About the Author

KAREN CLARKE writes her novels in Buckinghamshire, where she lives with her husband and three grown-up children. Having previously published twelve romantic comedies, Karen switched to the dark side, co-writing psychological thriller The Secret Sister with fellow author Amanda Brittany.

Your Life For Mine is Karen’s first solo psychological suspense novel and she’s currently working on her second.

When she’s not writing, Karen reads a lot, loves walking, photography, going to the cinema, baking and eating cake (not all at the same time).

Your Life For Mine
KAREN CLARKE

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Karen Clarke

Karen Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for 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, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008400385

Version: 2020-09-07

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Tim, with love.

‘You don’t have to be underwater to feel like you’re drowning.’

Prologue

After all the planning, I suppose it’s natural to be looking forward to what’s coming with a mix of apprehension and pleasure. Mostly pleasure, to be honest. The planning has been so meticulous, I haven’t left room for anything to go wrong. I’ve been careful and patient – more than I’d ever have believed possible.

Knowing you’re in London today, swanning about without a care in the world, simply brought home the fact that now – finally – is the perfect time to execute my plan to create maximum suffering. It’s been a long wait, but that means the reward will be sweeter.

Time to get started.

Chapter 1

The text came as I was getting off the train. I’d kept the volume at maximum since missing a call from my daughter’s school a few days ago, and the vibration made me jump.

I fumbled my phone from my bag, ignoring the thrust of commuters keen to reach home after a hard day’s work or, in my case, a hard day’s wandering around London.

It was probably Vic, checking I was on my way home. He was throwing a surprise party for my birthday, and to celebrate us being together for six months, and although it wasn’t a surprise (Vic knew better than that) he wanted to make it special.

Moving down the platform of Oxford railway station as the train pulled away, I pictured him in the kitchen with a checklist: food delivered, house tidied, cake baked – he’d been practising – my loved ones gathered and primed, eager to see my reaction. I’d been practising a look of joyful astonishment I hoped I could carry off.

I opened my messages, a smile hovering. I didn’t recognise the number.

Enjoy your birthday, Beth. It’ll be your last.

My brain froze. I read it again, heart beating unevenly. Who is this? I typed back, fingers slipping across the screen before hitting send. The response came swiftly.

You’ll find out.

My heart rate accelerated as I tapped out a reply, not stopping to consider whether it was a good idea. If this is a joke, it’s not funny.

No joke.

I glanced around, as if whoever had sent the message might be grinning with sinister intent on the platform, but the stretch of concrete was empty, sunshine glinting off the tracks. I’d been boiling on the train, but now cold fingers touched my spine, sending ripples of gooseflesh over my skin.

Who are you?

No reply.

With a plunge of dread, my mind barrelled back to a message I’d found on my car windscreen just after Christmas, A LIFE FOR A LIFE printed in big, black capitals on a sheet of plain white paper. I’d thrown it away, assuming someone had got the wrong car, or it was a religious thing, like the leaflets sometimes thrust at me in the street, offering salvation through Christ – but the words had still made me shiver and look around, just as I was doing now.

Another message buzzed in.

Bye, bye, Beth.

I dropped my phone as though bitten. Whoever it was had my name and number, yet no one I knew would do this, even as a joke.

My brain swooped around the possibilities.

‘Everything OK?’

I spun round to see the station assistant watching me curiously.

‘Fine.’ I tried to smile but my face felt stiff as I bent to retrieve my phone.

‘Have a nice evening,’ she said, giving me a funny look.

‘You too.’ I stumbled a little as I hurried through the exit towards the car park. She probably thought I’d been drinking.

In my car, I switched on the engine to get the air-conditioning flowing and looked at my phone again. Nothing.

I tried to breathe through the tightness in my chest. I’d spent too many years feeling like this in the past. I didn’t want to be pushed back to that place.

You know I can report you?

No response.

Perhaps one of my art -therapy clients was playing a prank. They knew my name and could have got hold of my number. It didn’t make much sense, but neither did anything else.

Except … A LIFE FOR A LIFE. With a twist of fear, it struck me afresh that only someone who knew me well would know the impact those words would have.

I jumped when a text from Vic came through.

Are you on your way back?

I let out my breath. Five minutes. X

Love you. X

You too. X

I still couldn’t say it back, even in writing. I’d been with my daughter’s father Matt for seven years, had loved him deeply. My feelings hadn’t died the minute he left, but Vic understood. It was one of the things I liked about him. He was a grown-up, who grasped that love was complex. He’d been patient, allowing my feelings to flourish at their own pace.

I manoeuvred out of the car park on autopilot, breathing from my diaphragm the way I’d been taught by a counsellor, but my skin and muscles were stiff with tension as I drove the short journey home.

When I turned into the street where I’d lived for the last six years, my shoulders relaxed a little. Home was a Victorian terrace on a quiet, leafy street overlooking the park near Hayley’s school – a house we’d only been able to afford because Matt’s grandfather died and left him enough money for the deposit. We would have to sell it soon. He needed a new place, where Hayley could go and stay, and Vic wanted us to buy somewhere together.

I switched off the engine, trying to picture the scene behind the olive-green front door; everyone hiding, waiting for a cue from Vic to leap out and shout ‘Surprise!’. Hayley would love it. She’d been to several parties lately, running out with extravagant party bags, eager for her own birthday in October. Five. I had a nearly-five-year-old daughter I’d willingly die for. A daughter I’d fight to live for.

Enjoy your birthday, Beth. It’ll be your last.

My breath caught when I detected a movement at the landing window, as if someone had been watching me and dipped out of sight. I stared for a moment, but the glass was opaque with the sun’s reflection and I couldn’t make anything out.

Getting out of the car, I tried to smooth the wrinkles from my flower-patterned, summery dress with a shaky hand. No point checking my face or refreshing my lipstick. If I looked too polished my guests might guess I was in on the ‘secret’ – if they hadn’t already.

The air was thick with humidity, but I suppressed a shiver as I slipped my key in the lock and pushed the front door open, inhaling the smell of home; a mix of clean laundry, Vic’s classy aftershave, and a heady waft of freshly-baked sponge cake. He’d neatened the hallway, lining up our shoes, putting Hayley’s scooter out of harm’s way and straightening our coats on the hooks along the wall.

He didn’t live here full-time but came round most days, slotting easily into our lives – more easily than I could ever have imagined – but at times, it still felt wrong that Matt wasn’t there, waiting with his guitar to burst into song the second I stepped through the door, his boots left wherever he’d kicked them off, something simmering in the kitchen as he experimented with new ingredients.

Placing my keys on the console table, I was hotly aware of my phone in my bag like a hand grenade. I waited for my breathing to settle. The silence in the house felt manufactured and somehow sinister. A sound, quickly smothered behind the living room door, conjured an image of strangers waiting to pounce. Swamped in sudden dizziness, I shot out a hand to steady myself, overcome by a suffocating certainty.

Somebody in this house wanted me dead.

Chapter 2

‘There you are!’ Vic emerged from the living room and closed the door, his smile of welcome fading to concern. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ My voice sounded strained, as though I’d been shouting. ‘I felt a bit faint, that’s all.’

I wanted to tell him the truth. After Matt, I hadn’t wanted a relationship with areas ‘not discussed’, but Vic had gone to a lot of trouble to make today special and I didn’t want to spoil it.

He glanced at the door behind him before coming over, probably wondering how much time he could spare. He looked typically stylish in well-fitting chinos with an open-necked shirt and his favourite loafers; his intelligent, olive-skinned face framed by a close-cut beard. It was flecked with grey and matched his short, black hair. My brother had declared Vic out of my league when they met, because of his polished accent, and the fact he’d been to Oxford University and worked as an eye doctor. Although Jamie had a habit of putting me down, I’d secretly agreed with him. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he said.

‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ I lied, hanging my bag over the post at the foot of the stairs. I tried to smile and make it true, but my mouth wouldn’t make the right shape.

‘Beth, you don’t look good.’ He cradled my face in his palms, his brow creased in an unfamiliar frown as he scanned my face. He was so close I could see gold-specks in his brown eyes, reminding me of the way he’d studied me when I pitched up in his consulting room six months ago, referred by my doctor to determine the cause of my headaches and blurred vision.

‘Have you been under any more pressure than usual?’ he’d asked, after a battery of tests had failed to reveal a physical cause. ‘You’d be surprised how often stress can manifest itself in the sort of symptoms you’ve been having.’

Undone by his genuine interest, I’d burst into tears and blurted out my life story, ending with my marriage break-up the year before when I’d told my husband he’d be better off with someone else. ‘I think, deep down, I didn’t expect him to agree with me, and definitely not to move out,’ I’d said, between sobs. ‘He loves his daughter so much I knew he’d miss her badly. He must have been looking for a way out for a while and I gave him one.’

‘Why do you think he’d been looking for a way out?’ Vic had gently tugged a tissue from a box on his desk and handed it to me.

‘Because I couldn’t let go of the past.’ I’d scrubbed at my face with the tissue, aware I looked a state. ‘I’d been fine for a long time, but after Hayley was born it all came back. I kept going over what had happened and wondering about different outcomes, feeling guilty all over again. It drove Matt mad, he just wanted me to be happy, especially as we had a daughter to think of now, but it wasn’t that simple for me.’ I shook my head. ‘I realised later that hormones had probably played a part, but I was a mess. I started seeing a counsellor again, but Matt thought she was keeping me stuck in the past, going over and over it all, so I stopped, but then I resented him, so we were both on edge, not being natural with each other and treading on eggshells. I knew the atmosphere couldn’t be good for Hayley, so I suggested he move out, and he said he agreed and …’ a fresh bout of weeping had broken out. ‘He went and didn’t come back, except to see Hayley.’

‘And the headaches and vision problems started around that time?’

‘Not really, that’s why I didn’t make a connection,’ I said. ‘I sort of went into overdrive once he left, trying to make everything as settled for Hayley as possible, so her life wasn’t too disrupted, especially as she missed her dad. It was hard for him too, not being able to see her every day, but he went to stay in France for a couple of months – his parents live there – and it was actually easier, but he’s been back a while now and although we’re civil with each other … I don’t know, it’s not how I’d imagined things turning out, I suppose. We didn’t have a big wedding, just family and friends, but I thought we’d be married forever and give Hayley the sort of upbringing he’d had – he has a lovely, big family – and like I had before … before everything changed.’

