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A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperImpulse
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © E.V. Seymour 2019
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
E.V. Seymour asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008365806
Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008365790
Version: 2019-06-24
Table of 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
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
For Fran and Jim
Chapter 1
I did the wrong thing. Just once. And there is a weary inevitability about what happens next; me in a stranger’s car, sunshine tricking, morning heat ticking, with a throwaway look before I leave. Truth is, I slipped off the picture months ago, way before the terror set in.
Maybe it’s connected to the heat, the dog days of summer inducing a kind of craziness but, no matter how hard I try, I can’t catch a break. Can’t. And four fingers of vodka don’t change a thing.
I stare at the lonely road ahead. There’s the odd worker bee but mostly traffic is quiet. Nobody to see or stop me. Checking the rear-view mirror, I take another sneaky swallow, not enough to dent my reactions, but enough to make me bold. Unaccustomed to the rip and burn of booze on an empty stomach, I love it –feels perfect in the circumstances.
Perfect.
And will Nate care? I don’t know. Do I blame him for the sick chain reaction of events? Maybe. Will he feel guilty? Probably.
I’ll be honest, half of me is terrified to tear a hole in an unimaginably beautiful day, the other sad, but it’s the best I can do to keep those dirty little secrets shovelled back into the earth and buried deep. It’s why something so wrong will be so right. You’ll see.
A glance at my watch confirms it’s time. Primed for speed, the four-by-four starts, its throaty engine snarling. Power thrills through my fingers, up my arms, and takes a spin around my brain. In that petrol-charged moment, I picture how it will play out after I’m gone. They will say I was drunk. They will say I was overworked and suffering from depression. Some will scream that I was mad and bad. Out of her mind, my mother will cry. Intoxicated maybe, but the rest is false. I could never feel more sorted. If someone threatens to topple the walls and bring them crashing down, you make damn sure they lie buried deep in the rubble beside you.
Sunshine smashes through the windscreen and briefly blinds me. I take one final slug of booze. For courage. For luck. For endings. Then, stamping on the gas, I drive.
Chapter 2
“How many men have you slept with?”
“What?”
I was less concerned with Lenny’s intrusive question than with the fact I still stung from the furious argument I’d had with my sister three days ago. With bitter words and angry accusations, I’d blown my stack. And it hadn’t ended there. The rest was a blur of emotion right outside any normal spectrum. At that moment in time I’d hated my sister for making me feel so bloody inadequate and unloved by my own mother.
“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”
“Lenny,” I puffed, almost skinning my knuckles on the wall. “It’s eight-thirty in the morning. It’s bloody hot and I’ve not long had breakfast.”
Sweat poured off me due to the weight of the hefty set of mahogany drawers we were manhandling down a flight of stairs. You need to be strong in the house clearance business and, although short in stature, I was, but this piece of old tat was proving a right bastard. “We have a full day of humping—’
She flashed a killer smile.
“Shifting furniture,” I corrected, “and all you can think about is sex. What’s wrong with you?” In my experience men who banged on (no pun intended) about getting their leg over weren’t getting any. With Lenny, I simply didn’t know. Wind-up merchant, or genuine enthusiast?
She bumped down another step with such force I thought my arms would pop out of their sockets.
“Ouch. Watch my hand.” My biceps juddered and there was a faintly queasy sensation in my stomach. Motor-mouth didn’t pause for breath.
“You haven’t forgotten to return Mr Noble’s call, have you? He needs us to clear his grandmother’s house.”
“No.” I had forgotten actually. Mentally, I ran through my ‘to do’ list, which increased with each passing minute. The shop closed on Mondays, my time dedicated to admin and house clearance. I treated it as my weekly workout.
“Only he called again yesterday. You were supposed to get back to him a week ago.”
I didn’t dignify Lenny’s criticism with a reply. Too busy manoeuvring around a tight corner. A knob came perilously close to lodging itself between two spindles. With a superhuman effort, I altered the angle. Calamity averted.
With only a minor diversion in her train of thought, Lenny got expansive. “I reckon I’ve slept with thirty-three guys, give or take.”
“Bloody hell. What are you trying to do? Set some kind of record?”
“It’s not a lot for a healthy thirty-nine-year-old.”
