THE HOUSE GUEST
Charlotte Northedge

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Copyright © Charlotte Northedge 2021

Jacket design by Caroline Young © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Jacket photographs © Massimo Pollani / Alamy Stock Photo (villa),

Marat Safin / Getty Images (woman) and Shutterstock.com (sky)

Charlotte Northedge asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008402532

Ebook Edition © May 2021 ISBN: 9780008402549

Version: 2021-04-28

Praise for The House Guest

‘This is ace. Very, very acute on class, aspiration, women and status and all those agonising negotiations and anxieties.’

SARAH PERRY

‘Delicious, a slow-burn thriller that carefully draws the reader in, catches fire in the middle and burns with an intensity until the end.’

FIONA CUMMINS

‘A totally twisted look at the lengths some people will go to to project a perfect life.’

ERIN KELLY

‘A deliciously dark debut which had me reading into the early hours.’

VICTORIA SELMAN

‘Fabulously twisted, disturbing slow burn of a thriller that explores the relationship between a life coach and her protégée where nothing is as it first seems. I loved it.’

NIKKI SMITH

‘Outstanding. An electrifying debut.’

ROBIN MORGAN-BENTLEY

‘Creepy and disturbing. Kate’s descent into Della’s Stepford-like world is believable and chilling.’

ROZ WATKINS

‘Unsettling – I read this with a growing sense of unease.’

LOUISE JENSEN

‘Complex and gripping, the darkest revenge-noir I’ve read since Gone Girl.’

POLLY SAMSON

‘A dark and addictive psychological thriller with compelling characters and an original story exploring motherhood, obsession and lies.’

JENNY QUINTANA

Dedication

For Nigel, Sammy and Matilda

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for The House Guest

Dedication

Prologue

Part One: London, 2015

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Two: France, July

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Part Three: France, September

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Part Four: Cambridge, 2017

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

It’s a strong word, kidnap. It’s the one they use on the front of the newspapers and websites, of course. It rolls along the ticker at the bottom of the screen as she sits, his sandy hair in her lap, long eyelashes resting on pale cheeks in the blue light. For a few days, the word seems to be everywhere she looks. And then, nothing.

She waits, keeping him close to begin with. He sleeps in her bed, his warm knees nestled into her back, the only time he truly relaxes in her presence. Heavy sighs wake her at odd times of night, a flailing hand startling her out of fitful sleep. Until, gradually, she dares to stop holding her breath.

She makes up the small sofa bed across the room. Watches him late into the night, waiting for a twitch, a sign of life.

Is it normal to lie so still? Do children always go so deathly pale when they are asleep? They’re the kind of questions that would have been answered in a parenting class. Where she could have chuckled along with the other mothers, rolling their eyes at their own neuroses, laughing in the face of their naked fear.

Instead, she is alone. Or rather, alone-but-not. Always in the presence of this silent two-year-old, who hasn’t spoken once since they arrived, the shock of his sudden departure rendering him mute. He cries, often. But he never speaks.

As the news stories dwindle, they venture out of their top-floor studio, escaping for a short while the incessant beat of their downstairs neighbour’s heavy bass, and the smell of frying food that fills the air at odd times of day. She tries to raise a smile from him at the small playground on the corner, pushing the swing back and forth, back and forth, but the trips are fraught with anxiety on both their parts. She can’t help searching every passing face for a flicker of recognition, while he keeps his eyes downcast, occasionally throwing her a questioning look. What am I doing here?

How long can this go on, she wonders. How long before someone recognises them? She almost wills it to happen, unsure of her next move, unable to plan beyond the end of each day. But still they continue their short trips out, to the supermarket, the park, even to the library once, though the presence of so many computers unnerves her. Surely someone flicking through news sites will look up, make the connection. But nobody does.

To all around them, she comes to realise, they look just like any other mother and son.

PART ONE

Chapter One

It was hard to say what was odd about the group. They were women my age, of a type I recognised: unattached, unfulfilled at work, not yet defined by anything or anyone. They were extremely familiar, in fact. Perhaps that was it. I could see myself in each of them, more than I wanted to admit.

But there was something else, too. Their uniformity: fair or light brown hair, jeans and Converse, or smart work boots, a patterned scarf or big earrings adding a touch of individuality. I was blonde too then, though my hair had frizzed on the way over, and I tugged off the bluebird scarf I’d put on at the last minute, scrunching it in my hand. Was I really so predictable?

I looked around the room full of strangers with a tight feeling taking hold, as though something was tugging at my stomach from the inside. I needed to leave. Perhaps I could go to the toilet, and slip out. But then the only door to the room was pushed shut with a small click, and it was too late.

The first woman to speak was called Jane. Later, Liam and I would call them all ‘the Janes’: Jane One, Jane Two, Jane Three, Jane Four. Later still, I would struggle to picture their individual faces, blurred into one in my memory, as I tried to understand what it was that had made me stand out, why I had been the one who was chosen. But for now I listened warily to Jane One, translucent-skinned and high-pitched, as she recapped her week’s ‘progress’, her silver hoops bouncing as she spoke.

‘It’s been quite a hard one, to be honest.’ Wisps of fair hair fell forward as Jane looked at her hands. She was picking her nails, bitten short with frayed cuticles, but her tone was clear, a hint of North London rounding her vowels. She might have problems, but she belonged: she owned the space she sat in, her oversized cardigan draped around raised knees. ‘I’ve had to face up to the fact that I’m not really moving forward with Rob, and … it was all down to the motivational mantras, really.’