Vic had been calm and accepting, as if it was normal for patients to break down and empty their hearts, crying until their eyes were swollen shut. Maybe it was, I’d thought afterwards, mortified by my emotional outpouring. He’d had the sort of aura that invited confidences, and it was easy to imagine patients opening up to him.

Even so, I’d been surprised when he called a week later, asking whether I’d like to meet for a coffee. Not for dinner, or a drink, which I probably wouldn’t have said yes to, being far from ready to start dating. It wasn’t even on my radar, but somehow coffee had turned into dinner and a drink, and maybe because he knew the worst and hadn’t judged me, I’d been able to relax in his company in a way I wouldn’t have believed possible.

It was no coincidence that my headaches retreated around the same time, and even though levels of civility had dipped when Matt found out about us, they hadn’t returned, and nor had the blurry vision. Being with Vic had made me realise that Matt had been part of the problem. He’d wanted me to change, but Vic accepted me the way I was.

I reached up now and covered his hands with mine. ‘Honestly,’ I said, managing to produce a smile. ‘I just got a bit overheated on the train.’

‘There’s nothing else?’ As his gaze probed mine, my resolve weakened.

‘It’s just … I had a couple of weird texts.’

He frowned. ‘Weird?’

‘I’m probably making too much of it, but …’ I pulled away, annoyed with myself. It was too late to take it back. ‘It felt like someone knew what had happened, you know. When I was a child.’

His gaze didn’t waver but his posture stiffened. ‘What did they say?’

‘They were kind of … threatening.’ Without warning, my mind rolled back to surging waves, burning lungs and thrashing arms. Cold seeping into my bones.

‘Look, if you’re worried, you should talk to Rosa.’

‘Is she here?’

He nodded. ‘She switched shifts, specially.’

‘Jamie won’t like it.’

‘She’s a police officer. Surely he’d expect you to talk to her.’

He didn’t know my brother as well as I did. ‘She’ll want to know what it’s about.’

Vic’s eyebrows rose. ‘You think Jamie hasn’t told her the story?’

‘I’m sure he has.’ As I dug in my bag for my phone to show him the texts, there was a rush of air behind us.

‘Mummy, what are you doing? I’m waiting and waiting and you didn’t come and I want to have cake and you’ve got to blow out your candles.’

‘I’m here, sweetheart.’ Dropping my bag, I fell to my knees to catch my daughter, burying my face in her silky hair as my arms closed around her. ‘I was just talking to Vic,’ I said, marvelling anew, as she wriggled free, that this soft bundle of energy was mine, dressed in her favourite sparkly princess dress, her bare feet dusty from playing in the garden. ‘You were very quiet.’ Smiling, I brushed a sweep of fair hair from her heart-shaped face, my heart lifting at the sight of the bright blue eyes she’d inherited from Matt – like fragments of summer sky. ‘Were you hiding?’

When she nodded solemnly, my heart swelled further at the obvious effort she was making not to give away the surprise. ‘It’s because of your birthday, Mummy.’ She tilted her head. ‘I’ve been helping.’

‘She certainly has.’ Vic’s voice was gentle as he briefly rested his palm on the top of her head. ‘She’s been such a good girl.’

He was so natural with Hayley – despite the fact that he didn’t want children of his own – but sometimes, when he spoke like that, I felt a pang that it wasn’t Matt, which added another layer of guilt to my already towering pile. While Hayley didn’t love Vic in the same, heartfelt way she did her father, she liked him a lot, and we were hoping to broach the subject of us all living together soon.

‘Come on!’ Growing impatient, she tugged my hand and I rose, throwing Vic an apologetic smile.

His shrug conveyed all the things he couldn’t say in front of her – that we’d talk about the texts later, that he had my back … that he loved me.

Why couldn’t Matt have been like that?

Banishing the thought, I let Hayley pull me towards the living room as Vic spoke in a stagey voice intended for our guests.

‘I was telling Mummy she doesn’t have time for a shower after her shopping trip.’

‘No, you don’t, Mummy, that’s silly.’

‘Well, I hope I don’t smell bad.’

I also hoped no one would think to ask what I’d bought. Instead of shopping – not my favourite pursuit – I’d spent most of my day wandering around the Tate, and taking photos of buildings for an art-therapy project.

Vic thrust open the door with a theatrical ‘Ta-da!’ and the tension in the room gave way to a chorus of ‘Surprise!’ and ‘Happy birthday!’ and a shout of ‘About time!’ from my brother. In the end, it wasn’t too hard to look surprised, though I exaggerated for Hayley’s sake, scooping her up and swinging her round as everyone laughed and applauded.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t say anything!’

‘It was a secret,’ she said, flushed with pleasure, before breaking away and darting across to a small heap of presents on a side table as people gathered round me, laughing and wishing me well. For the next few minutes, I let myself be swept along on a tide of goodwill, happy that Vic had managed to pull this off – with my help.

‘None of my clients,’ I’d said, when he asked who I’d want to be there. ‘No extended family either.’ Mum and Dad had big families scattered around the country. ‘And definitely not Grandpa Buckley. He’s stopped wearing his false teeth and Mum says he’s started telling racist jokes.’

In the end, we’d settled on my immediate family – Vic only had one older sister, who lived in Canada – a couple of friends and colleagues, Lewis and Jude from across the road with their son Rory, who was Hayley’s age, and Pam from next door. She’d been a big support after Matt left and sometimes looked after Hayley, who adored her, partly because she had a chocolate-brown Labradoodle called Baxter. My daughter craved a puppy more than anything else.

Pam was there in a flower-print dress, her short white hair neatly brushed, smiling a little self-consciously. I managed a wave before Mum grabbed me in a crushing embrace.

‘I thought you’d got lost,’ she said, as I breathed in a waft of the Gucci perfume Dad bought her every Christmas. ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart. I bought you that jacket you said you liked, but if it doesn’t fit, I’ve got the receipt.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘Everything OK?’ Her voice dipped into anxiety, always attuned to my mood.

‘Fine,’ I said automatically, stretching my smile as she scoured my face with her pale blue, searchlight eyes. ‘Just hot, that’s all.’ I wondered whether she’d still be this overprotective when I was forty, fifty – if I lived that long. The thought made my heart trip.

‘You do look a bit feverish.’ Mum was gripping my upper arms. ‘Maybe you’re coming down with something.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I subtly moved out of her grasp. ‘This is such a lovely surprise,’ I said, gesturing at the room, which seemed much smaller now it was filled with people. The dove-grey walls – which I’d repainted after Matt moved out – felt as if they were closing in and panic briefly stirred. ‘I can’t believe Vic has gone to all this trouble.’ I looked around for him but he’d vanished, no doubt to check on the food or to fetch more drinks.

‘He’s a good man; he’s thought of everything.’ Mum’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘Make sure you hang on to him,’ she said, playfully. She’d been distraught when Matt left, but, once she’d accepted I wasn’t heading back into therapy, had cautiously retreated and welcomed Vic into the family with open arms.

‘Happy Birthday, Lizbet.’ Dad materialised, holding a mug of coffee. He rarely touched alcohol, preferring to keep a clear head. ‘If you’re thirty-three now, that means I must be …’ He slung his free arm around my shoulder and pretended to do a sum in his head. ‘Getting old.’

‘Sixty-four’s not old.’ I forced a grin, used to him treating me like a child, calling me by his own diminutive of Elizabeth. He’d never forgiven himself for his part in what had happened; it sometimes seemed he’d been stuck in the past ever since, trying to make up for it. ‘Thanks for coming,’ I said, knowing nothing would have kept him away, even if it meant leaving his beloved furniture repair shop earlier than usual.

‘You don’t have to thank us for wanting to spend time with you.’ Mum slid her arm around Dad’s waist and smiled up at me. I looked at them, seeing myself in Dad’s hazel eyes, straight nose and the arch of his brows, and in Mum’s curves and the way she held herself tall, despite being a petite five foot two. I was a few inches taller, my hair a more reddish-brown, but there was no doubting we were mother and daughter.

As usual, feeling the weight of their gaze, of their hopes and expectations, I was compelled to brighten my smile, to dance my shoulders to the music springing from a speaker on the dresser – Pharrell Williams’s ‘Happy’ – and accept the badly wrapped present Hayley was holding out. She danced from foot to foot, hands clasped as I unwrapped the shiny pink paper to reveal a box containing a charm bracelet hung with a silver heart. The heart was inscribed with the words Love you forever, Mummy, eliciting fond murmurs when I read them out.

‘It’s from me!’ Hayley could barely contain herself, straining to see the words that had hazed in a blur of tears. ‘Daddy helped me when we went shopping on Saturday.’

Matt? I tried not to react. ‘Thank you, darling, I love it so much.’ I bent to hug her but she’d already raced away, so I slipped it on and held it out for Mum and Dad to admire.

‘Where’s that brother of yours?’ Mum said, letting go of my wrist to glance around. ‘I told him to get you something nice. I hope he listened to me.’

I caught Dad’s eye and he looked away, smile fading. It pained them both that my once close relationship with my brother had eroded to the point where he had to be ‘reminded’ about my birthday. He’d softened since meeting Rosa – she’d been good for him – but I doubted it was to the point where he’d go gift-shopping.

‘He’s around somewhere. I saw him earlier,’ Dad said. ‘Probably gone to the loo.’

‘Graham,’ Mum said, as though he’d said a swear word, lightly tapping his arm.

‘Linda,’ he replied in a similar tone, and they exchanged affectionate smiles.

Bye, bye, Beth.

As the words floated into my mind, my own smile faded.

I had to talk to Rosa.

Chapter 3

I looked around. I hadn’t seen Rosa since the initial hubbub, but spotted her by the food-laden dining table, talking to Pam, who was gesticulating wildly as she spoke. Probably describing something in her garden, which was her passion.

‘I’m going to mingle,’ I said, perspiration breaking out on my forehead. The windows were open, and so were the French doors that led to the garden, but the air in the room felt solid.

‘Don’t forget to have a chat with your brother,’ Mum called after me.

I was waylaid on the way, first by Marianne, the head of Fernley House where I worked, who also ran creative writing classes there, then my oldest friend Emma, who I’d met at art college. After a recent trip to Cambodia, she was settling into a new job with a charitable organisation in London and wanted to catch up.

