THE TRIP
Sarah Linley

Copyright

One More Chapter

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Sarah Linley 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Sarah Linley 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.

Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008368142

Version: 2020-06-26

Dedication

To Mum and Dad, who encouraged me to follow my dreams.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four: Eight years ago

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight: Eight years ago

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen: Seven years ago

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen: Six years ago

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One: Five years ago

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five: Five years ago

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Cambodia, five years ago

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One: Cambodia, five years ago

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six: Vietnam, five years ago

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Vietnam, five years ago

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three: Thailand, five years ago

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven: Thailand, five years ago

Chapter Forty-Eight: Thailand, five years ago

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two: Thailand, five years ago

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘Stay a while. You know you want to.’

A shaft of sunlight, as sharp and sour as lemon, pierces the curtains and illuminates the bed. Tom wraps his arm around my waist, drawing me in to the warm cocoon of his tangled sheets. For a second, time stands still as I bask in his attention, but our sixty minutes are nearly up.

‘You know I can’t. I have to get back to school.’ I kiss him as I release myself from his hold.

He watches me getting dressed. A strip tease in reverse, carefully orchestrated to leave him wanting more. I grab my mobile phone from the bedside cabinet and check my messages. I’ve missed a call from my mum, but I haven’t got time to call her back.

‘Will I see you tomorrow?’

‘Can’t, sorry. Playground duty.’

I retrieve my ID badge from the floor and swing it around my neck. In the tiny

en suite bathroom I reapply my make-up and tidy my hair. I don’t want anyone in the staff room to guess what I get up to at lunchtime. I kiss Tom goodbye and promise to call him later.

‘I love you …’ My heart jumps, but he hasn’t finished. ‘… coming round like this.’

I try to hide the disappointment from my voice. ‘Me too. We’ll get together again soon.’

I make my way down the stairs, stepping over discarded Lego and toy cars. I leave by the back door, hoping no one sees me emerge from the side path into the driveway. The suburban street is quiet during the day, but you never know who might be watching behind closed windows.

The school is only five minutes’ walk away from Tom’s house; I should make it back before the bell rings. The day is unseasonably warm for October. The leaves have turned the colour of popcorn and the nights are drawing in. I walk over the ancient stone bridge, crossing the river which is swollen from recent rainfall. The water flows down from the surrounding fells, breaking over large stones, depositing branches and debris on the banks. Occasionally the river floods, leaving the village cut off from the rest of the world, damaging the riverside properties people pay a fortune for and making the roads impassable. Most people around here drive 4x4s and not just for show.

I can see a group of kids, laughing and showing off on the muddy bank of the river below the bridge. They are too old to go to our school and there is no secondary provision in the village, so they must be bunking off. A teenaged girl balances precariously on a large rock, a can of drink in her hand, as the water streams around her. The others egg her on, perhaps oblivious but more likely exhilarated by the danger. People underestimate the power of the River Wharfe, only seeing its picturesque beauty as it wends its way through the Yorkshire Dales, but the water here is deep with a vicious undercurrent. Almost in slow motion, the girl raises one leg like a ballet dancer and wobbles dangerously. As I walk away, I hear a scream and a splash followed by a cacophony of shouts.

I look over the bridge and see the girl struggling in the water, her arms flailing. Her friends are panicking and shouting at each other. I race down the steps, nearly slipping on the wet limestone, and run towards the group. My brain is on autopilot, focussing on what needs to be done and clouding everything else out. The mud sucks at my heels, slowing me down, and I am forced to abandon them and run barefooted.

One of the boys has stripped off his jacket and looks like he is about to jump in after the girl, but I hold him back. I don’t need two of them to rescue.

‘Get a branch, quickly,’ I say, pointing to the nearby woodland. I lie on the ground, ruining my white blouse, and stretch out my arm as far as I can but I can’t reach her. The girl, who looks about fourteen, is now clinging onto the rock but the water is pulling her downstream. Her eyes are wide and terrified, and she’s shivering uncontrollably. If she lets go, she will be pulled under, the force of the current throwing her against the rocks like a rag doll.

‘What’s your name?’ I shout at her above the roar of the water, which is ice cold and seeping through my clothes.

‘Samantha.’

I recognise her now. Her little brother Nathan is in my class. ‘Samantha, I’m Holly. Hold on, it’s going to be okay.’

The boy hands me a branch and I test it with one hand to check it is sturdy enough. He has had the good sense to pick up a strong, thick one. I hold it out to Samantha.

‘One hand at a time, grab on.’

She looks uncertain, weighing up her options, too scared to release her grip on the rock but knowing the strength in her cold trembling fingers won’t last much longer. She doesn’t look like a cocky teenager anymore; she looks like a little girl. Gingerly, she releases one of her hands and grasps the branch.

‘Now the other one. Quickly.’ My steady voice belies the terror racing through my head. I can’t let her see how scared I am.

She whimpers and shakes her head, paralysed by fear.

‘Come on, Samantha. You can do this.’ I try to sound as calm as possible even though I am struggling to maintain my grip. If either of us let go now, the result could well be fatal.

She takes a deep breath and snatches the branch. Her sudden weight pulls at my arms and I slide closer to the water’s edge. Adrenaline shoots through my body, every instinct telling me to let her go and save myself. I take a deep breath, dig my elbows into the ground to keep steady and use all the strength I can muster to drag her towards me. Once or twice I think one of us is going to let go of the branch but, somehow, we make it and inch by inch I pull her towards the bank. As soon as they can reach her, the teenagers take over, grabbing on to Samantha’s sodden clothing and hauling her to safety, collapsing in a great muddy heap. Samantha lies on the ground, coughing up dirty water.

‘Call an ambulance,’ I gasp as I help her to sit up. She is shaking so I wrap one of the boys’ discarded coats around her and rub her arms to warm her up. Eventually her shivers subside. Apart from the shock, she doesn’t seem to be hurt.

‘I’m going to be in so much trouble,’ Samantha says, looking around at the empty beer cans and discarded tab ends.

‘Better in trouble than dead.’

I look down at my clothes. My thin white blouse is saturated, see-through in parts, and covered in grass stains. My black pencil skirt is ripped, and my feet are caked in clay-like mud. There is no way I can go back to school looking like this. I check my watch. I’m already twenty minutes late for class. They will be wondering where I am by now.

The ambulance eventually arrives, parking at the top of the bridge and two paramedics make their way across the slippery bank. I feel a sense of relief as they take control of the situation. One of the paramedics assesses Samantha while the other wraps a foil blanket around my shoulders and asks me questions. As he does, an overwhelming sense of panic rises up from where I had suppressed it. The roar of the water seems to be getting louder and there is a ringing in my ears. My vision blurs and it’s difficult to breathe. I can’t understand what he’s saying.

‘Look at me,’ a sharp command. I struggle to focus on the handsome paramedic who is crouched in front of me. ‘Breathe.’

I can’t. It’s as if my air passages have been blocked. My breaths are coming out as loud rasps and my lungs hurt as I battle for air. What’s happening to me?

‘Hold out your hands.’

My hands are trembling and seem strangely disconnected from the rest of my body as he takes hold of them. I look into his kind, reassuring face and force myself to relax.

‘You’re OK, you’re doing fine, now breathe … nice and slow.’

My breathing calms down as I obey his instructions. My vision returns to normal and my heart stops racing. I am so embarrassed.

‘Just a panic attack,’ he says. ‘Have you had one before?’

I shake my head.

‘I think you should come to the hospital and get checked out.’

‘I’m fine, honestly.’

He checks my pulse and seems satisfied with the result.

‘OK, well at least get someone to walk you home.’ He shouts over to one of the lads to come and walk with me.

I am acutely conscious of my dirty clothes and bedraggled appearance. I reluctantly agree to the teenager accompanying me home and we all make our way slowly back up the steps like a funeral cortege. The boy looks relieved when I dispense of his services as soon as the ambulance sets off.

I’m shattered and Tom’s house is closer than mine, but I turn the other way towards my own cottage. I need to be alone right now. Seeing Samantha in the water has brought the bad memories flooding back. Memories of a different place and a different time, a different body in the water and a very different outcome.

CHAPTER TWO

I strongly suspect it was my boss who tipped off the local newspaper about my ‘heroic rescue’. Trevor loves the media and anything that reflects well on the school and, by implication, his leadership.

The following day a reporter and a photographer turn up. The journalist is about my age and nervous. She rattles off questions, barely waiting for my response before firing out another. She insists she needs my age and marital status, though I can’t see how they’re relevant. Trevor watches me from the corner of his office, a self-satisfied grin all over his face. He is no doubt picturing himself presenting the article to the governors as part of his monthly media report, lapping up the kudos. I pose dutifully for a picture, wishing that I could cover up the ugly cuts and bruises I sustained during the rescue.

‘It will be on the website later today,’ the reporter promises. ‘We want to break the story first!’

I fake a smile. It’s hardly the scoop of the century, but I am still dreading the publicity and people gossiping about me. I don’t know how my sister stands it. As an actress, Lisa must have to do this type of interview all the time, but at least she has access to a good make-up artist.

‘Do you have everything you need? Only I need to get back to my class.’

‘Of course, it was really lovely to meet you.’ Her voice drips with insincerity as she shakes my hand.

‘And you.’

Trevor shows them out. I can hear him pitching a story about the school choir as they close the door behind them.

Rhona is covering my class. She won’t thank me for it. She hates dealing with the litany of demands the younger ones bring. This afternoon we’re making Hallowe’en decorations. I have laid out sheets of newspaper over the tables and placed glue, tubes full of glitter and colouring crayons in the middle. When I walk back into the classroom, the children are hard at work, tongues sticking out in quiet concentration. They barely notice my return. Rhona is sitting at my desk, watching the clock.

‘Wow, what did you do?’ I ask, dumping my bag at her feet.

‘Threatened them all with expulsion if they weren’t quiet.’ I can’t always tell when Rhona is joking. ‘How was your fifteen minutes of fame?’

‘Excruciating.’

Rhona gathers her things. ‘I think you should be dead proud of yourself. You saved that girl’s life.’

‘Well, anyone would have done it. I was just lucky to be passing at the right time.’

‘Yeah, funny that …’ Rhona says, winking at me. She’s the only one who knows about me and Tom. I blush furiously and glance over to where Jack is sitting. He looks so much like his father. ‘Are you coming for a drink later?’

I’m about to answer when we are interrupted by a high-pitched shriek. Our heads both turn sharply to see one of the little girls throw her paintbrush on the floor. Her cheeks are cerise, her bottom lip is wobbling, and tears are streaming down her face. Rhona takes the impending tantrum as a cue to leave.

I rush over. ‘Hey, what happened?’

Phoebe, a precocious and spoilt five-year-old, holds out one of her curls, now a tangle of white blonde hair, glue and glitter. This is just what I need. Phoebe’s mother is a serial complainer and there’s not a chance in hell this latest sign of my ineptitude will go unchallenged. I lead Phoebe over to the sink in the corner of the classroom and try to wash it out but it’s hopeless and in the end, I have to leave it as it is. I will just have to face the wrath of her mother. From hero to villain in one afternoon; not bad going.

By the time the final bell rings I am exhausted, and I still have a pile of marking to get through before I go home. I stay in the classroom as the sun sets, watching the starlings perform a murmuration against the rose-coloured sky, while correcting the kids’ rudimentary attempts at basic sentences. Some of them haven’t even mastered the alphabet yet and I notice that Jack is still getting his b’s and d’s the wrong way around.

Rhona pops her head around the door shortly after seven to ask if I’m ready to leave but I shake my head dolefully.