I looked at the other women. They were nodding, but their eyes darted towards Della, her face still and expectant. They were waiting to gauge her response.

‘The thing was, every time I said them, he took the piss. And I just thought, well, if you really don’t care enough to come with me on my journey, then I can’t do this any more.’

The women murmured, there were more nods, but Della’s smile was tight, her eyes narrowed at the corners. This clearly wasn’t the kind of inner transformation she wanted to hear about.

‘Thanks for sharing that, Jane,’ Della said. ‘And do you think the mantras made a difference to how decisive you felt in that moment?’

‘Oh yes, definitely.’ Jane was as quick as the others to pick up on Della’s cues. ‘I don’t think I’d ever have had the courage to end it if it wasn’t for you … I mean, for the group. I feel like I’m making so much progress.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ The straight lines of Della’s face transformed into curves, and Jane’s pale cheeks pinkened. I felt a shiver run through me. I should never have come.

I’d known it as soon as I’d arrived. Something about the imposing, three-storey Victorian terrace had made me take a step back. I should have walked away then, forgotten all about the group – life-coaching, the flyer said. How many times have I gone over that moment, wishing I had? Instead I stood there rocking on the outside edges of my Converse, fiddling with my phone in my pocket, rooted to the spot.

I’d been expecting a hall or a meeting space of some kind, not this: an enormous family home – front garden full of pink and white roses, surrounded by chips of slate, a red and black tiled pathway leading up to a wide bottle-green door with stained-glass panels.

I don’t know how long I’d been standing there when the door disappeared, and suddenly in its place stood Della, blond hair swept up in a messy chignon. She was wearing the same expensive skinny jeans she’d had on the first time we met, or an identical pair. Another crisp, oversized shirt, buttoned low – this one pale blue like her eyes and tucked in at one side, as though she was far too busy to check her reflection; her style was natural, effortless. Her feet were bare, her brown bony toes and pearly nails curled against the March air.

‘Kate, you came,’ she said, her voice rich and gravelly, her smile lifting her eyes in what looked like genuine pleasure. ‘Come in.’ She extended a long arm into the high-ceilinged hallway, as if it was entirely natural to be welcomed into this grand house by a woman I’d met only days before.

Once inside, there was no space to think at all. Only to process my surroundings. The kitchen, overwhelmingly white, flashes of yellow here and there: an Eames-style armchair, a vase of primroses, a golden head bent over a colouring book, warm evening sun framed in the wide folding doors. I perched on a stool at the marble-top island and tried not to look out of place but, catching my reflection in the shiny cooker hood, I could see I’d failed. I’d taken extra care with my appearance in the café toilets, taming the frizz of my hair, adding eyeliner, smoothing out my green New Look top, but the girl staring back at me looked cheaply dressed and startled.

Did people really live like this? I walked past houses like these every day on my way to work, imagining the family scenes playing out behind the white shutters and well-kept window boxes. I took a strange comfort in those fantasies, like I had on the nicer streets near school in Cambridge. As if by living close to these people I could somehow absorb some of whatever it was that made their lives so much better than mine. I didn’t realise then how much more complicated life could get. I didn’t appreciate the value of simple comforts, familiarity, innocence.

The space Della led me into wasn’t a room so much as an entire floor: open plan, white designer kitchen leading into a white-walled living room, panelled partition doors revealing large cream sofas, a shiny chrome standing lamp and a reading nook in one corner, where a straight-backed green armchair nestled next to tall bookshelves. Both rooms had high ceilings and ornate coving, the line between them marked by the transition from deep cream carpet to oak parquet floor. A row of three matching pendant lights hung above the huge central island where I sat at the breakfast bar, in front of me a double sink, arched shiny mixer taps and a hot tap, like the one they had in the café. I’d never seen one in a house before.

I watched Della sweep around the room, picking up scraps of paper and shuffling them into a pile, which she hid away in a vast neatly organised cupboard of art supplies. On the walls of the kitchen were one or two splotchy children’s paintings, sympathetically framed, alongside a row of four artfully-shot canvas prints of tree-lined hills and grass-edged sandy beaches, the greens echoing the flash of lawn visible through the bifold doors.

‘I’m so pleased you got here first,’ Della said as she ushered a small child from the long oak table towards the door. He looked about two or three, with a mop of white-blond hair, and he scuttled off obediently, flashing me an eager smile as he disappeared. ‘That’s Jasper,’ Della said in a stage whisper, ‘pretend you didn’t see him!’ I laughed with her, though I wasn’t sure why.

‘He’s very sweet.’ My voice sounded smaller than usual. ‘Am I early?’

‘Not at all. Mark should have taken them both upstairs by now. Mark!’

He appeared almost immediately, tall, broad-shouldered, his shirt sleeves rolled up and curly light brown hair ruffled, as though he had been grappling with another child elsewhere. He received his orders regarding the putting to bed of the two children and gave Della a mock salute, catching my eye with a grin as he left. I felt my cheeks grow warm and turned away, but when I looked back, Della’s smile was amused, indulgent even. She was clearly used to people admiring her husband, her house, her life.