‘I still can’t get over you and Matt breaking up.’ Her smoky grey eyes were alive with curiosity as she thrust a glass of wine into my hand. ‘What actually happened, Beth? You two were made for each other.’

Emma had introduced me to Matt. It was natural she’d wish we were still together. On her last visit to Oxford before her trip, I told her I’d met someone new, but she’d just broken up with her boyfriend and hadn’t been very receptive. ‘You should get to know Vic.’ I put my glass down, too on edge to drink. ‘He’s lovely.’

‘Let’s have a night out.’ She cuffed my wrist with her fingers as I made to move away, her gaze probing. ‘It’s been ages since we’ve had a proper chat.’

‘Too long,’ I said lightly, easing out of her grasp.

Her angular face softened. ‘I brought you a gift.’ She swept her long, dark fringe aside with ring-cluttered fingers. ‘Your adorable daughter added it to the pile.’

‘Thanks, Em, that’s really kind of you. I’ll look for it in a bit.’ Smiling, I backed away, almost into Rosa, who sounded keen to escape Pam’s lively chatter.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she was saying, a faint estuary twang betraying her Essex roots. ‘Start with great soil and follow the sun.’ She started when she spotted me right behind her. ‘Hi, Beth.’ A grin broke over her face, crinkling her big, brown eyes.

‘Hey,’ I said, heart banging. I’d rarely spoken to Rosa alone and was surprised that Jamie wasn’t glued to her side, as usual. ‘Could I have a quick word?’

‘Sure.’ I sensed her switch into work mode, tensing slightly beneath her thin white top, which she’d paired with cropped black trousers and flat black shoes, her mouse-brown hair scraped back in its usual ponytail. She could have been in uniform. I remembered Jamie saying she took her job seriously, was keen to become a detective – or maybe it was a sergeant, I couldn’t quite remember. ‘What is it?’

Just then, Jamie came in from the garden. Catching his glance across the room, my nerves twanged a warning. The last thing my brother needed was a reminder of the past. ‘I just wanted to say thank you for—’

‘Beth?’ Vic was in the doorway. ‘Maybe not in front of everyone.’

My smile froze. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’

Rosa’s gaze flicked between us. ‘What’s going on?’

My mouth felt dry. ‘Oh, it’s nothing really.’ I looked over at Jamie. He’d perched on the arm of the sofa, a glass of something amber in one hand, and was grinning at Hayley asking loudly if he could please fetch her some cake because she was so hungry. ‘I had a couple of anonymous text messages earlier.’

‘Oh?’ An interested gleam brightened Rosa’s eyes. She tended to blend into the background normally – a useful trait for a police officer – but I suddenly saw how pretty she was with her thick dark lashes, smooth skin and neat features. She had an air of quiet intelligence that would have appealed to Jamie. He liked quiet, clever women who got on with things without making a fuss. ‘What sort of messages?’

I quickly looked for Mum and Dad. They were loading paper plates with a selection of food at the table, their backs to me. ‘Not in here, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course.’

She followed me out of the room, to where Vic was waiting at the foot of the stairs with an air of suppressed tension. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought—’

‘It’s fine,’ I cut in, wanting to get it over with. ‘It’s probably a bad joke and I’m reading too much into it,’ I said to Rosa. ‘But the message told me to enjoy my birthday because it would be my last.’

‘OK,’ she said calmly. ‘That’s not funny.’

‘No.’ If I’d hoped by telling her, the words would lose some of their power, I was wrong. My hand felt clumsy as I fished my phone from my bag. ‘It feels like it might be linked to what happened when I was a child …’ I stopped, checking her face for a reaction. ‘You know about it?’

She nodded, while Vic placed a hand on my shoulder as if to steady me. ‘Jamie mentioned it.’ She spoke in the sort of neutral voice I imagined must be necessary in her job. ‘You nearly drowned on holiday when you were seven.’

Nearly drowned.

It sounded like nothing, the way she said it. As if it wasn’t the event that had blighted my life ever since. ‘Twice,’ I said, my voice as choked as if it was happening again. ‘I nearly died twice. Secondary drowning it’s called, when a small amount of water enters the lungs.’ Vic’s hand tightened on my shoulder. ‘If Mum hadn’t insisted on them keeping me in hospital for observation that night, I would have died.’

‘Jamie told me.’ Rosa’s tone was one of respectful compassion. ‘I’m sorry.’

She seemed to be waiting for more and, as if from a distance, I heard myself tell her the worst part, even though she must already know. ‘A stranger saved my life,’ I said. ‘He saved me, but he died. He drowned, saving my life.’

‘Beth.’ Vic’s voice barely penetrated the sound of blood roaring in my ears.

‘I lived because of him, but he died and I have to live with that and it’s been hard, you know?’

‘Beth, it’s OK.’

‘I don’t even know who he was, or if he had a family. He must have had a family, I mean—’

‘Beth!’ Vic’s fingers tightened on my shoulder.

I blinked as though waking from a nightmare. ‘Sorry.’ I exhaled. ‘It’s … it’s got easier, but it never really goes away,’ I said. ‘The guilt, I mean.’

Rosa’s gaze connected with mine. ‘And you think … what? That this message is connected somehow?’

‘Maybe someone who knew what happened back then is trying to scare me.’

‘Someone connected to the man who drowned?’

I felt a dropping sensation, hearing it said so simply. ‘Yes.’

‘OK.’ A frown wrinkled her forehead. It sounded far-fetched, but with a jarring sense of clarity, I realised I’d been expecting something like this to happen for a long time. For ages, I’d told myself that if I worked hard enough, kept my daughter safe, improved the lives of my therapy clients, everything would be OK. Even on Hayley’s first birthday, the house crammed with mine and Matt’s families, I’d thought about the man who saved my life, how he’d never celebrate a grandchild’s birthday, guilt creeping out like a shadow to spoil the moment.

Maybe none of it had been enough.

‘There was a note, earlier in the year,’ Vic said. ‘On Beth’s car. It said A LIFE FOR A LIFE. It’s like someone’s out for revenge.’

‘That’s a bit strong.’ I tried out a laugh, but the word hit home. Revenge.

Rosa’s frown deepened. I thought she was going to tell me I’d been watching too many crime dramas – which I’d have to admit was true – but instead, she said, ‘If the message came from a burner phone it’ll be hard to trace, but I could take a look.’

I hesitated. ‘I—’

‘Mummeee!’ It was Hayley, sounding fractious.

Dad poked his head round the living room door. ‘What are you lot plotting?’

The sight of his wild salt-and-pepper hair, which Mum had long ago given up trying to tame, tightened the knot in my chest. We must look an odd trio, huddled by the front door. ‘We’re going to get the cake,’ I said, knowing he wouldn’t question it. ‘I got side-tracked.’

‘Madam won’t wait much longer.’

‘I’m coming.’ I flashed Rosa a smile as Dad disappeared. ‘Look, thanks for hearing me out, but it’s probably nothing … I mean, nothing serious.’

‘You don’t believe that.’ Her expression was worryingly sombre. ‘I’d like to take a quick look if you don’t mind.’

‘Fine.’ I switched my phone on and went straight to my texts. Odd.

‘What is it?’ Vic said as I scrolled up and down.

‘Hang on a second, I can’t …’ I looked again, but the last message I’d had was from Vic’s phone. ‘I can’t find them.’

‘What?’

I looked again, my senses prickling. ‘They’re not there.’ I lifted my gaze to Rosa’s. ‘The messages have gone.’

Chapter 4

After taking a look herself, Rosa handed my phone back. ‘Let me know if you get any more,’ she said with a trace of regret. ‘Take a screenshot if you can, so at least you have some proof.’ I wished I’d thought of it, though I couldn’t see how it would help if the sender was using a disposable phone. I’d seen enough thrillers to imagine broad fingers removing the battery before smashing the screen to smithereens underfoot. ‘What about the note you mentioned, on your car?’

‘I threw it away,’ I admitted. ‘It was creepy, but didn’t mean much at the time.’

‘That was my fault,’ Vic said grimly. ‘I suggested she get rid of it.’

‘Someone could have hacked into your phone,’ Rosa said. ‘Maybe change your passwords.’

Before I could respond, Mum burst into the hallway and we scattered like cats; Vic and I to the kitchen and Rosa into the downstairs toilet with a murmured, ‘Let me know if anything else happens.’

‘Beth,’ Vic said, reaching for me as I stared unseeingly through the window into the back garden. He’d wound fairy lights around the trunk and branches of the magnolia tree, and along the hedge dividing us from Pam’s, but all I could see in my mind’s eye was someone hunched over a phone, intent on frightening me.

‘We can’t talk now,’ I said. ‘Everyone’s wondering what we’re doing.’ I spun round, plastering on a smile. ‘Let’s go.’

I wasn’t sure how I kept it together after that, but I managed to reassure Hayley that I wasn’t being a ‘party-popper’ by letting her blow out the candles on my lavishly frosted cake, aware of Vic watching me closely.

‘Make a wish,’ I urged her.

‘Don’t tell, or it won’t come true,’ Mum cautioned, winking at me. She used to say the same when Jamie and I were little, but I never did get the pony I wished for every year.

After posing for photos with a knife poised over the cake, time passed in a haze of snatched conversations and unwrapping gifts. There was a pretty utensil pot from Marianne, an expensive bottle of champagne from Lewis and Jude (more for their benefit than mine, I suspected, seeing their eyes light up when I smiled my appreciation) and a beautiful, walnut desk-easel from Emma, who waved away my thanks with an airy hand. To my surprise, Jamie produced a three-tier stand on wheels for my paint supplies, explaining he thought it might come in useful. While I knew my parents, and probably Rosa, had had a hand in his choice, I couldn’t help being touched. Vic had bought me a ruby pear-drop necklace that looked expensive. ‘It’s your birthstone,’ he said, fastening it carefully around my neck.

I kissed him, wishing it didn’t make me think of blood. ‘I love it.’

We all ended up dancing the hokey cokey at Dad’s insistence, as though I was seven again. Hayley loved it, and only the sight of her earnest expression as she followed the moves stopped my mind returning over and over to the text messages. Enjoy your birthday, Beth. It’ll be your last. Whoever had sent it wanted me to be scared, and while I knew I was playing into their hands, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something malevolent lurked among the smiling faces and bursts of laughter around me.