‘All work and no play, Holly …’ she scolds gently. ‘I’ll be in the pub if you change your mind.’

I’ll give it another half an hour and go home. I take out my phone and check the newspaper website. The river rescue is the main story. The picture of me is hideous and the reporter has got half the details mixed up. I close down the browser and check my notifications. There’s an unopened Snapchat message from my sister. She befriended me on the app a few months ago but this is the first time she’s contacted me on it. I open the message.

I recognise the picture immediately. It was on my wall at university for three years. I am standing between Kristóf and George while Meg is giving the V sign above my head. Kristóf looks bored while George is beaming at the camera, loving life. It was taken the first night of Freshers’ Week when we didn’t really know each other.

My hands are shaking so badly I drop the phone and it clatters onto the classroom floor. My gut writhes with the mixture of grief and guilt that always arises when I think about that time of my life. Why would my sister send me that photo? I pick up my phone to check the message, but it has already expired.

CHAPTER THREE

‘Teacher saves teenage girl from drowning.’

Google Alerts draws his attention to the article that appeared on the local newspaper site an hour ago. He set up the alert on Holly’s name some time back, but this is the first time it has delivered a result.

He scrolls through the interview, feeling his temper rise. Holly’s quotes are steeped in self-deprecation and false modesty; the bitch is clearly lapping up the attention.

‘Anyone would have done it. I was simply in the right place at the right time.’

The reporter has made no attempt to challenge her version of events. He looks closely at Holly’s photograph. Her face is cut and bruised, and she looks older than she does on her Facebook profile. An honest picture for once, not the stylised, heavily filtered crap she usually posts.

He screengrabs the article and adds it to her folder. It isn’t as full as the others but there are still plenty of files. Private messages she thought no-one could read, deleted emails, and photographs she’s forgotten taking. Hundreds of images depicting a smiling young woman without a care in the world. It makes him sick.

Mia is clattering away in the kitchen and the heady scent of garlic and tomatoes wafts through the study door. He doesn’t have long.

He flicks through the images in her folder and picks one of the four of them. He forwards it to his mobile phone using the encryption software he got from Latvia, opens Snapchat, taps in Holly’s username and sends the photo. No message. Not this time. He wants to see how she reacts first. He removes the SIM card and places it with the others, neatly locked away in his desk drawer.

Mia is calling him down for supper. He shuts down his laptop and switches off the lamp. It is getting dark and above the London rooftops, the sky is a wash of blues with the faintest glimmer of daylight.

He will have to wait for Holly’s reply. But he’s good at waiting; he’s been waiting for a very long time.

CHAPTER FOUR
Eight years ago

It was the first night of Freshers’ Week. Mum, Dad and my sister Lisa had left a couple of hours ago and I was in my room, waiting for the right time to walk down the corridor and meet the people I would be living with for the next year. I didn’t want to be the first to arrive. I was dressed for clubbing: heels, short skirt, glittery top, but I had no idea what everyone else would be wearing. Was I overdressed for a student night? I poured myself another shot of vodka and mixed it with cherryade, hoping the alcohol would calm my nerves.

My new room was small and utilitarian, on the second floor of a block of flats that overlooked a courtyard. The only furniture was a single bed and a fitted wardrobe, desk and shelves. The bathroom comprised a toilet, shower and sink efficiently crammed into a compact cubicle. Everything about my new home was built to withstand the rigour of first-year students. I hadn’t unpacked properly but I had made up my bed with the pretty duvet cover Mum and I had chosen last week. We had filled the trolley with everything I would need for my first time away from home, getting excited over wooden spoons and tea towels.

In the flat opposite, a hot guy was walking around bare-chested. He caught me looking and winked as he walked to the window and closed the blinds. Back home, the only view from my bedroom was the windswept mudflats of Morecambe Bay. On a normal Saturday night, I would be going out with friends I had known since primary school. Dad would be telling me to “knock ’em dead” and Mum would be slipping me an emergency tenner to keep in my shoe. I would know which pubs would ask for ID and which were full of creepy old men. Gemma and I would share a taxi home at the end of the night, and we would stay awake until the early hours chatting, analysing our night in minute detail and choosing which pictures to post on Facebook. Now there were more than 200 miles between us and she would be making new friends in Cardiff while I was sitting in my room feeling clueless.

My mirror was propped up against a stack of textbooks. They were pristine, unread and despite their abstruse titles, full of excitement and mystery. I was a proper university student, at last. School, and the agonising wait for my A-level results, seemed like a distant memory. I checked my phone: it was finally time to make my appearance. I reapplied my lip-gloss, shook out my hair and checked I had money and keys before walking down the corridor to the communal kitchen. I could already hear laughter coming from behind the door. I took a deep breath and walked in.

The large kitchen had a dining area in the middle of the room. There was a collection of bottles on the table: vodka, whisky, cola, wine and a twelve pack of cheap Belgian beer. Tinie Tempah was playing out of a set of speakers attached to an iPod. The smell of pizza was rising from the oven, making me feel hungry. Laminated notices reminded users to clear up their dishes after them and to use the recycling bins.

A group of students had gathered on the sofas near the window. I added my bottle of vodka to the table, knowing that it would be gone by morning, and walked towards them. A girl with light-brown skin, dark make-up and bright pink hair stood up, swaying slightly, and moved towards me. ‘Hey, I’m Meg.’

She gave me a quick hug. She smelt of strawberries. It reminded me of the products I used to buy from the Body Shop, before my friends introduced me to Clinique.

‘Holly.’

‘Guys this is Holly. From?’

‘Lancaster.’ I thought it sounded more sophisticated than Morecambe.

‘I’m Kristóf,’ a guy with olive skin, black hair and intense brown eyes stood up to shake my hand. Kristóf was wearing skinny black jeans and a faded Jack Daniels t-shirt. He was tall and thin and sported a goatee beard. I could see that he was handsome, but I preferred my men with more muscle.

The other boy didn’t stand up, but lazily held out his hand. He looked like he had just stepped off his father’s yacht: sun-kissed skin, sandy curls and preppy clothes. His hands were soft, and his nails looked manicured. He introduced himself as George in a posh accent that I thought was sarcastic but turned out to be genuine.

‘So, what’s the plan tonight?’ I asked cheerily, trying not to sound nervous.

‘Well we’re supposed to meet at the Union bar at seven,’ Meg said in a strong Geordie accent that I was struggling to understand. ‘But there’s plenty of time. We don’t want to get there first, like a bunch of saddos.’

I poured myself another drink, trying not to think of the empty calories I was pouring into my body; I would make up for it tomorrow. I perched on a kitchen stool as we exchanged personal information. Kristóf and I were the only ones studying the same subject: English Literature. We chatted a bit about our favourite books, but his tastes were more highbrow than mine and I soon felt out of my depth. Meg was an engineering student and had won a scholarship on the back of a solar-powered device she invented in sixth form that was being used by the Red Cross in Africa. She played it down, saying it was just common sense, but I was impressed. George was taking Business Studies.

‘Keeping my parents sweet until my inheritance kicks in,’ he declared, to Meg’s obvious disgust. ‘Of course, they wanted me to go to Cambridge like my older brother, but I didn’t get the grades.’

By the time we reached the Union bar, it was heaving with students making the most of the free shots on offer. Meg grabbed four plastic glasses filled with unidentified neon liquid and handed them around.

‘Here’s to a night to remember!’

Kristóf and Meg downed their shots while I sipped mine cautiously. It tasted of lime and it went down OK, but it was sickly sweet and probably filled with sugar. I had to be careful drinking shots. I didn’t want to puke on my first night. I noticed George surreptitiously abandon his on the table behind him.

‘I’m going to get a proper drink,’ he shouted in my ear. ‘Coming?’

I followed him, pushing through the crowd of students at the bar. He ordered a whisky for himself and a glass of prosecco for me and paid for them with a £50 note. None of the boys at home would have done that. They thought they were flash if they paid with a tenner. The bar man handed him his change and he slipped it into his wallet without even counting it.

Going into Leeds was like being sucked into a hurricane. There were more shots, more bars, more bodies pressed against me as we made our way around the city centre. I was accustomed to seeing groups of students act like this in Lancaster: self-assured, noisy, oblivious to anyone who wasn’t part of their world; but this was the first time I had actually been part of it. It was exciting and scary at the same time. The alcohol had anaesthetised my nerves and I found myself chatting to random strangers, asking them where they had come from and what they were studying. Most of the time I couldn’t hear their responses over the loud music, but it didn’t really matter. I bumped into the man I had watched getting dressed earlier that evening. He was very drunk and trying it on with every woman in the group. You had to admire his tenacity in the face of so many rebuffs. There might have been a time when I would have let him snog me, pathetically grateful for his attention, but there were so many gorgeous men here that I could afford to be picky. I didn’t want to get a reputation. George and Meg were in their element, taking selfies and organising rounds of drinks. Kristóf was more reserved. All evening he remained aloof, watching us from a distance like an anthropologist observing an intriguing tribe. He looked so out of place and miserable in this crowd, I wondered why he had bothered coming.

We ended up in a grungy club where they sold tequila shots for £1. The floor was sticky and the music reverberating from the speakers made my ears ring. I felt over-dressed and self-conscious under the gaze of the older men who were standing around the dance floor appraising us like farmers at an auction mart. Where had all the gorgeous men disappeared to? My chances of finding Mr Right here were diminishing by the second. I was tired, my feet hurt, and I wanted nothing more than to go to bed, but I didn’t want to be the first one to call it a night. I wasn’t even sure how I was going to get home.

I found a seat in one of the few booths that were not occupied by snogging couples and took out my phone to message Gemma, but there was no signal. It was past two o’ clock and I wondered when the club closed. Surely then we would head home. Meg shimmied over.

‘What’s up?’ she shouted. Her breath stunk of cigarettes and beer. She slumped in the seat next to me and placed her head on my shoulder.

‘Just taking a breather.’

‘Here, try one of these. Got them from that guy at the bar.’ She held out her hand. Nestling in her palm were two small yellow pills. I had never done drugs. I wasn’t prudish about it, but I didn’t like the idea of not being in control. I reminded myself I didn’t know Meg that well, and I definitely didn’t trust a random stranger in a bar.

‘No thanks.’

‘OK, your loss.’ She took one and washed it down with my bottle of water. I instantly regretted my decision. I was at university now; I needed to live a little.

‘Oh, go on then. Why not?’ She smiled and handed over the pill. I hesitated again – picturing the headlines in the media, Mum and Dad identifying my body, the memorial page on Facebook – and swallowed it.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back on the dance floor, jumping up and down to the music without even thinking about what I looked like. An hour later, I was declaring my love for everything about the club. The lights were painting everyone yellow, red, blue and pink. It was all so pretty. I told Meg that she was my new best friend and tried to pull Kristóf on to the dance floor. A man who looked old enough to be my dad taught me how to moonwalk. George picked me up at one point and twirled me around, making me dizzy. It was the best night of my life and I didn’t want it to end.

The next day my phone was full of messages and Facebook updates. I seemed to have made a lot of friends overnight. I checked through the pictures I had been tagged in and was relieved to see they were all fine. There was a lovely one of the four of us, Meg pulling a V sign above my head. I didn’t look like I was off my head, thank God. I swore that was going to be the first and last time I took drugs. Gemma had posted some pictures of her night out and I liked them and privately messaged her to check she was OK.