When did you lose your virginity, I nearly said. In my head I furiously did the maths. I once, memorably, had sex in a store cupboard in an underground tube station on the Bakerloo line, and my last fling had been in a client’s home with Lenny’s predecessor, a guy who got clingy. In general, I was discreet about what I got up to in my down time, whether drinking more than was good for me or choosing unsuitable men to hook up with – often one inextricably led to the other. Scarlet, my goody-two-shoes sister, with her perfect husband, worthy career and perfect bloody life, would never stoop so low, and certainly not without her clothes on. I think I still loved her although I wished, in a complicated, sisterly way, that her halo would slip, trip her up and send her flying.
“Would you sleep with a married man?”
At this, I practically screeched. “As taboo as doing drugs.”
“A bit of blow never hurt anyone,” Lenny chirruped.
One stern look from me took the tweet right out of her twitter. Pink zinged across her milk-white cheeks
“Sorry, Moll, I forgot about your brother.”
“A bit of blow, as you put it, was what got Zach started.” After that he snorted cocaine that made him over-excited and unpredictable, and heroin that turned him into an octogenarian overnight with memory problems and a tendency to fall asleep any time, any place and anywhere.
Lenny zipped it and, together, we flogged down the last two stairs, setting the drawers down with a mighty thump.
“Pit stop?” she said, suitably chastened, a rarity for Lenny.
About to answer, my phone rang.
The caller display indicated it was Dad. Some of my friends disregarded calls from their parents when at work. My dad was different. A former senior police officer he’d taken early retirement and authority coursed through his DNA. Quietly spoken, quiet in every way, he was not an easy man to ignore, although my big brother, Zach, had managed it with ease for all his teenage years, most of his adult too.
“Where are you?” Dad said.
“Barnard’s Green. House clearance.”
“Can you come home?”
“Now?” I pulled a face at Lenny.
“Scarlet’s been in an accident. An RTA.”
I took a sharp intake of breath and translated the copper-speak; car crash.
“Is-?”
“It’s bad,” he said, a catch in his voice.
I spiked with alarm, not so much because of what he said, but how he said it. My softly spoken father sounded at least ten decibels louder than normal. “Dad—”
“I’m going to the hospital and I need you to stay with your mum.”
“But—”
“Molly, she has one of her migraines and is definitely not fit to travel.”
God, she’d be doing her pieces. “I’ll be right there. You’ll keep in touch?” The line went dead.
I gawped at Lenny who, from simply reading my expression, cottoned on that catastrophe had struck.
“Go, I’ll deal with things here.”
“But the van?”
“You take it. I’ll shift as much as I can and pile it in the hall. I can load it later.”
Knowing I could trust her, I flew.
Blood sprinting, guilt poking, I was consumed by the darkest of thoughts: was I the reason Scarlet had crashed?
Chapter 3
It took ten minutes to reach my parents’ house in Malvern Wells.
Mr Lee’s claws clattered across the hall the second he heard my key in the lock. Barely stopping to ruffle his soft Shih Tzu ears as he yapped and snuffled at my ankles, I headed straight upstairs and slipped into my parents’ bedroom.
In darkness, light peeped through the curtains, leaving a golden criss-cross pattern on the sheets. My mum lay, starfish-style, in the middle. Absolutely still. Eyes closed. Skin deathly pale, blonde hair a storm on the pillow. Even though I was her daughter, even though she was unwell, I saw how beautiful she was. Exactly like Scarlet who, with her generous mouth and petite nose and elfin features, took after Mum.
“Molly, is that you?” At the sound of her voice, Mr Lee darted inside, hopped up and parked himself at the foot of the bed. He cast me a reproachful look and rested his chin on Mum’s legs. Proprietorial. My mummy.
I kissed her forehead and sat down on dad’s side of the bed. Mum took my hand and gave it a squeeze. Even my sister’s fingers, long and fine, were like my mother’s. Only the nails were different. Scarlet’s were nurse short, mum’s long and highly polished. Me, with my dark hair, scary eyebrows and olive colouring, took after Dad. I got my practicality from him too. Unfortunately, my shortness of stature – I’m a shade over five foot – belonged to a throwback somewhere down the family line.
“It’s all right. It will be all right,” I said, not really knowing if it would. Suddenly ashamed, I wondered whether Scarlet had confided in Mum about our argument just days earlier. The anger of our exchange suddenly swamping me:
“You what?” I blazed. “I’m not as pretty as you. I’m not as clever as you. I’m certainly not admired like you. Was that what you were going to say?”