Senses heightened, I found myself studying Jamie at one point, noticing his gaze tracking Rosa around the room. I wondered whether they’d had an argument. If their relationship was going through a bad patch, he was bound to blame me. It wouldn’t be the first time. ‘Apparently, I’m too needy,’ he’d said, when his last relationship ended. ‘Not surprising, considering the years I spent trying to get my parents’ attention.’ He’d once said that, after my near-drowning, he might as well not have existed as far as our parents were concerned, but I doubted he’d go to the trouble of buying a phone and sending a threatening message. Apart from anything, Jamie had never been shy about telling me to my face exactly how he felt, and despite our strained relationship, I couldn’t imagine he wanted me dead. Unless he’d had enough of playing second fiddle and wanted me out of the way.

Catching Mum’s eye, I forced a smile and turned to chat to Pam, who wanted to tell me a friend had a Labrador who’d given birth to a litter of golden puppies. ‘In case you’ve thought any more about getting one for Hayley.’

‘Except Hayley won’t be the one looking after it.’ The headache I’d felt brewing earlier strengthened its grip. ‘Sorry, Pam, I’m just—’

‘It’s fine.’ Her already rosy cheeks flushed crimson. ‘I could help though, if you do decide to have one,’ she said. ‘You know I think of you and Hayley as family.’

‘I know you do, and thank you.’ Mustering a smile, I placed an arm around her narrow shoulders. She was small but strong, from years of running her own cleaning company, and her upper arms were still more toned than mine. ‘I promise I’ll think about it, but don’t say anything to Hayley, will you?’

‘I won’t.’ Her gaze turned wistful, watching Hayley spinning in circles on the rug in front of the fireplace with Rory, giggling as she staggered into Mum. Pam didn’t have children of her own, had lived alone since her husband died of a heart attack a couple of years before we moved next door. It was something she rarely talked about, but if anyone deserved to be a grandparent, it was Pam.

As we drifted into the garden, where the sun had turned the lawn patchy and dry, Jude sidled over and nudged my arm. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she said in a stagey whisper, watching Vic top up glasses and offer food.

I felt a stab of dislike because she’d never said that about Matt when we’d all been friends, even though he’d designed her website free of charge when she became a Pilates instructor. ‘Thanks,’ I said shortly.

Jamie interrupted, saying he had to leave, and Jude wandered away. ‘I’ve got an early start tomorrow,’ he said, which was probably true. He was a plumber, often called out at unsociable hours. It was how he’d met Rosa, when a pipe burst in her flat, flooding the kitchen. ‘You look exhausted,’ I said, noting the bruised-looking crescents beneath his eyes. ‘You should take on someone to help.’

‘Don’t you start.’ He spoke with the bite I’d grown accustomed to over the years. It was hard to remember that, for a while after my accident, he’d been as protective as Mum and Dad, looking out for me at school, despite being in the year below. Much later, my counsellor suggested that, like Dad, Jamie felt terribly guilty about that day; that if the man who saved me hadn’t run into the sea, I’d have drowned while Jamie was waiting at the van to buy ice-creams. But when I asked him about it, he’d looked at me as though I’d grown two heads. ‘Of course I don’t feel guilty,’ he’d said, anger heating his words. ‘Christ sake, Beth, let it go.’

While he said his goodbyes to Mum and Dad, Rosa stood back a little. I was grateful she didn’t allude to our earlier conversation. Her smile was bland as she nodded briefly in my direction before following Jamie out, her hand reaching for his. It struck me how similar they looked from behind; practically the same height, similar hair colour, though Jamie’s was permanently tousled and more dirty-blond than brown, and both with a suggestion of strength in their shoulders – Jamie from regular gym sessions and Rosa from her police training, which required her to pass a fitness test twice a year.

I pleaded a raging headache once they’d gone – which wasn’t a lie – and though Emma was disappointed we hadn’t had a chance to talk properly, she gamely accepted the offer of a lift to the station with Mum and Dad.

‘Call me,’ she urged, pressing a kiss to my cheek at the door, her musky perfume catching in my throat. ‘I want to know everything.’

Something avid in her words made me look at her twice, taking in the sheen of her eyes and vivid splashes of colour along her cheekbones. I hadn’t noticed her drinking – which she did a lot when we were at college – but she seemed in the grip of some strong emotion.

‘I will,’ I promised, resolving to bridge the gap that had sprung up between us lately. ‘Thanks again for coming, and for your lovely gift; it was so thoughtful.’

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Vic seems like a really nice guy. If you’re happy with him, I’m happy for you.’ She hugged me a little too tightly and hurried out, leaving me with the feeling she’d left a lot unsaid.

*

‘I still don’t understand it,’ I said, once Hayley was tucked up and sleeping, the calming effect of her bedtime routine worn off. ‘I saw those messages, so where did they go?’

Vic spat toothpaste in the sink in the ensuite bathroom before coming into the bedroom. ‘There are ways if you know what you’re doing.’ He sat beside me on the bed, patting his face with a towel. ‘At least Rosa took you seriously.’

‘She probably felt she didn’t have much choice.’ It came out snappy, my nerves shredded from hours of pretending I was fine. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered, rubbing the nape of my neck. ‘I wish I hadn’t told her.’

‘You did the right thing.’ Throwing the towel aside, Vic knelt on the bed behind me and massaged my shoulders, attempting to release the knots that had gathered there. ‘Let’s hope it was a one-off and that’s the end of it.’

‘There won’t be any more.’ I felt it deep in my bones, without knowing why. ‘Not now I’ve been warned.’

‘Should we get you a twenty-four-hour bodyguard, just in case?’

I tensed. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do.’ His fingers kept kneading. ‘Why would you make it up? I saw how spooked you were.’

I twisted to look at him. He had on the stripy pyjama shorts and white T-shirt he wore whenever he stayed over (‘in case Hayley comes in’) and a surge of affection washed away my annoyance. ‘Listen, thanks again for today,’ I said, touching the ruby necklace, which felt hot against my skin. ‘I’m sorry if I spoiled everything.’

‘You didn’t.’ He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my fingers. ‘Everyone had a good time and we should carry on doing that, and not let this … whatever it is, get between us.’

I fell silent for a moment. ‘I left my bag in the hall with my phone in.’

His brow furrowed. ‘What?’

‘My bag.’ I squirmed round to face him. ‘It was in the hall. Someone could have taken my phone out and deleted the messages.’

Sighing, Vic pushed away from me and lay down, one arm behind his head. ‘Like Rosa said, someone must have hacked your messages remotely.’

‘But what if they were deleted here?’

He looked at me sideways. ‘Do you still not have a password on your phone?’

I bristled. ‘I’ve never needed one,’ I said. ‘I always know where it is, I’ve nothing to hide, and it’s easier to access if I need to look something up.’

He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Well, I didn’t notice anyone sneaking into the hall, did you?’

‘No, but I wasn’t checking.’

Vic held out his other arm. ‘Come here, you.’

I rolled onto my side and rested my head on his chest. The rhythmic bump of his heart almost soothed my racing mind, but I couldn’t quite banish the guilty thought that Vic knew exactly where my phone was, and that he hadn’t been in the room when I was talking to Mum and Dad.

‘Seriously,’ he said, making me jump. ‘I could sort out some security for you, if it would give you peace of mind. It’ll make me feel better too.’

I closed my eyes, shame burning through me. ‘Thanks,’ I whispered, as he kissed the top of my head. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Once his breathing had deepened into sleep and darkness pressed into the room, fear wrapped around me, tightening my chest. I couldn’t help imagining all the ways I might be about to die. A shove in the back into oncoming traffic, or in front of a train, or a knife driven into my abdomen.

My breathing grew shallow and sweat pooled between my breasts beneath my vest top. I threw off the sheet and turned over, but couldn’t switch off my mind, imagining poison being slipped into my food, an injection in my neck, or stomach – insulin, maybe; wasn’t that supposed to be undetectable after death? Maybe my demise would be prolonged, intended to make me suffer. Of course there was death by drowning, but I rarely ventured near water these days, so that seemed unlikely.

My mind switched to scenes of torture until I was almost hyperventilating. Every scenario I dredged up felt like it belonged to fiction, too far-fetched and unlikely for real life, but the thought provided no comfort.

Whoever had sent those messages meant every word.

Chapter 5

I had the dream for the first time in ages. Bobbing by the sand on my blue and white inflatable, fingers trailing in the water as I looked through the rippling surface for the starfish Jamie had told me he’d seen. Then, my heart jerking with fear as it dawned on me that the seabed was no longer visible. I was moving too fast, dragged by an invisible current away from the beach. An angry wind had whipped up, sending clouds across the sun, tossing the waves into peaks. Whimpering, I pushed myself up on my hands and knees, gripping the sides of the slippery rubber Lilo, eyes raking the beach for my family, the people there reduced to Lego size. How could I have got so far away so quickly?

Can’t swim. Fear flooded my veins as I raised my arm to wave. When I opened my mouth to yell, the inflatable tipped, flipping me into the water.

The shock of the icy plunge snatched my breath as the water greedily sucked me down, filling my mouth, my nose, my lungs, salt water stinging my eyes.

I blinked and choked, limbs thrashing as I was tossed to the surface, fighting for air, hands reaching for the sky. Wordlessly screaming, Help me, help me, no breath to push the words out. Water closing over my head, pain blooming in my throat, spreading down and down. I was solid, a statue, sinking, sinking, eyes wide open, nothing but churning water and fire in my—

I shot upright with a choking gasp, one arm groping the air, the feeling of burning lava in my lungs as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

It took a moment for the images to disperse and my eyes to adjust to the familiar sight of my bedroom. Pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, slanting across the clotted-cream walls, bouncing off the edge of the mirror. I focused on the mattress beneath me, the feel of the cotton sheet I was grasping, the garden-scented air drifting through the open window.

Gradually, my pulse slowed.

Outside, the street was waking up. A dog barked – probably Baxter in the garden next door, let out for his morning snuffle around the hedges – and a burst of classical music, quickly muffled by the slam of a car door. Lewis, across the road, on his way to work as Head of IT for a local pharmaceutical company.

Pushing strands of damp hair from my forehead, I glanced at the digital glow of my ancient bedside clock: 7 a.m.

Vic had already left for the hospital; nothing but a hollow in the pillow beside me to indicate he’d been there. I pictured him moving quietly, not wanting to wake me after my restless night. I wished he’d brought me some coffee and kissed me before he left, like Matt used to do, before he headed downstairs to work on his latest web-design project.