The rest of the group arrived one by one, eyeing me warily as we settled on the two large sofas, the kind you sink so far into you don’t know where to put your feet. Of course we had shed our trainers at the door, this was unmistakably a shoes-off house, and the others seemed to find a comfortable position, tucking feet under or hugging their knees. One woman arranged herself on a herringbone rug by the fireplace, legs entwined self-consciously in what looked like a complicated yoga pose.

Large abstract paintings hung behind each of the sofas, splashes of yellow and gold picking up on the cushions and assorted objects on the shelves either side of the marble mantelpiece – copper vase, shiny bowl, gold-framed photographs and pictures. I sat stiffly at one end of the sofa nearest to Della. She was set apart in the corner armchair, the tall lamp glowing white against her hair, a pink Smythson diary resting on her crossed legs. She listened intently, making notes as each of the women spoke in turn, introducing themselves to me and recapping on their ‘homework’ assignments.

They all looked younger than Della. None of them over thirty. None appeared to have children, or mapped-out career paths, or the kind of home life they found themselves at the heart of here. Some, it seemed, had been coming for months, though it was hard to work out exactly why.

There was Helen, a bottle-blonde whose large, glassy eyes watered and round cheeks flushed when she spoke, and who seemed preoccupied with finding ‘the one’ at any cost. She looked uncomfortable, in tight jeans and a striped jumper she tugged at, a tide of red creeping up her neck. Next to her was Eva, an events organiser who had moved to London from Poland ten years ago. She was slightly older, thirty even, with fine lines beginning to appear around her dark eyes. She wanted to get into the fashion industry, with her pixie crop and black asymmetric top exposing one bony shoulder. Everything she said came back to her frustration with her hapless musician boyfriend, and I started to feel some sympathy towards Jack, and his desire for freedom.

Jane looked much more ordinary, in an oatmeal cardigan and skinny jeans, but she was desperate to find her feet as an actress, flicking her hair dramatically and weighing each word she uttered for maximum impact. And then there was Jasmine, the hardest to read, tall and very slim with long loose curls, her body seeming to fold over itself where she sat on the floor, floral skirt gathered around her ankles. She was a frustrated writer with ‘creativity issues’, and seemed keen to avoid my eye at all costs.

These women all had a quality I lacked. I hadn’t even been aware of its absence until I sat in that room, surrounded by it like a low hum. It wasn’t confidence exactly – far from it in some cases – it was more like certainty. They seemed to occupy their place in the world, they felt entitled to their neuroses. They didn’t question, as I did, the very notion of having problems. As though even that was an imposition. Here they all were, laying out their weaknesses to be picked over. It was liberating, somehow. And also terrifying.

At the centre of it all was Della. She didn’t disclose – that clearly wasn’t her role, she was there to listen. Like a weather-vane, she turned towards the most interesting person in the room at any given moment, their petals unfurling under her gaze. Once it passed, they retracted, their energy sapped.

Della had an immediate, energising quality I’d never come across before. A beam of warmth and attention that fell like a spotlight, with all the glare and adrenaline and excitement that brought, and a corresponding flatness afterwards. Later, when I tried to understand how I got swept so quickly into her orbit, I would picture her as a bright star in the darkness of my twenties. A point of light that illuminated both the significant moments and the shadows.

At the time, the effect of it all – the energy, the honesty, the eager women jostling for position – was almost too much to bear. I had turned to pick at the hole in the knee of my jeans when the room fell silent. I realised it was my turn to speak.

I had been going over what I might say, but now the moment came it added up to so much less than I’d hoped. I certainly wasn’t going to tell them why I was really here.

‘Right now I’m just a waitress in a café down …’ I became aware of Della shaking her head and faltered.

‘We never share addresses, or surnames, do we?’ Della looked around. ‘There’s no contact outside of the group,’ she said, turning back to me. ‘We can only be fully honest and true to ourselves within our safe space if we know there are no consequences. Nothing we say in these four walls can be connected to the people we are outside. Does that make sense?’

I nodded, but of course it didn’t make sense. Here I was – lonely, new to London – and here were other women my age, opening up in a way I’d struggled to my whole life. And now she was telling me that even if I did let them in, they were off limits anyway. We could never be friends. It didn’t make sense at all.

‘Remember Claire?’ Jasmine said, looking around before her eyes finally landed on me. ‘She tried to arrange a drink after one of the meetings … That was the last we saw of—’

‘That’s enough, Jasmine,’ Della said, the coldness of her tone making us all sit up a little. I felt a shiver run through me. Della stood and moved towards the fireplace, bending forward, straight-backed. For a moment it looked as though she was going to lower herself into a yoga pose – she knew how to hold her audience, I found that out later – but then she picked up a large candle and lit it, placing it carefully back at the centre of the hearth. She took a deep breath and turned around, settling in her chair with a feline elegance, legs curled under her and chin resting on one hand.

‘Let’s not dwell on the past,’ she said, as the flame took hold, throwing a softer light across the upward flick of her eyes. ‘This group is all about the future, about moving forward. Anyway, Kate has the floor now, let’s make her feel heard.’

Everyone turned to face me. I felt hot, unsettled. The mood had shifted so quickly, I was hoping I’d somehow been forgotten.

‘I, um, I grew up in Cambridge, and I’ve been living there, well, until now, more or less. I’ve been in London three months. And … it’s great – so far.’ I knew how unconvincing I sounded, and the smiles looked sympathetic. Perhaps the others were remembering the shock of arriving in London, the disorientation of their first months in this sprawling city.