I took a long shower and deep cleansed my face. I spent ages on my make-up and straightened my hair before I ventured sheepishly to the kitchen. I could smell bacon cooking and my stomach growled but I had consumed so many calories last night, I was determined to stick to black coffee for breakfast. Meg was sitting at the kitchen table, still wearing her pyjamas. She looked younger and prettier without all the heavy make-up. George was frying strips of bacon while Kristóf popped slices of bread in the toaster with one hand and gulped down a cup of tea with the other.

‘Oh my God, you’re actually dressed and wearing make-up!’ Meg said. ‘That’s just not normal!’

I could have taken it as an insult, but it wasn’t meant that way. It really didn’t seem to matter to any of them what I looked like. George placed a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea in front of me before I could decline. I took small, delicious bites as Meg relived the evening, laughing at the funny parts and making plans for the rest of the week. We were a disparate bunch, but I had a feeling we were going to become the best of friends.

CHAPTER FIVE

I can’t sleep, thinking about the message and who might have sent it. It wasn’t my sister. I checked and she isn’t even on Snapchat so someone must have created a fake profile using her name and picture and, like an idiot, I fell for it. The photograph has obviously been taken from my Facebook page – it was my cover image for most of my first year – but I changed it a long time ago. Is someone from uni trying to get back in touch? But why bother setting up a fake account?

I haven’t been in touch with anyone from university since I left. I decided to draw a line under what happened and move on with my life. I assumed the others had done the same. I think about responding but I don’t know what to say. In the end I block the sender and switch off my phone.

But the memories won’t stop flowing. It’s as if a room inside my head, that has always been firmly bolted, has been unlocked and my past is spilling out. Good memories that I had forgotten about; bad memories that I haven’t. I try to push them back in the room, lock the door behind me, but there’s nothing I can do except endure it.

Dragging myself out of bed and into the bathroom the next morning, I groan at the sight of the huge bags underneath my eyes and my pasty white skin. I use my most expensive foundation, the one I usually save for special occasions, and take my time over my make-up, meticulously crafting the mask that will need to stay in place all day. I put on a pretty floral dress and some leggings and look in the mirror. It’s one of my favourite outfits but today it looks childish. I get changed into some black trousers and a cream silk blouse. Then I worry the kids will splash paint on it, so I change again. I eventually settle for a navy dress and team it up with a scarlet scarf Rhona bought me for my birthday. I put on heels even though they will be killing me by lunchtime. I look older, more professional. I may look fierce, but my stomach is churning, and I can’t face any breakfast.

A light drizzle coats my face as soon as I step out of the door. It is colder than I was expecting, and I wish I had thought to put on my gloves. The mist is hanging low over the hills, obscuring the landscape. My tiny cottage is in a beautiful location at the edge of the village with picturesque views of the Dales, but it’s secluded. My parents bought it as an investment and charge me a minimal amount of rent. Either side are holiday cottages which are only occupied in the summer months, and occasionally over Christmas and half-term. There are no streetlights along the path which leads from my house into the village centre and it’s still not light, so I have to be careful not to step in any dirty puddles, or worse. Walkers regularly use this route to access the moors and they don’t always clean up after their dogs.

It’s taken me a while to get used to living in a village. I’ve had to adjust to the more sedate pace of life and the proclivity for gossip. As the first new teacher to arrive in several years, I attracted a lot of attention and plenty of invites to community meetings and groups. There was much speculation about my marital status and which of the eligible bachelors from the neighbouring farms would snap me up. It was like stepping into a Thomas Hardy novel.

At first, I felt a bit isolated. It was my first job after graduating from teacher training college and I didn’t know anyone in the village. After a while though, I started to feel part of the community. I got friendly with Rhona and her husband, Rob, and they introduced me to everyone and now I have Tom. It may not have much in the way of nightlife or high street shops, but the village is friendly and safe, and everyone looks out for one another. I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave.

As usual, I meet Rhona outside the pub. She is checking her phone and smoking a cigarette. She waves enthusiastically as I approach.

‘You’ll never guess what happened yesterday,’ she says, launching into the latest tale about a boy in her class who she has nicknamed ’Orrible Oliver. He is the bane of Rhona’s life. A precocious ten-year-old with a gob the size of Yorkshire and an ego to match. ‘Brought in a box of matches. Trevor caught him trying to set fire to the blinds. He told him it was a science experiment. Can you believe it?’

‘What did Trevor do?’

‘Oh, you know our illustrious master. Doesn’t like to deal with anything that might get back to the governors. Confiscated the matches and gave him a verbal warning. He should have expelled him, the little shit.’

I smile sympathetically. I’ve managed to avoid having Oliver in my class, but the other teachers are always moaning about him. It sounds like he’s more trouble than half my five-year-olds put together.

‘You’re looking a bit peaky. Are you OK?’

‘Didn’t sleep that well.’

‘Oh aye. Tom wearing you out, is he?’

I wink at her. ‘A lady doesn’t tell.’

Rhona likes to tease me about Tom. She was with me when we first met and has taken a keen interest in our relationship ever since.

‘Still going well though, is it?’

‘Yeah, I think so. I just wish we didn’t have to keep it a secret. I mean we’re not doing anything wrong.’

‘Give it time.’ This is Rhona’s favourite phrase, as if giving anything time has ever made it better. I know that Tom doesn’t want to announce our relationship to the whole village yet, and I understand why, but I think there’s also a part of him that wants to continue to play the wounded husband, the long-suffering partner of a cruel wife who walked out on him and their child. He doesn’t want people thinking that he’s moving on too quickly. Besides, I have reasons of my own not to broadcast it. Rhona said the last head would have turned a blind eye, but we’re both pretty sure Trevor would have a fit if he found out I was screwing one of the parents.

‘Still up for a walk at the weekend?’

‘Definitely.’ I’ve always enjoyed walking in the countryside, it helps me clear my head. Dad used to take me to the Lakes when I was a kid and we’ve tackled most of the peaks together. I was less familiar with the Yorkshire Dales when I moved here but over the past three years, I have covered the major climbs and discovered a few more off the beaten track. Surrounded by rolling hills and limestone pavements which date back to the Ice Age, this area is a walker’s paradise. I used to go walking on my own, but since Rhona got a Fitbit for her birthday, she’s been joining me to get her steps up. It’s nice to have her company, although she’s hopeless at reading maps and we’re constantly getting lost and having to climb over barbed wire fences to get back on track.

‘Rob says he’s coming in later. You know, to give them the talk.’

Rhona’s husband Rob is what the local newspaper calls a ‘bobby on the beat’, the last bastion of community policing. His patch covers a collection of villages in a largely rural area with a very low crime rate, apart from the odd burglary and a few drink drivers. He likes to visit at the start of each school year to meet the kids. ‘Catch ’em early before they get into trouble,’ he says, although I suspect it’s more because the children hero-worship the emergency services at this age and treat him like a celebrity.

‘Yeah, it usually goes down well.’

Rhona stubs out her cigarette before we reach the school gates. She doesn’t like the kids seeing her smoking. As we turn the corner, there are already some parents waiting to drop their children off early before they go to work. Rhona greets them with a cheerful hello. She is far friendlier than I am; I keep my head bowed and try to sneak through the crowd unnoticed. Parents always want a ‘quick word’ about their child’s progress.

I spot Phoebe’s mum among the throng. She is bending down and fastening her daughter’s bright pink coat. I speed up, hoping to get away from her, but she looks up as I place my hand on the gate and makes eye contact.

‘Ah Miss Metcalfe, have you got a minute?’ Phoebe’s mother places great emphasis on the word ‘Miss’. She is a tall woman with a sharp black bob and the hint of crow’s feet around her eyes. I would guess she’s about forty. I fake a smile and walk over.

‘Good morning, Mrs Abbott. Hello Phoebe.’ I can see that a lock of her hair has been cut and pinned to one side: a visual reminder of what a terrible guardian I am.

‘Phoebe told me that she had glue in her hair yesterday. And that one of the other children deliberately stuck it there.’

This is blatantly untrue. I look down at Phoebe who stares back at me, wide-eyed and innocent. I’m impressed; not many five-year-olds are that accomplished at lying.

‘I’m afraid Phoebe did get glue in her hair, but I’m not aware that any of the other children were involved.’ My voice is steady and calm even though my heart is beating fast. Will Mrs Abbott make an official complaint? Will I be sacked over a little girl’s lies?

‘Well, perhaps you need to be a bit more aware of what is happening in your classroom, Miss Metcalfe. After all, isn’t that your job?’

I bite my tongue and swallow my temper. Rhona is always complaining about parents who treat teachers like glorified babysitters.

‘I can assure you that the children are very well supervised, Mrs Abbott. Which is why I am one hundred per cent certain that no other pupil was involved.’

‘Phoebe doesn’t lie. The other children may well be jealous of her intelligence.’

‘I agree that Phoebe is a very intelligent little girl; which is why I was hoping that I could chat to you at some point about ways we can keep that creative imagination of hers channelled. Perhaps you would like to make an appointment to discuss the matter?’

Mrs Abbott flushes and looks at her watch. ‘Well, I am rather busy at the moment.’

‘I totally understand. I’m sure it must be very difficult with two little ones to manage. How old is your son now?’ I nod towards the baby boy tucked up in blankets and fast asleep in the pram beside her.

Her face softens. ‘Six months.’

‘That’s a nice age.’

‘He’s absolutely no trouble at all. To be honest I think Phoebe may be a little jealous of the attention he’s getting.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable.’

Phoebe, sensing her moment in the spotlight is over, releases her mother’s hand and runs off to join her friends in the playground and no doubt complain about her unfair treatment.

‘Honestly, that child will be the death of me,’ her mother says under her breath. ‘Do you have children yourself?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, take my advice and enjoy your freedom while you have it!’

I breathe a sigh of relief as she turns the pram and walks away. I feel a bit better now about the day ahead. Surprisingly, handling Phoebe and her mother has given me the boost of confidence I needed. If I can handle her, I can handle anything.

* * *

‘We’re here to talk about honesty,’ Rob says. ‘Now, who can tell me what that means?’

The kids are gazing up at him in rapture.

Phoebe’s hand shoots up. ‘Telling the truth?’

‘That’s right. Anyone else?’

Jack shyly raises his hands. ‘Not telling lies?’

‘Absolutely!’ Jack beams. Rob is great with the kids, he seems to have no end of patience as they ask him many, many questions. The whole thing is making me feel a bit queasy. I don’t know what it is about Rob, but I always feel flustered in his presence, like he can see right through me. I always feel an urge to confess everything I have ever done wrong in my life when I am around him. He must be great at his job.

‘Do you put people in prison?’ Bilal asks.

‘Only when they’ve done something really naughty.’

‘Nathan’s dad went to prison.’ The room falls silent as all the kids turn to stare at Nathan who is sitting in the back row, sucking his thumb. Liam Whitaker, Nathan and Samantha’s dad, went to jail last year for burglary. It’s not something we talk about in the classroom, but the kids pick up the gossip from their parents. I think sometimes we underestimate how much life experience these kids already have by the time they get to school.

‘Come on kids, have you got anything else to ask PC Osbourne?’ I ask brightly before Nathan gets upset. I can already see him blinking back tears.

Jack saves the day. ‘How fast does your car go?’ Jack is obsessed with cars.

‘Oh, very fast. But only in an emergency and only when I have the blue lights flashing.’

‘How long have you been a policeman?’

‘Do you have a gun?’

I switch off and relax as Rob tells them about how he joined the police after leaving school. I consider pulling Nathan to one side to check if he is OK, but I think that would attract more attention. He’s a quiet, nervous boy at the best of times. The kids seem to have moved on and pretty soon they are pestering Rob to let them ride in his car which is parked in the playground. Finally, he manages to extricate himself from his fan club and says goodbye to the children.