Shaking off the memory, I lay back down, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes as I relived the dream. It wasn’t even a dream; more like recreating what had actually happened, but a heightened version, without the fun bits of that day; eating sand-gritted sandwiches on the stretch of sand at Perran Cove in Cornwall; Dad whacking his thumb with the mallet while putting up the windbreak; exploring the long, winding caves there with Jamie while Dad did a crossword in his newspaper, and Mum read her book, her shoulders turning pink in the sun.

If I thought back – which I tried not to do often – I had to force myself to remember that the beginning of our holiday in nearby Penzance, with its bustling streets and shops and busy harbour, had been idyllic; sun-drenched days, exploring smugglers’ tunnels, eating fish and chips, burying each other in sand, and staying up late for a bonfire party on Porthen Beach the night before the accident.

‘If only we hadn’t gone to Perran Cove,’ Mum had sobbed afterwards. Jamie and I had been promised a trip there and pestered from the moment we woke. ‘We should have had a lie-in and stayed near the cottage.’

She and Dad blamed themselves, citing the bottle of wine they’d shared the previous night for giving them fuzzy heads, meaning they hadn’t noticed more quickly what was happening, and when they did, for not being able to reach me. More importantly, they’d blamed themselves for not teaching me to swim. My fear of water had asserted itself early on. It had been easier not to force me back to the local swimming pool for lessons, but Dad had planned to teach me during that holiday.

‘I don’t understand why you went in,’ he’d wept – the first time I’d ever seen him cry. ‘I should have stopped you. What was I thinking?’

I didn’t understand it either, except I’d wanted to try out my new inflatable, and maybe there was something about the place that lulled me into a false sense of security – or Jamie’s promise that there were starfish in the sea and that the water wasn’t deep.

Since having Hayley, I understood more deeply the anguish they must have gone through. Despite being told that the wind had sprung up so quickly there’d been no warning, and that the lifeguard who should have been patrolling the coves had gone for a break, my parents felt they’d failed for not keeping me safe.

‘The sight of that man, staggering out of the water with you in his arms will never leave me. We thought you were dead,’ Mum cried at the hospital. He wasn’t the man who’d saved me. The man who swam out and grabbed me and kept my head above water until help arrived – whose face I couldn’t recall – had been washed away the moment I left his arms. Presumably too tired to battle the surging sea, he’d simply vanished. No one knew until the holidaymaker who deposited me at my parents’ feet admitted he wasn’t the hero of the hour, just the person who’d happened to be out surfing and brought me back to shore. My rescuer’s body had washed up along the coast a few days later and wasn’t identified for a week.

I knew nothing about it at the time because my parents had done a good job of hiding what really happened. It was bad enough that I could barely look at a bath full of water without crying, never mind go near the sea again, and my drowning nightmares were so debilitating, I had to be medicated in order to sleep for a while. They hadn’t wanted the man’s death on my mind, on top of everything else, so had dealt with it privately.

I lay in bed for a while with a hand on my belly, drawing in deep breaths, trying to stay in the moment. What would Vic have made of me waking in a sweaty panic? I normally slept well, barely stirring once my head hit the pillow. Matt was the one who’d had to cope with the resurgence of the nightmare in the months after Hayley was born, when I was sleep-deprived and hormones were playing havoc with my emotions.

In the warm light of day, my fears from the night before were embarrassing. Had I really thought that Vic could have deleted the messages? Thank God I hadn’t asked him, just to be sure. He’d encountered enough obstacles since meeting me, from Hayley announcing, ‘You’re not my daddy,’ when I introduced them, to being ignored by Matt and threatened with having his legs broken if he hurt me by Grandpa Buckley. He’d be horrified if he even suspected what had gone through my mind.

Already tense, I reached for my phone and switched it on, exhaling when I saw that the only new message I’d had was from Vic. See you later, Sleeping Beauty. Try to have a good day and DON’T WORRY xx

Maybe I’d dreamed up the messages. It wasn’t lost on me that I was approaching the anniversary of my drowning day (Why do you have to call it that? Matt used to say.) In previous years, I’d noticed a subconscious response to the date, a vague feeling of doom, mind bouncing off flashes of memory: the feel of water trailing through my fingers; waking up in hospital and seeing Mum’s tear-ravaged face; Jamie, pale with pink-rimmed eyes, bringing me ice-cream because you didn’t get to have one; and my grandmother with a crumpled handkerchief pressed to her mouth, her normally immaculate hair askew after driving for five hours to check that I was OK.

Then I remembered the pulse of shock I’d felt when I read the texts and knew I hadn’t conjured them up. And even if they had nothing to do with what happened that day in Cornwall, someone had wished me dead.

There was a voicemail from Mum. We had a lovely time yesterday, such a nice thing for Vic to do and wasn’t Hayley adorable? Your dad’s taken the morning off and we’re going to the garden centre. See you soon. Hope your head’s not hurting too much! XX

The subtext was Please let us know you’re OK, and I automatically obliged.

All good, thanks again for coming. Lovely to see you all. My head’s fine and Hayley says hello! I added a few smiley faces for reassurance, then worried it wasn’t enough and typed: Going to do some Pilates before breakfast! X That would please her as it meant I was ‘looking after myself’ and ‘being normal’.

On impulse, I decided to make it true. It might do me good to stretch away some of the tension that had settled across my back. I had a few minutes before Hayley got up and was sure I could remember some of the moves that Jude had shown me a while back after qualifying as an instructor.

I crossed to the window, squashing an urge to rush around the house, checking for booby traps. Nothing could happen this early in the day while I was at home with my daughter. Or maybe it was the perfect time. Annoyed that my train of thought was already derailing, I pulled open the curtains.

A flash of jewel-bright colour caught my eye from the pavement. Recognition tugged as a figure moved out of sight. Obscured by the broad trunk of an oak tree, I couldn’t make out who it was. Were they hiding?

I strained to see, heart drumming against my ribs, but the sound of childish laughter floating up the stairs made me whip around. Hayley was a deep sleeper. She rarely ventured out of bed before me, let alone downstairs on her own.

I grabbed my robe off the end of the bed, pulling it on as I darted onto the landing. I paused to check her room where sunshine was poking round the edges of her curtains. Her duvet was a heap in the middle of her bed, the stuffed crocodile she cuddled at night discarded on the floor, next to her dressing gown.

‘You are silly!’ I heard her say.

A man’s voice replied as I flew downstairs, gripping the banister to stop myself falling, fear ripping through me when I saw the front door was ajar.

‘Hayley!’ I cried, trying to keep the panic from my voice, wondering how I hadn’t heard the doorbell. ‘I’ve told you before to come and get me if someone comes to the house.’

I stopped dead in the living room doorway. Hayley turned, eyes bright with laughter. ‘It’s Daddy,’ she said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

‘Matt!’ He was sitting on the sofa, as though he’d never left. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Daddy’s going to take me to school!’ Hayley was in her Frozen nightdress, hopping about with excitement. ‘I’ve had my flakes.’ She pointed to a pair of empty bowls on the coffee table, and I remembered how Matt had always loved cereal, usually Rice Krispies in a lake of milk.

‘You don’t normally get your own breakfast.’ I tightened the belt on my robe, trying to give the illusion of being in control.

‘Daddy helped because I was so hungry and you were sleepy,’ she said, pushing her hair off her face. ‘Daddy’s going to give me a piggy-back because my legs might get tired from walking.’

‘School’s only five minutes away.’

‘But my legs are only little.’

‘Well, you’d better go and get dressed and brush your teeth, sweetie.’ I kept my tone light. ‘I need to have a chat with Daddy.’

When she’d run upstairs, whistling – Dad was teaching her how – I turned to Matt, fighting back memories of all the times he’d sat on the sofa in the home we’d bought together and planned to raise our child in. ‘You can’t turn up without letting me know,’ I said, aware he had every right to, considering it was his house too. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘I miss her,’ he said simply. ‘Mornings are the hardest.’

I took in his bright blue eyes, and the flop of blond hair and darker stubble that made him look like a rock star. I tried to harden my heart.

‘You chose to go,’ I reminded him, wrapping my arms around my waist. ‘And you can see her whenever you like – just call me first.’

‘It’s not the same.’ He thrust his hair back – the same movement that had caught my eye seven years ago, on a night out with Emma at a pub in the city. She’d been in Thailand for weeks, and was on one of her flying visits home. Matt was there with a couple of friends, watching the terrible band that were playing, and when he caught my eye and grinned, as though we were co-conspirators, I’d felt a rollercoaster swoop inside.

Later, after Emma had taken it upon herself to tell him ‘my friend fancies you’ as though we were teenagers and not going on twenty-six, we’d huddled with drinks at a table by a roaring fire, exchanging stories, and I discovered he was a couple of years older, worked for a web design company in the city centre, but was hoping to leave to go freelance, and played guitar for fun in his spare time.

‘Probably as badly as the band just did, but it’s a way of blowing off steam,’ he’d said. When he smiled, something released inside me, relaxing its hold. After a couple of relationships I couldn’t commit to, not wanting to put responsibility for my happiness in someone else’s hands, I dared to believe Matt Turner was the reason my life had been saved, because we were destined to be together. We even loved the same music, and although the band’s cover of Coldplay’s ‘Paradise’ that night had been awful, the song had become ‘ours’.

For the first time since returning to Oxford, I’d dared to look forward to a shared life, a shining future. I should have known it was too good to be true.

‘I came to visit you too,’ he said now, taking in my bed hair, robe and bare legs, reminding me how much more he’d seen over the years. ‘Nice birthday?’

‘Lovely, thank you.’ I could never get my tone quite right, the easy way we used to chat a distant memory. ‘Vic threw a party.’

‘Hayley told me.’ Only a tightening around his eyes gave away his true feelings. I knew he felt betrayed that I’d met someone else, even though he’d been the one to walk away. ‘Did you like your present?’

‘I love it.’ I held out my arm, self-consciously, to show him I was wearing the bracelet. ‘Thank you for helping her choose it.’

‘My pleasure.’ His voice was dry as his gaze held mine.

I looked away first, scanning the room, wishing I’d tidied up before going to bed. Seeing the surfaces cluttered with plates and glasses, the remains of my cake uncovered in the middle of the table, a fly buzzing over the crumbs, reminded me why I hadn’t, and the headache from last night threated to return.