‘And how about in five years’ time?’ Della asked. ‘What do you picture your life looking like then?’

The question caught me by surprise. No one ever bothered to ask me what I wanted to do with my life. That had been decided for me years ago. And now that I’d left that life behind, finally made it to London, I was finding it hard to imagine five weeks into the future.

‘I really don’t know.’ How could I possibly give voice to my ridiculous fantasies? But I could almost see the disappointment pass across Della’s face like a cloud, as though the sun had gone in, leaving me in the cold.

‘Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ she said suddenly, smiling again. ‘This group is all about finding your path, Kate. Understanding your true purpose. Now,’ she turned to the others, ‘this week we’re going to be speaking in our inner voices.’ I must have looked horrified, because Della added, ‘You can sit this one out, Kate, since it’s your first meeting. For the rest of you, I want you to really let go. Listen to that person who tells you you’re not good enough.’ She held contact with each pair of eyes in turn, for that one beat too long, so the other person had to look away. ‘Mimic her. Impersonate her. Really show her who’s boss.’

I wanted to disappear. Was this the kind of thing that went on in these parts of London, behind all the vintage green and grey doors?

But Helen, face flushed, half-raised her hand and began, in a shrill tone, to berate herself for a series of failed internet dates. ‘You were too keen! How could anyone ever fancy someone so desperate?’

‘That’s it,’ said Della. ‘Wonderful work.’ She turned her full beam on Helen and immediately I saw the other three women gathering their courage, eager to take their turn in the spotlight.

By the end of the session, the women looked exhausted, their private thoughts and fears exposed so fully I could barely hide my embarrassment. ‘You should all be proud of yourselves,’ Della was saying as they sank into the expensive sofas, though they didn’t look it, and I imagined with dread having to take part in one of these exercises myself. Like the excruciating improv sessions for Drama GCSE, only worse.

But despite it all, there was something bewitching about that evening that stays with me, even now, after everything that’s happened – the sense of secrets shared, confessions absolved, our spotless, minimalist surroundings. I can still picture myself, that uncertain suburban girl, taking one last look around this sophisticated North London home. It was dark outside, and the room had taken on a warm glow, thanks to the vanilla candles that gave off a sweet, almost sickly scent. I knew that the house I shared with Liam and Gina would look even smaller and gloomier when I got back that evening, and I had a pang of something that could have been envy but felt more like ambition. Here was a life I had not believed existed. But perhaps it could be mine, too, one day. Anything seemed possible in that moment.

I turned to leave with the others, but Della pulled my arm, motioning for me to wait while they put on their coats and said their goodbyes. It was only when we were standing on the doorstep, alone in the cool evening air, that the sense of familiarity hit me fully. I’d felt it when we first met, and I felt it then, that dizzying rush of memory. Where did I know her from?

‘You will come again, won’t you?’ she was saying, squeezing my arm.

‘I’ll try to …’ I shifted away slightly. Was it her eyes? The steady gaze. That confidence.

‘I was like you once, you know,’ she said, after a pause.

I turned to look at her, the old paranoia kicking in immediately.

‘Always searching. Never able to rest,’ she continued. My heart rate picked up. There she was, talking as though she knew all about Scarlett. Knew what we’d been through. But she couldn’t, could she?

‘I’m just … I’m really busy. And it’s—’

‘I know,’ Della interrupted, laying a hand on my arm. ‘You feel lost. But eventually you realise that what you’re looking for is inside you. And it takes work – that’s where I come in. I can help you find yourself.’

I exhaled, my breathing slowing. Of course she didn’t know. It was more of that therapy talk. But I couldn’t deny that I needed to move on. Perhaps I might even learn something about myself, at least until the free sessions ran out.

‘I’ll see you next week,’ I said uncertainly, taking a step back. Della smiled, her eyes seeming almost to tear up in the light from the street lamp.

‘I’m so pleased,’ she said, and I felt my body expand as I drank in her approval.

I was like a wilting plant then. Like any young woman, thirsty for recognition, reassurance, comfort. It could have been anyone who came across me, nurtured me, watched me grow. But it was her. It was our lives that became twisted together like vines, impossible to untangle.

‘You won’t regret it,’ she said, almost under her breath, as I walked down the path into the darkness of the street.

Sometimes when I wake in the night, I can still hear those words.

Chapter Two

The sun streams through the small high window, casting a shadow that draws a line diagonally across the bare, greying wall. I follow it with my eyes until it reaches the corner of the room, a spider scuttling into the darkness. I let my head fall back on the bed, listening for the creak of the spring, the one that reminds me where I am, even in the early hours, when I wake shivering and damp from the cooling sweat.

I reach my arm out and touch the cold Formica side table, feeling for my plastic cup. Glass could break and create a weapon, or worse. I hear shouts, followed by silence – enforced or cajoled? It’s hard to tell.

Why am I going over all this again? What could possibly be gained from reliving those months in London, the girl I was then? Still, I can’t help it. Scenes run through my mind over and over, memories projected like film reel. I lie awake late into the night, sifting through each encounter for clues, replaying conversations, listening out for giveaway words, a sign, anything that could have served as a warning.