‘Thanks for coming in.’

‘My pleasure. Are you coming over for tea later, or have you got other plans?’ I can’t tell if this is an innocent question or if Rhona has told him about Tom.

The truth is, I don’t know when I will be seeing Tom again. It’s always him that contacts me, not the other way around. I don’t want to seem too needy or desperate to see him. My only plans for tonight involve a ready meal and watching crap telly, but I don’t want Rhona and Rob to know that. If they want to think I have a night of passion ahead with my lover, I’m not going to disillusion them.

CHAPTER SIX

The week passes with no more messages and I convince myself that I over-reacted. Over the years I have learned to get used to these sudden jolts of memory, the little things that send you hurtling back into periods of time you would rather forget. This is no different from seeing someone on the street that looks a bit like Meg or hearing a track that was playing that night. Nostalgia’s a bitch.

On Sunday, I go walking with Rhona. The Yorkshire Dales is usually packed with tourists but now that the holiday season is over, and the bad weather has set in, there are only walkers and mountain bikers using the car park at Malham. I manoeuvre my car into a parking space and we pull on our walking boots and waterproofs. It’s forecast to rain later. At the other end of the carpark, a crowd of teenagers pile out of a minibus, reluctantly put away their mobile phones and set off along the popular route to the cove.

‘Did you see Tom last night?’ Rhona asks, as she double knots her brand new and high spec boots. Mine are knackered and starting to leak but they’re as comfy as a pair of slippers.

‘No, I guess he doesn’t want Jack seeing me around too much and getting ideas.’

‘Fair enough, I suppose.’

I disagree. I’m pretty sure Tom is using Jack as an excuse to take it slowly. Rebecca hurt him badly and I think he’s afraid to commit to another relationship so soon. Her things are still all over his house; her expensive cosmetics cluttering up the bathroom cabinet, her designer clothes hanging in the wardrobe, preserved in dry cleaner’s covers. Sometimes, when Tom is in the shower or downstairs making coffee, I open the wardrobe and look at her dresses. They reflect the taste of an older woman with plunging necklines and beaded detail. They vary in size from an eight to a fourteen but it’s confusing because some of them are from America and sizes are different there. Her shoes are a size six and impossibly high. I tried a pair on once and it was like being a child again, playing dress up in my mother’s heels.

There’s a picture of Rebecca in Jack’s room. In the photograph, Jack is still a baby with chubby arms and the slightest hint of ginger hair. Their faces are pressed together, Rebecca’s long dark hair tumbling over her shoulder, and she is dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a Breton t-shirt. Even without make-up, Rebecca looks glamorous. I know Tom only keeps it there for Jack’s sake – he has removed all the other pictures of her from the house – but it still feels like a place marker, a warning that she could come back at any time and reclaim her family. I want to smash that picture into little pieces.

‘I just wish we could spend more time together, be a proper couple,’ I say. ‘I only get to see him at lunchtimes. He doesn’t want me there on an evening in case Jack sees me.’

‘Well, it is still early days. You’ve only been seeing each other for a couple of months.’

We lock the car and walk up the path towards Malham Cove. The footpath is wet and slippery from overnight rain and grey clouds gather overhead, obscuring the view. Ahead of us, the teenaged walkers in brightly coloured anoraks climb the steep path like a row of tiny ants heading into the clouds.

‘I know, but I don’t see why we can’t hook up after Jack has gone to bed. I could leave before he wakes up.’

‘He might be a bit confused if he gets up in the night and sees his teacher in bed with his dad!’

‘I suppose. Tom says he does sometimes climb into his bed in the middle of the night.’

‘Poor kid, it must be hard for him. He’ll be missing his mum.’

I know she’s right. It must be so confusing for Jack and I don’t blame Tom for putting him first. I just wish I didn’t have to keep treading on eggshells around the subject of Rebecca. Everyone acts like she was some sort of saint or something. She left him, not the other way around.

‘I know, I’ll try to be patient.’

It’s thanks to Rhona that I met Tom. He’s a black belt second Dan in ju-jitsu and was teaching self-defence classes in the village hall over the summer. Rhona, in another aborted attempt to get fit, had persuaded me to give it a try. The class was almost entirely composed of middle-aged women, immaculately made-up and dressed in Lycra. As soon as Tom walked in, they flocked to him, helping him to set up the mats, paying their subscriptions and flicking their hair flirtatiously. Even in his white gi that looked like a pair of pyjamas, you could tell his body was ripped.

‘He’s a bit of alright, isn’t he?’ Rhona whispered. ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.’

I tried to focus as Tom took us through some basic strikes and releases but there was something about his smile, his confidence and those crinkly eyes that made my heart pound. I felt an instant connection. Even though we were in a dusty hall full of people, it felt like there were only two of us in the room. His physical proximity as he straightened my arm or moved my leg into a different position was like a delicious form of torture. I was glad when the session finished, and I could cool down.

Most of the class headed to the Black Swan afterwards to ruin our hard work with a few drinks. I didn’t think Tom would notice me, surrounded by all these gorgeous women, but he kept catching my eye and smiling. As we were leaving, he asked for my number.

I had been single for a while before I met Tom. I had had a few short-term relationships since moving to Yorkshire but they never amounted to anything. Men my age just didn’t seem interested in settling down and I wasn’t prepared to be casually thrown aside when they’d had their fill of me. They told me I was too clingy; one had even described me as a ‘bunny boiler’ when I challenged him about the amount of time that he was spending with his ex. I had tried internet dating, but it was full of morons that were only interested in one thing. I was holding out for the full package: a man who would treat me right, who was in it for the long haul, who wouldn’t cheat on me as soon as my back was turned. Tom was sweet and kind and the chemistry between us was undeniable. Even though he was a lot older than me and carried a lot of ‘baggage’ (as my sister would say), I really liked him.

I didn’t tell Rhona at first. I knew she would warn me off. She would have said it was too soon, that he was on the rebound. Tom’s ex-wife Rebecca had walked out on him a few months before and gone back to her native New York. When I did tell her that we had started seeing each other, over one too many glasses of wine, she promised not to tell a soul. I didn’t want people judging him for moving on.

‘Has Rebecca been back in touch since she left?’

‘I don’t think so. Tom doesn’t like to talk about it. I know she didn’t send a present for Jack’s birthday because it really upset him.’

‘I don’t know how anyone can walk out on their kid like that. She must have had some sort of breakdown.’

‘Maybe.’ I try not to be annoyed by Rhona’s comment. Why does everyone feel the need to find excuses for Rebecca? People are always speculating about what drove her to it, whether Tom was to blame, but I don’t listen to village gossip. Tom will tell me the full story when he’s ready.

Rhona tactfully changes the subject and starts talking about Parents’ Evening which Trevor has organised for next week, and how she’s going to break it to Oliver’s parents that he’s a monster.

‘I mean they must already know, right?’ she says, more to herself than to me. ‘No-one can be that deluded.’

I concentrate on the path ahead of me, occasionally stopping to take in the scenery and a swig from my water bottle. In defiance of the forecast, it has remained dry, the sunshine breaking through the clouds in shafts of warm gold. The route is an easy one with spectacular views from the top of the cove. We find a grassy spot next to the vast limestone pavement to take off our rucksacks and eat our sandwiches, breathing in the cold air and looking down at the village and tiny houses. From here, the world and all its problems seem to lose their significance. I wish I could stay up here forever and not have to worry about blasts from the past and competing with ex-wives.

We begin our descent, treading carefully on the limestone steps which feel as slippery as marble underfoot, and saying hello to the occasional walker passing by. When we get back to the village, we head straight to the Black Swan for a well-deserved drink. I strip off my jacket and hat and get warm by the blazing fire while Rhona goes to the bar and orders large glasses of Malbec. My cheeks are probably bright red, and my hair is damp with sweat, but I feel happy and invigorated by the exercise and fresh air.

I root through my bag to retrieve my mobile phone and my heart jolts as I see there is another message, this time on WhatsApp. I don’t recognise the number. I think about deleting it unopened, but curiosity gets the better of me. With trembling fingers, I open it. Once again, it’s a picture message but this time I know for sure that it hasn’t been taken from my social media accounts.

I don’t need to look at this picture again to remember it; every single detail is etched in my memory. The white sandy beach, the moonlight reflected on the water, the sky lit up by lasers and the couple locked in an embrace. To an outsider, it might look like a photograph in a travel magazine, advertising romantic getaways. The two people are in shadow and their faces are turned away from the camera. You would have to know them as well as I do to recognise them. Their bodies are entwined, his lips pressed against hers.

Memories I had consigned to the back of my mind flood back: the sound of dance music pumping from the large speakers, the waves crashing against the shore, the smell of grilled chicken drifting from the food stalls, the feel of the warm, sultry air on my bare shoulders. My heart is beating so fast I can feel the blood pulsing through my veins. I feel light-headed and I wonder if I’m going to faint. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself before Rhona comes back to the table.

She is walking over now, carrying two glasses brim full of red wine. I quickly drop the phone in my rucksack as she puts the drinks down.

‘Hey, are you OK? You’re as white as a sheet.’

I fake a smile. ‘I’m fine, just a little cold.’ I take a big gulp of wine, which hits the spot and calms my nerves.

I wait a few minutes and then make an excuse to go to the loo. In the privacy of the toilet cubicle, I take out the phone and look at the message again before deleting it. I will have to change my number. The first picture may have been a mistake, an unlucky coincidence, someone from my past just wanting to get in touch, but there’s no misunderstanding here.

This picture could destroy me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

He sifts through their lives like a prospector panning for gold, not even sure what he’s looking for. A private message perhaps, an email.

He must have flipped past that image a hundred times without appreciating its significance. It looks so ordinary: just a boy and a girl kissing in the moonlight. It was only when he took a closer look at the time stamp that he realised what he had uncovered.

He could have taken it straight to the police, but there would have been questions about how he obtained it. He would have to admit to hacking into their accounts. It might not even stand up in court. Besides, he’s trusted the police before, and they let him down.

No, he’s on his own now. It’s down to him to expose their lies.

He cannot sleep, he cannot work, he cannot eat. His mind is full of shadows. A simmering rage circulates around his body, threatening to erupt at any point. His desire for answers feels like an insatiable thirst.

Holly haunts his dreams. She doesn’t deserve to be happy, to find love, to have a future. How can she get up in the morning knowing what she’s done? How can she clean her teeth, brush her hair, go to work, as if nothing has happened? How can she live with herself?

He can’t.

All the pain they inflicted to save themselves. All those years wasted, believing their lies. What could possibly compensate for that? An eye for an eye? A life for a life?

He is not unreasonable. He will give her a chance. If she admits what she’s done, he will let her live. All he wants is the truth.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Eight years ago

‘You do know I’m afraid of heights, right? I mean, really afraid of heights.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ I said, signing my name on the sheet and pushing it towards Meg. ‘Just trust me.’

‘I do, you know I do.’

Meg and I had become the best of friends during our first term at uni. On the surface, we had nothing in common. Meg was self-confident, opinionated and not afraid to rock the boat. I was more conservative, happy to stay in the background, avoid confrontation. But she was funny and caring and I knew I could trust her with my darkest secrets.

I had told her how I felt about being adopted, and the day I had tracked down my birth mother. I hadn’t even told my sister Lisa about that. I was sixteen and had been rowing with my parents about something stupid. I can’t even remember what it was now. Mum and Dad had always been upfront with me about my adoption, had promised to help me connect with my birth mother when the time was right, but I went behind their backs and traced her to Liverpool. I don’t know what I was expecting. A tearful reunion? That she would fall to her knees and beg my forgiveness? But the woman who opened the door was a stranger; a middle-class, middle-aged stranger with a family of her own who didn’t want to be reminded of her past. She made it abundantly clear that I should never turn up at her house again.