‘What’s that?’ For the first time, I noticed a colourful box by Matt’s feet, which as usual were stuffed into biker-style boots, despite the warm weather outside.

Bending, he picked it up, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘Not the sort of thing I’d imagine you ordering.’

I tried to catch a breath as he held it out.

On the side of the box was an image of a girl in a swimming pool, floating in sparkling water on a blue and white inflatable.

So, the wheels are in motion now. I can’t tell you how good it feels to finally be doing something after all this time.

I thought you might have spotted me outside the house earlier. Even if you had, it wouldn’t have mattered. Easily explained.

Those neighbours across the road – Lewis and Jude, with the annoying kid who’s always sucking his thumb – are nosy, at least she is. She had a good poke around upstairs yesterday. I bet you didn’t know that. Just like you don’t know how this is going to end. Not yet. Like I said, I’m patient.

I can wait a bit longer.

Chapter 6

‘Did you see who put it there?’ I stared at Matt, recalling the blur of movement I’d seen from the bedroom window; a figure, darting behind the tree.

Matt shook his head. ‘It was there when I got here.’ He tilted the box to look for an address, but I knew there wouldn’t be one. ‘It’s great that you’re doing this, Beth.’

‘Doing what?’ My voice sounded strange, but Matt didn’t seem to notice.

‘Making an effort with Hayley at the pool.’ Realising I wasn’t going to take the box, he quickly put it down again. ‘Is it for you, so you can get in the water with her?’ His wary smile said he knew it was a risky question.

‘I think you know the answer to that.’ My legs felt rubbery, but instinct warned me to behave naturally. Matt was no doubt on the lookout for signs of overprotectiveness, that I wasn’t doing a good enough job of being a parent. ‘I can just about watch while someone’s in the pool with her, but can’t see myself ever joining in.’

When I’d told Matt about my fear of drowning, he reacted the same way most people did, by offering to teach me to swim, as though it was the physical act of moving my arms and legs through water that was the issue. It wasn’t until we went on holiday for the first time, and he tried to get me into the hotel pool, that he understood the full extent of my aversion.

We’d talked about it when Hayley was born, and although he’d have been happy to teach her to swim on his own, I’d made myself go and watch, standing ankle-deep in the toddler pool, my eyes never shifting from her. We’d done that ever since – our Saturday morning ritual. Only now, we took Hayley separately on alternate Saturdays, and when it was my turn, Marianne or Mum came along.

‘Here, I got you this.’

Blinking to clear an image of a hooded figure sneaking up to the house with the boxed inflatable, I saw Matt was holding out a brown-paper package. ‘What is it?’

‘Call it a belated birthday present.’

I let out a shaky breath. ‘Matt, you shouldn’t have.’

‘I know.’ He waggled the package so I had no choice but to take it as Hayley reappeared, dressed in her school uniform, her hair flyaway with static.

‘Open it, Mummy,’ she ordered.

I arranged my face to look pleasantly surprised, but frowned when I pulled out a boxed collection of my favourite Winsor and Newton oil paints.

‘I thought they might inspire you,’ Matt said.

Pushing aside that he’d been thinking about me at all, I stared at the row of tubes with their familiar griffin logo, ringed with colours that sounded like poetry – Indian Yellow, Scarlet Lake, Mars Violet – and imagined how they would feel as I squeezed out a curl of colour. I cleared my throat around the tears that had built up. ‘I don’t need inspiring,’ I said stiffly. ‘I still paint.’

‘I don’t mean those watercolours for the café and gallery—’

‘They sell really well.’

‘I know, and they’re great, but … they’re not you, Beth.’

My eyes moved past a series of framed sketches I’d drawn of Hayley as a baby and the hand-made plate with the imprint of her newborn feet, to a large canvas hanging above the fireplace: a swirl of turbulent waves, swelling and tumbling beneath a cloudless sky, foam patterns gliding across the surface.

‘For someone so scared of the sea, you do a brilliant job of painting it,’ Matt had said, when I’d shown him the canvases stacked in my studio at my parents’ house. ‘I was expecting portraits or, I don’t know, flowers or abstracts, not this.’

He wasn’t the only one puzzled by my obsession with painting the thing that had almost killed me, but committing the images that roamed my mind to canvas was my way of controlling my fear. My favourite was an enormous wave, rearing like a dragon from the seabed against a blackened sky that Mum found terrifying.

‘I don’t like it,’ she’d said when I showed her, a hand flying to her throat. ‘I don’t like to think of that being in your head.’

It had taken a while to reassure her that painting the ocean was healing for me. It was what had drawn me to becoming an art therapist after I finished my degree. I wasn’t interested in being a struggling artist. I wanted to help people and make a living, and these days it was my watercolours that helped pay the bills.

‘I haven’t used oils for ages,’ I said, unable to resist pulling out a tube and cradling it in my palm. ‘I gave mine away.’

‘I know.’

‘Daddy, that’s a silly present,’ Hayley piped up. ‘Vic got Mummy a necklace.’

‘Hayley!’

Matt’s gaze touched my chest as if wondering where it was and I guessed he was picturing it in my grandmother’s jewellery box in the bedroom, nestled alongside my wedding ring, which I’d taken off when people started assuming I was Vic’s wife. Not that I slept in our bedroom anymore. I’d moved into the back room after Matt left; the one where he used to play his guitar when he was supposed to be working.

‘I’m sure it’s a pretty necklace,’ he said.

I turned away, trying to stem a flush, wishing I didn’t have a reaction to Matt that I couldn’t seem to control. ‘The paints are nice too,’ I said to Hayley, who’d dropped to her knees on the floor and was reaching for the box by Matt’s feet.

‘What’s this, Mummy?’

‘Leave it.’ I sprang forward so fast I knocked the table and sent a glass to the floor. ‘It’s not ours.’

‘Mu-uum!’

‘It’s nearly time for school.’ I picked up the glass, not daring to look at Matt. ‘You haven’t got your lunch.’

‘Can Daddy make it?’ She jumped to her feet, the box forgotten, and I was grateful for her butterfly mind.

‘Come on then, or we’ll be late,’ Matt said. ‘Don’t forget I’m picking you up today and taking you to dance class.’ He got to his feet and headed to the kitchen, giving me a quizzical look as he passed.

I smiled, trying not to imagine how Vic would feel to see Matt opening the fridge while Hayley pulled a banana from the fruit bowl, the pair of them chatting while I watched with a curious ache in my heart. No worse than Matt must feel, knowing Vic had made himself at home in the house we’d shared, that we’d decorated together; the house where our daughter was conceived, where family and friends had visited, where Matt set fire to his apron while barbecuing sausages in the garden, lit fireworks on bonfire night, and built a snowman with Hayley a couple of winters ago – the house where Vic stayed more often than he returned to his own place near the hospital where he worked.

Seeing the look on Matt’s face, the day he noticed the space on the bookshelf where our wedding photo had been – I’d put it away, mindful that Vic might not want to see our smiling, happy faces beaming out from the steps of the register office – still made me feel terrible. I needed to talk to Matt about putting the house on the market, but today wasn’t the day.

‘You’re going back there then.’

Startled back to the moment, I followed his gaze, to the printout on the worktop. Every cell in my body seemed to freeze. How could I have forgotten my trip next week with Vic? The trip to Perran Cove.

Maybe that was why I’d had the nightmare again.

Taking a deep breath, I moved across to the kettle. ‘I know you wanted us to go there, Matt, but it never felt right until now.’

‘Vic’s idea, I suppose.’

‘Actually, yes.’ I flicked the tap too hard, splashing water on my robe. ‘It seemed like a good time to go, with you and Hayley in France next week.’

I’d known when we split up there’d be no more family get-togethers, but the thought of Matt taking Hayley to visit his parents without me was hard to stomach.

When Vic had suggested we go away too, and cautiously suggested Perran Cove, I’d said yes without really thinking. I wondered now, whether I’d known subconsciously Matt would be hurt that I was taking this step without him.

‘It’ll be good if I can get to the point of taking Hayley to the seaside without risking a meltdown.’ I looked through the window, to see her in the back garden peering through the hedge for Baxter. ‘If I can face the sea there, I can probably face it anywhere.’

‘Better learn to swim first.’

‘Maybe that will come next.’

‘Well, I hope it works.’ I looked at Matt to see whether he was being sarcastic, but his face was deadly serious. ‘I only ever wanted you to not be scared,’ he said. ‘And to stop feeling bloody guilty all the time.’

‘Matt.’

He heard the warning – don’t go there – and held up his hands.

Enjoy your birthday, Beth. It’ll be your last.

I thought about telling Matt about the texts. That I hadn’t been scared, until yesterday. But if he thought I was in danger he might decide not to bring Hayley back.

‘For what it’s worth, I think it’ll be good for you both.’ I thought for a moment he meant Vic and me, but of course he was referring to Hayley. ‘Maybe you can take that inflatable with you,’ he said.

Chapter 7

Once they’d gone, Hayley holding Matt’s hand, swinging her lunchbox in the other, I stood for a moment and looked up and down the street, wondering whether whoever had left the box on my doorstep might still be lurking.

‘Nice morning.’

Pam’s voice made me jump. She was coming out of her front door, dressed smartly for her daily trip into town. ‘Lovely party,’ she said, eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘Is your head better this morning?’

I nodded, distracted. ‘You didn’t see someone leave a parcel on my doorstep earlier, did you?’ Pam wasn’t nosy, but had lived on the street long enough to spot something – or someone – unusual.

She shook her head. ‘Another birthday gift?’ Her neatly drawn eyebrows rose. ‘I feel bad that I only gave you flowers from the garden.’

‘Don’t be silly, I loved them,’ I said, though in truth, I found the musky, old-fashioned scent of the roses she favoured a little too strong indoors. ‘So, you didn’t see anyone?’

‘Only Hayley’s dad.’ Her forehead creased with a pained expression. She thought highly of Matt, and although she’d been careful not to criticise when he left, I knew she disapproved. ‘He was here last night too.’

‘What?’

‘I saw him after everyone had gone.’ She pointed to the back of the house, shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘He was sitting on the bench in your garden, looking at his phone.’

I felt a kick in my chest. ‘Did he say anything?’

‘He didn’t see me.’ Dropping her hand, she said, ‘Is he still living in that flat?’