“Don’t be silly.” Scarlet spoke quietly, hurt in her eyes. “All I was going to say is that you need to speak to Mum and Dad. This isn’t my fault.”
With a superhuman effort, Mum’s eyes opened, tears pooling at the corners, bringing me out of my painful thoughts. “Oh Molly, it sounds so awful. They had to cut her from the wreckage.”
An icy shiver tiptoed along my spine. “Mum, I’m sure it will—”
“Her beautiful face.” While the situation seemed dire, I sensed that Scarlet’s face would be the least of her problems. Oh God.
“My phone,” Mum burst out, edging up onto the pillows, agitating. “What if your dad calls?” Her gaze darted in the direction of the window. “It’s over on the dressing table.”
I stood up, located her mobile and placed it in her hand. Meanwhile, Mr Lee snored softly, completely out of it. I wished I were dreaming too.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” I said. “Was Nate with her?” Nate was Scarlet’s husband. An architect, he worked with my father on his renovation projects. I jolted. Whatever must Nate be going through?
“No, Molly,” Mum said, with icy patience. “Nate called your father.”
“Sorry, yes. Any other vehicles?”
“A motorcyclist.”
“God. Poor him. Or her,” I added.
Mum’s expression briefly darkened. Bad form to express pity for anyone other than my sister. “Pass my water, would you?” Her voice was tight and clipped. I passed her the glass from the side of the bed and she took a sip.
“Do you know where the accident happened?”
“Not really, but I’m guessing she was nearly home. She’s working nights this week.”
“Perhaps Scarlet was tired and took her eye off the road.”
Mum’s jaw stiffened. “Scarlet would never make a mistake. She’s always so careful.”
I considered this. A beautiful day, summer sun already up, and Scarlet travelling on a road with which she was familiar. “Do you know what time the crash happened?”
Mum hitched her shoulders. “Judging by Nate’s phone call, between 7.30 and 8.00 a.m. Why, oh why, do I have to get one of my migraines now?” Mum placed the back of her hand against her forehead.
“Have you taken anything?”
“I’m trialling a new nasal spray. Scarlet suggested it.” Her mouth creased with pain at the mention of my sister’s name. Parents aren’t supposed to have favourites, but I’d known for as long as I could remember that my mum adored my sister and cared for her more than me. Zach remained more difficult to categorise. Whenever Mum spoke about her firstborn and only son her voice would tremble with emotion, but it was Scarlet who remained the centre of her universe.
I nodded sympathetically. We didn’t speak. “I wish your father would call,” she said, fretting. “He promised he would.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“Do you think we should try Nate?”
Definitely not. “Honestly, Mum, I know it seems like an eternity, but I’m sure everything that can be done is being done. If anyone can sort things out, Dad can.” My dad, in all our eyes, was the most capable of men, mentally, emotionally and physically too. He’d always been sporty, and now his building work kept him lean and healthy.
She forced a smile and sank back miserably into the pillows. “It was probably his fault.”
“What?” I said, startled.
“That biker. Bloody speed merchants.”
I took a breath, counted to ten, and told myself that my mum was understandably upset and already scratchy due to feeling unwell. “Probably too early to say.”
“There are so many damned lunatics on the road.”
“A bird could have flown out. It might be nobody’s fault.” Or it might be mine. Oh My God. The room suddenly bloated with dry heat. Squirming, I stroked Mr Lee’s head.
Don’t let it be as bad as everyone thinks.
Let there be a mistake.
I promise I will never fight with my sister again. I will be nice. I will never blame her for anything.
“We should call Zach,” I said. “Let him know.”
She tensed. “Know what? At the moment there is nothing to tell.”
I stifled a sigh. Contact with my brother was sporadic and difficult. To be fair, this was largely his choice and his fault. If we’d remained in Cheltenham, I could understand his aversion to possibly running into his druggie friends, but he had no connections in Worcestershire. That chaotic stage in his life was over, so I didn’t really get it. Having put my parents through hell, he remained a touchy subject with Mum and Dad. Whatever the ancient history, I believed he should be told about the accident, although, admittedly, maybe not right now.
“Tea?” Despite the heat, it seemed the right beverage to drink. You couldn’t drink vodka at quarter to nine in the morning even if Mum would not be averse to the idea.