In turn, Meg told me about her dad who had died fighting in Afghanistan three years before. His death had knocked her for six, and she had nearly failed her GCSEs as a result, but her mum had pushed her to keep at her studies and make him proud. Her most prized possession was a charm bracelet he had given her on her twelfth birthday. She wore it all the time and would tell me the story behind each charm when she was drunk and maudlin.

She had persuaded me to leave my comfort zone so many times during our first three months at university that it was only fair that she got a taste of her own medicine. I had seen the skydive advertised on Facebook. I had never done anything adventurous before and I thought it was about time I started. I didn’t want to leave university having only ever studied and gone to the odd fancy dress party.

To say Meg wasn’t keen was the understatement of the century.

We were standing in the foyer, surrounded by students dressed in pink and giving out ribbons and balloons. I scrabbled in my pocket for some loose change to throw in a collection bucket that had been thrust in my face and returned my attention to Meg. She was staring at the disclaimer form as if I had just pressganged her into a space mission.

‘Come on, Meg. It’s for charity.’

‘Can’t I just give them my kidney or something?’

The third year organising the Jump for Cancer fundraiser hid a smirk. He was really fit; I wondered if he had a girlfriend. I smiled at him as Meg hesitated.

‘We’ll be together the whole time,’ I reassured her. ‘Just think how proud you’ll be afterwards.’

‘If I live to tell the tale.’

‘It’s really safe,’ the third year intervened. ‘I’ve done it three times already.’

‘You must be very brave,’ I said coyly.

He shrugged. ‘It’s just good fun.’

Meg didn’t look convinced but she reluctantly took my pen and filled out her details. I knew she would capitulate eventually; she just needed a bit of persuading.

‘I don’t see George and Kristóf signing up,’ she grumbled.

‘Well you know what Kristóf is like, charity begins at home, and George has plans for that weekend.’

‘Hmph, very convenient.’ She linked arms with me. ‘Come on, you owe me a pint for that.’

We made our way to the Student Union where we found Kristóf and George playing pool and arguing about politics, again. The four of us had become inseparable during our first term. We lived in each other’s rooms, sharing stories, laughing at videos on YouTube, debating the meaning of life, and drinking far too much. Kristóf and I spent a lot of time together anyway because we were on the same course and Meg and I could always find something to talk about at the end of the day. George was so relaxed and friendly that you couldn’t help but warm to him. He could charm his way in or out of any situation.

I found my shyness dissipating the more I hung around them. They were all so confident and didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of them. George loved to be the centre of attention and Meg never said no to a party. Kristóf was more reserved and carried an air of intellectual superiority about him which could have been off-putting if it wasn’t so well deserved. We didn’t really have room in our social cluster for anyone else, although George had a string of girlfriends that he was always introducing us to. They became pretty interchangeable after a while.

Kristóf potted the black and finished the game as we joined them.

‘Another round, mate?’ George asked, indicating towards Kristóf’s empty glass. We knew he would be paying for them all night. Kristóf never bought his own drinks.

‘Cheers. So, have you two signed your lives away then?’

‘There’s still time to back out,’ Meg said ominously.

‘Don’t you dare! Anyway, we have fundraising to do. They’re relying on us now. Are you going to sponsor us, Kristóf?’

He looked flustered and muttered something about being skint. I dropped the subject. Apart from George, none of us had any money. I was living off my student loan and what my parents gave me; and Meg had a part-time job in one of the bars in town. I only hoped going to university was going to be worth the ridiculous level of debt I would accumulate by the end of three years.

‘You mean we have to pay them to do this?’ Meg said incredulously, picking up the leaflet again and scrutinising the small print.

‘That is kind of the point.’

‘Well, rather you than me,’ Kristóf said. ‘I hope you’ve got insurance.’

‘It’s all perfectly safe. They do these jumps all the time.’

Meg rolled her eyes and changed the subject. ‘So, what did you get up to at Christmas? You didn’t really fill us in.’

‘Not much. Caught up on my reading.’

I didn’t want to tell Meg the truth in front of Kristóf. Going back home after my first term at university had been as awkward as hell. Everything seemed small and parochial compared to my life in Leeds. I had met my former school friends in town on Christmas Eve and swapped tales of drunken escapades over glasses of rosé, but their stories didn’t mean very much when you didn’t know the people involved. I found my old friends fickle and self-involved, overly concerned with their appearance and how many followers they had on social media. I didn’t feel like they understood the new me.

Nothing had changed at home. My sister had a starring role in the local pantomime and was out most of the time rehearsing. She had fallen in love with one of the cast members who Dad thought was a bad influence. Mum and I kept out of the way as Dad tried to convince her to concentrate on her schoolwork and worry about boys when she was older. They argued about it constantly. I spent most of the time in my room reading and counting down the days until I went back to uni.

‘What about you, Kristóf? Any hidden girlfriends in the Isle of Wight we should know about?’

Kristóf flushed bright red. We had never seen him with a girl. George thought he might be gay and Meg had speculated he was asexual, but I just thought he was shy around women. He could learn a lot from George, who was, true to form, now flirting with the woman behind the bar. He had seemed genuinely upset about missing the skydive and part of me hoped that he would cancel his plans. It would have been great to have him by our side.

In the weeks leading up to the skydive, Meg prayed for bad weather, hoping that it would be called off, but the day dawned sunny and bright. We piled into the minibus and said hello to the other students who had signed up.

‘I honestly don’t think I can do this, Holly,’ she whispered, as the minibus pulled out of the city centre and into the countryside. ‘What if I pass out?’

‘You won’t.’

She bit her lip and looked out of the window. It was a surprise to see Meg like this. She was usually the brave one, the one who never said no to a challenge. I guess her fear of heights was stronger than I thought. She looked like she was going to be sick and we hadn’t even got to the airfield yet.

The day started with a long and boring safety talk. Meg was listening intently, particularly when the instructor took us through all the potential risks. I could see her hands shaking as he demonstrated the right position to be in when we left the aircraft. He showed us the different toggles on the suit, and what they did, even though we were jumping in tandem and would be safely strapped to an instructor.

‘Just lay back and think of England,’ one of the women joked.

Meg didn’t look amused and I felt guilty that I had dragged her into this. I had been so excited about the skydive I hadn’t realised how genuinely frightened she was. It was a testament to our friendship that she was willing to go through with it.

We were given hugely unflattering red boiler suits to wear which stank of sweat and God knows what else. As the plane took off, I felt a jolt of uncertainty. Up to this point, I had been so concerned about how Meg was feeling, I hadn’t allowed myself to be scared, but for a second I thought about what we were about to do and what might happen if it went wrong.

I considered chickening out, but Meg would have killed me.

The instructors were joking about it being their first time as the plane slowly ascended through the clouds to the clear blue sky above. As the plane levelled, we were given a three-minute warning and they opened the sliding door. There is nothing more unnatural than being in an airplane, 13,000 feet above the ground, with an open doorway. The ground looked very far away and the buildings and cars below looked like children’s toys. The noise of the wind buffeting against the aircraft was deafening. I reached over and squeezed Meg’s hand.

‘You can do this,’ I whispered. ‘It’s going to be fine.’

She nodded. I watched my best friend and her instructor edge their way to the door and receive some last-minute instructions. She looked back at me, terrified, and the next second she was gone. A tiny red speck swallowed by white cloud.

It was my turn.

We manoeuvred ourselves to the doorway and I stared into the abyss. There was no turning back now. My mind was totally blank; I couldn’t remember anything they had told me during the safety talk.

Suddenly we tipped forwards and I was plummeting. We were falling so fast I couldn’t even scream. The instructor held my head back as the cold wind stung my cheeks. In the absence of anything to hold on to, I clenched my hands into tight fists.

The freefall only lasted around thirty seconds, but it felt like a lifetime.

I had left my stomach somewhere on the plane and I could barely breathe as I saw the instructor reach to his chest and tug at the parachute. I closed my eyes and prayed it would work. Then suddenly we were jolted upwards and above us I could see the heavenly sight of the rainbow canopy inflating above me.

‘Whoah!’

The instructor said something in reply but his words were lost to the wind. I could feel my heart return to a normal rhythm and the adrenaline slowly wear off as we floated gently towards the ground. I could see the fields below like a patchwork quilt and the tiny outline of the skydive centre. Everything looked so beautiful. I could see Meg in the distance preparing for landing.

It wasn’t long before we were doing the same. I changed my position and braced myself for the impact but my instructor was a pro and landed us with relative grace.

‘Enjoy that?’ he said as he unfastened me from his suit.

‘It was incredible!’

As soon as I reached the others on the airfield I was engulfed in a hug. ‘Oh, my God, that was amazing!’ Meg’s eyes were lit up and there was a huge beam on her face. ‘I want to do it again!’

‘See, you should listen to me more often.’

‘Holly, I am always going to listen to you in future. You are my guru.’ She gave a mock bow and we made our way back to the centre. ‘I honestly thought I was going to wet myself when we were in the plane though.’

‘Don’t tell the others, but I may well have done.’

CHAPTER NINE

During the day, I can distract myself by work, but every night this week I have been woken up by nightmares, my heart racing and my back swathed in sweat. My brain is like a newsfeed serving up a continuous stream of stories from my past. Lying in bed, in the early hours of the morning, I try every technique I can think of to get back to sleep. Deep breathing, visualisation, meditation, but nothing works.

I can’t stop thinking about the message and what it means. How did someone get hold of that picture? I’m the only person who knows that image ever existed. I got rid of it years ago and I made damned sure there weren’t any copies. What do they want from me?

I need to pull myself together. Whoever sent this message wants to scare me and I don’t intend to let them. They can’t know what happened that night. If they did, they would have gone to the police a long time ago. I will just have to wait for their next move. In the meantime, I have a life to live. I refuse to be dragged down by my past.

It’s Parents’ Evening tonight which is like speed dating with piranhas. Trevor insists that we hold it before half term, even though it’s still too early in the academic year to form an opinion about how the children are handling starting school. They change so much in the first few months: the shy ones grow in confidence; the bolshie ones settle down. Each parent has ten minutes with me and in that time, I am expected to deliver a thorough assessment of their child’s needs. It’s a system designed to frustrate everyone concerned. Every parent is convinced their child has special qualities that I am yet to discover. Most of the parents are older than me and regard me with great suspicion, clearly doubting that I have the experience or qualifications to look after their little darlings. Sometimes I think they’re right.

Still, I’m looking forward to seeing Tom tonight. I haven’t seen him all week and I’m missing him like crazy. He’s been busy with a project at work and I have been struggling to get away from school without my absence being noted. We’re not exactly prohibited from leaving the building, but most of the teachers stay in at lunchtime, catching up on paperwork or reluctantly supervising the kids. It’s not easy to get away without people commenting. I wish they would mind their own business. If only there were a fast-forward button that I could press to take our relationship to the next level or Tom would sit down with Jack and tell him about us. At least then I could go over there in the evenings. All I want is for us to be a proper couple, a family. I’m fed up of sneaking around like we’ve got something to hide.

I go home after work to quickly change my clothes and by the time I get back to the school, the parents have already started arriving. I pass Rhona’s classroom and I can see through the window that she is in the middle of what looks like an intense discussion with Oliver’s parents. I wonder whether she is managing to keep her temper. I give her a quick wave and walk to my classroom where a line of parents has already gathered in the corridor.

‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ I say, sounding like a doctor’s receptionist as I unlock the door and usher the first set of parents in. Phoebe’s mother is cold and frosty as she settles herself down on the small chair in front of me. I pull out my folder and outline that while her daughter may be academically gifted, she doesn’t pay attention in class.

‘I think she finds the work you give her boring. A girl of her abilities should be challenged.’ Her husband fiddles with his watch and doesn’t say a word.

‘I don’t disagree, Mrs Abbott, and we will be starting her on some higher-level work next term,’ I lie. Perhaps her mother is right? Maybe I should be challenging Phoebe more? I will need to discuss it with Trevor though. He doesn’t like us deviating from the curriculum.

Mrs Abbott spends far longer than ten minutes telling me how to do my job so it’s good in a way that the next parent fails to turn up. Emma Whitaker is a bit of an enigma. I see her occasionally when she comes to pick Nathan up from school, but she stands at the end of the road, away from the other parents, and barely speaks to anyone. I wonder if she feels intimidated by the ‘yummy mummies’ that dominate the village. She has never even thanked me for saving her daughter’s life. I don’t want her gratitude, but I do wish she had made the effort to come tonight. I have been worried about Nathan recently. He comes to school sleepy and doesn’t concentrate in class. I want to get to the bottom of why he’s slipping behind. I’d like to bring the educational psychologist in to run some tests, but I wanted to discuss it with her first. I mark her absence on my list.

Pretty soon it’s Tom’s turn and I can feel a fluttering in my tummy as he walks in and closes the door behind him. I have to hide the huge smile I can feel forming on my face.

‘Good evening, Miss Metcalfe,’ he says in a stupid voice, pretending to be one of the kids.

‘Good evening,’ I roll my eyes at him, as he pulls the chair up close, our knees nearly touching. I talk about Jack’s progress this term, as I would with any other parent, but of course Tom already knows all this. His hands are resting on his knees and are tantalisingly close to the hem of my skirt. I move my legs away.

‘Stop looking at me like that,’ I whisper, looking over to the door. Trevor is patrolling the corridors.

‘Yes, miss.’ He gives me a wicked grin and I can tell he is probably imagining us sneaking off to a broom cupboard somewhere. I feel myself getting flustered and my discomfort get even worse when Trevor decides to walk in and observe our interaction. I find Trevor intimidating. He is one of the youngest heads in the country and a rising star of the teaching profession. He loves statistics and league tables and likes his staff to compete against each other. He gives pep talks in meetings about raising our game and aspires to get our tiny school an ‘Outstanding’ Ofsted. Rhona calls him the ‘young pretender’ and says he won’t be here for long; but he’s the only boss I have ever had, so I don’t have any one to compare him to.

I have to hope Trevor doesn’t pick up on the sexual tension between me and Tom, although it must be glaringly obvious. Fortunately, Tom knows better than to misbehave in front of my boss. I drink a glass of water quickly to try to cool down as Tom departs and Trevor continues to make notes in his folder.

‘I see that Mrs Whitaker didn’t turn up for her appointment,’ he says, looking at my attendance sheet.

‘Yes, I was planning to give her a ring tomorrow. See if she can come in another time.’

‘You know the family’s circumstances, I presume?’

‘Yes, of course.’ There’s no-one in the village that doesn’t know about Nathan’s father.

‘Well, follow the procedures and I’m sure it will be fine.’

I hide a smile. Rhona does a fantastic impression of Trevor telling us all to ‘follow the procedures’.

My phone beeps with a notification and I blush as I reach into my bag and make a big show of turning it onto silent. Trevor shoots me a warning look before leaving the classroom. As soon as he has gone, I take the opportunity to check the message. It’s from Tom.

‘Coming over later?’

Inviting me over while Jack is in the house is a big step for Tom. I am about to reply when the next parent takes a seat in front of me. I try to remember whether it is her child who is still not properly toilet trained. I make a half-hearted attempt at giving my report, getting the child’s name wrong twice, and the parent leaves, shaking her head in disgust.

As soon as I get a chance, I sneak off to the loo and text Tom back, spelling out what I plan to do to him later. It feels like an eternity until it finally reaches half past seven and the last parents leave the building. I walk out of the school with Rhona.

‘Phew! I need a drink after that,’ she says, pulling me in the direction of the pub.

‘I can’t tonight, sorry. Tom’s invited me round.’

She raises an eyebrow and then breaks out into a laugh. ‘That’s progress.’

‘Hmm, took him long enough.’

‘Well, have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’

‘Have a good evening, ladies.’ My skin crawls as Trevor walks past us. He must have overheard our conversation and I can only hope that he doesn’t know who we are talking about.

‘Oh shit, do you think he heard us?’ I ask Rhona as soon as he is out of earshot.

‘Don’t worry. Probably not, and even if he did, he won’t know who Tom is. There are loads of Toms. He might think you’re talking about Tom Fletcher.’ Tom Fletcher is the school caretaker and about seventy. I pull a face.

‘Gee thanks.’

‘Well, I’m going to catch up with the others. Seriously, have a nice time. And I want all the details tomorrow morning!’

I walk quickly towards Tom’s house. It’s a beautiful night, the sky is full of stars and a thin crescent moon casts its light over the river. A dog walker emerges from the stone steps and bids me a good evening as I walk across the bridge. Tom’s estate is quiet, doors locked, and curtains closed. The sound of broken glass breaks the silence as a woman throws an empty wine bottle into her recycling bin. Everything is peaceful and reassuringly suburban.

Tom opens the door before I can ring the bell.

‘Shh!’ he says, pulling me into the hallway and kissing me. ‘I’ve only just got Jack to sleep, it took him ages to settle.’

I giggle. ‘I couldn’t wait.’

‘God, me neither. You looked so hot in that classroom, all prim and proper.’

I look up and see a little face peering at me through the banister. Jack looks sleepy and bewildered, which is hardly surprising. It’s confusing enough for children his age to see their teachers out of school, let alone standing in their hallway, kissing their father.

‘Daddy!’

Tom turns and pushes me into the shadows. He looks horrified and I wonder if he realises that Jack has already seen us.

‘I can’t sleep,’ Jack whines. ‘Will you read me a story?’

Tom rolls his eyes and looks torn but, with a resigned smile, turns his attention upstairs. ‘You get back into bed and I’ll be up in a couple of minutes.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

Jack goes back to his room, trailing behind him a blue blanket that looks well chewed.

Tom runs his fingers through his hair as I readjust my clothes. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s OK. Do you want me to wait? Come back later?’

‘He’s going to be up and down all night, I think. Maybe another time?’

‘Of course.’ I try not to sound too disappointed.

He kisses the tip of my nose. ‘I’ll tell him. Soon. I promise. No more sneaking around.’

I make my way home, past the school and towards the inviting lights of the village. I hesitate outside the pub, debating whether to join Rhona and the other teachers, but it would be too humiliating. Rhona would know I’d been rejected, again, and it’s hard enough without her pity. I turn my back on the laughter and warmth spilling out of the inn and take the tiny side street towards my cottage. It is pitch black and a bit spooky. A cat runs across my path, making me jump. It halts in the middle of the path, staring at me, before sneaking back into the shadows. I look behind me to check I’m alone – I think those messages have creeped me out a bit – and I am relieved when I reach the front door of my cottage.

It’s still early but I can’t be bothered to light a fire. I snuggle under some blankets on the sofa instead and think about ringing my sister but I’m not in the mood to hear about her exciting life in London. I really don’t understand Tom’s problem. Jack seems to like me as his teacher; I’m sure he would accept me as his dad’s new girlfriend. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

CHAPTER TEN

I was planning to go down to London at half term to visit my sister, but she hasn’t replied to any of my messages. Lisa has recently joined the regular cast of a popular TV drama and has become something of a celebrity. The money is obscene, but the hours are long. It’s weird seeing my little sister on the cover of magazines in the supermarket. In some of the photographs, she is barely recognisable from the girl I grew up with. She’s naturally beautiful anyway but by the time they have finished styling her, making her up and then Photoshopping out any flaws, she looks picture perfect.

Since she moved down to London to pursue her acting career, her life has become a whirlwind of parties and long days on set. Our relationship has been reduced to a series of social media posts, one-line messages and broken promises to catch up soon. It took her a while to get a serious part and she has done her fair share of thankless auditions, non-speaking parts and naff commercials. With her blonde hair and pale skin, she used to get typecast by directors, but it sounds as if her days of playing beautiful corpses on daytime TV may be over.

She updated her Facebook status last night with a selfie taken with some celebrity on the red carpet. My sister looks thin and elegant, pouting into the camera to show off her cheekbones. I don’t recognise the celebrity at all; he’s probably from one of those reality shows that catapults ordinary people into fame for five minutes. I’m a little bit cross that she can find the time to post a selfie but not message her sister, but I guess that’s the life of a TV star.

I had been looking forward to going to London, shopping in Oxford Street and maybe catching a show but, as I haven’t heard back from her, I decide to go to the coast to visit my parents instead. I was hoping Tom would come with me, so he could finally meet them, but he fobbed me off, saying he had a big project on at work. His parents have agreed to look after Jack over the holidays and are coming up to collect him. He didn’t offer to introduce us. I worry that he’s not really serious about our relationship; that this is just a bit of fun for him.

Mum and Dad have lived in Morecambe since the 80s. The ebb and flow of the estuary, its tea shops and guest houses, coach parties and comedians, formed the backdrop of my adolescence. My memories of growing up are full of moody walks in the early morning, picking up shells and watching the sun rise over the horizon, turning the sea golden; the sound of gulls crying overhead; the dangerous tides and the treacherous quick sand; spending my pocket money trying to win cheap toys in the amusement arcades and huddling in bus shelters with my friends to escape the lashing rain that whips across the promenade. The Yorkshire Dales is lovely, but I miss the sea. Morecambe will always feel like home.

My parents still live in the same house that we grew up in. It’s on the outskirts of the town with a spectacular view of the bay. My sister and I would spend ages at the shore, making up stories about pirates and smugglers, then writing up our adventures in little notebooks like the Brontë sisters did. I don’t know where those books are now, probably buried in a box in the attic somewhere. Lisa and I always got on as children. I know some sisters that fought over everything, competing for their parents’ love and attention, but we always had each other’s back. We’re not biological sisters – I was adopted when I was a baby and Lisa came along three years later – but it’s never made a difference. Mum and Dad have always made it clear that they love us the same. It’s hard not to be jealous of Lisa sometimes though; she’s naturally pretty and attracts attention wherever she goes. I’ve got used to feeling like the Ugly Duckling in comparison.

As I pull up to the house, my parents’ chocolate Labrador runs up to greet me. I get out of the car and pat him on the head as he jumps up, splashing mud across my skinny jeans. I’m not overly keen on dogs but I pretend to like him for my parents’ sake. There’s a big stack of leaves in the corner of the tidy garden and a rake rests by the wall. It’s a nice crisp Autumnal day so I don’t know why Dad isn’t outside making the most of it. He’s usually a permanent feature in the garden. A thin trail of grey smoke rises from the chimney.

I make my way around to the back of the house, shouting ‘hello’ as I push open the backdoor and walk into the kitchen. The scent of baked apple and cinnamon hits me and makes my stomach growl. I never bake at home; it seems pointless when you live alone, but my mum is a fantastic cook. She is crouched over the oven, peering at a golden-brown pie, and I make her jump when I walk through the door.

‘Holly, sweetheart!’ She seems so pleased to see me and I feel a pang of guilt that I don’t come home more often. She gives me a big hug, leaving floury handprints on my cashmere jumper. I don’t know why I bothered putting on my best clothes. She has cut her hair since I last saw her, and the new short, spiky style suits her.