What else is there to do in here, anyway? At least this way I can fill the tiny, bare room with people, noises, light. I can create a world for myself inside my head, like I’ve always done, one way or another. Maybe, somehow, I’ll be able to work out how I ended up here. This hollow shell, the emptiness inside the biggest part of me.

I swallow, that bitter taste. The anger rises in my chest. My shoulders tense. That’s why I’m doing this, really: I need to piece it all together. To understand how I came to give up everything I had. Or to have it taken away.

But why start there – with the Janes? Why not start with Della? With the day she turned up at the café, changing the temperature of the room, the energy around us, the sense of possibility almost tangible. Changing everything.

She was watching me, I could feel it. The blonde woman in the corner. I’d been trying to clear tables, but I felt hot, the left side of my face prickling as if I’d fallen asleep in the sun. I let my hair fall forward – the steam from the coffee machine had made it into strings, and I peered through them, over my shoulder. But she’d looked away; she was reading her book, pen in hand. Perhaps I’d been imagining it. Anything to distract myself from the squawking babies and the relentless drone of the grinder.

It was mid-shift on a Wednesday. I’d already gone to that place I went in my mind, when it all got too much. I didn’t even see the kid’s smoothie as I swept my cloth across the table. And then it was too late.

‘That’s an iPhone, you know,’ a woman hissed, her face pink against an auburn bob, pointing her phone at me, its screen blank. A copper-haired boy of three or four was standing next to her, red juice dripping down his beige dungarees.

‘I’m sorry, I …’

‘It’s going to need fixing. That’s if it can be fixed. I’m going to have to talk to the manager. We’ll need some kind of reimbursement …’

‘What?’ I could barely hear above the blood pounding in my ears. What would that be: two weeks’ wages? A month’s rent? And for her – probably an afternoon’s spending money.

Pete must have seen the way I was staring because he swooped in and took over.

‘I’m really sorry about all this. I’m the manager, can I offer you some free drinks? A pastry?’

I turned away, grateful, though I knew I’d be for it later. I busied myself with the tables by the door, as far away as possible from the bowing and scraping going on at the till. Pete was using his soothing voice, the rueful smile he saved for the more attractive customers; the one that said he could be running somewhere much more impressive than this small organic café on Crouch Hill, with its bleached pine and signs exhorting customers to Keep Calm And Drink Coffee. The scene was quieter now, the phone restarted, the mishap smoothed over. But the hum in my head hadn’t died down. The blonde woman had to touch my arm twice before I even registered.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked. I was slow to turn around. She was another one of those Crouch End mums, after all – the ones who usually ignored me, unless I’d recently ruined their top-of-the-range smartphone. But when I looked up, the concern in her eyes seemed genuine. She’d put her book to one side.

‘Fine, thanks.’ I brushed away the tears that were gathering.

‘It’s just, you seem a bit …’ The woman trailed off. ‘Here, sit down a minute, have a drink of something.’ She pulled out a chair, but I shook my head, glancing over at Pete.

‘Thanks, that’s really kind, but I’d better not. Not after all that.’ I motioned towards the till and she raised an eyebrow with a smile. Perhaps she wasn’t one of them after all.

‘Can I get you a refill?’ I asked, looking at her empty cup.

‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t want anything … I’ll have a black Americano.’

‘Good choice.’ I nodded. Not like most of the customers around here, with their skinny lattes and cappuccinos.

‘I like to taste my coffee, rather than turning it into a …’

‘Milkshake?’ We both smiled, and then I looked away, my eye resting on her book. The Power of Now. Self-help. I don’t know why I felt disappointed. It was so rare to see a customer reading a book instead of a phone, I suppose, and I’d hoped it might be one I’d read, so we could have a proper conversation for once. One of the classics I’d gone through in those years at the library; maybe even a mystery, though she didn’t look the type.

‘Eckhart Tolle,’ she said as I brought over her coffee. ‘The book, I mean. Very inspiring. Though maybe not your thing?’ She put the paperback into her large, expensive-looking leather handbag and a look passed between us. An understanding – between me and this glamorous older woman, who seemed to care what some young waitress thought of her reading material. What would she say if she could see the stash of children’s books I kept hidden under my bed, for the nights when I woke panting after running down empty streets, shouting in a voice that wouldn’t come? Anne of Green Gables. Little Women. The ones that made me feel safe, like they had all those years ago.

After a moment’s pause, the woman reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of pink paper.

‘I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, but I wondered if you might like to …’ she held out a flyer, with the letters AIM written in block capitals. ‘I’m holding a group session next week. It might be exactly what you need.’

I must have looked confused, because she added, ‘My name’s Della Hunter. I’m a life coach. You might have seen me on television?’

I looked at her more closely. For a moment I had that stomach-sinking feeling, when a face from the past appears in the wrong place. Blond hair tied loosely, light eyes, confident, as though she was daring me to recognise her. Perhaps I had seen her on TV, but those eyes, so pale blue they looked almost unreal, the way they seemed to cut right through you – she was almost more familiar than that. Closer to home. Anyway, I didn’t have much time for telly, what with my shifts and the search. I felt a memory pulling at me and I concentrated on trying to bring it into focus, but it was no good.