A flush travelled up my cheeks. I knew how it looked, me in our house while Matt lived in rented accommodation a couple of miles away, albeit pleasant enough from what I’d glimpsed when dropping Hayley there once. We’d explained that Daddy had gone to live somewhere else – a fact she’d accepted with enviable ease after lots of reassurance – and I’d thought she should see it, get used to picturing him there. I’d needed to see it too, unable at first to imagine him anywhere without us, dismayed by how little effort he’d made to make it homely – as if he expected his stay to be temporary.

‘He is,’ I said to Pam, unwilling to mention it was only until we sold the house and he could buy somewhere bigger. We’d become like family to her, and I knew she’d be upset when we moved. ‘Going somewhere nice?’

‘Just into town.’ She patted her crop of white hair and smiled. ‘I’m meeting my friend Jenny for a coffee.’ She glanced down the road, where a small row of traffic had built up. ‘I’d better go or I’ll miss my bus,’ she said. ‘Have a nice day, Beth.’

‘You too.’

She hurried off, breaking into a jog as she reached the end of the street, and I backed into the house, breathing quickly, as if I’d been running too. Why hadn’t Matt mentioned calling round yesterday? And why had he been loitering in the garden?

In the living room, the sight of the brightly coloured box containing the inflatable filled me with an unnamed dread. I picked it up, hurried it out to the rubbish bin and dropped it in. It was wasteful, but I couldn’t have it in the house with everything it represented.

The back of my neck prickled. I wheeled round, certain someone was watching from the street, but there was no one there.

I felt twitchy and on edge as I showered and dressed, jumping at the slightest sound, my imagination flaring again as I ran through possible setups: a figure skulking in the bedroom, waiting to leap out, or someone breaking into my car and hiding in the back, ready to strangle me as I drove.

As I made my way to Fernley House, hands clenched around the steering wheel, my gaze snagged on a black Kia, a couple of cars behind, as shiny as a beetle under the early sunshine. It had been there since I turned out of my road, seamlessly slipping behind a red sports car whose driver was clearly impatient with the traffic, revving loudly as we joined a line of commuters on the ring road. Or was I imagining it, my mind playing tricks, looking for danger where none existed?

‘For God’s sake,’ I muttered, as the traffic started up and the sports car shot past, allowing the Kia to slide up behind me, too close. Was this how it was going to end? In some film-style car chase, resulting in me being shoved off a bridge into thundering water below? Except, there was no bridge and I was thankfully nowhere near the river Thames, which flowed through Oxford.

Even so, my heartbeat tripled at the thought, and my palms were slick with sweat as I deliberately slowed the car to just under the speed limit. There was a clear stretch on the other side of the road now. A white van overtook, followed in quick succession by a motorcyclist and a silver SUV, the driver flashing an angry look, but the black car behind stayed put.

I peered into my rear-view mirror, trying to get a clear look at the driver, but the sun was glancing off the windscreen and I couldn’t see inside.

I sped up, pressing my foot down. All I had to do was get to Fernley House. No one could hurt me between here and there without risking their own life too. Someone was trying to frighten me, that was all.

Taking a shaky breath, I flicked on the radio, keeping my eyes fixed on the road. I tried to focus on a discussion about the economy, and when the flat-fronted red-brick exterior of Fernley House came into view, my body deflated as if someone had opened a valve and let all the air out.

I was being ridiculous, I chastised myself, slowing to turn into the small gravelled car park in front of the building. I fully expected the black car to have gone when I flicked a look behind me, and fear leapt when I saw it was still there.

‘So what?’ I said out loud, my voice defiant. Plenty of people came to Fernley House. Just because I didn’t recognise the car didn’t mean it had no business being there.

All the same, when it pulled up beside mine, I switched off the engine, grabbed my phone and pressed 99 with clumsy fingers, ready to press the third 9 as I got out. I was hardly breathing as I stood by my open car door, waiting for my follower to emerge.

‘Marianne!’ It came out as a heartfelt cry of relief that made my colleague’s mouth drop open and her eyebrows rocket up to her hairline.

‘Who were you expecting?’ she said, locking the car with the click of a key-fob. ‘You look like you’ve seen the ghost of a long-dead murderer. Jack the Ripper perhaps, though I doubt you’d recognise him, not having a morbid fascination with true crime, like I do.’

It was such a typical and reassuringly Marianne thing to say, I found myself laughing as I locked my car. ‘I didn’t realise it was you.’ Shaking off the impulse to have a final look around, I walked with her to the entrance, where a cluster of youths were bantering good-naturedly.

Fernley House was an impressive, three-storey Georgian building that had been donated to charity by its owner in the Seventies, and run as a therapy and trauma centre ever since. Marianne had been there for years, in charge of the small team of psychotherapists, counsellors and occupational therapists. My services formed a small part of the treatments offered. I’d undertaken a work placement there during my therapy training, after leaving college, and was offered a permanent part-time job that left me time to paint, and to collect Hayley from school most days.

‘It’s Carl’s car,’ Marianne was saying. ‘Mine’s in for a service today so he let me borrow it.’

Carl was Marianne’s adult son, living back at home after breaking up with his girlfriend of five years.

‘I thought he didn’t drive.’ I recalled her mentioning that Carl had failed his test four times and probably wasn’t fit to be on the road.

‘He doesn’t.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s hoping the car will inspire him to try again.’

Freshly alert to nuances, I detected an underlying tension in her voice. ‘Everything OK?’ I asked, relieved to focus on something – anything – but my own jangled nerves, but Marianne merely nodded and released her infectious smile. With her frizzy, dyed-red hair, rich, warm voice and eccentric clothes, she was a popular figure at Fernley House, dedicated to helping people rebuild their lives. There was a waiting list for her creative writing classes and she hardly ever took time off, but sometimes I thought she was a bit too close to her job, that she cared too much.

I privately thought it was because she felt more in control here, able to help the people who came through the doors, whereas – she’d openly confessed – she’d struggled for years to parent her twins. At twenty-seven, Carl still bounced back home, looking for handouts every time he lost his job, and his sister Gemma, a single parent, was a convicted shoplifter.

‘It’s because they’ve never had a good male role model growing up,’ Marianne had said, though she blamed herself too, for not being stricter when they were toddlers. Their father had died not long after they were born and, rather than waste energy – as she’d put it – on meeting someone new, she’d thrown herself into her job so she could provide for them and make herself feel better in the process. Something I understood all too well.

‘Hey, what about you?’ She swung her gaze towards me, a question in her small, grey-green eyes, her lashes spiky with mascara. ‘You seemed distracted last night,’ she said. ‘Not yourself.’

‘I did?’ So much for trying to hide how I was feeling. Normally, I’d confide in Marianne. She had a way of drawing people out and was famously level-headed, but something held me back. Maybe it was her reference to Carl, a hint that things were worse than usual at home, or perhaps I didn’t want to give voice to my swelling anxiety. ‘It was the whole surprise party thing,’ I said. ‘I had a bad headache too.’

‘Probably the hot weather.’ Marianne paused in the reception area, hugging the leather satchel she carried everywhere. ‘You were right about your parents,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘They barely took their eyes off you.’

‘I know.’ I made a despairing face. ‘Even when I was at college in London, they’d visit all the time and phone me every day, worry if I didn’t reply. It got a bit better after I moved back, but it never completely goes away.’ Marianne knew about my near-drowning. ‘They’re stuck forever with that image of me in hospital when I was seven.’

‘Why did you move back?’

She’d never asked me that before. ‘Apart from it being cheaper?’ I shook my head. ‘It felt easier, I suppose. I felt I owed it to them to be nearby, so they weren’t constantly imagining the worst.’ I gave a little laugh. ‘I know, it sounds silly.’

‘Not at all.’ Marianne’s smile was genuine this time. ‘They seem like lovely people,’ she said. ‘Even your brother was friendly.’

From past conversations, she’d no doubt expected a glowering Neanderthal, shooting dirty looks and barbed comments in my direction. I suddenly felt bad if that was the picture I’d painted of Jamie. To most people, he was an ordinary, nice-looking, hard-working man with a bit of a chip on his shoulder; the chip being me. ‘It’s the Rosa effect,’ I said, returning her smile. ‘I think he’s in love this time.’

‘Didn’t look like that to me.’ Marianne nodded to Hal Gordon, the occupational therapist hurrying past, his leather sandals squeaking on the parquet floor. ‘He looked furious with her at one point.’

‘When she was talking to me, probably. He wouldn’t want me trying to influence her opinion of him. Not that I would,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m happy for him.’

Before Marianne could respond there was a commotion at the entrance as a small group arrived together for their creative writing class, greeting each other like the friends they’d become.

‘I’ll see you later,’ I said, giving Marianne’s arm a squeeze, before making my way to the art room. As I entered, breathing in the scent of paint and linseed oil, I recalled with a spark of shock, Mum asking Dad where Jamie was, and seeing him creeping in from the garden with the air of someone hoping not to be noticed. By Rosa?

Or me?

Chapter 8

I currently had a rota of five clients – we preferred the word client to patient – either referred through the NHS, or privately by word of mouth.

At seventeen, Katya was the youngest. She reminded me a little of myself at her age, discovering that art was an escape and a solace as well as an all-consuming passion. I had no doubt that one day, Katya MacDonald would be a name that people would recognise. She had a talent as natural as breathing, yet until she came to Fernley House, she had no idea how good she was.

Abandoned by her mother at the age of eight, after the sudden death of her father, she’d been thrust into the care system and fostered but never adopted. No one wants children, they want babies. She’d emerged from school with good grades but no self-belief, her arms and thighs criss-crossed with scars from years of cutting herself.

She hadn’t done it since coming to Fernley House, she’d told me shyly. Painting had filled the void she’d felt for the past nine years – that and her growing attachment to me, which had lately begun to be a slight concern. Not enough to raise with anyone, but enough to remind me how vulnerable she was, and how easily she might interpret everyday kindness and attention for something more. It wasn’t a crush, despite the gifts I’d occasionally found pushed in my bag – a star-printed scarf identical to one of hers I’d admired, and a miniature portrait she’d painted and put in a cheap, silver frame – more that she saw me as a mother figure, or older sister.

‘Hey, Beth,’ she said, her voice high and soft, approaching my desk before I’d put down my bag. ‘Did you have a nice birthday?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ I looked at her, surprised. ‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, I remembered.’ Her fingers played with the ends of the gauzy scarf she’d tied round her high, black ponytail, which fell over her shoulder. She was make-up free as usual, dressed in pale denim dungarees and a long-sleeved T-shirt, the glitter of a tiny nose stud her only adornment. ‘July 18th?’