‘Hi Mum.’

I dump my bags at the door. I can hear Dad chatting to someone in the living room.

‘Have you got visitors?’

‘Go and have a look.’ Mum’s eyes twinkle with excitement and I wonder what she’s hiding.

I make my way into the living room and am almost knocked over as my sister launches herself at me.

‘Hey Hol, Mum said you were coming home for a few days, so I thought I’d surprise you.’

My sister looks perfect as usual. She’s dressed in skinny jeans and a jumper like me, but they fit her better. I recognise her perfume as a brand I would love to be able to afford and a Mulberry handbag has been slung carelessly on the end of the sofa. Even with no make-up and her hair scraped back in a ponytail, she outshines me.

Dad is sitting in the seat closest to the wood burning stove. He looks older and thinner than before and I wonder if there is something wrong that he’s not telling us. I worry myself sick about my parents dying. I don’t know how I would cope without them. They have always been there for me through thick and thin. Life without them would be unbearable.

‘Both my gals, home for the weekend,’ he says. ‘It’s like old times.’

It is like old times. We fall back into familiar patterns, sitting in the same seats at the table, arguing over who gets the last parsnip. Over dinner, Lisa tells us about the latest development in her career: a new storyline featuring one of the soap’s biggest stars. She’s banned Dad from watching it for the next few weeks as there are some steamy scenes coming up.

‘Is he as hot in real life?’ I ask.

‘Hotter,’ she says, helping herself to a second slice of Mum’s apple pie. I don’t know how she manages to retain her figure. ‘But he’s got a boyfriend. He says kissing me is like having to snog his grandma.’

‘Charming.’

‘So, we won’t be seeing you both on the front of OK Magazine?’

‘Ha! You never know. There’s always plenty of speculation about my love life. Do you know some reporter had the cheek to ask me if I had a baby bump last week? Honestly, I was on my period! I was just a bit bloated!’

‘And have you met anyone down there yet?’ Mum asks, trying and failing to be subtle.

Lisa laughs. ‘Well, there is someone I’ve been seeing … but it’s early days. I don’t want to jinx it. That’s all I’m going to say.’

‘You girls and your secrets. We’ve not met your sister’s boyfriend yet either. I’m beginning to think you’ve made him up, Holly.’

Mum’s words cut like a blade. Typical. No-one ever suspects Lisa of making boyfriends up, but I couldn’t possibly have managed to find anyone to love me.

‘I’ve told you, he’s busy this week.’ My words came out harder and more brittle than I intended but I can’t take them back. The tension hangs in the air as Lisa flashes me a warning look.

‘All I’m saying is that you need to be careful going out with a married man.’

‘Mum …’ Lisa tries to defuse the situation, but it doesn’t work.

‘They’ve split up. She lives in America now. It’s not like I’m his mistress or something.’

‘Yes, but they’re not divorced yet and there’s a child to think about.’

‘We do think about him. All the time. You don’t understand.’ I sound churlish and sulky, like a teenager. Mum always seems to bring out this side of me.

‘Well, maybe you could bring him next time you come, and we can actually meet him. And his son. They’d be very welcome,’ Mum says stiffly.

‘Yes, I’d like to meet this chap,’ Dad adds. ‘See if he’s good enough for my princess.’

‘Dad … I’m not a little girl.’

Lisa smiles at me over the table. ‘He sounds great and I’m sure he’s much better off with you than his bitch of an ex-wife.’

Mum purses her lips and clears the dessert plates. Lisa tries to change the subject and talk about Dad’s cauliflowers, but I am still cross. We were having such a lovely time and I’ve ruined it by being over-sensitive. I know they think Tom is too old for me, and that I don’t know what I’m letting myself in for, but I do. Once they see us together, they will realise we are right for each other, that I’m ready to be a step mum, to commit myself to Tom and Jack.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The tension diminishes over an evening game of Scrabble and by the time Mum and Dad go to bed, things are almost back to normal. Lisa pours us generous helpings of Dad’s port and we settle down on the sofa to catch up properly. I find myself telling her all about Tom and my fears about his lack of commitment.

‘It’s like he’s holding back all the time,’ I say.

‘Are you worried Rebecca’s going to come back?’

‘No, I don’t think so. And he wouldn’t let her just walk back into Jack’s life anyway. Not after what she did. I suppose I feel a bit insecure. Everyone tells me to give it time, but all I want is for us to be a couple. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘You need to tell him how you feel, sis.’

‘But what if I push him too hard and he dumps me?’

‘Then he isn’t worth it. You should have more confidence in yourself, you’re a catch. He’s lucky to have you.’

I wish I had Lisa’s faith. ‘So, tell me about your new man. Is he famous?’

‘No, he doesn’t even work in the industry! He actually works in IT. He’s called Alex and I met him online. It’s really early days though, we’ve only been on a few dates. I don’t think we’re even exclusive yet, well, I’m not any way! But you know what Mum and Dad are like. They’ll be talking about marriage and grandkids and that is so not where we are right now. We’re keeping it casual, you know?’

I’d forgotten how nice it was to be around my sister again. When we’re around Mum and Dad we seem to revert to our teenaged selves, but when we’re alone, it’s more like having a best friend. Lisa tells me all about her life in London; the good and the bad. Amid the glamour and the VIP parties, she tells me there’s loads of pressure, particularly on the younger women in the cast, to keep in shape.

‘I’m thinking of getting a personal trainer,’ she says. ‘Most of the other girls have them. One woman goes to the gym for four hours a day. I mean, God, can you imagine anything more tedious? Don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely that you get sent stuff to wear all the time but sometimes you want to bung on your jeans and a hoodie and go to Tesco like everyone else.’

Lisa confides that most of the cast regularly invest in Botox to look younger and there’s a lucrative sideline in modelling and sponsorship deals if you have the right look.

‘Which basically means blonde hair and big tits,’ she laughs. ‘I’m thinking of getting mine done actually.’

‘Doesn’t it bother you, people judging you all the time?’

‘Oh God, you should see what they say about me on social media! I don’t know, you can’t let it get to you. Besides, those that mind, don’t matter …’

‘… and those that matter, don’t mind!’ I finish off the quotation for her. It is one of Dad’s favourites.

She tells me that she is saving for a deposit on a flat in London but the house prices, particularly compared to the North, are horrendous so it’s going to take her years.

‘Then I might do something a bit different. Theatre perhaps.’ I admire my little sister. She has so much drive and determination that I know she’ll achieve anything she sets her mind to.

Lisa has to get back the next day, but I stay on for the rest of the week, helping Dad with the garden and catching up with my lesson plans. Dad convinces me to stay for Sunday lunch, which seems to go on forever, and then insists on packing me up with a box full of vegetables from the garden which delays me even longer. Mum wraps up some leftovers and tells me I need to look after myself a bit more.

‘I’m sorry if I upset you, darling,’ she says as she hugs me goodbye. ‘I only want you to be happy.’

‘I know Mum, and I am, honestly.’ I promise to ring them next weekend. I know they both want what’s best for me, but they have been overprotective ever since I came back from Thailand. It’s like I’m a fragile piece of porcelain that they are terrified will shatter into pieces any second. They have no idea how strong I had to be to pick myself up after what happened.

It’s late afternoon and getting dark when I finally set off. By the time I turn off the busy A65 on to the smaller country roads that lead to the village, I need full beam to light up the way ahead. The road is lined by dry stone walls and full of sharp bends and narrow passing places. The rain, that has been a persistent drizzle all afternoon, turns heavy and hammers down on the windows, obscuring my vision. I drop my speed down to thirty.

I consider pulling over until the storm has passed but there is no telling how long that will be, and I really need to get back and prepare for school tomorrow. I’m not that far from home now. I switch on the radio to distract me from my rising anxiety as I make my way down the solitary country road. I sit upright in the seat, clenching the steering wheel tightly, willing the rain to ease. The windscreen wipers can barely cope with the incessant downpour and my car is sliding on the slippery surface of the road. Puddles are forming at the sides of the lane, threatening to meet in the middle, and once or twice my car aqua planes. I try to remember what I learned in my driving lessons; whether to steer into or out of a skid.

I glance down at the fuel gauge. The needle is pointing to empty and I curse myself for not filling it up before I set off. My dad is always telling me off for embarking on long drives without a full tank of petrol. I am miles away from the nearest service station. I turn up the radio and try to concentrate on the presenter’s voice. I am about ten minutes away from home. Hopefully there will be enough petrol left to make it back. I don’t fancy walking in this weather.

A rabbit dashes in front of my car and dives into the dark hedgerow, causing me to swerve. I slam on my brakes and come to an emergency stop, grateful that there is nothing behind me. Taking a deep breath, I release the brake and immediately stall. I turn the key with trepidation hoping the ignition doesn’t fail. There is no mobile phone reception out here. If my car breaks down, I am completely stuck until it gets light or another car comes this way.

‘Please, please, please …’ I pray as I turn the key. The engine splutters, the warning lights flash but the car eventually starts.

I set off again at a steady pace, calming my nerves by breathing deeply. Relief washes over me as I see the lights of another vehicle making its way along the road behind me. At least if something happens now, there will be someone to come to my rescue. The vehicle is approaching fast, and I can see through my mirror that it is a large vehicle, a Landrover perhaps, which is having no problem dealing with the weather conditions.

It catches up with me, driving close to my bumper, pressurising me to hurry up. I look at the driver in my mirror, but their face is in silhouette. I can tell from the profile that it is a man and I feel a surge of fear. Is this the person behind the messages I’ve been getting? Or am I being paranoid? Either way, I am out here, alone, with a man who is driving aggressively but making no attempt to pass me. If I pull over, will he stop or carry on? I daren’t drive any faster in case I have an accident. I take a deep breath and with one hand scrabble in my handbag for my mobile phone. There is a single bar of reception, flickering on and off. Should I try to ring someone? But what could they do?

The car behind me flashes its lights as we approach a passing point by the side of the road. I take a deep breath and pull in, hoping he doesn’t stop as well. I see him shaking his head at me as he drives past. I switch off the engine and try to control my breathing. The rain is easing off now and I can see the moon peeking from behind the dark clouds which are moving further down the valley. Suddenly, all the emotions I have been keeping suppressed all week get the better of me and I burst into tears.

The messages are making me feel paranoid. Someone out there knows what happened in Thailand, I’m sure of it. Otherwise, why would they send that picture? And how did they get hold of it in the first place? What do they want from me? And why now? I don’t know what to do, I don’t know who to trust. Perhaps I should have told Lisa, but then I would have to tell her the full story, and I made a promise I would never tell anyone what we did that night.

There are only two people I can speak to about this and I haven’t been in touch with them for five years. It’s not a friendship I am in a hurry to rekindle.

CHAPTER TWELVE

From the bedroom window of the holiday cottage, he can see brooding hills cast in shadow against an indigo sky. Yorkshire looks nothing like the postcards. It is cold and dark and miserable. The wind seeps through the thick stone walls and it never seems to stop raining. The internet is patchy at best and he can only get mobile phone reception in certain parts of the house. It’s like being cast back in time.

He misses London. He misses the frenetic activity, the anonymity of the Tube, the crowds of people from all over the globe pressed together in a constantly evolving eco-system. There is too much space in Yorkshire. It’s eerie to look out of the window and see miles and miles of nothing. He has hired the cottage for a month. It should be long enough. Holly’s not like the others; she’s weaker, more compliant. She won’t hold out on him for long. Not when she realises how far he will go to get the truth.