‘Sorry, I … yes, I think I have seen you on TV,’ I said, and she gave the kind of self-assured smile I was used to seeing in that setting. Perhaps that’s all it was: she looked like all the other women in Crouch End. The same expensively casual style – a crisp white shirt, gold chain, designer jeans. None of them had stains at the sleeves where they’d accidentally mopped up spills. They didn’t wear comfortable shoes because they were on their feet all day.

I looked at the flyer, trying to ignore the niggling feeling that there was a face that matched hers, somewhere in my memory bank. There was a tiny nick in her skin, just under her right eye, and my mind snagged on that. Where had I seen it before?

I heard a small sigh and tried to focus on what I was reading. AIM: Accessing Inner Motivation. What was all this?

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I might come along.’ I was sure I wouldn’t.

‘I hope you do,’ Della said and then, resting her hand on my arm, she held my eye, lowering her voice. ‘You will find what you’ve lost, Kate. Don’t give up.’

My stomach lurched. What did she know? But she’d already switched back into a breezy sales patter. ‘The first three sessions are free, while you see whether my style of coaching is for you … People always stay.’ She smiled. ‘All the details are on the flyer.’ And then from nowhere, with what must have been a surge of sympathy for a waitress down on her luck, she hugged me.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, into my ear, ‘everything will get better, you’ll see.’

She held me at arm’s length, studying my face, and I felt my eyes fill with tears again, though not the frustrated kind this time. It was more like relief, a sense of acceptance.

And then, without warning she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her.

‘Who was that?’ Pete asked. He was looking at me as though I’d grown a new head – his awkward waitress, not long arrived in London, hugging some beautiful customer out of nowhere. But I just shrugged.

‘I don’t know. Isn’t she a regular?’ I could still feel the weight of her hands resting on my shoulders. Had she been able to tell in those few moments how much I’d been struggling since I got to London? Or even, somehow, why I was here?

‘Never seen her before,’ Pete said, shaking his head, and we both watched the door as though she might walk back in at any minute – this stranger, so familiar, who had turned up at the right moment and made me feel, fleetingly, so understood; so at home.

‘We’re having a house meeting.’

It was the last thing I wanted to hear as I closed the front door. I was desperate to get upstairs and google ‘Della Hunter’; work out where I knew her from. The café Wi-Fi had been patchy all day, and I’d run out of data. But Liam was standing in the doorway to the living room, his dark eyes glinting, and beyond him Gina was slumped on the threadbare sofa, looking like she was waiting for a detention.

‘The rent’s going up,’ Liam said, before I’d even got my coat off. I looked at him in shock. I was barely making it through the month as it was.

But Liam was caught up in the drama of it all – any opportunity to bring his reluctant housemates together. ‘Joanne’s well aware of the upturn in the housing market and she wants to cash in,’ he said, sitting down next to Gina and scooping up the pile of papers lying on the grubby glass coffee table. ‘Don’t worry, though. We’re not giving in without a fight. This place is a dump.’

I sat down and tried to catch Gina’s eye, but she was too busy picking her nails to notice – they were painted bright pink today, to match her workout leggings.

Liam was right, of course. The house smelled of rotting carpets, and there had been almost constant infestations in the three months I’d lived there – rats, then mice, then flies. The fabrics Gina bought visiting her gran in Nigeria hadn’t done much to cover up the tatty sofas, and the crimson velvet curtains created a gloom even on sunny days, though they did at least shield us from next door’s drug deals, and the almost constant traffic crossing our section of the Harringay ladder and onto Green Lanes. But what could you expect for what we were paying? If Liam started making a fuss, we might get thrown out. Where could I possibly find to live in London that was cheaper than this?

‘Seriously, look at this place though,’ Gina said, fiddling with her braids. ‘That woman’s taking the piss.’

‘Well, you’re always at your mum’s or in Dalston.’ Liam shot Gina a look. We clearly weren’t the sitcom house-share he’d had in mind.

‘God, what do you care?’ Gina rolled her eyes at me and stretched up from the sofa. ‘Anyway, I’ve got hot yoga, and then I’m staying at Nate’s. Later.’ She shut the living-room door behind her.

‘Give her a break,’ I said to Liam. ‘She doesn’t owe you anything.’

I didn’t understand what Liam was doing there, really. He’d moved from Dublin six years earlier and worked in computers for a media company – something called front-end development. He must have earned a decent amount, more than Gina or me on our zero-hours contracts, but he chose to live in this dump, watching his flatmates come and go every six months or so, trying to create some kind of weird, forced friendship dynamic. He was older, too. Only by three years, but I sure as hell hoped I wasn’t living somewhere like this by the time I was twenty-eight.

Liam was always on the verge of launching the next website or app that was going to make his fortune, and he told me about his latest as I heated up some leftovers.

‘It’s called “online reputation management”,’ he was saying, sitting down opposite me as I finished off the rest of last night’s pasta pesto. ‘Everyone wants to clean up their Google search, don’t they?’

‘Do they?’

‘Course they do. I can make sure only good things come up when someone searches for you online.’ He was watching each forkful as it left my plate, and I sped up a little, keen to get upstairs. ‘Imagine you’re looking for a job, or you’re a business. Or you said the wrong thing once on Facebook. I can make that go away.’

I paused, my fork mid-air. ‘So, you can make people disappear … But can you find them?’

‘No problem. Who are you looking for?’

‘No one in particular. Just wondering.’ I didn’t know if I could trust him with that information yet.