“Please.”
I padded out of the room, keen to escape, anxious to be doing something so that I didn’t have to consider what might or might not be happening. Like a virus attacking my nervous central system, all I could think about was my sister, the crash, the fallout, the blame.
I put the kettle on and took the jolly cups and saucers – my mum’s favourite – from the cupboard and went through the motions. Spoonful of sugar for me. Light dash of milk for her. While it brewed, I tried my dad on his mobile. My call went straight to his messaging service, his voice sombre in a way I’d never noticed before. An omen? A scoot around local Gloucestershire news online revealed absolutely nothing. Before I got drawn into what was trending on Twitter, the kettle boiled.
Arranging everything on a tray, the way my mum liked, I took it upstairs.
“I’ve tried your father. No reply,” she said, brittle with frustration.
“Maybe he can’t respond. Could be driving, or at the hospital.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.
We drank in silence. Her hands trembled. God knew what was travelling through her mind although none of it could be good. Eventually she eased back down the bed. Hid beneath the sheets.
I sat and stared off into the distance. For a second time I considered calling Zach. He and Scarlet had never been close, and it was always me who tried to maintain family ties.
“Can I get you anything else?”
She shook her head minutely. “The dog probably needs to go out.”
Only if I scooped him up and forced him, which was precisely what I did. Picking up on the bad news vibe, Mr Lee’s tongue darted out and licked my ear in a sort of ‘sorry you’re feeling sad’ gesture. I gave him a squeeze and carted him downstairs, through the kitchen and conservatory and into heat resembling a fan assisted oven at 220 degrees centigrade. Too long outside and I’d be done to a turn.
I held back in the shade, watched as Mr Lee mooched across the lawn, skirted the vegetable patch and cocked his leg against one of the fruit trees. To the right, a teal-painted wooden bench where Scarlet and I once sat weeks before and prior to the row, the two of us gazing across the rooftops to the Severn valley, cold drinks in our hands after a blistering day at work. Peace between us. She’d seemed distant, I remembered now, not her usual smiley self. When I’d enquired if she was okay, she’d told me she was knackered. To be honest, I hadn’t really bought her answer and wondered if there was something up between her and Nate. Looking back, I wished I’d pressed her because then I’d be able to make better sense of everything. But maybe exhaustion had led to the accident. Maybe it was nothing to do with me. Maybe.
The dog ambled back, cocked his leg again, this time against a flowering shrub on a patio bleached white with heat. I jagged in irritation because the weather felt all wrong. The sun wore a stupid happy-clappy grin on its face. It was way too lovely a day for unfolding events that I couldn’t call, couldn’t predict.
Retreating inside, I ran water into a bowl for Mr Lee.
The house seemed unsettled and empty, like a home in which a warring couple declare they are going their separate ways. Was it possible that we were all over-reacting? Might someone have got mixed up, identified the wrong driver? Was my sister really at home, sunning her rear and snoozing in the sun, while some other poor woman lay trapped in wreckage? Buoyed, I took out my mobile, punched in Scarlet’s number. Nothing. Switched off. Dead.
Steeling myself, I went back upstairs.
“All right?” Mum asked in the way people do when they don’t require a truthful answer.
“Yes.”
“Dog had a drink?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sorry, you had to leave work.”
“Doesn’t matter. Lenny is managing fine without me.”
“Even so—” She broke off, stirred, eyes flickering toward the doorway, to where Dad stood. Tall and solidly built, there suddenly seemed less of him in that moment. Purple shadows etched upon his face and underneath his eyes gave him the appearance of the gravely ill. As he walked silently towards us, I read all kinds of emotions in his brown eyes. That’s when I knew. Indubitably. And so did my mother. Her hand gripping mine told me so.
My throat cramped. “Dad?”
In a voice stained with pain, he said, “Scarlet died this morning.”
Chapter 4
Silence, like the split-second before an ancient tree, cut down, hits the earth.
Dad started forward, every step an exercise in agony. Mum, slack-jawed, let go of my hand, gripped and twisted the cotton top sheet through her fingers, a metaphor for a life irrevocably screwed. When Dad reached out and put his arms around her, she let out a deep-throated howl. I slipped off the bed, made way, excluded. Numbed, I couldn’t really take it in.