He returns to his laptop where he is reviewing the contents of Holly’s inbox. Her email account wasn’t difficult to hack. He sent her a phishing email several months ago asking her to confirm her password and the stupid bitch fell for it. Her messages are mostly advertising from various retailers. She has accounts on Boohoo.com, ASOS and PrettyLittleThing. She banks with Barclays. Yawn. There’s not much personal stuff although she uses the same password for her social media accounts and that gives him access to her friends and family. Her cloud storage is a treasure trove of forgotten pictures, messages and documents. He has installed a tracking device on her car and attached a small camera to her front gate so that he can monitor her movements remotely. He needs to build up a picture of her life before he starts his campaign in earnest.

He rests his cheek against the cool plaster, feeling the thick stone that separates hunter and prey. He imagines her just a few feet away from him getting undressed, applying moisturiser, performing the daily rituals women undertake to make themselves more attractive. He imagines her slipping between the cool sheets, perhaps picking up a book to read before she goes to sleep, but more likely checking her mobile phone for those last traces of human contact before the internet falls silent. He wonders if she can feel his presence, if she knows how close he is to her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Seven years ago

We shared a house in the second year of university. The Victorian terrace in the middle of Headingley looked small from the outside, but inside it was huge with high ceilings and original cornices. Kristóf immediately claimed the attic room; he wanted to be a writer, so it suited him to pretend to be a starving artist living in the garret. Meg and I had bedrooms on the second floor and George’s bedroom would normally have been used as a dining room. We played at being grown-ups, planning dinner parties that would make Mrs Dalloway proud and window shopping for posh furniture, but it was the first time any of us had taken responsibility for a house and we quickly discovered that none of us had a clue how to go about it.

Split between us, the rent was cheaper than halls, but we had to find money for things like electricity and a TV licence which caused loads of arguments. Bills were supposed to be shared four ways, but Kristóf was hopeless at budgeting and never seemed to have any money left at the end of the month. George was forever bailing him out. Meg juggled her studies with long hours at her bar job which made her tired and bad tempered. For the most part we got on fine but every so often there were explosive rows which usually ended with either Kristóf or Meg storming out and declaring the other impossible to live with.

George drove us all crazy. He was completely oblivious to the mess he left everywhere. He would eat a sandwich and spill crumbs on the carpet, leave half-drunk cups of tea all over the house and couldn’t cook a meal without using every pot in the kitchen. He never washed up and always left plates piled in the sink until either Kristóf or I, fed up with the smell or not being able to find any crockery, gave in and washed up. George was a great cook though and made up for his slovenly behaviour with lavish feasts on Sunday evenings. The leftovers kept us going all week.

No-one on my course could believe that I would choose to be flatmates with Kristóf. He could be quite sweet at home, but in seminars he came across as aloof and arrogant. I don’t think anyone in our study group liked him. Sitting back in his chair, his legs outstretched, he second-guessed the tutor and patronised the other students. His arrogance was, unfortunately, well-placed. He quoted from Aristotle and Thucydides, shot people down with ease and entangled people in protracted arguments that they couldn’t possibly win. Kristóf loved to make other people look like fools. He thrived off our stupidity.

During the first semester we were studying Victorian literature and it was the module I’d been most looking forward to. Thackeray was on the list, along with Dickens and George Eliot but my absolute favourite writers were the Brontë sisters. Kristóf, of course, thought he was some sort of expert on them. He had studied Wuthering Heights for A-level and got a special commendation for his analysis of Heathcliff as a Marxist hero, but I thought, for once, I could give him a run for his money.

We were squashed onto one of the sofas in our tutor’s office, which smelt of old books and illicit cigarettes. Outside, the wind was howling, and the sky was slate grey. Kristóf was holding court, lecturing us about the religious symbolism in Jane Eyre and the way it reinforced patriarchal ideals. He had been droning on for about ten minutes and most of us had switched off. Ignoring the feeling of anxiety that was rising from my stomach, I raised my hand and tentatively offered a counter-argument.

‘But surely Brontë is using Bertha’s insanity as a warning against the subjugation of women? And isn’t Rochester’s blindness a form of emasculation before balance can be restored?’

The room fell quiet. Kristóf looked at me as if I had committed murder. The tutor gave me an approving smile.

‘Now, that is something we need to talk about further,’ he suggested. ‘Why don’t you two workshop those arguments and deliver a presentation next week?’

I could sense Kristóf glowering at me as I gathered my things quickly, leaving the room before he could berate me. If I had known that this would be the consequence, I would never have spoken up in class. I had landed us a shed load of work, on top of everything else we had to get through this week.

A low rumble of thunder sounded as I walked towards the library to get some books before heading home. Meg and George were holding a Hallowe’en party that night for George’s birthday. They had been planning it since the start of term and had spent hours choosing the decorations and their outfits, what cocktails to make, what music to play. The party had been getting more elaborate by the day and they had invited loads of people. I had promised Meg I would get back early to prepare but I needed to make a head start if I was going to get this presentation done in time. It wasn’t long before I heard footsteps behind me.

‘Nice one.’

‘Sorry, you know I didn’t mean for that to happen.’

‘Well, it might not be so bad if we split the reading. Shall we?’ Kristóf held the library door open for me. Relieved that he didn’t seem as cross as I thought he would be, I accepted his gesture. Meg would have no doubt told him she was perfectly capable of opening doors for herself, but I had no problem with gentlemanly behaviour.

Even by university standards, the Brotherton library was spectacular. Tall marble columns stretched up to a domed ceiling through which sunlight was streaming, bathing the wooden desks in honeyed light. The room smelt of furniture polish and dusty books. The silence was only broken by footsteps echoing across the cylindrical vault as students perused the specialist collections. The computers cataloguing the rare editions appeared anachronistic in these surroundings, more at home in the main library a few steps down the road. In this room, you lost all sense of time and place. I logged on to the online catalogue and typed in the key words for the books we needed.

Kristóf was surprisingly fun to work with. I had expected him to keep his best ideas to himself, but he contributed as much to my side of the debate as his own. We divided the theoretical texts between us, sketched out a broad outline of the issues we would cover, and what we would exclude from the discussion. Kristóf was completely focussed on the task in hand, which inspired me to work just as hard. It wasn’t until I looked up at the clock and realised it was nearly seven that I had to put a stop to what had turned out to be an enjoyable afternoon.

‘We need to get back for the Hallowe’en party.’

‘Oh God,’ Kristóf groaned. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

‘How can you forget? They’ve been banging on about it all week.’

‘I thought it might have been cancelled or something. Can’t you tell them I’ve got a headache? In fact, I think I can feel a migraine coming on just thinking about it.’

I rolled my eyes at him. ‘I’m not telling them anything. You can … if you dare.’

Kristóf hadn’t shown the least bit of interest in the party. He had initially refused to dress up, which had really annoyed Meg, but had eventually conceded to wearing a Dracula t-shirt. It was only because he admired the book. I had considered dressing up as Miss Havisham, but I didn’t think anyone would get it, so had settled for a sexy witch costume with purple and black stripy tights and a black corset. Meg said I looked like a slut but added that she meant it as a compliment.

‘It’s so clichéd of you to be a Charlotte Brontë fan,’ Kristóf sniped as we walked to the bus stop. ‘Champion of the underdog, isn’t she? I suppose you’re waiting for your Mr Rochester to turn up and rescue you, are you? Me, I prefer Emily Brontë. She refused to conform, to bow down to social expectations.’

I glared at him, trying to decide whether to even bother engaging in another argument, and concluded that it wasn’t worth my time. Kristóf may see himself as a Romantic hero, on a higher intellectual plane than the rest of us, but he was a grumpy, condescending arse when he wanted to be. As soon as we got on the bus, he pulled out a book and ignored me all the way home.

It was a relief to get back to the house and the far less complicated companionship of my other friends. Meg greeted me at the door, removed the books from my arms and immediately led me to the kitchen where she and George had made up jelly vodka shots and a vat of lethal green cocktail.

‘I need your opinion,’ she said, handing me a paper cup, brim full. ‘Too much booze or too little? What am I talking about? Can you have too much booze?’

Meg had managed to swing a discount from the bar where she worked so most of the spirits had come at cost price. George had bought a couple of cases of decent wine that would probably be wasted on most of our guests and I had chipped in for the party food and decorations. Kristóf hadn’t contributed anything; another source of friction in the house. He disappeared upstairs as soon as we got home.

He didn’t reappear until the party was in full swing. He spent most of the evening standing in the corner viewing the party guests with thinly veiled contempt and making no effort to talk to anyone. I wasn’t going to let him spoil my evening. George had put together a Hallowe’en playlist and invited all the girls from his course, including a red head that he had fancied for ages. It didn’t take long before she was following him into his bedroom.

A pang of jealousy shot through me like adrenaline. I necked my glass of vodka and coke and went into the kitchen for a refill. As I poured myself a drink, I was collared by one of the geeks from Meg’s engineering class, who was obviously trying out some new chat up lines that he had found on the internet. I was so drunk, and they were so bad, that I took pity on him and flirted back. I noticed Kristóf standing by the back door, nursing a beer and watching us with a sneer on his face. In defiance, I grabbed hold of the geek and started to snog him. His breath tasted of pepperoni and garlic and I thought I was going to gag. He stuck his tongue down my throat and started to paw me like a pubescent teenager while a dark red colour crept up Kristóf’s neck like a line of mercury. It reached his face and exploded.

He covered the room in a few strides and grabbed the guy’s collar, yanking him away from me and nearly knocking him out on the open cupboard door.

‘Oi, what’s your problem?’

‘She’s drunk and you’re taking advantage.’ I had never seen Kristóf look so angry. He was like a modern-day Heathcliff towering over a gibbering Edgar Linton. My paramour didn’t seem to fancy his chances in a physical fight and walked away, his hands raised in mock surrender.

‘Oh Kristóf, my hero!’ I mocked. ‘Thank you, I needed rescuing!’

He turned his glare at me and I realised he was in no mood for my jokes.

‘It didn’t look like it. You were all over him.’

‘I was only being polite.’ I poured myself another drink and sat on the counter, swinging my legs like a little girl. ‘What do you care anyway?’

‘I don’t particularly. I just didn’t want you to do something you would regret in the morning.’

‘I was only having fun; you should try it some time.’ Where was Meg when I needed her? Last time I saw her she had been in the living room leading a group of students in The Time Warp.

‘Didn’t look like fun from where I was standing.’ Kristóf grabbed the paper cup from me and threw the contents down the sink. I tried to stop him and fell on the floor. Kristóf lifted me back upright. He was surprisingly strong for someone so lean. ‘I think you’d better go to bed.’

I started to protest but couldn’t get the words out. He put his arm around me and helped me up the stairs.

‘Thank you, Kristóf,’ I slurred. ‘You’re a nice guy really, most of the time.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. You’re a pain in the arse when you’re drunk.’

‘I’m sorry.’

We reached my room and I stumbled into bed, fully clothed and still wearing my heels. ‘I’ll have a little nap and then I’ll get back up.’

‘Yeah whatever.’

‘Are you cross with me? Why are you cross?’

‘I’m not cross. Go to sleep.’

‘You sound cross.’

‘Well, I’m not. I just don’t know why you degrade yourself like that. You’re better than that, Holly.’

He looked at me so intensely, and our faces were so close together that, for a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. I didn’t know how I felt about that, but I thought I should at least find out. I moved towards him but before I got any closer, he stood up abruptly and walked out of the room.

‘Get some sleep, Holly,’ he said gently, closing the door behind him.

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