded across the road into the path of oncoming traffic – or it would have done, if there had been any other vehicles on the stretch of inhospitable countryside road. Instead the rental car came to a stop at an angle that left the bonnet facing a row of tall pine trees at the side of the road.
She couldn’t move. Her knuckles were white; her fingernails dug into her palms where she’d tightened her grip around the wheel. Kate forced herself to look in the rear-view mirror to see if the man was still alive. He wasn’t there. She hadn’t hit him. Or had she? She wasn’t sure of anything.
‘Oh my God. Where is he?’ With shaking hands Kate unfurled her fingers from the wheel and unclicked the seatbelt. She went to open the door but the trouble was taken from her hands as the man yanked it open and stared angrily down at her.
She sat back in shock. His jaw was clenched and he appeared to be struggling to speak.
‘Thank God, you’re alive.’ Her voice was shaky, her heart still thudding hard.
He stood back and gave her room to get out of the car. ‘No thanks to you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Kate climbed out and stood in front of him, her legs wobbly.
‘You almost killed me.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ he snapped. And then added as an afterthought: ‘Are you?’
‘No. I’m fine.’
The stranger looked past her and into the car at the crumpled map on the passenger seat. Kate watched him, hoping he was calming down. He looked about her age, late twenties with brown hair and brown eyes. He was dressed head to toe in running gear, with streaks of neon yellow banded around his wrists and legs. She should have seen him given this get-up, only she’d been distracted by—
‘Were you on your phone?’ He looked directly at her, unblinking. ‘Were you texting while driving?’
‘I … No … Of course not.’
He climbed into the car, knelt on the seat and bent to retrieve the phone.
‘Hey, what are you doing?’ she asked.
He stabbed at it a few times, but the phone was mercifully off.
‘I could have sworn …’ He trailed off and then reluctantly handed her the phone.
‘You need to move your car. It’s dangerous positioned like that.’ He was glancing up and down the empty road.
Kate nodded but didn’t move, concerned she’d just broken the law, almost killing someone at the same time.
‘Can you do it or do you want me to?’ He looked at her as if she was an idiot.
‘I … you … I can do it. I don’t mind.’
He raised an eyebrow and gave her a look that proved he was in no doubt she was a fool.
‘You don’t mind? Well that’s just …’ He shook his head in disbelief, stepping back and folding his arms. Kate was in no condition to drive but she got back in and managed to straighten the car and pull it slightly off the road, onto the gravel by the side. She switched her hazard lights on given that she was still on the wrong side of the road. And then she wasn’t really sure what to do. The man was still standing there. Surely this was the point where both of them would leave and go about the rest of their evenings, but he seemed to be watching her expectantly.
Kate got back out of the car and stood awkwardly by the open door. She’d never been in a road accident before, not that this really was a road accident, but the look he was giving her made her think that if she drove on he’d have the police chasing her within minutes.
‘So, what happens now?’ she ventured.
‘What do you mean?’ He looked baffled.
‘Do we … um … do we exchange details?’
He narrowed his eyes again. ‘Why would we do that?’
Kate felt about two feet tall. ‘I’m not sure,’ was all she could say quietly. She was eager to be back in the car – so shaken she wasn’t sure she could drive if she was really honest with herself but it was better than standing here with him.
‘We don’t need to do anything,’ he said.
‘OK,’ Kate agreed.
His arms were still folded.
She started to apologise again but he cut her off. He glanced pointedly at his phone, strapped to a band on his wrist.
‘Chalk it up to experience.’ He put his headphones in his ears, fiddled with his phone, turned and continued jogging away.
Kate watched his retreating figure and when he rounded the bend she slumped against the car and exhaled loudly, relieved he was gone. Chalk it up to experience? How sanctimonious. What did he even mean by that? Regardless, she was thankful he wasn’t pressing charges and that she’d never have to see him again. Kate looked back down the road to where he’d turned out of sight.
‘What a bastard.’
She could have cried. What was she even doing here?
CHAPTER 3
Kate climbed back into the car and grabbed her handbag from where it had fallen into the passenger footwell. She took out her small bundle of good luck cards and reread her favourite, from her best friend Jenny. On the front was a picture of Kate holding an empty Champagne bottle upside down towards her mouth. She was pulling a stupid, but happy expression. It was only a few months old, but remembering the celebrations from the day she’d been promoted to senior PR manager still made her smile.
Inside the card wasn’t the usual ‘Good Luck’ message. Instead it said, ‘From drunken dare to worst nightmare. Knock ’em dead.’
Oh God, the dare. What had Kate been thinking, coming here on a whim and a dare? She couldn’t lay all the blame at Jenny’s door. It hadn’t been Jenny’s fault that Kate had quite simply had enough. If she had to turn up to promote any more bar openings with mediocre guest lists full of Z-list models and footballers’ wives treating her like dirt she would have screamed. What was it about the almost famous that made them think they could talk to her and her colleagues like they were skivvies? And then when one had accused her of flirting with her husband. Well, the fallout from that had been unbearable. She knew why she was here if she really stopped to think about it. She needed to rebuild her reputation, away from the claustrophobic glare of London, her office, her colleagues, everyone who knew the awful situation she’d got herself in that night. The shame of the accusation was what had driven her here, as far away as she could possibly get. After the indignity and humiliation of the formal warning she’d received at work the next day, Jenny had drunkenly applied online for two jobs for her.
‘You’ve always said you wanted to travel more,’ Jenny had slurred, loading up a jobs website on her laptop. ‘From Land’s End to John o’Groats. I dare you. Where do you fancy?’
‘Anywhere, anywhere, just fill the bloody forms in, attach my CV and hit send. It could be in Timbuktu for all I care. As long as I never have to deal with some reality TV contestant falling out of a bar drunk and into the lens of their own pre-organised waiting paparazzi, then it can be anywhere you like,’ Kate had declared.