I watched him push his dark hair from his face as he went on about personal brands and unique selling points. He wasn’t bad looking, with sharp-angled features and thick brows, and he was sweet, bringing home crosswords from the newspapers at work ever since he’d heard me discussing clues with Dad on the phone one Sunday. But Liam wasn’t such a wordsmith, and sitting bent over the kitchen table together, I couldn’t help feeling like we were playing parts – the long-married couple, rather than two relative strangers who’d found themselves in the same dingy London terrace. Besides, I didn’t have time to get distracted by any kind of house-share romance.

‘Kate? I’ve lost you, haven’t I? Sorry.’ He looked hurt, or maybe embarrassed. ‘What have you been up to? We’ve barely seen you the last few days.’

I considered telling him about the woman who’d come into the café that afternoon and the flyer she’d given me. But I already knew it would come out all wrong – she’d end up sounding odd, or I would. I hadn’t had a chance to make sense of it all yet. So instead I grabbed my bag and dumped my plate in the sink.

‘Nothing much. Just working, you know. Trying to get extra shifts so I can make the rent. Thanks for talking to the landlady.’ I smiled and Liam looked all pleased. ‘You give her hell.’

I closed my bedroom door behind me, appreciating for a moment the feeling of shutting myself away in the one small space I’d carved out for myself. Even if it was a featureless box, one grimy window, tatty desk, Ikea bookshelf. It was mine. I flopped onto my single bed and opened up my laptop.

Della Hunter: Be Your Own Life Coach. That was her latest book, though she’d published a few and been on most of the daytime TV shows by the looks of it. I couldn’t find anything about her group though, this AIM business, so I read up a bit on life-coaching and what it involved – personal goals, achievement targets. And then I skimmed the missing persons forums, as I did every night, to see if there were any new developments, any sightings, any leads.

By the time I got through it all, it was gone eleven. I needed to get some sleep before my early shift, but I found myself looping back to her web page: ‘Della Dares, Do You?’ A headshot took up most of the home screen, a close-up of that broad smile, pale eyes animated, white collar crisp and hair twisted up, with wisps arranged prettily around her face.

She must have been at least ten years older than me, maybe more, but in this picture her face was entirely without lines. Perhaps there was a filter on it … but there was that little dip, under her eye. That tiny imperfection.

I felt a nagging again in the pit of my stomach. I closed my eyes and tried to give shape to a memory that wanted to break through, but I got lost in the haze. Ragged cartwheels on a small patch of lawn. Whispers from bed to bed. The fragments, before everything went dim.

Della’s face faded into all the others over the years. It was no use. I lay on my bed and tried to clear my mind. I pictured the blue sea, the waves stretching out. I listened for the birds, the long grass swishing in the wind.

As I drifted off, I replayed the words Della had said to me in the café, so kind and reassuring, so perceptive. ‘You will find what you’ve lost, Kate.’ I was just sinking under, giving in to the pull, when my eyes shot open. I sat up in bed, my heart racing.

How had she known my name?

Chapter Three

The market was quiet. It was early April, a couple of days after the first meeting at Della’s house. I was still deciding whether I should go again. The meeting itself had left me on edge, as our encounter at the café had. Della must have heard Pete address me during the smoothie fallout, there was no other rational explanation. But that still didn’t account for the sense of recognition I’d had, the feeling we’d met somewhere before.

That was why I wanted to see her, I suppose. To work out where I knew her from. And to get another fix of her attention. Already, I felt more like my old self, more alive, more confident. Anyway, I’d said I would go, and it wasn’t like I had any other pressing engagements after work on a Tuesday. There were only so many hours I could spend at the market.

I usually got there earlier, when it was in full swing and the tourists were everywhere. But today I’d caught the 29 to Camden straight after work, hoping to catch a different crowd.

It was still busy; everywhere I looked a blur of eyes, mouths, phones pressed to cheeks, heads turning away from the low sun’s glare. I walked along the canalside searching the faces. Every stall I went past, I was sure would be the one. At every turn, I was ready to see Scarlett’s eyes – knowing, mocking. The tangle of curls. The upright back. The way she always held herself, defiant.

I studied the lines on the faces, the crinkles of foreheads, the piercings, the tattoos, the dye-jobs, the dreadlocks. The stallholders were a more alternative bunch than their customers on the whole, though you did see the odd punk browsing the stands, left behind from another century. Mostly it was school groups, tours, visitors on a pilgrimage to a once trendy part of London. And, at this time in the evening, the late workers and early drinkers, heading towards pubs, a day done and an evening yet to come.

It was the locals I was interested in, though. The ones who seemed to have made a life for themselves here, standing by as their market got polished up, re-paved, sanitised. I watched them as they stood by their over-priced puppets and vintage beer mats, sharing knowing looks across the heads of tourists. They lit joss sticks and cradled cups of chai from the stall by the lock. And occasionally they caught my eye. Some of them had started to notice me, I think – loitering in the corners, haunting the market, watching.

I’d always had an eye for faces. Nosy, Mum called it. Stop staring. Even as a baby I’d just looked at her, silently, she said. Slow to talk. Disconcerting. But it had come in useful in recent months. Perhaps I’d been preparing the skill my whole life, without even knowing it. Sometimes I wondered about that – how much life shaped you, and how far you made your own fate. Had I known what was coming? My eyes and brain perfecting the flicker and scan, flicker and scan.