I couldn’t recall discussing my birthday, but must have mentioned it in passing. It was surprising the direction conversations took during a session.

‘You look nice,’ she added.

I was wearing my usual work outfit of cargo pants and sneakers, with an unbuttoned shirt over a white vest top, but I knew she felt the need to compliment me. ‘Thank you.’ I rolled up my sleeves and went to open the windows. The heat in the room felt oppressive.

‘Did you take some nice photos?’ Katya was studying me with her wide-apart eyes, the irises an ethereal shade of blue that made me think of frozen lakes.

‘How did you know I’d been taking photos?’

Her smooth, pale cheeks flushed raspberry pink at my tone. ‘You said you were going to take some pictures, for inspiration?’ Her voice rose, turning it into a question.

‘Sorry, of course I did.’ I softened my tone, pulling my mouth into a smile. I had mentioned it, when Katya asked what I was doing over the weekend. ‘Yes, I took lots. Mostly of buildings.’

‘Buildings?’ She wrinkled her nose, looking a lot like Hayley did when presented with a plate of vegetables. ‘Is it for a new project?’

I knew she wasn’t keen on some of my painting exercises, designed to challenge my clients’ perception of themselves and explore their creativity.

‘I know you prefer painting people, but it’s good to try different forms.’

‘Like you do?’

I hesitated, aware of my hypocrisy considering I mostly painted Oxford landscapes these days. Buyers seemed to like my pastel images of the city’s medieval buildings and colleges, the Bridge of Sighs and botanic gardens, and I’d discovered I enjoyed painting them. ‘You might discover you love it,’ I said, dodging the question. ‘Buildings are a good way to practise precision.’

‘I’m happy to give it a try.’ Katya’s tone was touchingly eager to please – too eager, perhaps. ‘Did you get that for your birthday?’ Her gaze slipped to my bracelet, one slender hand reaching out as if to touch it.

‘Yes, it’s from my daughter.’ I’d debated leaving it at home. I never normally wore much jewellery, but now I had on the ruby necklace as well as the bracelet from Hayley.

‘It’s really pretty.’ Seeing sadness cloud Katya’s face, I could have kicked myself. The last thing she needed was me thrusting my loving relationship with my daughter in her face. Though she had a good bond with her foster mum, Dee, she could never forget being abandoned by her birth mother. ‘I got you something.’ Brightening, she dipped her hand into her Aztec-patterned tote bag, and something about the movement and flash of colour made me stiffen.

‘Katya, did you come straight here this morning?’

She raised her head, her eyes wary. ‘What do you mean?’

I hesitated. Even if Katya had been outside my house earlier, it was unlikely she’d admit it. Anyway, I was certain she didn’t have my address. ‘Oh … I just, I thought you might have gone to Nell’s,’ I said, referring to the community café down the road, where my paintings hung for sale alongside some of my clients’ work. ‘I know you love her pastries.’

‘No, I didn’t go to Nell’s.’ She lowered her gaze and pulled out a lilac tissue-wrapped gift. ‘Happy birthday for yesterday.’

She hadn’t answered my question, but I took the gift, trying not to betray my reluctance. It was the third time that morning I’d been handed a package I wasn’t expecting. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ I said as I pulled at the silver ribbon around it, wondering whether I needed to set some boundaries.

‘It’s OK, I wanted to.’

Perspiration beaded my forehead. I glanced at the windows again, where a listless fly was buzzing. The sun pressed against the glass, slanting beams across the wooden floor and up the wall, decorated with rows of artwork.

‘Do you like it?’ Katya’s anxious voice drew my attention to a book nestled in the delicate wrapping. I froze for two, three seconds, staring at the cover.

‘Beth?’

I dragged my gaze from an artist’s impression of leaping waves, crashing against granite-black rocks. ‘What is this?’

‘It’s a book of famous seascape artists.’ Her brows hardened into a line above narrowed eyes, reminding me for a second how her usually mild expression could suddenly switch to rage. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘No, I mean yes, it’s lovely.’ I turned the book over to look at the description on the back, but the words jumped and distorted. ‘You shouldn’t have, Katya. It looks expensive.’

‘I thought you’d like it.’ Her voice flattened into disappointment. ‘You said you used to love painting the sea. I thought it might inspire you.’

Struck by the oddness of our exchange, which was almost identical to the one I’d had earlier with Matt, I said, ‘I’m happy doing what I do now,’ injecting my voice with an authority I didn’t feel. ‘But it’s a beautiful book.’ I let my eyes graze the cover again, a tremor passing through me. ‘I’ll treasure it.’

I looked up to see her smile, revealing her slightly crooked front teeth. ‘I bet your paintings are way better than theirs.’

‘I doubt that very much.’ Back on firmer ground, I slid the book into my bag while Katya headed to her usual spot by the window. As I reviewed my previous session notes, trying to marshal my thoughts, I could feel the weight of her gaze. I glanced up, but she was facing the window, her expression unreadable.

*

I managed to push everything out of my mind during my session with Katya, guiltily glad when she became too absorbed in her work to talk. Once she’d left – unusually swiftly – I was kept busy with Tom, an ex-soldier with PTSD who talked non-stop as he pushed great blocks of paint across his canvas, the action of moving his brush seeming to unlock his emotions.

After typing up my notes on both sessions, I went to find Marianne, hoping she’d be free for lunch, but when I nudged open the door to the creative writing room she was deep in discussion with two of her students and gave a discreet shake of her head. She never minded if her sessions ran over, was happy to grab a quick sandwich at her desk, but I liked to get out for some air.

I emerged into bright sunlight, my rumbling stomach reminding me I’d left the house that morning without breakfast. I headed to Nell’s, aware of Katya’s book in my bag as it bumped against my hip. Nodding to Nell through the café window, I sat at a table outside, trying to keep my mind fixed in the present. Across the road was a church, and a gift shop displaying framed prints in the window. It reminded me I’d had a voicemail from a gallery near Christchurch, which had sold my paintings in the past, about an upcoming exhibition. I pulled out my phone to call them back, relieved to see I hadn’t had any new texts.

Tabitha, the gallery owner, sounded delighted to hear from me. When I told her I had several seascapes I’d like her to consider, she suggested I send her some photos.

‘We can take about ten,’ she said.

I thought of all the canvases stored at my parents’ house, which I’d never intended to exhibit or sell. ‘I’ve got plenty,’ I told her. ‘I’ll pick a few of my favourites.’

‘Do you have a title? It would be good to start a social media campaign and of course there’ll be a press release.’

‘Making Waves.’ I hadn’t known I was going to say it until the words popped out, but it was as good a title as any. Better than ‘Drowning’, which had been my first thought.

‘Great.’ I could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I can’t wait to see them.’

As I ended the call, I was hit with a horrible thought.

Will I still be alive then?

‘Carrot and coriander,’ Nell said, making me jump as she placed a bowl in front of me, her fragrant soups too good to resist, even during summer. ‘You look serious.’

‘I do?’ I returned her smile, which was also hard to resist. She was small, with a round face and spiky white hair, her short frame clad in an apron with the café’s name on the front. Pushing seventy, she showed no signs of slowing down, the café her life as well as her livelihood. Nell was distantly related to Hugo Stanning, who’d donated Fernley House – but without his wealth, she often joked.

‘I was thinking about work,’ I said.

‘You lot do a good job up there.’ She nodded in the direction of the house, which was as much a fixture of the landscape in this part of Oxford as the café. ‘Helping those poor souls. You never know what people are going through, do you?’ She dipped her head to the left, where a middle-aged couple at the next table were chatting quietly over glasses of iced tea. ‘They were at each other’s throats before you got here,’ she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘Now, they look like butter wouldn’t melt.’ She pointed to the soup. ‘Eat up, before it goes cold,’ she said in her normal voice, distracted by the arrival of a group of teenage girls, loudly deciding what flavour of ice-cream they were going to choose – a recent addition at the café.

‘Ew, soup,’ I heard one of them say as they passed. ‘Gross.’

Nell threw her hands up in mock despair before following them inside. My smile faded as I watched her retreating back. I picked up my spoon and began to eat, but Nell’s words rang loudly in my ears.

You never really know what people are going through, do you?

I picked up the freshly baked roll that accompanied the soup, but my stomach had twisted into a knot and there was no way I could eat. I felt suddenly exposed out there on the pavement, in full view of anyone passing – or watching.

The back of my neck went cold. I turned, but apart from a pair of mums with toddlers in pushchairs coming slowly up the street, and an elderly man with a dog on a lead, there was no one there.

But how would I know, if they were hiding?

My eyes skimmed the pavement opposite. Someone was coming out of the gift shop; a man, tall and dark-haired, wearing business clothes. He paused and looked over at me, waited for a car to pass, then crossed the road.

Gripped by sudden panic, I rose, bumping the table so that everything jumped and my spoon clattered to the ground.

‘Sorry I’m late, I wanted to get this,’ the man said. He wasn’t even looking at me. I turned to see a woman, waiting outside the café, her face lit up in a smile. She exclaimed with pleasure when he held out the bag he was carrying and opened it for her to peer inside.

‘Oh, it’s gorgeous,’ she said, pressing a kiss on his cheek. ‘Mum will love it.’

Heart thumping, I bent to pick up the fallen spoon, meeting the curious gaze of the middle-aged woman who’d been chatting to her partner. It seemed to say, What’s going on with her? I gripped the back of the chair, but was too on edge to sit down again.

‘Sorry, it was delicious, but I have to go,’ I said to Nell, thrusting a ten-pound note across the counter, ignoring her cry of, ‘What about your change?’ as I hurried out.

I practically jogged back to Fernley House, glancing over my shoulder as if I was being chased. When I reached my car, I threw myself inside and locked the doors, panting like a dog. Catching sight of myself in the mirror was a shock. I looked out of control; wild-eyed, with strands of hair escaping my topknot, my face sweaty and red.

Making myself breathe deeply, I pushed air out of my lungs – in, out, in, out – until my heart had stopped racing and my cheeks had cooled down. I had to think clearly, and stop looking for connections that didn’t exist. I couldn’t – mustn’t – let myself fall apart. That was exactly what someone wanted me to do.

What I should be doing, was trying to find out who.

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