Today was one of the good days, when I felt hopeful. I enjoyed getting caught up in the forward motion, swept along, able to disappear. Surrounded by so many others, I didn’t have to worry about what anyone thought of me. Whether they were looking at me. Whether I was being judged.

It was only when the crowd thinned out, as I got further along the canal, that the loneliness hit. I stopped in the patchy sunlight on a bench by the towpath, watching the students and suits go by, earphones in, silently marching to the same beat. Furtively, though barely anyone glanced in my direction, I checked the map on my phone, tracing my finger over the spread of the market either side of Camden High Street, reminding myself of its contours.

It was much bigger than I’d remembered from my few visits as a teenager. When I first got to London, I’d imagined my task would be fairly easy. Scarlett worked here somewhere, it was just a case of finding her. That was before I discovered it was made up of different sections, with different names. Some of the stalls would rotate. Others were on different floors, up steep staircases and through narrow corridors.

Three months of coming here two or three times a week, and I still hadn’t caught a glimpse. To begin with I’d walked around with a picture, showing it to anyone who’d take the time to look. But no one recognised her, or would admit to it, and so I’d resorted to circling the market over and over, hoping for a moment of connection.

Sometimes it would come, that jolt of recognition. Working my way through the stalls, I spotted a woman I hadn’t seen before, talking to a man selling mirrored pots. She was heavier, with dyed black hair and a piercing through one nostril. But there was something familiar about the way she tilted her head as she laughed.

I stood, frozen to the spot, holding my breath. It had been fifteen years. Who knew how she might have changed?

The woman handed over a tray of noodles, bent over to look more closely at something on the stall, straightened up. I remembered to breathe. I held my body still as she turned towards me. And then I felt my chest deflate, my shoulders sag. Of course it wasn’t my sister. The mouth was all wrong. She was much older. What had I been thinking?

The sun was setting over the canal as I walked slowly to the bus stop, the shafts of light illuminating a rotting kebab abandoned by the water’s edge and green scum floating on its surface. I felt weak, defeated. I caught the 29 and slumped in my seat, closing my eyes as if to mark the end of their shift. It was ridiculous. What did I expect? That I’d suddenly bump into her after all these years?

I rested my head against the window and pictured the pure light of Della’s white living room, the calm I had felt in her home. That sense of being a part of something in the group, however strange.

When I opened my eyes, we were crawling past Manor House. I remembered the grotty kitchen I’d be returning to that evening and counted the hours until I’d have to be back at the café in the morning. It was nearly eight. By the time I got home and heated up some soup it would be nine. Then I’d have to do another job search and look on the missing persons forums before I fell into bed. And speak to my parents. It was a Thursday, and they always called the landline even though I told them to use my mobile – they knew Liam would pick up and I wouldn’t be able to avoid them.

I had all that to come when I got home, and it felt relentless. Impossible. To hold down a job so that I could afford to live in London and, at the same time, look for something better paid, all the while continuing my search. To hold all the responsibility for my family’s happiness. I resented them for it. I couldn’t help it.

‘They do what? They sit around and chant mantras? You’re making it up!’

Liam had found me in the kitchen stirring my tomato soup and wanted to know where I’d been. I hadn’t told him about my search, so I found it hard to account for all the hours I spent out of the house. Usually I’d make up lies about extra shifts or friends from work, but this evening I was distracting him with tales of Tuesday’s meeting. Only I was already regretting having said anything.

‘Can I come next time?’ he asked, laughing.

‘No, you can’t. It’s all women. And anyway, it’s top secret.’ I smiled. I was trying to make light of it, but actually I probably was breaking the rules by mentioning it at all. I sat down at the table with my bowl and a plate of toast and tried to change the subject.

‘So what’s happening with your deleting stuff app?’

‘Oh, nothing much. I’m more interested in this secret meeting of yours. So who goes then? Why’s it all women? Sounds a bit sexist.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Well you would say that, wouldn’t you? It’s not only women who are oppressed, you know.’ Liam grinned at me. He’d taken to teasing me since he found me reading We Should All Be Feminists one evening in the living room. I’d picked it up at the library because I’d loved Americanah, by the same author, and it had clearly been instrumental in shaping Liam’s opinion of me. Sometimes I went along with it, allowed myself to be baited. But tonight I wasn’t in the mood.

‘It’s all women who are sort of in the same boat, you know?’ I was spooning up my soup furiously. ‘We’re all about the same age. All trying to find our feet a bit.’ I shrugged, casting around for details I could pass on that wouldn’t give anything away.

‘There’s this one girl, Jane. She’s recently gone through a break-up. She’s quite small and blonde … They all are, really. Fair hair, twenty-something …’ I saw Liam’s eyes dart towards me with interest and realised I’d said too much. ‘Anyway, I’d better get on. I’ve got stuff to do before bed.’

‘Oh yeah, your mum called. Again,’ Liam said as I dumped my dishes on the pile in the sink.

‘Thanks. Sorry she always rings the landline, I’ll have another word about that,’ I said, but I could see Liam wasn’t listening. He was deep in thought.

I was heading towards the door with a glass of water in my hand when he looked up. The strip lighting threw an odd glow on his glasses, casting a shadow, so I couldn’t see his eyes.

‘They sound like a cult. The Janes,’ he said, and I forced a laugh.

At the time, I didn’t want to hear it.

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